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Tales and Novels — Volume 06

by Maria Edgeworth · English · Gutenberg #9620 · 1,023,233 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Tales and Novels — Volume 06

Author: Maria Edgeworth


        
Release date: January 1, 2006 [eBook #9620]
                Most recently updated: January 2, 2021

Language: English

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Produced by Jonathan Ingram, William Flis, David Widger and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team




TALES AND NOVELS

VOL. 6

BY

MARIA EDGEWORTH






THE ABSENTEE.




CHAPTER I.


“Are you to be at Lady Clonbrony’s gala next week?” said Lady Langdale
to Mrs. Dareville, whilst they were waiting for their carriages in the
crush-room of the opera-house.

“Oh, yes! every body’s to be there, I hear,” replied Mrs. Dareville.
“Your ladyship, of course?”

“Why, I don’t know; if I possibly can. Lady Clonbrony makes it such
a point with me, that I believe I must look in upon her for a few
minutes. They are going to a prodigious expense on this occasion. Soho
tells me the reception rooms are all to be new furnished, and in the
most magnificent style.”

“At what a famous rate those Clonbronies are dashing on,” said colonel
Heathcock. “Up to any thing.”

“Who are they?--these Clonbronies, that one hears of so much of
late?” said her grace of Torcaster. “Irish absentees, I know. But
how do they support all this enormous expense?” “The son _will_ have
a prodigiously fine estate when some Mr. Quin dies,” said Mrs.
Dareville.

“Yes, every body who comes from Ireland _will_ have a fine estate when
somebody dies,” said her grace. “But what have they at present?”

“Twenty thousand a year, they say,” replied Mrs. Dareville.

“Ten thousand, I believe,” cried Lady Langdale.

“Ten thousand, have they?--possibly,” said her grace. “I know nothing
about them--have no acquaintance among the Irish. Torcaster knows
something of Lady Clonbrony; she has fastened herself by some means
upon him; but I charge him not to _commit_ me. Positively, I could not
for any body, and much less for that sort of person, extend the circle
of my acquaintance.”

“Now that is so cruel of your grace,” said Mrs. Dareville, laughing,
“when poor Lady Clonbrony works so hard, and pays so high to get into
certain circles.”

“If you knew all she endures, to look, speak, move, breathe, like an
Englishwoman, you would pity her,” said Lady Langdale.

“Yes, and you _cawnt_ conceive the _peens_ she _teekes_ to talk of the
_teebles_ and _cheers_, and to thank Q, and with so much _teeste_ to
speak pure English,” said Mrs. Dareville.

“Pure cockney, you mean,” said Lady Langdale.

“But does Lady Clonbrony expect to pass for English?” said the
duchess.

“Oh, yes! because she is not quite Irish _bred and born_--only bred,
not born,” said Mrs. Dareville. “And she could not be five minutes
in your grace’s company, before she would tell you that she was
_Henglish_, born in _Hoxfordshire_.”

“She must be a vastly amusing personage--I should like to meet her
if one could see and hear her incog.,” said the duchess. “And Lord
Clonbrony, what is he?”

“Nothing, nobody,” said Mrs. Dareville: “one never even hears of him.”

“A tribe of daughters, too, I suppose?”

“No, no,” said Lady Langdale; “daughters would be past all endurance.”

“There’s a cousin, though, a Miss Nugent,” said Mrs. Dareville, “that
Lady Clonbrony has with her.”

“Best part of her, too,” said Colonel Heathcock--“d----d fine
girl!--never saw her look better than at the opera to-night!”

“Fine _complexion_! as Lady Clonbrony says, when she means a high
colour,” said Lady Langdale.

“Miss Nugent is not a lady’s beauty,” said Mrs. Dareville. “Has she
any fortune, colonel?”

“‘Pon honour, don’t know,” said the colonel.

“There’s a son, somewhere, is not there?” said Lady Langdale.

“Don’t know, ‘pon honour,” replied the colonel.

“Yes--at Cambridge--not of age yet,” said Mrs. Dareville. “Bless me!
here is Lady Clonbrony come back. I thought she was gone half an hour
ago!”

“Mamma,” whispered one of Lady Langdale’s daughters, leaning between
her mother and Mrs. Dareville, “who is that gentleman that passed us
just now?”

“Which way?”

“Towards the door.--There now, mamma, you can see him. He is speaking
to Lady Clonbrony--to Miss Nugent--now Lady Clonbrony is introducing
him to Miss Broadhurst.”

“I see him now,” said Lady Langdale, examining him through her glass;
“a very gentlemanlike looking young man indeed.”

“Not an Irishman, I am sure, by his manner,” said her grace.

“Heathcock!” said Lady Langdale, “who is Miss Broadhurst talking to?”

“Eh! now really--‘pon honour--don’t know,” replied Heathcock.

“And yet he certainly looks like somebody one should know,” pursued
Lady Langdale, “though I don’t recollect seeing him any where before.”

“Really now!” was all the satisfaction she could gain from the
insensible, immovable colonel. However, her ladyship, after sending
a whisper along the line, gained the desired information, that the
young gentleman was Lord Colambre, son, only son, of Lord and Lady
Clonbrony--that he was just come from Cambridge--that he was not yet
of age--that he would be of age within a year; that he would then,
after the death of somebody, come into possession of a fine estate
by the mother’s side; “and therefore, Cat’rine, my dear,” said she,
turning round to the daughter who had first pointed him out, “you
understand we should never talk about other people’s affairs.”

“No, mamma, never. I hope to goodness, mamma, Lord Colambre did not
hear what you and Mrs. Dareville were saying!”

“How could he, child?--He was quite at the other end of the world.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am--he was at my elbow, close behind us; but I
never thought about him till I heard somebody say ‘my lord--’”

“Good heavens!--I hope he didn’t hear.”

“But, for my part, I said nothing,” cried Lady Langdale.

“And for my part, I said nothing but what every body knows,” cried
Mrs. Dareville.

“And for my part, I am guilty only of hearing,” said the duchess. “Do,
pray, Colonel Heathcock, have the goodness to see what my people are
about, and what chance we have of getting away to-night.”

“The Duchess of Torcaster’s carriage stops the way!”--a joyful sound
to Colonel Heathcock and to her grace, and not less agreeable, at this
instant, to Lady Langdale, who, the moment she was disembarrassed
of the duchess, pressed through the crowd to Lady Clonbrony, and
addressing her with smiles and complacency, was charmed to have a
little moment to speak to her--could _not_ sooner get through the
crowd--would certainly do herself the honour to be at her ladyship’s
gala. While Lady Langdale spoke, she never seemed to see or think of
any body but Lady Clonbrony, though, all the time, she was intent upon
every motion of Lord Colambre; and whilst she was obliged to listen
with a face of sympathy to a long complaint of Lady Clonbrony’s,
about Mr. Soho’s want of taste in ottomans, she was vexed to perceive
that his lordship showed no desire to be introduced to her or to
her daughters; but, on the contrary, was standing talking to Miss
Nugent. His mother, at the end of her speech, looked round for
“Colambre”--called him twice before he heard--introduced him to Lady
Langdale, and to Lady Cat’rine, and Lady Anne ----, and to Mrs.
Dareville; to all of whom he bowed with an air of proud coldness,
which gave them reason to regret that their remarks upon his mother
and his family had not been made _sotto voce_.

“Lady Langdale’s carriage stops the way!” Lord Colambre made no offer
of his services, notwithstanding a look from his mother. Incapable of
the meanness of voluntarily listening to a conversation not intended
for him to hear, he had, however, been compelled, by the pressure
of the crowd, to remain a few minutes stationary, where he could not
avoid hearing the remarks of the fashionable friends: disdaining
dissimulation, he made no attempt to conceal his displeasure. Perhaps
his vexation was increased by his consciousness that there was some
mixture of truth in their sarcasms. He was sensible that his mother,
in some points--her manners, for instance--was obvious to ridicule and
satire. In Lady Clonbrony’s address there was a mixture of constraint,
affectation, and indecision, unusual in a person of her birth, rank,
and knowledge of the world. A natural and unnatural manner seemed
struggling in all her gestures, and in every syllable that she
articulated--a naturally free, familiar, good-natured, precipitate,
Irish manner, had been schooled, and schooled late in life, into a
sober, cold, still, stiff deportment, which she mistook for English.
A strong Hibernian accent she had, with infinite difficulty, changed
into an English tone. Mistaking reverse of wrong for right, she
caricatured the English pronunciation; and the extraordinary precision
of her London phraseology betrayed her not to be a Londoner, as the
man who strove to pass for an Athenian was detected by his Attic
dialect. Not aware of her real danger, Lady Clonbrony was, on the
opposite side, in continual apprehension every time she opened her
lips, lest some treacherous _a_ or _e_, some strong _r_, some puzzling
aspirate or non-aspirate, some unguarded note, interrogative, or
expostulatory, should betray her to be an Irishwoman. Mrs. Dareville
had, in her mimicry, perhaps, a little exaggerated, as to the
_teebles_ and _cheers_, but still the general likeness of the
representation of Lady Clonbrony was strong enough to strike and vex
her son. He had now, for the first time, an opportunity of judging of
the estimation in which his mother and his family were held by certain
leaders of the ton, of whom, in her letters, she had spoken so much,
and into whose society, or rather into whose parties, she had been
admitted. He saw that the renegado cowardice with which she denied,
abjured, and reviled her own country, gained nothing but ridicule and
contempt. He loved his mother; and, whilst he endeavoured to conceal
her faults and foibles as much as possible from his own heart, he
could not endure those who dragged them to light and ridicule. The
next morning, the first thing that occurred to Lord Colambre’s
remembrance, when he awoke, was the sound of the contemptuous emphasis
which had been laid on the words IRISH ABSENTEES!--This led to
recollections of his native country, to comparisons of past and
present scenes, to future plans of life. Young and careless as he
seemed, Lord Colambre was capable of serious reflection. Of naturally
quick and strong capacity, ardent affections, impetuous temper, the
early years of his childhood passed at his father’s castle in Ireland,
where, from the lowest servant to the well-dressed dependent of the
family, every body had conspired to wait upon, to fondle, to flatter,
to worship, this darling of their lord. Yet he was not spoiled--not
rendered selfish; for in the midst of this flattery and servility,
some strokes of genuine generous affection had gone home to his little
heart: and though unqualified submission had increased the natural
impetuosity of his temper, and though visions of his future grandeur
had touched his infant thought, yet, fortunately, before he acquired
any fixed habits of insolence or tyranny, he was carried far away
from all that were bound or willing to submit to his commands, far
away from all signs of hereditary grandeur--plunged into one of our
great public schools--into a new world. Forced to struggle, mind and
body, with his equals, his rivals, the little lord became a spirited
school-boy, and in time, a man. Fortunately for him, science and
literature happened to be the fashion among a set of clever young
men with whom he was at Cambridge. His ambition for intellectual
superiority was raised, his views were enlarged, his tastes and
his manners formed. The sobriety of English good sense mixed most
advantageously with Irish vivacity: English prudence governed, but did
not extinguish, his Irish enthusiasm. But, in fact, English and Irish
had not been invidiously contrasted in his mind: he had been so long
resident in England, and so intimately connected with Englishmen, that
he was not obvious to any of the commonplace ridicule thrown upon
Hibernians; and he had lived with men who were too well informed and
liberal to misjudge or depreciate a sister country. He had found, from
experience, that, however reserved the English may be in manner, they
are warm at heart; that, however averse they may be from forming new
acquaintance, their esteem and confidence once gained, they make the
most solid friends. He had formed friendships in England; he was fully
sensible of the superior comforts, refinement, and information, of
English society; but his own country was endeared to him by early
association, and a sense of duty and patriotism attached him to
Ireland.--“And shall I too be an absentee?” was a question which
resulted from these reflections--a question which he was not yet
prepared to answer decidedly.

In the mean time, the first business of the morning was to execute
a commission for a Cambridge friend. Mr. Berryl had bought from Mr.
Mordicai, a famous London coachmaker, a curricle, _warranted sound_,
for which he had paid a sound price, upon express condition that Mr.
Mordicai should be answerable for all repairs of the curricle for six
months. In three, both the carriage and body were found to be good for
nothing--the curricle had been returned to Mordicai--nothing had since
been heard of it, or from him; and Lord Colambre had undertaken to pay
him and it a visit, and to make all proper inquiries. Accordingly,
he went to the coachmaker’s; and, obtaining no satisfaction from the
underlings, desired to see the head of the house. He was answered
that Mr. Mordicai was not at home. His lordship had never seen Mr.
Mordicai; but just then he saw, walking across the yard, a man who
looked something like a Bond-street coxcomb, but not the least like a
gentleman, who called, in the tone of a master, for “Mr. Mordicai’s
barouche!”--It appeared; and he was stepping into it, when Lord
Colambre took the liberty of stopping him; and, pointing to the wreck
of Mr. Berryl’s curricle, now standing in the yard, began a statement
of his friend’s grievances, and an appeal to common justice and
conscience, which he, unknowing the nature of the man with whom he had
to deal, imagined must be irresistible. Mr. Mordicai stood without
moving a muscle of his dark wooden face--indeed, in his face there
appeared to be no muscles, or none which could move; so that, though
he had what are generally called handsome features, there was,
altogether, something unnatural and shocking in his countenance. When,
at last, his eyes turned and his lips opened, this seemed to be done
by machinery, and not by the will of a living creature, or from the
impulse of a rational soul. Lord Colambre was so much struck with
this strange physiognomy, that he actually forgot much he had to say
of springs and wheels--But it was no matter--Whatever he had said, it
would have come to the same thing; and Mordicai would have answered
as he now did; “Sir, it was my partner made that bargain, not myself;
and I don’t hold myself bound by it, for he is the sleeping partner
only, and not empowered to act in the way of business. Had Mr. Berryl
bargained with me, I should have told him that he should have looked
to these things before his carriage went out of our yard.”

