--After which follows a Courting Scene.
The deep sorrow and desolation of spirit introduced by the profligate
destroyer into the humble abode of peace and innocence is an awful thing
to contemplate. In our chapter headed “The Wake of a Murderer” we
have attempted to give a picture of it. The age, indeed, was one of
licentiousness and profligacy. The reigning monarch, Charles the Second,
of infamous memory, had set the iniquitous example to his subjects, and
surrounded his court by an aristocratic crew, who had scarcely anything
to recommend them but their imitation of his vices, and this was
always a passport to his favor, whilst virtue, morality, and honor were
excluded with contempt and derision. In fact, the corrupt atmosphere
of his court carried its contagion throughout the empire, until the
seduction of female innocence became the fashion of the day, and no man
could consider himself entitled to a becoming position in society who
had not distinguished himself by half a dozen criminal intrigues either
with the wives or daughters of his acquaintances. When we contemplate
for a moment the contrast between the abandoned court of that royal
profligate, and that under which we have the happiness to live--the
one, a sty of infamy, licentiousness, and corruption; the other, a well,
undented of purity, virtue, and honor, to whose clear mind unadulterated
waters nothing equivocal, or even questionable, dares to approach,
much less the base or the tainted--we say that, on instituting this
comparison and contrast, the secret of that love and affectionate
veneration which we bear to our pure and highminded Queen, and the pride
which we feel in the noble example which she and her Royal Consort have
set us, requires no illustration whatsoever. The affection and gratitude
of her people are only the meed due to her virtues and to his. We need
not apologize to our readers for this striking contrast. The period and
the subject of our narrative, as well as the melancholy scene to which
we are about to introduce the reader, rendered it an impossibility to
avoid it.
We now proceed to the humble homestead of Torley Davoren; a homestead
which we have already described as the humble abode of peace and
happiness. Barney Casey, who felt anxious to know from the parents of
Grace Davoren whether any trace or tidings of her had been heard of,
went to pay the heart-broken family a visit for that purpose.
On entering, he found the father seated at his humble hearth, unshaven,
and altogether a man careless and negligent of his appearance. He sat
with his hands clasped before him, and his heavy eyes fixed on the
embers of the peat fire which smouldered on the hearth. The mother
was at her distaff, and so were the other two females--to wit, her
grandmother and Grace's sister. But the mother! gracious heaven, what a
spirit of distress and misery breathed from those hopeless and agonizing
features! There was not only natural sorrow there, occasioned by the
disappearance of her daughter, but the shame which resulted from
her fall and her infamy; and though last not least, the terrible
apprehension that the hapless girl had rushed by suicidal means into the
presence of an offended God, “unanointed, unaneled,” with all her sins
upon her head. Her clothes were hanging from the branches of a large
burdock* against the wall, and from time to time the father cast
his eyes upon them with a look in which might be read the hollow but
terrible expression of despair.
* The branches of the burdock, when it is cut, trimmed, and
seasoned, are used by the humble classes to hang their
clothes upon. They grow upwards towards the top of the
stalk, and, in consequence of this, are capable of
sustaining the heaviest garment.
Honest Barney felt his heart deeply moved by all this, and, sooth
to say, his natural cheerfulness and lightness of spirit completely
abandoned him at the contemplation of the awful anguish which pressed
them down. There is nothing which makes such a coward of the heart as
the influence of such a scene. He felt that he stood within a circle
of misery, and that it was a solemn and serious task even to enter into
conversation with them. But, as he had come to make friendly inquiries
about the unfortunate girl, he forced himself to break this pitiable but
terrible silence of despair.
“I know,” said he, with a diffident and melancholy spirit, “that it is
painful to you all to make the inquiries that I wish to make; but still
let me ask you if you have got any account of her?”
The mother's heart had been bursting-pent up as it were--and this
allusion to her withdrew the floodgates of its sorrow; she spread out
her arms, and fising up approached her husband, and throwing them about
his neck, exclaimed, in tones of the most penetrating grief,--
“O, Torley, Torley, my husband, was she not our dearest and our best?”
The husband embraced her with a flood of tears.
“She was,” said he, “she was.” But immediately looking upon her sister
Dora, he said, “Dora, come here--bring Dora to me,” and his wife went
over and brought her to him.
“O, Dora dear,” said he, “I love you. But, darling, I never loved you as
I loved her.”
“But was I ever jealous of that, father?” replied Dora, with tears.