The indignation of Lord Colambre kindled at these words--but in vain:
to all that indignation could by word or look urge against Mordicai,
he replied, “May be so, sir: the law is open to your friend--the law
is open to all men, who can pay for it.”

Lord Colambre turned in despair from the callous coachmaker, and
listened to one of his more compassionate-looking workmen, who was
reviewing the disabled curricle; and, whilst he was waiting to know
the sum of his friend’s misfortune, a fat, jolly, Falstaff-looking
personage came into the yard, and accosted Mordicai with a degree of
familiarity which, from a gentleman, appeared to Lord Colambre to be
almost impossible.

“How are you, Mordicai, my good fellow?” cried he, speaking with a
strong Irish accent.

“Who is this?” whispered Lord Colambre to the foreman, who was
examining the curricle.

“Sir Terence O’Fay, sir--There must be entire new wheels.”

“Now tell me, my tight fellow,” continued Sir Terence, holding
Mordicai fast, “when, in the name of all the saints, good or bad, in
the calendar, do you reckon to let us sport the _suicide_?”

“Will you be so good, sir, to finish making out this estimate for me?”
 interrupted Lord Colambre.

Mordicai forcibly drew his mouth into what he meant for a smile, and
answered, “As soon as possible, Sir Terence.” Sir Terence, in a tone
of jocose, wheedling expostulation, entreated him to have the carriage
finished _out of hand_: “Ah, now! Mordy, my precious! let us have it
by the birthday, and come and dine with us o’ Monday at the Hibernian
Hotel--there’s a rare one--will you?”

Mordicai accepted the invitation, and promised faithfully that the
_suicide_ should be finished by the birthday. Sir Terence shook hands
upon this promise, and, after telling a good story, which made one of
the workmen in the yard--an Irishman--grin with delight, walked off.
Mordicai, first waiting till the knight was out of hearing, called
aloud, “You grinning rascal! mind, at your peril, and don’t let that
there carriage be touched, d’ye see, till farther orders.”

One of Mr. Mordicai’s clerks, with a huge long feathered pen behind
his ear, observed that Mr. Mordicai was right in that caution, for
that, to the best of his comprehension, Sir Terence O’Fay, and his
principal too, were over head and ears in debt.

Mordicai coolly answered, that he was well aware of that, but that the
estate could afford to dip farther; that, for his part, he was under
no apprehension; he knew how to look sharp, and to bite before he was
bit: that he knew Sir Terence and his principal were leagued together
to give the creditors _the go by_; but that, clever as they were both
at that work, he trusted he was their match.

“Immediately, sir--Sixty-nine pound four, and the perch--Let us
see--Mr. Mordicai, ask him, ask Paddy, about Sir Terence,” said the
foreman, pointing back over his shoulder to the Irish workman, who
was at this moment pretending to be wondrous hard at work. However,
when Mr. Mordicai defied him to tell him any thing he did not know,
Paddy, parting with an untasted bit of tobacco, began and recounted
some of Sir Terence O’Fay’s exploits in evading duns, replevying
cattle, fighting sheriffs, bribing _subs_, managing cants, tricking
_custodees_, in language so strange, and with a countenance and
gestures so full of enjoyment of the jest, that, whilst Mordicai
stood for a moment aghast with astonishment, Lord Colambre could
not help laughing, partly at, and partly with, his countryman. All
the yard were in a roar of laughter, though they did not understand
half of what they heard; but their risible muscles were acted upon
mechanically, or maliciously, merely by the sound of the Irish brogue.

Mordicai, waiting till the laugh was over, dryly observed, that “the
law is executed in another guess sort of way in England from what it
is in Ireland;” therefore, for his part, he desired nothing better
than to set his wits fairly against such _sharks_--that there was a
pleasure in doing up a debtor, which none but a creditor could know.

“In a moment, sir; if you’ll have a moment’s patience, sir, if you
please,” said the slow foreman to Lord Colambre; “I must go down the
pounds once more, and then I’ll let you have it.”

“I’ll tell you what, Smithfield,” continued Mr. Mordicai, coming close
beside his foreman, and speaking very low, but with a voice trembling
with anger, for he was piqued by his foreman’s doubts of his capacity
to cope with Sir Terence O’Fay; “I’ll tell you what, Smithfield, I’ll
be cursed if I don’t get every inch of them into my power--you know
how.”

“You are the best judge, sir,” replied the foreman; “but I would not
undertake Sir Terence; and the question is, whether the estate will
answer the _tote_ of the debts, and whether you know them all for
certain--”

“I do, sir, I tell you: there’s Green--there’s Blancham--there’s
Gray--there’s Soho”--naming several more--“and, to my knowledge, Lord
Clonbrony--”

“Stop, sir,” cried Lord Colambre, in a voice which made Mordicai and
every body present start;--“I am his son--”

“The devil!” said Mordicai.

“God bless every bone in his body, then, he’s an Irishman!” cried
Paddy; “and there was the _ra_son my heart warmed to him from the
first minute he come into the yard, though I did not know it till
now.”

“What, sir! are you my Lord Colambre?” said Mr. Mordicai, recovering,
but not clearly recovering, his intellects: “I beg pardon, but I did
not know you _was_ Lord Colambre--I thought you told me you was the
friend of Mr. Berryl.”

“I do not see the incompatibility of the assertion, sir,” replied Lord
Colambre, taking from the bewildered foreman’s unresisting hand the
account which he had been so long _furnishing_.

“Give me leave, my lord,” said Mordicai--“I beg your pardon, my lord;
perhaps we can compromise that business for your friend Mr. Berryl;
since he is your lordship’s friend, perhaps we can contrive to
_compromise_ and _split the difference_.”

_To compromise_, and _split the difference_, Mordicai thought were
favourite phrases, and approved Hibernian modes of doing business,
which would conciliate this young Irish nobleman, and dissipate the
proud tempest, which had gathered, and now swelled in his breast.

“No, sir, no!” cried Lord Colambre, holding firm the paper: “I want no
favour from you. I will accept of none for my friend or for myself.”

“Favour! No, my lord, I should not presume to offer--But I should
wish, if you’ll allow me, to do your friend justice.”

Lord Colambre, recollecting that he had no right, in his pride, to
fling away his friend’s money, let Mr. Mordicai look at the account;
and his impetuous temper in a few moments recovered by good sense, he
considered, that, as his person was utterly unknown to Mr. Mordicai,
no offence could have been intended to him, and that, perhaps, in what
had been said of his father’s debts and distress, there might be more
truth than he was aware of. Prudently, therefore, controlling his
feelings, and commanding himself, he suffered Mr. Mordicai to show him
into a parlour to _settle_ his friend’s business. In a few minutes the
account was reduced to a reasonable form, and, in consideration of the
partner’s having made the bargain, by which Mr. Mordicai felt himself
influenced in honour, though not bound in law, he undertook to have
the curricle made better than new again, for Mr. Berryl, for twenty
guineas. Then came awkward apologies to Lord Colambre, which he ill
endured. “Between ourselves, my lord,” continued Mordicai--

But the familiarity of the phrase. “Between ourselves”--this
implication of equality--Lord Colambre could not admit: he moved
hastily towards the door, and departed.




CHAPTER II.


Full of what he had heard, and impatient to obtain farther information
respecting the state of his father’s affairs, Lord Colambre hastened
home; but his father was out, and his mother was engaged with Mr.
Soho, directing, or rather being directed, how her apartments should
be fitted up for her gala. As Lord Colambre entered the room, he saw
his mother, Miss Nugent, and Mr. Soho, standing at a large table,
which was covered with rolls of paper, patterns, and drawings of
furniture: Mr. Soho was speaking in a conceited, dictatorial tone,
asserting that there was no “colour in nature for that room equal to
_the belly-o’-the fawn_;” which _belly-o’-the fawn_ he so pronounced,
that Lady Clonbrony understood it to be _la belle uniforme_, and,
under this mistake, repeated and assented to the assertion, till it
was set to rights, with condescending superiority, by the upholsterer.
This first architectural upholsterer of the age, as he styled himself,
and was universally admitted to be by all the world of fashion, then,
with full powers given to him, spoke _en maître_. The whole face of
things must be changed. There must be new hangings, new draperies, new
cornices, new candelabras, new every thing!--

  “The upholsterer’s eye, in fine frenzy rolling,
  Glances from ceiling to floor, from floor to ceiling;
  And, as imagination bodies forth
  The form of things unknown, the upholsterer’s pencil
  Turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing
  A local habitation and a NAME.”

Of the value of a NAME no one could be more sensible than Mr. Soho.

“Your la’ship sees--this is merely a scratch of my pencil. Your
la’ship’s sensible--just to give you an idea of the shape, the form
of the thing. You fill up your angles here with _encoinières_--round
your walls with the _Turkish tent drapery_--a fancy of my own--in
apricot cloth, or crimson velvet, suppose, or, _en flute_, in
crimson satin draperies, fanned and riched with gold fringes, _en
suite_--intermediate spaces, Apollo’s head with gold rays--and here,
ma’am, you place four _chancelières_, with chimeras at the corners,
covered with blue silk and silver fringe, elegantly fanciful--with
my STATIRA CANOPY here--light blue silk draperies--aërial tint, with
silver balls--and for seats here, the SERAGLIO OTTOMANS, superfine
scarlet--your paws--griffin--golden--and golden tripods, here, with
antique cranes--and oriental alabaster tables here and there--quite
appropriate, your la’ship feels.

“And let me reflect. For the next apartment, it strikes me--as your
la’ship don’t value expense--the _Alhambra hangings_--my own thought
entirely--Now, before I unrol them, Lady Clonbrony, I must beg you’ll
not mention I’ve shown them. I give you my sacred honour, not a
soul has set eye upon the Alhambra hangings except Mrs. Dareville,
who stole a peep; I refused, absolutely refused, the Duchess of
Torcaster--but I can’t refuse your la’ship--So see, ma’am--
(unrolling them)--scagliola porphyry columns supporting the grand
dome--entablature, silvered and decorated with imitative bronze
ornaments: under the entablature, a _valence in pelmets_, of puffed
scarlet silk, would have an unparalleled grand effect, seen through
the arches--with the TREBISOND TRELLICE PAPER, Would make a _tout
ensemble_, novel beyond example. On that trebisond trellice paper, I
confess, ladies, I do pique myself.

“Then, for the little room, I recommend turning it temporarily into a
Chinese pagoda, with this _Chinese pagoda paper_, with the _porcelain
border_, and josses, and jars, and beakers, to match; and I can
venture to promise one vase of pre-eminent size and beauty.--Oh,
indubitably! if your la’ship prefers it, you can have the _Egyptian
hieroglyphic paper_, with the _ibis border_ to match!--The only
objection is, one sees it every where--quite antediluvian--gone to
the hotels even; but, to be sure, if your la’ship has a fancy--at
all events, I humbly recommend, what her grace of Torcaster longs to
patronise, my MOON CURTAINS, with candlelight draperies. A demi-saison
elegance this--I hit off yesterday--and--True, your la’ship’s quite
correct--out of the common completely. And, of course, you’d have
the _sphynx candelabras_, and the phoenix argands--Oh! nothing else
lights now, ma’am!--Expense!--Expense of the whole!--Impossible to
calculate here on the spot!--but nothing at all worth your ladyship’s
consideration!”

At another moment, Lord Colambre might have been amused with all this
rhodomontade, and with the airs and voluble conceit of the orator;
but, after what he had heard at Mr. Mordicai’s, this whole scene
struck him more with melancholy than with mirth. He was alarmed by the
prospect of new and unbounded expense; provoked, almost past enduring,
by the jargon and impertinence of this upholsterer; mortified and
vexed to the heart, to see his mother the dupe, the sport of such a
coxcomb.

“Prince of puppies!--Insufferable!--My own mother!” Lord Colambre
repeated to himself, as he walked hastily up and down the room.

“Colambre, won’t you let us have your judgment--your _teeste_?” said
his mother.

“Excuse me, ma’am--I have no taste, no judgment in these things.”

He sometimes paused, and looked at Mr. Soho, with a strong inclination
to--. But knowing that he should say too much if he said any thing, he
was silent; never dared to approach the council table--but continued
walking up and down the room, till he heard a voice which at once
arrested his attention and soothed his ire. He approached the table
instantly, and listened, whilst Miss Nugent said every thing he wished
to have said, and with all the propriety and delicacy with which he
thought he could not have spoken. He leaned on the table, and fixed
his eyes upon her--years ago he had seen his cousin--last night he had
thought her handsome, pleasing, graceful--but now he saw a new person,
or he saw her in a new light. He marked the superior intelligence,
the animation, the eloquence of her countenance, its variety, whilst
alternately, with arch raillery, or grave humour, she played off Mr.
Soho, and made him magnify the ridicule, till it was apparent even
to Lady Clonbrony. He observed the anxiety lest his mother should
expose her own foibles; he was touched by the respectful, earnest
kindness--the soft tones of persuasion with which she addressed
her--the care not to presume upon her own influence--the good sense,
the taste, she showed, yet not displaying her superiority--the
address, temper, and patience, with which she at last accomplished
her purpose, and prevented Lady Clonbrony from doing any thing
preposterously absurd, or exorbitantly extravagant.

Lord Colambre was actually sorry when the business was ended--when Mr.
Soho departed--for Miss Nugent was then silent; and it was necessary
to remove his eyes from that countenance on which he had gazed
unobserved. Beautiful and graceful, yet so unconscious was she of her
charms, that the eye of admiration could rest upon her without her
perceiving it--she seemed so intent upon others as totally to forget
herself. The whole train of Lord Colambre’s thoughts was so completely
deranged, that, although he was sensible there was something of
importance he had to say to his mother, yet when Mr. Soho’s departure
left him opportunity to speak, he stood silent, unable to recollect
any thing but--Grace Nugent.

When Miss Nugent left the room, after some minutes’ silence, and some
effort, Lord Colambre said to his mother, “Pray, madam, do you know
any thing of Sir Terence O’Fay?”