“Didn't we all love her? and did any one of you love her more than
myself? Wasn't she the pride of the whole family? But I didn't care
about her disgrace, father, if we had her back with us. She might
repent; and if she did, every one would forgive their favorite--for sure
she was every one's favorite; and above all, God would forgive her.”
“I loved her as the core of my heart,” said the grandmother; “but
you spoiled her yourselves, and indulged her too much in dress and
everything she wished for. Had you given her less of her own way, and
kept her more from dances and merry-makings, it might be better for
yourselves and her today; still, I grant you, it was hard to do it--for
who, mavrone, could refuse her anything? O! God sees my heart how I pity
you, her father, and you, too, her mother, above all. But, Torley, dear,
if we only had her--if we only had her back again safe with us--then
what darling Dora says might be true, and her repentance would wash
away her shame--for every one loved her, so that they wouldn't judge her
harshly.”
“I can bear witness to that,” said Barney; as it is, every one pities
her, and but very few blame her. It is all set down to her innocence and
want of experience, ay, and her youthful years. No; if you could only
find her, the shame in regard of what I've said would not be laid
heavily upon her by the people.”
“O,” exclaimed her father, starting up, “O, Granua, Granua, my heart's
life! where are you from us? Was not your voice the music of our hearth?
Did not your light laugh keep it cheerful and happy? But where are you
now? O, will no one bring me back my daughter? Where is my child? she
that was the light--the breakin' of the summer mornin' amongst us! But
wait; they say the villain is recoverin' that destroyed her--well--he
may recover from the blow of Shawn-na-Middogue, but he will get a blow
from me that he won't recover from. I will imitate Morrissy--and will
welcome his fate.”
“Aisy, Torley,” said Casey; “hould in a little. You are spakin' now of
Masther Charles?”
“I am, the villain! warn't they found together?”
“I have one question to ask you,” proceeded Barney, “and it is
this--when did you see or spake with Shawn-na-Middogue?”
“Not since that unfortunate night.”
“Well, all I can tell you is this--that Masther Charles had as much to
do with the ruin of your daughter as the king of Jerusalem. Take my
word for that. He is not the stuff that such a villain is made of, but I
suspect who is.”
“And who do you suspect, Barney?”
“I say I only suspect; but, so long as it is only suspicion, I will
mention no names. It wouldn't be right; and for that reason I will wait
until I have betther information. But, after all,” he proceeded, “maybe
nothing wrong has happened.”
The mother shook her head: “I know to the contrairy,” she replied,
“and intended on that very night to bring her to an account about her
appearance, but I never had the opportunity.”
The father here wrung his hands, and his groans were dreadful.
“Could you see Shawn-na-Middogue?” asked Barney.
“No,” replied Davoren; “he, too, has disappeared; and although he is
hunted like a bag-fox, nobody can find either hilt or hair of him.”
“Might it not be possible that she is with him?” he asked again.
“No, Barney,” replied her mother, “we know Shawn too well for that. He
knows how we loved her, and what we would suffer by her absence. Shawn,
though driven to be an outlaw, has a kind heart, and would never allow
us to suffer what we are sufferin' on her account. O, no! we know Shawn
too well for that.”
“Well,” replied Barney, meditatively, “there's one thing I'm inclined to
think: that whoever was the means of bringing shame and disgrace upon
poor Granua will get a touch of his middogue that won't fail as the
first did. Shawn now knows his man, and, with the help of God, I hope
he won't miss his next blow. I must now go; and before I do, let me tell
you that, as I said before, Masther Charles is as innocent of the shame
brought upon poor Granua as the king of Jerusalem.”
There is a feeling of deep but silent sorrow which weighs down the
spirit after the death of some beloved individual who is taken away from
among the family circle. It broods upon, and casts a shadow of the most
profound gloom over the bereaved heart; but let a person who knew the
deceased, and is capable of feeling a sincere and friendly sympathy for
the survivors, enter into this circle of sorrow; let him or her dwell
upon the memory of the departed; then that silent and pent-up grief
bursts out, and the clamor of lamentation is loud and vehement. It was
so upon this occasion. When Barney rose to take his departure, a low
murmur of grief assailed his ears; it gradually became more loud; it
increased; it burst into irrepressible violence--they wept aloud; they
flew to her clothes, which hung, as we said, motionless upon the stalk
of burdock against the wall; they kissed them over and over again; and
it was not until Barney, now deeply affected, succeeded in moderating
their sorrow, that these strong and impassioned paroxysms were checked
and subdued into something like reasonable grief. Having consoled and
pacified them as far as it was in his power, he then took his departure
under a feeling of deep regret that no account of the unfortunate girl
had been obtained.