“I!” said Lady Clonbrony, drawing up her head proudly; “I know he is a
person I cannot endure. He is no friend of mine, I can assure you--nor
any such sort of person.”

“I thought it was impossible!” cried Lord Colambre, with exultation.

“I only wish your father, Colambre, could say as much,” added Lady
Clonbrony.

Lord Colambre’s countenance fell again; and again he was silent for
some time.

“Does my father dine at home, ma’am?”

“I suppose not; he seldom dines at home.”

“Perhaps, ma’am, my father may have some cause to be uneasy about--”

“About?” said Lady Clonbrony, in a tone, and with a look of curiosity,
which convinced her son that she knew nothing of his debts or
distresses, if he had any. “About what?” repeated her ladyship.

Here was no receding, and Lord Colambre never had recourse to
artifice.

“About his affairs, I was going to say, madam. But, since you know
nothing of any difficulties or embarrassments, I am persuaded that
none exist.”

“Nay, I _cawnt_ tell you that, Colambre. There are difficulties for
ready money, I confess, when I ask for it, which surprise me often. I
know nothing of affairs--ladies of a certain rank seldom do, you know.
But, considering your father’s estate, and the fortune I brought him,”
 added her ladyship, proudly, “I _cawnt_ conceive it at all. Grace
Nugent, indeed, often talks to me of embarrassments and economy; but
that, poor thing! is very natural for her, because her fortune is not
particularly large, and she has left it all, or almost all, in her
uncle and guardian’s hands. I know she’s often distressed for odd
money to lend me, and that makes her anxious.”

“Is not Miss Nugent very much admired, ma’am, in London?”

“Of course--in the company she is in, you know, she has every
advantage. And she has a natural family air of fashion--Not but what
she would have _got on_ much better, if, when she first appeared
in Lon’on, she had taken my advice, and wrote herself on her cards
Miss de Nogent, which would have taken off the prejudice against the
_Iricism_ of Nugent, you know; and there is a Count de Nogent.”

“I did not know there was any such prejudice, ma’am. There may be
among a certain set; but, I should think, not among well-informed,
well-bred people.”

“I _big_ your _pawdon_, Colambre; surely I, that was born in England,
an Henglishwoman _bawn_, must be well _infawmed_ on this _pint_, any
way.”

Lord Colambre was respectfully silent.

“Mother,” resumed he, “I wonder that Miss Nugent is not married.”

“That is her own fau’t entirely; she has refused very good
offers--establishments that I own I think, as Lady Langdale says,
I was to blame to allow her to let pass: but young _ledies_, till
they are twenty, always think they can do better. Mr. Martingale,
of Martingale, proposed for her, but she objected to him on account
of _he’es_ being on the turf; and Mr. St. Albans’ 7000_l._ a-year,
because--I _reelly_ forget what--I believe only because she did
not like him--and something about principles. Now there is Colonel
Heathcock, one of the most fashionable young men you see, always with
the Duchess of Torcaster and that set--Heathcock takes a vast deal of
notice of her, for him; and yet, I’m persuaded, she would not have him
to-morrow if he came to the _pint_, and for no reason, _reelly_ now,
that she can give me, but because she says he’s a coxcomb. Grace has
a tincture of Irish pride. But, for my part, I rejoice that she is so
difficult; for I don’t know what I should do without her.”

“Miss Nugent is indeed--very much attached to you, mother, I am
convinced,” said Lord Colambre, beginning his sentence with great
enthusiasm, and ending it with great sobriety.

“Indeed, then, she’s a sweet girl, and I am very partial to her,
there’s the truth,” cried Lady Clonbrony, in an undisguised Irish
accent, and with her natural warm manner. But, a moment afterwards,
her features and whole form resumed their constrained stillness and
stiffness, and in her English accent she continued, “Before you put my
_idears_ out of my head, Colambre, I had something to say to you--Oh!
I know what it was--we were talking of embarrassments--and I wish
to do your father the justice to mention to you, that he has been
_uncommon liberal_ to me about this gala, and has _reelly_ given me
carte blanche; and I’ve a notion--indeed I know,--that it is you,
Colambre, I am to thank for this.”

“Me, ma’am!”

“Yes: did not your father give you any hint?”

“No, ma’am; I have seen my father but for half an hour since I came to
town, and in that time he said nothing to me--of his affairs.”

“But what I allude to is more your affair.”

“He did not speak to me of any affairs, ma’am--he spoke only of my
horses.”

“Then I suppose my lord leaves it to me to open the matter to you. I
have the pleasure to tell you, that we have in view for you--and, I
think I may say, with more than the approbation of all her family--an
alliance--”

“Oh, my dear mother! you cannot be serious,” cried Lord Colambre;
“you know I am not of years of discretion yet--I shall not think of
marrying these ten years, at least.”

“Why not? Nay, my dear Colambre, don’t go, I beg--I am serious, I
assure you--and, to convince you of it, I shall tell you candidly, at
once, all your father told me: that now you’ve done with Cambridge,
and are come to Lon’on, he agrees with me in wishing that you should
make the figure you ought to make, Colambre, as sole heir apparent to
the Clonbrony estate, and all that sort of thing; but, on the other
hand, living in Lon’on, and making you the handsome allowance you
ought to have, are, both together, more than your father can afford,
without inconvenience, he tells me.”

“I assure you, mother, I shall be content--”

“No, no; you must not be content, child, and you must hear me: you
must live in a becoming style, and make a proper appearance. I
could not present you to my friends here, nor be happy, if you did
not, Colambre. Now the way is clear before you: you have birth and
title, here is fortune ready made--you will have a noble estate of
your own when old Quin dies, and you will not be any encumbrance
or inconvenience to your father or any body. Marrying an heiress
accomplishes all this at once--and the young lady is every thing we
could wish besides--you will meet again at the gala. Indeed, between
ourselves, she is the grand object of the gala--all her friends will
come _en masse_, and one should wish that they should see things in
proper style. You have seen the young lady in question, Colambre--Miss
Broadhurst--Don’t you recollect the young lady I introduced you to
last night after the opera?”

“The little plain girl, covered with diamonds, who was standing beside
Miss Nugent?”

“In di’monds, yes--But you won’t think her plain when you see more of
her--that wears off--I thought her plain, at first--I hope--”

“I hope,” said Lord Colambre, “that you will not take it unkindly of
me, my dear mother, if I tell you, at once, that I have no thoughts of
marrying at present--and that I never will marry for money: marrying
an heiress is not even a new way of paying old debts--at all events,
it is one to which no distress could persuade me to have recourse; and
as I must, if I outlive old Mr. Quin, have an independent fortune,
_there is no_ occasion to purchase one by marriage.”

“There is no distress that I know of in the case,” cried Lady
Clonbrony. “Where is your imagination running, Colambre? But merely
for your establishment, your independence.”

“Establishment, I want none--independence I do desire, and will
preserve. Assure my father, my _dear mother_, that I will not be
an expense to him--I will live within the allowance he made me at
Cambridge--I will give up half of it--I will do any thing for his
convenience--but marry for money, that I cannot do.”

“Then, Colambre, you are very disobliging,” said Lady Clonbrony, with
an expression of disappointment and displeasure; “for your father says
if you don’t marry Miss Broadhurst, we can’t live in Lon’on another
winter.”

This said--which had she been at the moment mistress of herself, she
would not have betrayed--Lady Clonbrony abruptly quitted the room.
Her son stood motionless, saying to himself, “Is this my mother?--How
altered!”

The next morning he seized an opportunity of speaking to his father,
whom he caught with difficulty just when he was going out, as usual,
for the day. Lord Colambre, with all the respect due to his father,
and with that affectionate manner by which he always knew how
to soften the strength of his expressions, made nearly the same
declarations of his resolution, by which his mother had been so much
surprised and offended. Lord Clonbrony seemed more embarrassed, but
not so much displeased. When Lord Colambre adverted, as delicately
as he could, to the selfishness of desiring from him the sacrifice
of liberty for life, to say nothing of his affections, merely to
enable his family to make a splendid figure in London, Lord Clonbrony
exclaimed, “That’s all nonsense!--cursed nonsense! That’s the way we
are obliged to state the thing to your mother, my dear boy, because I
might talk her deaf before she would understand or listen to any thing
else; but, for my own share, I don’t care a rush if London was sunk in
the salt sea. Little Dublin for my money, as Sir Terence O’Fay says.”

“Who is Sir Terence O’Fay, may I ask, sir?”

“Why, don’t you know Terry?--Ay, you’ve been so long at Cambridge--I
forgot. And did you never see Terry?”

“I have seen him, sir.--I met him yesterday at Mr. Mordicai’s, the
coachmaker’s.”

“Mordicai’s!” exclaimed Lord Clonbrony, with a sudden blush, which he
endeavoured to hide, by taking snuff. “He is a damned rascal, that
Mordicai! I hope you didn’t believe a word he said--nobody does that
knows him.”

“I am glad, sir, that you seem to know him so well, and to be upon
your guard against him,” replied Lord Colambre; “for, from what I
heard of his conversation, when he was not aware who I was, I am
convinced he would do you any injury in his power.”

“He shall never have me in his power, I promise him. We shall take
care of that--But what did he say?”

Lord Colambre repeated the substance of what Mordicai had said, and
Lord Clonbrony reiterated, “Damned rascal!--damned rascal!--I’ll get
out of his hands--I’ll have no more to do with him.” But, as he spoke,
he exhibited evident symptoms of uneasiness, moving continually, and
shifting from leg to leg, like a foundered horse.

He could not bring himself positively to deny that he had debts and
difficulties; but he would by no means open the state of his affairs
to his son: “No father is called upon to do that,” said he to himself;
“none but a fool would do it.”

Lord Colambre, perceiving his father’s embarrassment, withdrew his
eyes, respectfully refrained from all further inquiries, and simply
repeated the assurance he had made to his mother, that he would put
his family to no additional expense; and that, if it was necessary, he
would willingly give up half his allowance.

“Not at all, not at all, my dear boy,” said his father: “I would
rather cramp myself than that you should be cramped, a thousand times
over. But it is all my Lady Clonbrony’s nonsense. If people would but,
as they ought, stay in their own country, live on their own estates,
and kill their own mutton, money need never be wanting.”

For killing their own mutton, Lord Colambre did not see the
indispensable necessity; but he rejoiced to hear his father assert
that people should reside in their own country.

“Ay,” cried Lord Clonbrony, to strengthen his assertion, as he
always thought it necessary to do, by quoting some other person’s
opinion--“so Sir Terence O’Fay always says, and that’s the reason your
mother can’t endure poor Terry--You don’t know Terry? No, you have
only seen him; but, indeed, to see him is to know him; for he is the
most off-hand, good fellow in Europe.”

“I don’t pretend to know him yet,” said Lord Colambre. “I am not so
presumptuous as to form my opinion at first sight.”

“Oh, curse your modesty!” interrupted Lord Clonbrony; “you mean, you
don’t pretend to like him yet; but Terry will make you like him. I
defy you not--I’ll introduce you to him--him to you, I mean--most
warm-hearted, generous dog upon earth--convivial--jovial--with wit and
humour enough, in his own way, to split you--split me if he has not.
You need not cast down your eyes, Colambre. What’s your objection?”

“I have made none, sir--but, if you urge me, I can only say, that, if
he has all these good qualities, it is to be regretted that he does
not look and speak a little more like a gentleman.”

“A gentleman!--he is as much a gentleman as any of your formal
prigs--not the exact Cambridge cut, may be--Curse your English
education! ‘twas none of my advice--I suppose you mean to take after
your mother in the notion, that nothing can be good or genteel but
what’s English.”

“Far from it, sir; I assure you I am as warm a friend to Ireland as
your heart could wish. You will have no reason, in that respect, at
least, nor, I hope, in any other, to curse my English education--and,
if my gratitude and affection can avail, you shall never regret the
kindness and liberality with which you have, I fear, distressed
yourself to afford me the means of becoming all that a British
nobleman ought to be.”

“Gad! you distress me now,” said Lord Clonbrony, “and I didn’t expect
it, or I wouldn’t make a fool of myself this way,” added he, ashamed
of his emotion, and whiffling it off. “You have an Irish heart, that I
see, which no education can spoil. But you must like Terry--I’ll
give you time, as he said to me, when first he taught me to like
usquebaugh--Good morning to you.”

Whilst Lady Clonbrony, in consequence of her residence in London, had
become more of a fine lady, Lord Clonbrony, since he left Ireland,
had become less of a gentleman. Lady Clonbrony, born an Englishwoman,
disclaiming and disencumbering herself of all the Irish in town, had,
by giving splendid entertainments, at an enormous expense, made her
way into a certain set of fashionable company. But Lord Clonbrony,
who was somebody in Ireland, who was a great person in Dublin, found
himself nobody in England, a mere cipher in London. Looked down upon
by the fine people with whom his lady associated, and heartily weary
of them, he retreated from them altogether, and sought entertainment
and self-complacency in society beneath him, indeed, both in rank and
education, but in which he had the satisfaction of feeling himself
the first person in company. Of these associates, the first in
talents, and in jovial profligacy, was Sir Terence O’Fay--a man of
low extraction, who had been knighted by an Irish lord-lieutenant
in some convivial frolic. No one could tell a good story, or sing a
good song, better than Sir Terence; he exaggerated his native brogue,
and his natural propensity to blunder, caring little whether the
company laughed at him or with him, provided they laughed--“Live
and laugh--laugh and live,” was his motto; and certainly he lived
on laughing, as well as many better men can contrive to live on a
thousand a-year.

Lord Clonbrony brought Sir Terence home with him next day, to
introduce him to Lord Colambre; and it happened that, on this
occasion, Terence appeared to peculiar disadvantage, because, like
many other people, “Il gâtoit l’esprit qu’il avoit, en voulant avoir
celui qu’il n’avoit pas.”

Having been apprised that Lord Colambre was a fine scholar, fresh from
Cambridge, and being conscious of his own deficiencies of literature,
instead of trusting to his natural talents, he summoned to his aid,
with no small effort, all the scraps of learning he had acquired in
early days, and even brought before the company all the gods and
goddesses with whom he had formed an acquaintance at school. Though
embarrassed by this unusual encumbrance of learning, he endeavoured
to make all subservient to his immediate design, of paying his court
to Lady Clonbrony, by forwarding the object she had most anxiously in
view--the match between her son and Miss Broadhurst.

“And so, Miss Nugent,” said he, not daring, with all his assurance, to
address himself directly to Lady Clonbrony, “and so, Miss Nugent, you
are going to have great doings, I’m told, and a wonderful grand gala.
There’s nothing in the wide world equal to being in a good handsome
crowd. No later now than the last ball at the Castle, that was before
I left Dublin, Miss Nugent, the apartments, owing to the popularity
of my lady lieutenant, was so throng--so throng--that I remember
very well, in the doorway, a lady--and a very genteel woman she was,
too--though a stranger to me, saying to me, ‘Sir, your finger’s in my
ear.’--‘I know it, madam,” says I; ‘but I can’t take it out till the
crowd give me elbow-room.’

“But it’s the gala I’m thinking of now--I hear you are to have the
golden Venus, my Lady Clonbrony, won’t you?”

“Sir!”

This freezing monosyllable notwithstanding, Sir Terence pursued his
course fluently. “The golden Venus!--sure, Miss Nugent, you that are
so quick, can’t but know I would apostrophize Miss Broadhurst that
is--but that won’t be long so, I hope. My Lord Colambre, have you seen
much yet of that young lady?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I hope you won’t be long so. I hear great talk now of the Venus
of Medici, and the Venus of this and that, with the Florence Venus,
and the sable Venus, and that other Venus, that’s washing of her hair,
and a hundred other Venuses, some good, some bad. But, be that as it
will, my lord, trust a fool--ye may, when he tells you truth--the
golden Venus is the only one on earth that can stand, or that will
stand, through all ages and temperatures; for gold rules the court,
gold rules the camp, and men below, and heaven above.”

“Heaven above!--Take care, Terry! Do you know what you are saying?”
 interrupted Lord Clonbrony.

“Do I?--Don’t I?” replied Terry. “Deny, if you please, my lord, that
it was for a golden pippin that the three goddesses _fit_--and that
the _Hippomenes_ was about golden apples--and did not Hercules rob a
garden for golden apples?--and did not the pious Æneas himself take a
golden branch with him to make himself welcome to his father in hell?”
 said Sir Terence, winking at Lord Colambre.

“Why, Terry, you know more about books than I should have suspected,”
 said Lord Clonbrony.

“Nor you would not have suspected me to have such a great acquaintance
among the goddesses neither, would you, my lord? But, apropos, before
we quit, of what material, think ye, was that same Venus’s famous
girdle, now, that made roses and lilies so quickly appear? Why, what
was it but a girdle of sterling gold, I’ll engage?--for gold is the
only true thing for a young man to look after in a wife.”

Sir Terence paused, but no applause ensued.

“Let them talk of Cupids and darts, and the mother of the Loves and
Graces--Minerva may sing odes and _dythambrics_, or whatsoever her
wisdomship pleases. Let her sing, or let her say, she’ll never get a
husband, in this world or the other, without she had a good thumping
_fortin_, and then she’d go off like wildfire.”

“No, no, Terry, there you’re out: Minerva has too bad a character for
learning to be a favourite with gentlemen,” said Lord Clonbrony.

“Tut--Don’t tell me!--I’d get her off before you could say Jack
Robinson, and thank you too, if she had 50,000_l._ down, or 1,000_l._
a-year in land. Would you have a man so d----d nice as to balk,
when house and land is agoing--a going--a going!--because of the
incumbrance of a little learning? But, after all, I never heard that
Miss Broadhurst was any thing of a learned lady.”

“Miss Broadhurst!” said Miss Nugent: “how did you get round to Miss
Broadhurst?”

“Oh! by the way of Tipperary,” said Lord Colambre.

“I beg your pardon, my lord, it was apropos to good fortune, which,
I hope, will not be out of your way, even if you went by Tipperary.
She has, besides 100,000_l._ in the funds, a clear landed property of
10,000_l._ per annum. _Well! some people talk of morality, and some of
religion, bat give me a little snug_ PROPERTY.--But, my lord, I’ve a
little business to transact this morning, and must not be idling and
indulging myself here.” So, bowing to the ladies, he departed.

“Really, I am glad that man is gone,” said Lady Clonbrony. “What a
relief to one’s ears! I am sure I wonder, my lord, how you can bear
to carry that strange creature always about with you--so vulgar as he
is.”

“He diverts me,” said Lord Clonbrony; “while many of your
correct-mannered fine ladies or gentlemen put me to sleep. What
signifies what accent people speak in, that have nothing to say, hey,
Colambre?”

Lord Colambre, from respect to his father, did not express his
opinion; but his aversion to Sir Terence O’Fay was stronger even than
his mother’s, though Lady Clonbrony’s detestation of him was much
increased by perceiving that his coarse hints about Miss Broadhurst
had operated against her favourite scheme.

The next morning, at breakfast, Lord Clonbrony talked of bringing Sir
Terence with him that night to her gala--she absolutely grew pale with
horror.

“Good Heavens!--Lady Langdale, Mrs. Dareville, Lady Pococke, Lady
Chatterton, Lady D----, Lady G----, His Grace of V----; what would
they think of him! And Miss Broadhurst, to see him going about with
my Lord Clonbrony!”--It could not be. No--her ladyship made the most
solemn and desperate protestation, that she would sooner give up her
gala altogether--tie up the knocker--say she was sick--rather be sick,
or be dead, than be obliged to have such a creature as Sir Terence
O’Fay at her gala.

“Have it your own way, my dear, as you have every thing else,” cried
Lord Clonbrony, taking up his hat, and preparing to decamp; “but, take
notice, if you won’t receive him, you need not expect me. So a good
morning to you, my Lady Clonbrony. You may find a worse friend in need
yet, than that same Sir Terence O’Fay.”

“I trust I shall never be in need, my lord,” replied her ladyship. “It
would be strange indeed if I were, with the fortune I brought.”

“Oh, that fortune of hers!” cried Lord Clonbrony, stopping both his
ears as he ran out of his room: “shall I never hear the end of that
fortune, when I’ve seen the end of it long ago?”

During this matrimonial dialogue, Miss Nugent and Lord Colambre never
once looked at each other. She was very diligently trying the changes
that could be made in the positions of a china-mouse, a cat, a dog, a
cup, and a brahmin, on the mantel-piece; Lord Colambre as diligently
reading the newspaper.

“Now, my dear Colambre,” said Lady Clonbrony, “put down the paper,
and listen to me. Let me entreat you not to neglect Miss Broadhurst
to-night, as I know that the family come here chiefly on your
account.”

“My dear mother, I never can neglect any one of your guests; but
I shall be careful not to show any particular attention to Miss
Broadhurst, for I never will pretend what I do not feel.”

“But, my dear Colambre, Miss Broadhurst is every thing you could wish,
except being a beauty.”

“Perhaps, madam,” said Lord Colambre, fixing his eyes on Miss Nugent,
“you think that I can see no farther than a handsome face?”

The unconscious Grace Nugent now made a warm eulogium of Miss
Broadhurst’s sense, and wit, and independence of character.

“I did not know that Miss Broadhurst was a friend of yours, Miss
Nugent?”

“She is, I assure you, a friend of mine; and, as a proof, I will not
praise her at this moment. I will go farther still--I will promise
that I never will praise her to you till you begin to praise her to
me.”

Lord Colambre smiled, and now listened as if he wished that she should
go on speaking, even of Miss Broadhurst.

“That’s my sweet Grace!” cried Lady Clonbrony. “Oh! she knows how to
manage these men--not one of them can resist her!”

Lord Colambre, for his part, did not deny the truth of this assertion.

“Grace,” added Lady Clonbrony, “make him promise to do as we would
have him.”

“No--promises are dangerous things to ask or to give,” said Grace.
“Men and naughty children never make promises, especially promises to
be good, without longing to break them the next minute.”

“Well, at least, child, persuade him, I charge you, to make my gala go
off well. That’s the first thing we ought to think of now. Ring the
bell!--And all heads and hands I put in requisition for the gala.”




CHAPTER III.


The opening of her gala, the display of her splendid reception rooms,
the Turkish tent, the Alhambra, the pagoda, formed a proud moment
to Lady Clonbrony. Much did she enjoy, and much too naturally,
notwithstanding all her efforts to be stiff and stately, much too
naturally did she show her enjoyment of the surprise excited in some
and affected by others on their first entrance.

One young, very young lady expressed her astonishment so audibly as to
attract the notice of all the bystanders. Lady Clonbrony, delighted,
seized both her hands, shook them, and laughed heartily; then, as the
young lady with her party passed on, her ladyship recovered herself,
drew up her head, and said to the company near her, “Poor thing! I
hope I covered her little _naïveté_ properly. How NEW she must be!”

Then with well practised dignity, and half subdued self-complacency
of aspect, her ladyship went gliding about--most importantly busy,
introducing my lady _this_ to the sphynx candelabra, and my lady
_that_ to the Trebisond trellice; placing some delightfully for
the perspective of the Alhambra; establishing others quite to her
satisfaction on seraglio ottomans; and honouring others with a seat
under the Statira canopy. Receiving and answering compliments from
successive crowds of select friends, imagining herself the mirror
of fashion, and the admiration of the whole world, Lady Clonbrony
was, for her hour, as happy certainly as ever woman was in similar
circumstances.

Her son looked at her, and wished that this happiness could last.
Naturally inclined to sympathy, Lord Colambre reproached himself for
not feeling as gay at this instant as the occasion required. But the
festive scene, the blazing lights, the “universal hubbub,” failed to
raise his spirits. As a dead weight upon them hung the remembrance
of Mordicai’s denunciations; and, through the midst of this eastern
magnificence, this unbounded profusion, he thought he saw future
domestic misery and ruin to those he loved best in the world.

The only object present on which his eye rested with pleasure was
Grace Nugent. Beautiful--in elegant and dignified simplicity--
thoughtless of herself--yet with a look of thought, and with an air
of melancholy, which accorded exactly with his own feelings, and
which he believed to arise from the same reflections that had
passed in his own mind.

“Miss Broadhurst, Colambre! all the Broadhursts!” said his mother,
wakening him as she passed by to receive them as they entered.
Miss Broadhurst appeared, plainly dressed--plainly even to
singularity--without any diamonds or ornament.

“Brought Philippa to you, my dear Lady Clonbrony, this figure, rather
than not bring her at all,” said puffing Mrs. Broadhurst, “and had
all the difficulty in the world to get her out at all, and now I’ve
promised she shall stay but half an hour. Sore throat--terrible cold
she took in the morning. I’ll swear for her, she’d not have come for
any one but you.”

The young lady did not seem inclined to swear, or even to say this
for herself; she stood wonderfully unconcerned and passive, with an
expression of humour lurking in her eyes, and about the corners of
her mouth; whilst Lady Clonbrony was “shocked,” and “gratified,”
 and “concerned,” and “flattered;” and whilst every body was hoping,
and fearing, and busying themselves about her, “Miss Broadhurst,
you’d better sit here!”--“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Miss Broadhurst,
not there!” “Miss Broadhurst, if you’ll take my opinion,” and “Miss
Broadhurst, if I may advise--.”

“Grace Nugent!” cried Lady Clonbrony. “Miss Broadhurst always listens
to you. Do, my dear, persuade Miss Broadhurst to take care of herself,
and let us take her to the inner little pagoda, where she can be so
warm and so retired--the very thing for an invalid--Colambre! pioneer
the way for us, for the crowd’s immense.”

Lady Anne and Lady Catherine H----, Lady Langdale’s daughters, were
at this time leaning on Miss Nugent’s arm, and moved along with this
party to the inner pagoda. There were to be cards in one room, music
in another, dancing in a third, and in this little room there were
prints and chess-boards, &c.

“Here you will be quite to yourselves,” said Lady Clonbrony; “let
me establish you comfortably in this, which I call my sanctuary--my
_snuggery_--Colambre, that little table!--Miss Broadhurst, you play
chess?--Colambre, you’ll play with Miss Broadhurst--”

“I thank your ladyship,” said Miss Broadhurst, “but I know nothing of
chess but the moves: Lady Catherine, you will play, and I will look
on.”

Miss Broadhurst drew her seat to the fire; Lady Catherine sat down to
play with Lord Colambre: Lady Clonbrony withdrew, again recommending
Miss Broadhurst to Grace Nugent’s care. After some commonplace
conversation, Lady Anne H----, looking at the company in the adjoining
apartment, asked her sister how old Miss Somebody was who passed
by. This led to reflections upon the comparative age and youthful
appearance of several of their acquaintance, and upon the care with
which mothers concealed the age of their daughters. Glances passed
between Lady Catherine and Lady Anne.

“For my part,” said Miss Broadhurst, “my mother would labour that
point of secrecy in vain for me; for I am willing to tell my age, even
if my face did not tell it for me, to all whom it may concern--I am
passed three-and-twenty--shall be four-and-twenty the fifth of next
July.”

“Three-and-twenty!--Bless me!--I thought you were not twenty!” cried
Lady Anne.

“Four-and-twenty next July!--impossible!” cried Lady Catherine.

“Very possible,” said Miss Broadhurst, quite unconcerned.

“Now, Lord Colambre, would you believe it? Can you believe it?” asked
Lady Catherine.

“Yes, he can,” said Miss Broadhurst. “Don’t you see that he believes
it as firmly as you and I do? Why should you force his lordship to pay
a compliment contrary to his better judgment, or extort a smile from
him under false pretences? I am sure he sees that you, and I trust he
perceives that I, do not think the worse of him for this.”