The next day Mrs. Lindsay and Harry prepared to pay the important visit.
As before, the old family carriage was furbished up, and the lady once
more enveloped in her brocades and satins. Harry, too, made it a point
to appear in his best and most becoming habiliments; and, truth to tell,
an exceedingly handsome and well-made young fellow he was. The dress
of the day displayed his manly and well-proportioned limbs to the best
advantage, whilst his silver-hilted sword, in addition to the general
richness of his costume, gave him the manner and appearance of an
accomplished cavalier. Barney's livery was also put a second time into
requisition, and the coachman's cocked hat was freshly crimped for the
occasion.
“Is it true, mother?” inquired Harry, as they went along, “that this old
noodle has built his residence as much after the shape of a cockle-shell
as was possible to be accomplished?”
“Perfectly true, as you will see,” she replied.
“But what could put such a ridiculous absurdity into his head?”
“Because he thought of the name before the house was built, and he
got it built simply to suit the name. 'There is no use,' said he, 'in
calling it Cockle Hall unless it resembles a cockle;' and, indeed, when
you see it, you will admit the resemblance.”
“Egad,” said her son, “I never dreamed that fate was likely to cramp me
in a cockleshell. I dare say there is a touch of sublimity about it. The
associations are in favor of it.”
“No,” replied his mother, “but it has plenty of comfort and convenience
about, it. The plan was his own, and he contrived to make it,
notwithstanding its ludicrous shape, one of the most agreeable
residences in the country. He is a blunt humorist, who drinks a good
deal, and instead of feeling offence at his manner, which is rather
rough, you will please him best by answering him exactly in his own
spirit.”
“I am glad you gave me this hint,” said her son; “I like that sort of
thing, and it will go hard if I don't give him as good as he brings.”
“In that case,” replied the mother, “the chances will be ten to one in
your favor. Seem, above all things, to like his manner, because the old
fool is vain of it, and nothing gratifies him so much.”
“But about the niece? What is the cue there, mother?”
“The cue of a gentleman, Harry--of a well-bred and respectful gentleman.
You may humor the old fellow to the top of his bent; but when you become
the gentleman with her, she will not misinterpret your manner with
her uncle, but will look upon the transition as a mark of deference to
herself. And now you have your instructions: be careful and act upon
them. Miss Riddle is a girl of sense, and, they say, of feeling; and it
is on this account, I believe, that she is so critical in scrutinizing
the conduct and intellect of her lovers. So there is my last hint.”
“Many thanks, my dear mother; it will, I think, be my own fault if
I fail with either uncle or niece, supported as I shall be by your
eloquent advocacy.”
On arriving at Cockle Hall, Harry, on looking out of the carriage
window, took it for granted that his mother had been absolutely
bantering him. “Cockle Hall!” he exclaimed: “why, curse the hall I see
here, good, bad, or indifferent. What did you mean, mother? Were you
only jesting?”
“Keep quiet,” she replied, “and above all things don't seem surprised
at the appearance of the place. Look precisely as if you had been in it
ever since it was built.”
The appearance of Cockle Hall was, indeed, as his mother had very
properly informed him, ludicrous in the extreme. It was built on a
surface hollowed out of a high bank, or elevation, with which the roof
of it was on a level. It was, of course, circular and flat, and the roof
drooped, or slanted off towards the rear, precisely in imitation of a
cockle-shell. There was, however, a complete _deceptio visus_ in it. To
the eye, in consequence of the peculiarity of its position, it appeared
to be very low, which, in point of fact, was not exactly the case,
for it consisted of two stories, and had comfortable and extensive
apartments”. There was a paved space wide enough for two carriages to
pass each other, which separated it from the embankment that surrounded
it. Altogether, when taken in connection with the original idea of its
construction, it was a difficult thing to look at it without mirth. On
entering the drawing-room, which Harry did alone--for his mother,
having seen Miss Riddle in the parlor, entered it in order to have a
preliminary chat with her--her son found a person inside dressed in a
pair of red plush breeches, white stockings a good deal soiled, a yellow
long-flapped waistcoat, and a wig, with a cue to it which extended down
the whole length of his back,--evidently a servant in dirty lively.
There was something _degagee_ and rather impudent in his manner and
appearance, which Harry considered as in good keeping with all he had
heard of this eccentric nobleman. Like master like man, thought he.
“Well,” said the servant, looking hardly at him, “what do you want?”
“You be cursed,” replied Harry; “don't be impertinent; do you think I'm
about to disclose my business to you, you despicable menial? Why don't
you get your stockings washed? But if you wish to know what I want, I
want your master.”
The butler, footman, or whatever he might hive been, fixed a keen look
upon him, accompanied by a grin of derision that made the visitor's
gorge rise a good deal.
“My master,” said the other, “is not under this roof. What do you think
of that?”
“You mean the old cockle is not in his shell, then,” replied Harry.
“Come,” said the other, with a chuckle of enjoyment, “curse me, but
that's good. Who are you?--what are you? You are in good feathers--only
give an account of yourself.”
Harry was a keen observer, but was considerably aided by what he had
heard from his mother. The rich rings, however, which he saw sparkling
on the fingers of what he had conceived to be the butler or footman,
at once satisfied him that he was then addressing the worthy nobleman
himself. In the meantime, having made this discovery, he resolved to act
the farce out.
“Why should I give an account of myself to you, you cursed old sot?--you
drink, sirrah: I can read it in your face.”
“I say, give an account of yourself; what's your business here?”
“Come, then,” replied Harry, “as you appear to be a comical old
scoundrel, I don't care, for the joke's sake, if I do. I am coming to
court Miss Riddle, ridiculous old Cockletown's niece.”
“Why are you coming to court her?”
“Because I understand she will have a good fortune after old Cockle
takes his departure.”
“Eh, confound me, but that's odd; why, you are a devilish queer fellow.
Did you ever see Lord Cockletown?”
“Not I,” replied Harry; “nor I don't care a curse whether I do or not,
provided I had his niece secure.”
“Did you ever see the niece?”
“Don't annoy me, sirrah. No, I didn't; neither do I care if I never did,
provided I secure old Cockle's money and property. If it could be so
managed, I would prefer being married to her in the dark.”
The old peer walked two or three times through the room in a kind of
good-humored perplexity, raising his wig and scratching his head
under it, and surveying Woodward from time to time with a serio-comic
expression.
“Of course you are a profligate, for that is the order of the day?”
“Why, of course I am,” replied Harry.
“Any intrigues--eh?”
“Indeed,” replied the other, pulling a long face, “I am ashamed to
answer you on that subject. Intrigues! I regret to say only half a dozen
yet, but my prospects in that direction are good.”
“Have you fought? Did you ever commit murder?”
“It can scarcely be called by that name. It was in tavern brawls; one
was a rascally cockleman, and the other a rascally oyster-man.”
“How did you manage the oysterman with a knife, eh?”
“No, sirrah; with my sword I did him open.”
“Have you any expectation of being hanged?”
“Why, according to the life I have led, I think there is every
probability that I may reach that honorable position.”
The old peer could bear this no longer. He burst out into a loud laugh,
which lasted upwards of two minutes.
“Faith,” said Harry, “if you had such a prospect before you, I don't
think you would consider it such a laughing matter.”
“Curse you, sir, do you know who I am?”
“Curse yourself, sir,” replied the other, “no, I don't; how should I,
when I never saw you before?”
“Sir, I am Lord Cockletown.”
“And, sir, I am Harry Woodward, son--favorite son--to, Mrs. Lindsay of
Rathfillan House.”
“What! are you a son of that old fagot?”
“Her favorite son, as I said; that old fagot, sir, is my mother.”
“Ay, but who was your father?” asked his lordship, with a grin, “for
that's the rub.”
“That is the rub,” said Woodward, laughing; “how the devil can I tell?”
“Good again,” said his lordship; “confound me but you are a queer one. I
tell you what, I like you.”
“I don't care a curse whether you do or not, provided your niece does.”
“Are you the fellow that has been abroad, and returned home lately?”
“I am the very fellow,” replied Woodward, with a ludicrous and
good-humored emphasis upon the word fellow.
“There was a bonfire made for you on your return?”
“There was, my lord.”
“And there fell a shower of blood upon that occasion?”
“Not a doubt of it, my lord.”
“Well, you are a strange fellow altogether. I have not for a long time
met a man so much after my own heart.”