Lord Colambre smiled now without any false pretence; and, relieved at
once from all apprehension of her joining in his mother’s views, or of
her expecting particular attention from him, he became at ease with
Miss Broadhurst, showed a desire to converse with her, and listened
eagerly to what she said. He recollected that Miss Nugent had told
him, that this young lady had no common character; and, neglecting his
move at chess, he looked up at Miss Nugent, as much as to say, “_Draw
her out_, pray.”

But Grace was too good a friend to comply with that request; she left
Miss Broadhurst to unfold her own character.

“It is your move, my lord,” said Lady Catherine.

“I beg your ladyship’s pardon--”

“Are not these rooms beautiful, Miss Broadhurst?” said Lady Catherine,
determined, if possible, to turn the conversation into a commonplace,
safe channel; for she had just felt, what most of Miss Broadhurst’s
acquaintance had in their turn felt, that she had an odd way of
startling people, by setting their own secret little motives suddenly
before them.

“Are not these rooms beautiful?”

“Beautiful!--Certainly.”

The beauty of the rooms would have answered Lady Catherine’s purpose
for some time, had not Lady Anne imprudently brought the conversation
back again to Miss Broadhurst.

“Do you know, Miss Broadhurst,” said she, “that if I had fifty sore
throats, I could not have refrained from my diamonds on this GALA
night; and such diamonds as you have! Now, really, I could not believe
you to be the same person we saw blazing at the opera the other
night!”

“Really! could not you, Lady Anne? That is the very thing that
entertains me. I only wish that I could lay aside my fortune
sometimes, as well as my diamonds, and see how few people would know
me then. Might not I, Grace, by the golden rule, which, next to
practice, is the best rule in the world, calculate and answer that
question?”

“I am persuaded,” said Lord Colambre, “that Miss Broadhurst has
friends on whom the experiment would make no difference.”

“I am convinced of it,” said Miss Broadhurst; “and that is what makes
me tolerably happy, though I have the misfortune to be an heiress.”

“That is the oddest speech,” said Lady Anne. “Now I should so like
to be a great heiress, and to have, like you, such thousands and
thousands at command.”

“And what can the thousands upon thousands do for me? Hearts, you
know, Lady Anne, are to be won only by radiant eyes. Bought hearts
your ladyship certainly would not recommend. They’re such poor
things--no wear at all. Turn them which way you will, you can make
nothing of them.”

“You’ve tried, then, have you?” said Lady Catherine.

“To my cost.--Very nearly taken in by them half a dozen times; for
they are brought to me by dozens; and they are so made up for sale,
and the people do so swear to you that it’s real, real love, and it
looks so like it: and, if you stoop to examine it, you hear it pressed
upon you by such elegant oaths.--By all that’s lovely!--By all my
hopes of happiness!--By your own charming self! Why, what can one do
but look like a fool, and believe? for these men, at the time, all
look so like gentlemen, that one cannot bring oneself flatly to tell
them that they are cheats and swindlers, that they are perjuring their
precious souls. Besides, to call a lover a perjured creature is to
encourage him. He would have a right to complain if you went back
after that.”

“O dear! what a move was there!” cried Lady Catherine. “Miss
Broadhurst is so entertaining to-night, notwithstanding her sore
throat, that one can positively attend to nothing else. And she talks
of love and lovers too with such _connoissance de fait_--counts her
lovers by dozens, tied up in true lovers’ knots!”

“Lovers!--no, no! Did I say lovers?--suitors I should have said.
There’s nothing less like a lover, a true lover, than a suitor, as all
the world knows, ever since the days of Penelope. Dozens!--never had a
lover in my life!--And fear, with much reason, I never shall have one
to my mind.”

“My lord, you’ve given up the game,” cried Lady Catherine; “but you
make no battle.”

“It would be so vain to combat against your ladyship,” said Lord
Colambre, rising, and bowing politely to Lady Catherine, but turning
the next instant to converse with Miss Broadhurst.

“But when I talked of liking to be an heiress,” said Lady Anne, “I was
not thinking of lovers.”

“Certainly.--One is not always thinking of lovers, you know,” added
Lady Catherine.

“Not always,” replied Miss Broadhurst. “Well, lovers out of the
question on all sides, what would your ladyship buy with the thousands
upon thousands?”

“Oh, every thing, if I were you,” said Lady Anne.

“Rank, to begin with,” said Lady Catherine.

“Still my old objection--bought rank is but a shabby thing.”

“But there is so little difference made between bought and hereditary
rank in these days,” said Lady Catherine.

“I see a great deal still,” said Miss Broadhurst; “so much, that I
would never buy a title.”

“A title, without birth, to be sure,” said Lady Anne, “would not be so
well worth buying; and as birth certainly is not to be bought--”

“And even birth, were it to be bought, I would not buy,” said
Miss Broadhurst, “unless I could be sure to have it with all the
politeness, all the noble sentiments, all the magnanimity, in short,
all that should grace and dignify high birth.”

“Admirable!” said Lord Colambre. Grace Nugent smiled.

“Lord Colambre, will you have the goodness to put my mother in mind, I
must go away?”

“I am bound to obey, but I am very sorry for it,” said his lordship.

“Are we to have any dancing to-night, I wonder?” said Lady Anne. “Miss
Nugent, I am afraid we have made Miss Broadhurst talk so much, in
spite of her hoarseness, that Lady Clonbrony will be quite angry with
us. And here she comes, Lady Catherine.”

My Lady Clonbrony came to hope, to beg, that Miss Broadhurst would not
think of running away; but Miss Broadhurst could not be prevailed upon
to stay. Lady Clonbrony was delighted to see that her son assisted
Grace Nugent most carefully in _shawling_ the young heiress--his
lordship conducted her to her carriage, and his mother drew many happy
auguries from the gallantry of his manner, and from the young lady’s
having stayed three quarters, instead of half an hour--a circumstance
which Lady Catherine did not fail to remark.

The dancing, which, under various pretences, Lady Clonbrony had
delayed till Lord Colambre was at liberty, began immediately after
Miss Broadhurst’s departure; and the chalked mosaic pavement of the
Alhambra was, in a few minutes, effaced by the dancers’ feet. How
transient are all human joys, especially those of vanity! Even on this
long meditated, this long desired, this gala night, Lady Clonbrony
found her triumph incomplete--inadequate to her expectations. For the
first hour all had been compliment, success, and smiles; presently
came the _buts_, and the hesitated objections, and the “damning
with faint praise”--all _that_ could be borne--every body has his
taste--and one person’s taste is as good as another’s; and while
she had Mr. Soho to cite, Lady Clonbrony thought she might be well
satisfied. But she could not be satisfied with Colonel Heathcock, who,
dressed in black, had stretched his “fashionable length of limb” under
the Statira canopy, upon the snow-white swandown couch. When, after
having monopolized attention, and been the subject of much bad wit,
about black swans and rare birds, and swans being geese and geese
being swans, the colonel condescended to rise, and, as Mrs. Dareville
said, to vacate his couch--that couch was no longer white--the black
impression of the colonel remained on the sullied snow.

“Eh, now! really didn’t recollect I was in black,” was all the apology
he made. Lady Clonbrony was particularly vexed that the appearance of
the Statira canopy should be spoiled before the effect had been seen
by Lady Pococke, and Lady Chatterton, and Lady G----, Lady P----, and
the Duke of V----, and a party of superlative fashionables, who had
promised _to look in upon her_, but who, late as it was, had not yet
arrived. They came in at last. But Lady Clonbrony had no reason to
regret for their sake the Statira couch. It would have been lost upon
them, as was every thing else which she had prepared with so much
pains and cost to excite their admiration. They came resolute not to
admire. Skilled in the art of making others unhappy, they just looked
round with an air of apathy.--“Ah! you’ve had Soho!--Soho has done
wonders for you here!--Vastly well!--Vastly well!--Soho’s very clever
in his way!”

Others of great importance came in, full of some slight accident that
had happened to themselves, or their horses, or their carriages; and,
with privileged selfishness, engrossed the attention of all within
their sphere of conversation. Well, Lady Clonbrony got over all this;
and got over the history of a letter about a chimney that was on fire,
a week ago, at the Duke of V----‘s old house, in Brecknockshire. In
gratitude for the smiling patience with which she listened to him,
his Grace of V---- fixed his glass to look at the Alhambra, and had
just pronounced it to be “Well!--very well!” when the Dowager Lady
Chatterton made a terrible discovery--a discovery that filled Lady
Clonbrony with astonishment and indignation--Mr. Soho had played her
false! What was her mortification, when the dowager assured her that
these identical Alhambra hangings had not only been shown by Mr. Soho
to the Duchess of Torcaster, but that her grace had had the refusal of
them, and had actually criticised them, in consequence of Sir Horace
Grant, the great traveller’s objecting to some of the proportions of
the pillars--Soho had engaged to make a new set, vastly improved, by
Sir Horace’s suggestions, for her Grace of Torcaster.

Now Lady Chatterton was the greatest talker extant; and she went
about the rooms telling every body of her acquaintance--and she was
acquainted with every body--how shamefully Soho had imposed upon poor
Lady Clonbrony, protesting she could not forgive the man. “For,” said
she, “though the Duchess of Torcaster had been his constant customer
for ages, and his patroness, and all that, yet this does not excuse
him--and Lady Clonbrony’s being a stranger, and from Ireland, makes
the thing worse.” From Ireland!--that was the unkindest cut of
all--but there was no remedy.

In vain poor Lady Clonbrony followed the dowager about the rooms to
correct this mistake, and to represent, in justice to Mr. Soho, though
he had used her so ill, that he knew she was an Englishwoman. The
dowager was deaf, and no whisper could reach her ear. And when Lady
Clonbrony was obliged to bawl an explanation in her ear, the dowager
only repeated, “In justice to Mr. Soho!--No, no; he has not done
you justice, my dear Lady Clonbrony! and I’ll expose him to every
body. Englishwoman!--no, no, no!--Soho could not take you for an
Englishwoman!”

All who secretly envied or ridiculed Lady Clonbrony enjoyed this
scene. The Alhambra hangings, which had been in one short hour before
the admiration of the world, were now regarded by every eye with
contempt, as _cast_ hangings, and every tongue was busy declaiming
against Mr. Soho; every body declared, that from the first, the want
of proportion “struck them, but that they would not mention it till
others found it out.”

People usually revenge themselves for having admired too much, by
afterwards despising and depreciating without mercy--in all great
assemblies the perception of ridicule is quickly caught, and quickly
too revealed. Lady Clonbrony, even in her own house, on her gala
night, became an object of ridicule,--decently masked, indeed, under
the appearance of condolence with her ladyship, and of indignation
against “that abominable Mr. Soho!”

Lady Langdale, who was now, for reasons of her own, upon her good
behaviour, did penance, as she said, for her former imprudence,
by abstaining even from whispered sarcasms. She looked on with
penitential gravity, said nothing herself, and endeavoured to keep
Mrs. Dareville in order; but that was no easy task. Mrs. Dareville
had no daughters, had nothing to gain from the acquaintance of my Lady
Clonbrony; and conscious that her ladyship would bear a vast deal
from her presence, rather than forego the honour of her sanction,
Mrs. Dareville, without any motives of interest, or good-nature of
sufficient power to restrain her talent and habit of ridicule, free
from hope or fear, gave full scope to all the malice of mockery, and
all the insolence of fashion. Her slings and arrows, numerous as they
were and outrageous, were directed against such petty objects, and the
mischief was so quick in its aim and its operation, that, felt but not
seen, it is scarcely possible to register the hits, or to describe the
nature of the wounds.

Some hits, sufficiently palpable, however, are recorded for the
advantage of posterity. When Lady Clonbrony led her to look at the
Chinese pagoda, the lady paused, with her foot on the threshold, as
if afraid to enter this porcelain Elysium, as she called it--Fool’s
Paradise, she would have said; and, by her hesitation, and by the
half pronounced word, suggested the idea,--“None but belles without
petticoats can enter here,” said she, drawing her clothes tight round
her; “fortunately, I have but two, and Lady Langdale has but one.”
 Prevailed upon to venture in, she walked on with prodigious care and
trepidation, affecting to be alarmed at the crowd of strange forms and
monsters by which she was surrounded.

“Not a creature here that I ever saw before in nature!--Well, now I
may boast I’ve been in a real Chinese pagoda!”

“Why, yes, every thing is appropriate here, I flatter my self,” said
Lady Clonbrony.

“And how good of you, my dear Lady Clonbrony, in defiance of bulls
and blunders, to allow us a comfortable English fire-place and plenty
of Newcastle coal in China!--And a white marble--no! white velvet
hearthrug painted with beautiful flowers--Oh! the delicate, the
_useful_ thing!”

Vexed by the emphasis on the word _useful_, Lady Clonbrony endeavoured
to turn off the attention of the company. “Lady Langdale, your
ladyship’s a judge of china--this vase is an unique, I am told.”

“I am told,” interrupted Mrs. Dareville, “this is the very vase in
which B----, the nabob’s father, who was, you know, a China captain,
smuggled his dear little Chinese wife and all her fortune out of
Canton--positively, actually put the lid on, packed her up, and sent
her off on shipboard!--True! true! upon my veracity! I’ll tell you my
authority!”

With this story, Mrs. Dareville drew all attention from the jar, to
Lady Clonbrony’s infinite mortification.

Lady Langdale at length turned to look at a vast range of china jars.

“Ali Baba and the forty thieves!” exclaimed Mrs. Dareville: “I hope
you have boiling oil ready!”

Lady Clonbrony was obliged to laugh, and to vow that Mrs. Dareville
was uncommon pleasant to-night--“But now,” said her ladyship, “let me
take you to the Turkish tent.”

Having with great difficulty got the malicious wit out of the pagoda
and into the Turkish tent, Lady Clonbrony began to breathe move
freely; for here she thought she was upon safe ground:--“Every thing,
I flatter myself,” said she, “is correct, and appropriate, and quite
picturesque”--The company, dispersed in happy groups, or reposing on
seraglio ottomans, drinking lemonade and sherbet--beautiful Fatimas
admiring, or being admired--“Every thing here quite correct,
appropriate, and picturesque,” repeated Mrs. Dareville.

This lady’s powers as a mimic were extraordinary, and she found them
irresistible. Hitherto she had imitated Lady Clonbrony’s air and
accent only behind her back; but, bolder grown, she now ventured, in
spite of Lady Langdale’s warning pinches, to mimic her kind hostess
before her face, and to her face. Now, whenever Lady Clonbrony saw any
thing that struck her fancy in the dress of her fashionable friends,
she had a way of hanging her head aside, and saying, with a peculiarly
sentimental drawl, “How pretty!--How elegant!--Now that quite suits
my _teeste_.” this phrase, precisely in the same accent, and with the
head set to the same angle of affectation, Mrs. Dareville had the
assurance to address to her ladyship, apropos to something which she
pretended to admire in Lady Clonbrony’s _costume_--a costume, which,
excessively fashionable in each of its parts, was, altogether, so
extraordinarily unbecoming, as to be fit for a print-shop. The
perception of this, added to the effect of Mrs. Dareville’s mimicry,
was almost too much for Lady Langdale; she could not possibly have
stood it, but for the appearance of Miss Nugent at this instant behind
Lady Clonbrony. Grace gave one glance of indignation, which seemed
suddenly to strike Mrs. Dareville. Silence for a moment ensued, and
afterwards the tone of the conversation was changed.

“Salisbury!--explain this to me,” said a lady, drawing Mr. Salisbury
aside. “If you are in the secret, do explain this to me; for unless I
had seen it, I could not have believed it. Nay, though I have seen it,
I do not believe it. How was that daring spirit laid? By what spell?”

“By the spell which superior minds always cast on inferior spirits.”

“Very fine,” said the lady, laughing, “but as old as the days of
Leonora de Galigai, quoted a million times. Now tell me something new
and to the purpose, and better suited to modern days.”

“Well, then, since you will not allow me to talk of superior minds in
the present day, let me ask you if you have never observed that a wit,
once conquered in company by a wit of higher order, is thenceforward
in complete subjection to the conqueror; whenever and wherever they
meet.”

“You would not persuade me that yonder gentle-looking girl could ever
be a match for the veteran Mrs. Dareville? She may have the wit, but
has she the courage?”

“Yes; no one has more courage, more civil courage, where her own
dignity, or the interests of her friends are concerned--I will tell
you an instance or two to-morrow.”

“To-morrow!--To-night!--tell it me now.”

“Not a safe place.”

“The safest in the world, in such a crowd as this--Follow my example.
Take a glass of orgeat--sip from time to time, thus--speak low,
looking innocent all the while straight forward, or now and then up at
the lamps--keep on in an even tone--use no names--and you may tell any
thing.”

“Well, then, when Miss Nugent first came to London, Mrs. Dareville--”

“Two names already--did not I warn ye?”

“But how can I make myself intelligible?”

“Initials--can’t you use--or genealogy?--What stops you?--It is only
Lord Colambre, a very safe person, I have a notion, when the eulogium
is of Miss Nugent.”

Lord Colambre, who had now performed his arduous duties as a dancer,
and had disembarrassed himself of all his partners, came into the
Turkish tent just at this moment to refresh himself, and just in time
to hear Mr. Salisbury’s anecdotes.

“Now go on.”

“Mrs. Dareville, you remember, some years ago, went to Ireland, with
some lady lieutenant, to whom she was related--there she was most
hospitably received by Lord and Lady Clonbrony--went to their country
house--was as intimate with Lady Clonbrony and with Miss Nugent as
possible--stayed at Clonbrony Castle for a month; and yet, when
Lady Clonbrony came to London, never took the least notice of her.
At last, meeting at the house of a common friend, Mrs. Dareville
could not avoid recognizing her ladyship; but, even then, did it in
the least civil manner and most cursory style possible--‘Ho! Lady
Clonbrony!--didn’t know you were in England!--When did you come?--How
long shall you stay in town?--Hope, before you leave England, your
ladyship and Miss Nugent will give us a day?’--_A day!_--Lady
Clonbrony was so astonished by this impudence of ingratitude, that she
hesitated how to _take it_; but Miss Nugent, quite coolly, and with a
smile, answered, ‘A day!--Certainly--to you, who gave us a month!’”

“Admirable!--Now I comprehend perfectly why Mrs. Dareville declines
insulting Miss Nugent’s friends in her presence.”

Lord Colambre said nothing, but thought much. “How I wish my mother,”
 thought he, “had some of Grace Nugent’s proper pride! She would not
then waste her fortune, spirits, health, and life, in courting such
people as these.”

He had not seen--he could not have borne to have beheld--the manner
in which his mother had been treated by some of her guests; but he
observed that she now looked harassed and vexed; and he was provoked
and mortified, by hearing her begging and beseeching some of the saucy
leaders of the ton to oblige her, to do her the favour, to do her the
honour, to stay to supper. It was just ready--actually announced. “No,
they would not, they could not; they were obliged to run away: engaged
to the Duchess of Torcaster.”

“Lord Colambre, what is the matter?” said Miss Nugent, going up to
him, as he stood aloof and indignant: “Don’t look so like a chafed
lion; others may perhaps read your countenance, as well as I do.”

“None can read my mind so well,” replied he. “Oh, my dear Grace!--”

“Supper!--Supper!” cried she: “your duty to your neighbour, your hand
to your partner.”

The supper room, fitted up at great expense, with scenery to imitate
Vauxhall, opened into a superb greenhouse, lighted with coloured
lamps, a band of music at a distance--every delicacy, every luxury
that could gratify the senses, appeared in profusion. The company
ate and drank--enjoyed themselves--went away--and laughed at their
hostess. Some, indeed, who thought they had been neglected, were in
too bad humour to laugh, but abused her in sober earnest; for Lady
Clonbrony had offended half, nay, three quarters of her guests, by
what they termed her exclusive attention to those very leaders of the
ton, from whom she had suffered so much, and who had made it obvious
to all that they thought they did her too much honour in appearing
at her gala. So ended the gala for which she had lavished such sums;
for which she had laboured so indefatigably; and from which she had
expected such triumph.

“Colambre, bid the musicians stop--they are playing to empty benches,”
 said Lady Clonbrony. “Grace, my dear, will you see that these lamps
are safely put out? I am so tired, so _worn out_, I must go to bed;
and I am sure I have caught cold, too. What a _nervous business_ it is
to manage these things! I wonder how one gets through it, or _why_ one
does it!”




CHAPTER IV.


Lady Clonbrony was taken ill the day after her gala; she had caught
cold by standing, when much overheated, in a violent draught of wind,
paying her parting compliments to the Duke of V----, who thought her a
_bore_, and wished her in heaven all the time for keeping his horses
standing. Her ladyship’s illness was severe and long; she was confined
to her room for some weeks by a rheumatic fever, and an inflammation
in her eyes. Every day, when Lord Colambre went to see his mother,
he found Miss Nugent in her apartment, and every hour he found fresh
reason to admire this charming girl. The affectionate tenderness, the
indefatigable patience, the strong attachment she showed for her aunt,
actually raised Lady Clonbrony in her son’s opinion. He was persuaded
she must surely have some good or great qualities, or she could not
have excited such strong affection. A few foibles out of the question,
such as her love of fine people, her affectation of being English, and
other affectations too tedious to mention, Lady Clonbrony was really a
good woman, had good principles, moral and religious, and, selfishness
not immediately interfering, she was good-natured; and, though
her whole soul and attention were so completely absorbed in the
duties of acquaintanceship that she did not know it, she really had
affections--they were concentrated upon a few near relations. She was
extremely fond and extremely proud of her son. Next to her son, she
was fonder of her niece than of any other creature. She had received
Grace Nugent into her family when she was left an orphan, and deserted
by some of her other relations. She had bred her up, and had treated
her with constant kindness. This kindness and these obligations had
raised the warmest gratitude in Miss Nugent’s heart; and it was the
strong principle of gratitude which rendered her capable of endurance
and exertions seemingly far above her strength. This young lady was
not of a robust appearance, though she now underwent extraordinary
fatigue. Her aunt could scarcely bear that she should leave her for
a moment: she could not close her eyes, unless Grace sat up with her
many hours every night. Night after night she bore this fatigue; and
yet, with little sleep or rest, she preserved her health, at least,
supported her spirits; and every morning when Lord Colambre came into
his mother’s room, he saw Miss Nugent look as blooming as if she had
enjoyed the most refreshing sleep. The bloom was, as he observed, not
permanent; it came and went with every emotion of her feeling heart;
and he soon learned to fancy her almost as handsome when she was pale
as when she had a colour. He had thought her beautiful when he beheld
her in all the radiance of light, and with all the advantages of dress
at the gala, but he found her infinitely more lovely and interesting
now, when he saw her in a sick-room--a half-darkened chamber--where
often he could but just discern her form, or distinguish her, except
by her graceful motion as she passed, or when, but for a moment, a
window-curtain drawn aside let the sun shine upon her face, or on the
ringlets of her hair.

Much must be allowed for an inflammation in the eyes, and something
for a rheumatic fever; yet it may seem strange that Lady Clonbrony
should be so blind and deaf as neither to see nor hear all this
time; that having lived so long in the world, it should never occur
to her that it was rather imprudent to have a young lady, not
eighteen, nursing her--and such a young lady!--when her son, not
one-and-twenty--and such a son!--came to visit her daily. But, so it
was, Lady Clonbrony knew nothing of love--she had read of it, indeed,
in novels, which sometimes for fashion’s sake she had looked at, and
over which she had been obliged to dose; but this was only love in
books--love in real life she had never met with--in the life she led,
how should she? She had heard of its making young people, and old
people even, do foolish things; but those were foolish people; and if
they were worse than foolish, why it was shocking, and nobody visited
them. But Lady Clonbrony had not, for her own part, the slightest
notion how people could be brought to this pass, nor how any body
out of Bedlam could prefer, to a good house, a decent equipage, and
a proper establishment, what is called love in a cottage. As to
Colambre, she had too good an opinion of his understanding--to say
nothing of his duty to his family, his pride, his rank, and his being
her son--to let such an idea cross her imagination. As to her niece;
in the first place, she was her niece, and first cousins should never
marry, because they form no new connexions to strengthen the family
interest, or raise its consequence. This doctrine her ladyship had
repeated for years so often and so dogmatically, that she conceived
it to be incontrovertible, and of as full force as any law of the
land, or as any moral or religious obligation. She would as soon have
suspected her niece of an intention of stealing her diamond necklace
as of purloining Colambre’s heart, or marrying this heir of the house
of Clonbrony.

Miss Nugent was so well apprized, and so thoroughly convinced of
all this, that she never for one moment allowed herself to think of
Lord Colambre as a lover. Duty, honour, and gratitude--gratitude,
the strong feeling and principle of her mind--forbade it; she had
so prepared and accustomed herself to consider him as a person with
whom she could not possibly be united, that, with perfect ease
and simplicity, she behaved towards him exactly as if he were her
brother--not in the equivocating sentimental romance style in which
ladies talk of treating men as their brothers, whom they are all the
time secretly thinking of and endeavouring to please as lovers--not
using this phrase, as a convenient pretence, a safe mode of securing
herself from suspicion or scandal, and of enjoying the advantages of
confidence and the intimacy of friendship, till the propitious moment,
when it should be time to declare or avow _the secret of the heart_.
No: this young lady was quite above all double dealing; she had no
mental reservation--no metaphysical subtleties--but, with plain,
unsophisticated morality, in good faith and simple truth, acted as she
professed, thought what she said, and was that which she seemed to be.

As soon as Lady Clonbrony was able to see any body, her niece sent to
Mrs. Broadhurst, who was very intimate with the family; she used to
come frequently, almost every evening, to sit with the invalid. Miss
Broadhurst accompanied her mother, for she did not like to go out with
any other chaperon--it was disagreeable to spend her time alone at
home, and most agreeable to spend it with her friend Miss Nugent. In
this she had no design; Miss Broadhurst had too lofty and independent
a spirit to stoop to coquetry: she thought that, in their interview
at the gala, she understood Lord Colambre, and that he understood
her--that he was not inclined to court her for her fortune--that she
would not be content with any suitor who was not a lover. She was two
or three years older than Lord Colambre, perfectly aware of her want
of beauty, yet with a just sense of her own merit, and of what was
becoming and due to the dignity of her sex. This, she trusted, was
visible in her manners, and established in Lord Colambre’s mind; so
that she ran no risk of being misunderstood by him; and as to what the
rest of the world thought, she was so well used to hear weekly and
daily reports of her going to be married to fifty different people,
that she cared little for what was said on this subject. Indeed,
conscious of rectitude, and with an utter contempt for mean and
commonplace gossiping, she was, for a woman, and a young woman, rather
too disdainful of the opinion of the world. Mrs. Broadhurst, though
her daughter had fully explained herself respecting Lord Colambre,
before she began this course of visiting, yet rejoiced that even on
this footing there should be constant intercourse between them. It was
Mrs. Broadhurst’s warmest wish that her daughter should obtain rank,
and connect herself with an ancient family; she was sensible that the
young lady’s being older than the gentleman might be an obstacle; and
very sorry she was to find that her daughter had so imprudently, so
unnecessarily, declared her age: but still this little obstacle might
be overcome, much greater difficulties in the marriage of inferior
heiresses being every day got over, and thought nothing of. Then, as
to the young lady’s own sentiments, her mother knew them better than
she did herself: she understood her daughter’s pride, that she dreaded
to be made an object of bargain and sale; but Mrs. Broadhurst, who,
with all her coarseness of mind, had rather a better notion of love
matters than Lady Clonbrony, perceived, through her daughter’s horror
of being offered to Lord Colambre, through her anxiety that nothing
approaching to an advance on the part of her family should be made,
that if Lord Colambre should himself advance, he would stand a better
chance of being accepted than any other of the numerous persons who
had yet aspired to the favour of this heiress. The very circumstance
of his having paid no court to her at first operated in his favour;
for it proved that he was not mercenary, and that, whatever attention
he might afterwards show, she must be sure would be sincere and
disinterested.