“That is because our dispositions resemble each other. If I had the
chance of a peerage, I would be as original as your lord-ship in the
selection of my title; but I trust I shall be gratified in that, too;
because, if I marry your niece, I will enter into public life, make
myself not only a useful, but a famous man, and, of course, the title of
Cockletown will be revived in my person, and will not perish with you.
No, my lord, should I marry your niece, your title shall descend with
your blood, and there is something to console you.”
“Come,” said the old peer, “shake hands. Have you a capacity for public
business?”
“I was born for it, my lord. I feel that fact; besides, I have a
generous ambition to distinguish myself.”
“Well,” said the peer, “we will talk all that over in a few days. But
don't you admit that I am an eccentric old fellow?”
“And doesn't your lordship admit that I am an eccentric young fellow?”
“Ay, but, harkee, Mr. Woodward,” said the peer, “I always sleep with one
eye open.”
“And I,” replied Harry, “sleep with both eyes open.”
“Come, confound me, that beats me, you must get on in life, and I will
consider your pretensions to my niece.”
At this moment his mother and Miss Riddle entered the drawing-room,
which, notwithstanding the comical shape of the mansion, was spacious,
and admirably furnished. Miss Riddle's Christian name was Thomasina; but
her eccentric uncle never called her by any other appellation than Tom,
and occasionally Tommy.
“Mrs. Lindsay, uncle,” said the girl, introducing her.
“Eh? Mrs. Lindsay! O! how do you do, Mrs. Lindsay? How is that
unfortunate devil, your husband?”
Now Mrs. Lindsay was one of those women who, whenever there was a
selfish object in view, could not only suppress her feelings, but
exhibit a class of them in direct opposition to those she actually felt.
“Why unfortunate, my lord?” she asked, smiling.
“Why, because I am told he plays second fiddle at home, and a devilish
deal out of tune too, in general. You play first, ma'am; but they
say, notwithstanding, that there's a plentiful lack of harmony in your
concerts.”
“All,” she replied, “your lordship must still have your joke, I
perceive; but, at all events, I am glad to see you in such spirits.”
“Well, you may thank your son for that. I say, Tom,” he added,
addressing his niece, “he's a devilish good fellow; a queer chap, and
I like him. Woodward, this is Tom Riddle, my niece. This scamp, Tom,
is that woman's son, Mr. Woodward. He's an accomplished youth: I'll be
hanged if he isn't. I asked him how many intrigues he has had, and he
replied, with a dolorous face, only half a dozen yet. He only committed
two murders, he says; and when I asked him if he thought there was any
probability of his being hanged, he replied that, from a review of his
past life, and what he contemplated in the future, he had little doubt
of it.”
Harry Woodward was indeed, a most consummate tactician. From the moment
Miss Riddle entered the room, his air and manner became that of a most
polished gentleman; and after bowing to her when introduced, he cast,
from time to time, a glance at her, which told her, by its significance,
that he had only been gratifying her uncle by playing into his whims and
eccentricities. In the meantime the heart of Mrs. Lindsay bounded with
delight at the progress which she saw, by the complacent spirit of the
old peer, honest and adroit Harry had made in his good opinion.
“Miss Riddle,” said he, “his lordship and I have been bantering each
other; but although I considered myself what I may term, an able hand at
it, yet I find I am no match for him.”
“Well, not exactly, I believe,” replied his lordship; “but,
notwithstanding, you are one of the best I have met.”
“Why, my lord,” replied Woodward, “I like the thing; and, indeed, I
never knew any one fond of it who did not possess a good heart and a
candid disposition; so, you see, my lord, there is a compliment for each
of us.”
“Yes, Woodward, and we both deserve it.”
“I trust Mr. Woodward,” observed his niece, “that you don't practise
your abilities as a banterer upon our sex.”
“Never! Miss Riddle; that would be ungenerous and unmanly. There is
nothing due to your sex but respect, and that, you know, is incompatible
with banter.
“The wit that could wantonly sport with the modesty of woman degenerates
into impudence and insult;” and he accompanied the words with a low and
graceful bow.
This young fellow, thought Miss Riddle, is a gentleman.
“Yes, but, Mr. Woodward, we sometimes require a bantering; and, what is
more, a remonstrance. We are not perfect, and surely it is not the part
of a friend to overlook our foibles or our errors.”