“And now, let them but see one another in this easy, intimate, kind
of way; and you will find, my dear Lady Clonbrony, things will go on
of their own accord, all the better for our--minding our cards--and
never minding any thing else. I remember, when I was young--but let
that pass--let the young people see one another, and manage their
own affairs their own way--let them be together--that’s all I say.
Ask half the men you are acquainted with why they married, and
their answer, if they speak truth, will be--‘because I met Miss
Such-a-one at such a place, and we were continually together.’
Propinquity!--Propinquity!--as my father used to say--And he was
married five times, and twice to heiresses.”

In consequence of this plan of leaving things to themselves, every
evening Lady Clonbrony made out her own little card-table with Mrs.
Broadhurst, and a Mr. and Miss Pratt, a brother and sister, who were
the most obliging, convenient neighbours imaginable. From time to
time, as Lady Clonbrony gathered up her cards, she would direct an
inquiring glance to the group of young people at the other table;
whilst the more prudent Mrs. Broadhurst sat plump with her back to
them, pursing up her lips, and contracting her brows in token of
deep calculation, looking down impenetrable at her cards, never even
noticing Lady Clonbrony’s glances, but inquiring from her partner,
“How many they were by honours?”

The young party generally consisted of Miss Broadhurst, Lord Colambre,
Miss Nugent, and her admirer, Mr. Salisbury. Mr. Salisbury was a
middle-aged gentleman, very agreeable, and well informed; he had
travelled; had seen a great deal of the world; had lived in the
best company; had acquired what is called good _tact_; was full of
anecdote, not mere gossiping anecdotes that lead to nothing, but
characteristic of national manners, of human nature in general, or
of those illustrious individuals who excite public curiosity and
interest. Miss Nugent had seen him always in large companies, where he
was admired for his sçavoir-vivre, and for his entertaining anecdotes,
but where he had no opportunity of producing any of the higher powers
of his understanding, or showing character. She found that Mr.
Salisbury appeared to her quite a different person when conversing
with Lord Colambre. Lord Colambre, with that ardent thirst for
knowledge which it is always agreeable to gratify, had an air of
openness and generosity, a frankness, a warmth of manner, which,
with good breeding, but with something beyond it and superior to its
established forms, irresistibly won the confidence and attracted the
affection of those with whom he conversed. His manners were peculiarly
agreeable to a person like Mr. Salisbury, tired of the sameness and
egotism of men of the world.

Miss Nugent had seldom till now had the advantage of hearing
much conversation on literary subjects. In the life she had been
compelled to lead she had acquired accomplishments, had exercised
her understanding upon every thing that passed before her, and from
circumstances had formed her judgment and her taste by observations
on real life; but the ample page of knowledge had never been unrolled
to her eyes. She had never had opportunities of acquiring a taste
for literature herself, but she admired it in others, particularly
in her friend Miss Broadhurst. Miss Broadhurst had received all the
advantages of education which money could procure, and had benefited
by them in a manner uncommon among those for whom they are purchased
in such abundance: she not only had had many masters, and read many
books, but had thought of what she read, and had supplied, by the
strength and energy of her own mind, what cannot be acquired by
the assistance of masters. Miss Nugent, perhaps overvaluing the
information that she did not possess, and free from all idea of
envy, looked up to her friend as to a superior being, with a sort of
enthusiastic admiration; and now, with “charmed attention,” listened,
by turns, to her, to Mr. Salisbury, and to Lord Colambre, whilst they
conversed on literary subjects--listened, with a countenance so full
of intelligence, of animation, so expressive of every good and kind
affection, that the gentlemen did not always know what they were
saying.

“Pray go on,” said she, once, to Mr. Salisbury: “you stop, perhaps,
from politeness to me--from compassion to my ignorance; but though I
am ignorant, you do not tire me, I assure you. Did you ever condescend
to read the Arabian Tales? Like him whose eyes were touched by the
magical application from the dervise, I am enabled at once to see the
riches of a new world--Oh! how unlike, how superior to that in which I
have lived--the GREAT world, as it is called!”

Lord Colambre brought down a beautiful edition of the Arabian Tales,
looked for the story to which Miss Nugent had alluded, and showed it
to Miss Broadhurst, who was also searching for it in another volume.

Lady Clonbrony, from her card-table, saw the young people thus
engaged--

“I profess not to understand these things so well as you say you do,
my dear Mrs. Broadhurst,” whispered she; “but look there now; they are
at their books! What do you expect can come of that sort of thing? So
ill bred, and downright rude of Colambre, I must give him a hint.”

“No, no, for mercy’s sake! my dear Lady Clonbrony, no hints, no hints,
no remarks! What would you have?--she reading, and my lord at the back
of her chair leaning over--and allowed, mind, to lean over to read the
same thing. Can’t be better!--Never saw any man yet allowed to come so
near her!--Now, Lady Clonbrony, not a word, not a look, I beseech.”

“Well, well!--but if they had a little music.”

“My daughter’s tired of music. How much do I owe your ladyship
now?--three rubbers, I think. Now, though you would not believe it of
a young girl,” continued Mrs. Broadhurst, “I can assure your ladyship,
my daughter would often rather go to a book than a ball.”

“Well, now, that’s very extraordinary, in the style in which she has
been brought up; yet books and all that are so fashionable now, that
it’s very natural,” said Lady Clonbrony.

About this time, Mr. Berryl, Lord Colambre’s Cambridge friend, for
whom his lordship had fought the battle of the curricle with Mordicai,
came to town. Lord Colambre introduced him to his mother, by whom he
was graciously received; for Mr. Berryl was a young gentleman of good
figure, good address, good family, heir to a good fortune, and in
every respect a fit match for Miss Nugent. Lady Clonbrony thought that
it would be wise to secure him for her niece before he should make
his appearance in the London world, where mothers and daughters would
soon make him feel his own consequence. Mr. Berryl, as Lord Colambre’s
intimate friend, was admitted to the private evening parties at Lady
Clonbrony’s; and he contributed to render them still more agreeable.
His information, his habits of thinking, and his views, were
all totally different from Mr. Salisbury’s; and their collision
continually struck out that sparkling novelty which pleases peculiarly
in conversation. Mr. Berryl’s education, disposition, and tastes,
fitted him exactly for the station which he was destined to fill in
society--that of _a country gentleman_; not meaning by that expression
a mere eating, drinking, hunting, shooting, ignorant, country squire
of the old race, which is now nearly extinct; but a cultivated,
enlightened, independent English country gentleman--the happiest,
perhaps, of human beings. On the comparative felicity of the town
and country life; on the dignity, utility, elegance, and interesting
nature of their different occupations, and general scheme of passing
their time, Mr. Berryl and Mr. Salisbury had one evening a playful,
entertaining, and, perhaps, instructive conversation; each party,
at the end, remaining, as frequently happens, of their own opinion.
It was observed, that Miss Broadhurst ably and warmly defended
Mr. Berryl’s side of the question; and in their views, plans, and
estimates of life, there appeared a remarkable and, as Lord Colambre
thought, a happy coincidence. When she was at last called upon to give
her decisive judgment between a town and a country life, she declared
that if she were condemned to the extremes of either, she should
prefer a country life, as much as she should prefer Robinson Crusoe’s
diary to the journal of the idle man in the Spectator.

“Lord bless me!--Mrs. Broadhurst, do you hear what your daughter is
saying?” cried Lady Clonbrony, who, from the card-table, lent an
attentive ear to all that was going forward. “Is it possible that Miss
Broadhurst, with her fortune, and pretensions, and sense, can really
be serious in saying she would be content to live in the country?”

“What’s that you say, child, about living in the country?” said Mrs.
Broadhurst.

Miss Broadhurst repeated what she had said.

“Girls always think so who have lived in town,” said Mrs. Broadhurst:
“they are always dreaming of sheep and sheep-hooks; but the first
winter in the country cures them: a shepherdess in winter is a sad and
sorry sort of personage, except at a masquerade.”

“Colambre,” said Lady Clonbrony, “I am sure Miss Broadhurst’s
sentiments about town life, and all that, must delight you--For do you
know, ma’am, he is always trying to persuade me to give up living in
town? Colambre and Miss Broadhurst perfectly agree.”

“Mind your cards, my dear Lady Clonbrony,” interrupted Mrs.
Broadhurst, “in pity to your partner. Mr. Pratt has certainly the
patience of Job--your ladyship has revoked twice this hand.”

Lady Clonbrony begged a thousand pardons, fixed her eyes, and
endeavoured to fix her mind on the cards; but there was something
said at the other end of the room, about an estate in Cambridgeshire,
which soon distracted her attention again. Mr. Pratt certainly had the
patience of Job. She revoked again, and lost the game, though they had
four by honours.

As soon as she rose from the card-table, and could speak to Mrs.
Broadhurst apart, she communicated her apprehensions. “Seriously, my
dear madam,” said she, “I believe I have done very wrong to admit
Mr. Berryl just now, though it was on Grace’s account I did it. But,
ma’am, I did not know Miss Broadhurst had an estate in Cambridgeshire;
their two estates just close to one another, I heard them say--Lord
bless me, ma’am! there’s the danger of propinquity indeed!”

“No danger, no danger,” persisted Mrs. Broadhurst. “I know my girl
better than you do, begging your ladyship’s pardon. No one thinks less
of estates than she does.”

“Well, I only know I heard her talking of them, and earnestly too.”

“Yes, very likely; but don’t you know that girls never think of what
they are talking about, or rather never talk of what they are thinking
about? And they have always ten times more to say to the man they
don’t care for than to him they do.”

“Very extraordinary!” said Lady Clonbrony: “I only hope you are
right.”

“I am sure of it,” said Mrs. Broadhurst. “Only let things go on,
and mind your cards, I beseech you, to-morrow night better than
you did to-night; and you will see that things will turn out just
as I prophesied. Lord Colambre will come to a point-blank proposal
before the end of the week, and will be accepted, or my name’s not
Broadhurst. Why, in plain English, I am clear my girl likes him; and
when that’s the case, you know, can you doubt how the thing will end?”

Mrs. Broadhurst was perfectly right in every point of her reasoning
but one. From long habit of seeing and considering that such an
heiress as her daughter might marry whom she pleased,--from constantly
seeing that she was the person to decide and to reject,--Mrs.
Broadhurst had literally taken it for granted that every thing was to
depend upon her daughter’s inclinations: she was not mistaken, in the
present case, in opining that the young lady would not be averse to
Lord Colambre, if he came to what she called a point-blank proposal.
It really never occurred to Mrs. Broadhurst, that any man whom her
daughter was the least inclined to favour, could think of any body
else. Quick-sighted in these affairs as the matron thought herself,
she saw but one side of the question: blind and dull of comprehension
as she thought Lady Clonbrony on this subject, Mrs. Broadhurst
was herself so completely blinded by her own prejudices, as to be
incapable of discerning the plain thing that was before her eyes;
_videlicet_, that Lord Colambre preferred Grace Nugent. Lord Colambre
made no proposal before the end of the week; but this Mrs. Broadhurst
attributed to an unexpected occurrence, which prevented things from
going on in the train in which they had been proceeding so smoothly.
Sir John Berryl, Mr. Berryl’s father, was suddenly seized with a
dangerous illness. The news was brought to Mr. Berryl one evening
whilst he was at Lady Clonbrony’s. The circumstances of domestic
distress which afterwards occurred in the family of his friend,
entirely occupied Lord Colambre’s time and attention. All thoughts
of love were suspended, and his whole mind was given up to the
active services of friendship. The sudden illness of Sir John Berryl
spread an alarm among his creditors, which brought to light at once
the disorder of his affairs, of which his son had no knowledge or
suspicion. Lady Berryl had been a very expensive woman, especially in
equipages; and Mordicai, the coachmaker, appeared at this time the
foremost and the most inexorable of their creditors. Conscious that
the charges in his account were exorbitant, and that they would not be
allowed if examined by a court of justice; that it was a debt which
only ignorance and extravagance could have in the first instance
incurred, swelled afterwards to an amazing amount by interest, and
interest upon interest; Mordicai was impatient to obtain payment,
whilst Sir John yet lived, or at least to obtain legal security for
the whole sum from the heir. Mr. Berryl offered his bond for the
amount of the reasonable charges in his account; but this Mordicai
absolutely refused, declaring that now he had the power in his own
hands, he would use it to obtain the utmost penny of his debt; that
he would not let the thing slip through his fingers; that a debtor
never yet escaped him, and never should; that a man’s lying upon his
deathbed was no excuse to a creditor; that he was not a whiffler to
stand upon ceremony about disturbing a gentleman in his last moments;
that he was not to be cheated out of his due by such niceties; that he
was prepared to go all lengths the law would allow; for that, as to
what people said of him, he did not care a doit--“Cover your face with
your hands, if you like it, Mr. Berryl; you may be ashamed for me, but
I feel no shame for myself--I am not so weak.” Mordicai’s countenance
said more than his words; livid with malice, and with atrocious
determination in his eyes, he stood. “Yes, sir,” said he, “you may
look at me as you please--it is possible--I am in earnest. Consult
what you’ll do now behind my back, or before my face, it comes to the
same thing; for nothing will do but my money or your bond, Mr. Berryl.
The arrest is made on the person of your father, luckily made while
the breath is still in the body--Yes--start forward to strike me, if
you dare--Your father, Sir John Berryl, sick or well, is my prisoner.”

Lady Berryl and Mr. Berryl’s sisters, in an agony of grief, rushed
into the room.

“It’s all useless,” cried Mordicai, turning his back upon the ladies:
“these tricks upon creditors won’t do with me; I’m used to these
scenes; I’m not made of such stuff as you think. Leave a gentleman in
peace in his last moments--No! he ought not, nor sha’n’t die in peace,
if he don’t pay his debts; and if you are all so mighty sorry, ladies,
there’s the gentleman you may kneel to: if tenderness is the order of
the day, it’s for the son to show it, not me. Ay, now, Mr. Berryl,”
 cried he, as Mr. Berryl took up the bond to sign it, “you’re beginning
to know I’m not a fool to be trifled with. Stop your hand, if you
choose it, sir,--it’s all the same to me: the person, or the money,
I’ll carry with me out of this house.”