“True, Miss Riddle, but it is not by bantering they will be reclaimed.
A friendly remonstrance, delicately conveyed, is one thing, but the
buffoonery of a banter is another.”
“What's that?” said the peer, “buffoonery! I deny it, sir, there is no
buffoonery in banter.”
“Not, my lord, when it occurs between gentlemen,” replied Woodward, “but
you know, with the ladies it is a different thing.”
“Ay, well, that's not bad; a proper distinction. I tell you what,
Woodward, you are a clever fellow; and I'm not sure but I'll advocate
your cause with Tom there. Tom, he tells me he is coming to court you,
and he says he doesn't care a fig about either of us, provided he could
secure your fortune. Ay, and, what's more, he says that if you and he
are married, he hopes it will be in the dark. What do you think of that
now?”
Miss Riddle did not blush, nor affect a burst of indignation, but she
said what pleased both Woodward and his mother far better.
“Well, uncle,” she replied, calmly, “even if he did say so, I believe
he only expressed in words what most, if not all, of my former lovers
actually felt, but were too cautious to acknowledge.”
“I trust, Miss Eiddle,” said Harry, smiling graciously, “that I am
neither so silly nor so stupid as to defend a jest by anything like
a serious apology. You will also be pleased to recollect that, as an
argument for my success, I admitted two murders, half a dozen intrigues,
and the lively prospect of being hanged. The deuce is in it, if these
are not strong qualifications in a lover, especially in a lover of
yours, Miss Riddle.”
The reader sees that the peer was anything but a match for Woodward, who
contrived, and with perfect success, to turn all his jocular attacks to
his own account.
Miss Riddle smiled, for the truth was that Harry began to rise rapidly
in her good opinion. His sprightliness was gentlemanly and agreeable,
and he contrived, besides, to assume the look and air of a man who only
indulged in it in compliment to her uncle, and, of course, indirectly
to herself, with whom, it was but natural, he should hope to make him
an advocate. Still the expression of his countenance, as he managed it,
appeared to her to be that of a profound and serious thinker--one whose
feelings, when engaged, were likely to retain a strong hold of his
heart. That he should model his features into such an expression is by
no means strange, when we reflect with what success hypocrisy can stamp
upon them all those traits of character for which she wishes to get
credit from the world.
“Come, Tom,” said his lordship, “it's time for luncheon; we can't
allow our friends to go without refreshments. I say, Woodward, I'm a
hospitable old fellow; did you ever know that before?”
“I have often heard it, my lord,” replied the other, “and I hope to
have still better proof of it.” This was uttered with a significant, but
respectful glance, at the niece, who was by no means displeased at it.
“Ay! ay!” said his lordship, laughing, “the proof of the pudding is
in the eating. Well, you shall have an opportunity, and soon, too; you
appear to be a blunt, honest fellow; and hang me but I like you.”
Miss Riddle now went out to order in the refreshments, but not without
feeling it strange how her uncle and herself should each contemplate
Woodward's character in so different a light--the uncle looking upon him
as a blunt, honest fellow, whilst to her he appeared as a man of sense,
and a perfect gentleman Such, however, was the depth of his hypocrisy,
that he succeeded at once in pleasing both, and in deceiving both.
“Well, Woodward, what do you think of Tom?” asked his lordship.
“Why, my lord, that she is an admirable and lovely girl.”
“Well, you are right, sir; Tom is an admirable girl, and loves her old
uncle as if he was her father, or maybe a great deal better; she will
have all I am worth when I pop off, so there's something for you to
think upon.”
“No man, my lord, capable of appreciate ing her could think of anything
but herself.”
“What! not of her property?”
“Property, my-lord; is a very secondary subject when taken into
consideration with the merits of the lady herself. I am no enemy to
property, and I admit its importance as an element of happiness when
reasonably applied, but I am neither sordid nor selfish; and I know
how little, after all, it contributes to domestic enjoyment, unless
accompanied by those virtues which constitute the charm of connubial
life.”
“Confound me but you must have got that out of a book, Woodward.”
“Out of the best book, my lord--the book of life and observation.”
“Why, curse it, you are talking philosophy, though.”
“Only common sense, my lord.”
His lordship, who was walking to and fro in the room, turned abruptly
round, looked keenly at him, and then, addressing Mrs. Lindsay, said,--
“Why, upon my soul, Mrs. Lindsay, we must try and do something with this
fellow; he'll be lost to the world if we don't. Come, I say, we must
make a public man of him.”
“To become a public man is his own ambition, my lord,” replied Mrs.
Lindsay; “and although I am his mother, and may feel prejudiced in his
favor, still I agree with your lordship that it is a pity to see such
abilities as his unemployed.”
“Well, madam, we shall consider of it. What do you think, Woodward, if
we made a bailiff of you?”
At this moment Miss Riddle entered the room just in time to hear the
question.
“The very thing, my lord; and the first capture I should make would be
Miss Riddle, your fair niece here.”
“Curse me, but the fellow's a cat,” said the peer, laughing. “Throw
him as you will, he always falls upon his legs. What do you think, Tom?
Curse me but your suitor here talked philosophy in your absence.”
“Only common sense, Miss Riddle,” said Harry. “Philosophy, it is said,
excludes feeling; but that is not a charge which I ever heard brought
against common sense.”
“I am an enemy neither to philosophy nor common sense,” replied his
niece, “because I think neither of them incompatible with feeling; but I
certainly prefer common sense.”
“There's luncheon announced,” said the peer, rubbing his hands, “and
that's a devilish deal more comfortable than either of them. Come, Mrs.
Lindsay; Woodward, take Tom with you.”
They then descended to the dining-room, where the conversation was
lively and amusing, the humorous old peer furnishing the greater
proportion of the mirth.
“Mrs. Lindsay,” said he, as they were preparing to go, “I hope, after
all, that this clever son of yours is not a fortune-hunter.”
“He need not be so, my lord,” replied his mother, “and neither is he. He
himself will have a handsome property.”
“Will have. I would rather you wouldn't speak in the future tense,
though. Woodward,” he added, addressing that gentleman, “remember that I
told you that I sleep with one eye open.”
“If you have any doubts, my lord, on this subject,” replied Woodward,
“you may imitate me: sleep with both open.”
“Ay, as the hares do, and devil a bit they're the better for it; but, in
the meantime, what property have you, or will you have? There is nothing
like coming to the point.”
“My lord,” replied Woodward, “I respect Miss Riddle too much to enter
upon such a topic in her presence. You must excuse me, then, for the
present; but if you wish for precise information on the subject, I refer
you to my mother, who will, upon a future occasion--and I trust it will
be soon--afford you every satisfaction on this matter.”
“Well,” replied his lordship, “that is fair enough--a little vague,
indeed--but no matter, your mother and I will talk about it. In the
meantime you are a devilish clever fellow, and, as I said, I like you;
but still I will suffer no fortune-hunter to saddle himself upon my
property. I repeat it, I sleep with one eye open. I will be happy to
see you soon, Mr. Woodward; but remember I will be determined on this
subject altogether by the feelings of my niece Tom here.”
“I have already said, my lord,” replied Woodward, “that, except as
a rational element in domestic happiness, I am indifferent to the
consideration or influence of property. The prevailing motives with me
are the personal charms; the character, and the well-known virtues of
your niece. It is painful to me to say even this in her presence, but
your lordship has forced it from me. However, I trust that Miss Riddle
understands and will pardon me.”
“Mr. Woodward,” she observed, “you have said nothing unbecoming a
gentleman; nothing certainly but that which you could not avoid saying.”
After the usual forms of salutation at parting, Harry and his mother
entered the old carriage and proceeded on their way home.
“Well, Harry,” said his mother, “what do you think?”
“A hit,” he replied; “a hit with both, but especially with the niece,
who certainly is a fine girl. If there is to be any opposition, it will
be with that comical old buffoon, her uncle. He says he sleeps with
one eye open, and I believe it. You told me it could not be determined
whether he was more fool or knave; but, from all I have seen of him, the
devil a bit of fool I can perceive, but, on the contrary, a great deal
of the knave. Take my word for it, old Cockle-town is not to be imposed
upon.”
“Is there no likelihood of that wretch, Alice Goodwin, dying?” said his
mother.
“That is a case I must take in hand,” returned the son. “I shall go
to Ballyspellan and put an end to her. After that we can meet old
Cockletown with courage. I feel that I am a favorite with his niece, and
she, you must have perceived, is a favorite with him, and can manage
him as she wishes, and that is one great point gained--indeed, the
greatest.”
“No,” replied his mother, “the greatest is the death of Alice Goodwin.”
“Be quiet,” said her worthy son; “that shall be accomplished.”