Mr. Berryl signed the bond, and threw it to him.

“There, monster!--quit the house!”

“_Monster_ is not actionable--I wish you had called me _knave_,”
 said Mordicai, grinning a horrible smile; and taking up the bond
deliberately, returned it to Mr. Berryl: “This paper is worth nothing
to me, sir--it is not witnessed.”

Mr. Berryl hastily left the room, and returned with Lord Colambre.
Mordicai changed countenance and grew pale, for a moment, at sight of
Lord Colambre.

“Well, my lord, since it so happens, I am not sorry that you should be
witness to this paper,” said he; “and indeed not sorry that you should
witness the whole proceedings; for I trust I shall be able to explain
to you my conduct.”

“I do not come here, sir,” interrupted Lord Colambre, “to listen to
any explanations of your conduct, which I perfectly understand;--I
come to witness a bond for my friend Mr. Berryl, if you think proper
to extort from him such a bond.”

“I extort nothing, my lord. Mr. Berryl, it is quite a voluntary act,
take notice, on your part; sign or not, witness or not, as you please,
gentlemen,” said Mordicai, sticking his hands in his pockets, and
recovering his look of black and fixed determination.

“Witness it, witness it, my dear lord,” said Mr. Berryl, looking at
his mother and weeping sisters; “witness it, quick!”

“Mr. Berryl must just run over his name again in your presence,
my lord, with a dry pen,” said Mordicai, putting the pen into Mr.
Berryl’s hand.

“No, sir,” said Lord Colambre, “my friend shall never sign it.”

“As you please, my lord--the bond or the body, before I quit this
house,” said Mordicai.

“Neither, sir, shall you have: and you quit this house directly.”

“How! how!--my lord, how’s this?”

“Sir, the arrest you have made is as illegal as it is inhuman.”

“Illegal, my lord!” said Mordicai, startled.

“Illegal, sir. I came into this house at the moment when your bailiff
asked and was refused admittance. Afterwards, in the confusion of the
family above stairs, he forced open the house-door with an iron bar--I
saw him--I am ready to give evidence of the fact. Now proceed at your
peril.”

Mordicai, without reply, snatched up his hat, and walked towards the
door; but Lord Colambre held the door open--it was immediately at the
head of the stairs--and Mordicai, seeing his indignant look and proud
form, hesitated to pass; for he had always heard that Irishmen are
“quick in the executive part of justice.”

“Pass on, sir,” repeated Lord Colambre, with an air of ineffable
contempt: “I am a gentleman--you have nothing to fear!”

Mordicai ran down stairs; Lord Colambre, before he went back into
the room, waited to see him and his bailiff out of the house. When
Mordicai was fairly at the bottom of the stairs, he turned, and, white
with rage, looked up at Lord Colambre.

“Charity begins at home, my lord,” said he. “Look at home--you shall
pay for this,” added he, standing half-shielded by the house-door, for
Lord Colambre moved forward as he spoke the last words; “and I give
you this warning, because I know it will be of no use to you--Your
most obedient, my lord.” The house-door closed after him.

“Thank Heaven,” thought Lord Colambre, “that I did not horsewhip that
mean wretch!--This warning shall be of use to me. But it is not time
to think of that yet.”

Lord Colambre turned from his own affairs to those of his friend, to
offer all the assistance and consolation in his power. Sir John Berryl
died that night. His daughters, who had lived in the highest style in
London, were left totally unprovided for. His widow had mortgaged her
jointure. Mr. Berryl had an estate now left to him, but without any
income. He could not be so dishonest as to refuse to pay his father’s
just debts; he could not let his mother and sisters starve. The scene
of distress to which Lord Colambre was witness in this family made a
still greater impression upon him than had been made by the warning or
the threats of Mordicai. The similarity between the circumstances of
his friend’s family and of his own struck him forcibly.

All this evil had arisen from Lady Berryl’s passion for living
in London and at watering places. She had made her husband an
ABSENTEE--an absentee from his home, his affairs, his duties, and his
estate. The sea, the Irish Channel, did not, indeed, flow between him
and his estate; but it was of little importance whether the separation
was effected by land or water--the consequences, the negligence, the
extravagance, were the same.

Of the few people of his age who are capable of benefiting by the
experience of others, Lord Colambre was one. “Experience,” as an
elegant writer has observed, “is an article that may be borrowed with
safety, and is often dearly bought.”




CHAPTER V.


In the mean time, Lady Clonbrony had been occupied with thoughts very
different from those which passed in the mind of her son. Though she
had never completely recovered from her rheumatic pains, she had
become inordinately impatient of confinement to her own house, and
weary of those dull evenings at home, which had, in her son’s absence,
become insupportable. She told over her visiting tickets regularly
twice a day, and gave to every card of invitation a heartfelt sigh.
Miss Pratt alarmed her ladyship, by bringing intelligence of some
parties given by persons of consequence, to which she was not invited.
She feared that she should be forgotten in the world, well knowing
how soon the world forgets those they do not see every day and every
where. How miserable is the fine lady’s lot, who cannot forget, and
who is forgotten by the world in a moment! How much more miserable
still is the condition of a would-be fine lady, working her way up in
the world with care and pains! By her, every the slightest failure of
attention, from persons of rank and fashion, is marked and felt with a
jealous anxiety, and with a sense of mortification the most acute--an
invitation omitted is a matter of the most serious consequence, not
only as it regards the present but the future; for if she be not
invited by Lady A, it will lower her in the eyes of Lady B, and of
all the ladies in the alphabet. It will form a precedent of the most
dangerous and inevitable application. If she have nine invitations,
and the tenth be wanting, the nine have no power to make her happy.
This was precisely Lady Clonbrony’s case--there was to be a party at
Lady St. James’s, for which Lady Clonbrony had no card.

“So ungrateful, so monstrous, of Lady St. James!--What! was the gala
so soon forgotten, and all the marked attentions paid that night to
Lady St. James!--attentions, you know, Pratt, which were looked upon
with a jealous eye, and made me enemies enough, I am told, in another
quarter!--Of all people, I did not expect to be slighted by Lady St.
James!”

Miss Pratt, who was ever ready to undertake the defence of any person
who had a title, pleaded, in mitigation of censure that perhaps Lady
St. James might not be aware that her ladyship was yet well enough to
venture out.

“Oh, my dear Miss Pratt, that cannot be the thing; for, in spite of my
rheumatism, which really was bad enough last Sunday, I went on purpose
to the Royal Chapel, to show myself in the closet, and knelt close to
her ladyship.--And, my dear, we curtsied, and she congratulated me,
after church, upon my being abroad again, and was so happy to see me
look so well, and all that--Oh! it is something very extraordinary and
unaccountable!”

“But, I dare say, a card will come yet,” said Miss Pratt.

Upon this hint, Lady Clonbrony’s hope revived; and, staying her anger,
she began to consider how she could manage to get herself invited.
Refreshing tickets were left next morning at Lady St. James’s with
their corners properly turned up; to do the thing better, separate
tickets from herself and Miss Nugent were left for each member of the
family; and her civil messages, left with the footmen, extended to the
utmost possibility of remainder. It had occurred to her ladyship, that
for Miss Somebody, _the companion_, of whom she had never in her life
thought before, she had omitted to leave a card last time, and she
now left a note of explanation; she farther, with her rheumatic head
and arm out of the coach-window, sat, the wind blowing keen upon
her, explaining to the porter and the footman, to discover whether
her former tickets had gone safely up to Lady St. James; and on the
present occasion, to make assurance doubly sure, she slid handsome
expedition money into the servant’s hand--“Sir, you will be sure to
remember”--“Oh, certainly, your ladyship.”

She well knew what dire offence has frequently been taken, what sad
disasters have occurred in the fashionable world, from the neglect of
a porter in delivering, or of a footman in carrying up, one of those
talismanic cards. But, in spite of all her manoeuvres, no invitation
to the party arrived next day. Pratt was next set to work. Miss Pratt
was a most convenient go-between, who, in consequence of doing a
thousand little services, to which few others of her rank in life
would stoop, had obtained the entrée to a number of great houses, and
was behind the scenes in many fashionable families. Pratt could find
out, and Pratt could hint, and Pratt could manage to get things done
cleverly--and hints were given, in all directions, to _work round_
to Lady St. James. But still they did not take effect. At last Pratt
suggested, that perhaps, though every thing else had failed, dried
salmon might be tried with success. Lord Clonbrony had just had some
uncommonly good from Ireland, which Pratt knew Lady St. James would
like to have at her supper, because a certain personage, whom she
would not name, was particularly fond of it--Wheel within wheel in
the fine world, as well as in the political world!--Bribes for all
occasions and for all ranks!--The timely present was sent, accepted
with many thanks, and understood as it was meant. Per favour of this
propitiatory offering, and of a promise of half a dozen pair of
real Limerick gloves to Miss Pratt--a promise which Pratt clearly
comprehended to be a conditional promise--the grand object was at
length accomplished. The very day before the party was to take place
came cards of invitation to Lady Clonbrony and to Miss Nugent, with
Lady St. James’s apologies: her ladyship was concerned to find that,
by some negligence of her servants, these cards were not sent in
proper time. “How slight an apology will do from some people!” thought
Miss Nugent; “how eager to forgive, when it is for our interest or
our pleasure! how well people act the being deceived, even when all
parties know that they see the whole truth! and how low pride will
stoop to gain its object!”

Ashamed of the whole transaction, Miss Nugent earnestly wished that a
refusal should be sent, and reminded her aunt of her rheumatism; but
rheumatism and all other objections were overruled--Lady Clonbrony
would go. It was just when this affair was thus, in her opinion,
successfully settled, that Lord Colambre came in, with a countenance
of unusual seriousness, his mind full of the melancholy scenes he had
witnessed in his friend’s family.

“What is the matter, Colambre?”

He related what had passed; he described the brutal conduct of
Mordicai; the anguish of the mother and sisters; the distress of
Mr. Berryl. Tears rolled down Miss Nugent’s cheeks--Lady Clonbrony
declared it was very _shocking_; listened with attention to all the
particulars; but never failed to correct her son, whenever he said Mr.
Berryl--

“_Sir Arthur_ Berryl, you mean.”

She was, however, really touched with compassion when he spoke of Lady
Berryl’s destitute condition; and her son was going on to repeat what
Mordicai had said to him, but Lady Clonbrony interrupted, “Oh, my dear
Colambre! don’t repeat that detestable man’s impertinent speeches to
me. If there is any thing really about business, speak to your father.
At any rate don’t tell us of it now, because I’ve a hundred things
to do,” said her ladyship, hurrying out of the room--“Grace, Grace
Nugent! I want you!”

Lord Colambre sighed deeply.

“Don’t despair,” said Miss Nugent, as she followed to obey her aunt’s
summons. “Don’t despair; don’t attempt to speak to her again till
to-morrow morning. Her head is now full of Lady St. James’s party.
When it is emptied of that, you will have a better chance. Never
despair.”

“Never, while you encourage me to hope--that any good can be done.”

Lady Clonbrony was particularly glad that she had carried her point
about this party at Lady St. James’s; because, from the first private
intimation that the Duchess of Torcaster was to be there, her ladyship
flattered herself that the long-desired introduction might then be
accomplished. But of this hope Lady St. James had likewise received
intimation from the double-dealing Miss Pratt; and a warning note was
despatched to the duchess to let her grace know that circumstances
had occurred which had rendered it impossible not to _ask the
Clonbronies_. An excuse, of course, for not going to this party, was
sent by the duchess--her grace did not like large parties--she would
have the pleasure of accepting Lady St. James’s invitation for her
select party on Wednesday, the 10th. Into these select parties Lady
Clonbrony had never been admitted. In return for great entertainments
she was invited to great entertainments, to large parties; but further
she could never penetrate.

At Lady St. James’s, and with her set, Lady Clonbrony suffered a
different kind of mortification from that which Lady Langdale and Mrs.
Dareville made her endure. She was safe from the witty raillery,
the sly inuendo, the insolent mimicry; but she was kept at a cold,
impassable distance, by ceremony--“So far shalt thou go, and no
further,” was expressed in every look, in every word, and in a
thousand different ways.

By the most punctilious respect and nice regard to precedency, even
by words of courtesy--“Your ladyship does me honour,” &c.--Lady St.
James contrived to mortify and to mark the difference between those
with whom she was, and with whom she was not, upon terms of intimacy
and equality. Thus the ancient grandees of Spain drew a line of
demarcation between themselves and the newly created nobility.
Whenever or wherever they met, they treated the new nobles with the
utmost respect, never addressed them but with all their titles, with
low bows, and with all the appearance of being, with the most perfect
consideration, anything but their equals; whilst towards one another
the grandees laid aside their state, and omitting their titles, it was
“Alcalá--Medina Sidonia--Infantado,” and a freedom and familiarity
which marked equality. Entrenched in etiquette in this manner, and
mocked with marks of respect, it was impossible either to intrude or
to complain of being excluded.

At supper at Lady St. James’s, Lady Clonbrony’s present was pronounced
by some gentlemen to be remarkably high flavoured. This observation
turned the conversation to Irish commodities and Ireland. Lady
Clonbrony, possessed by the idea that it was disadvantageous to appear
as an Irishwoman or as a favourer of Ireland, began to be embarrassed
by Lady St. James’s repeated thanks. Had it been in her power to offer
any thing else with propriety, she would not have thought of sending
her ladyship any thing from Ireland. Vexed by the questions that were
asked her about her _country_, Lady Clonbrony, as usual, denied it to
be her country, and went on to depreciate and abuse every thing Irish;
to declare that there was no possibility of living in Ireland; and
that, for her own part, she was resolved never to return thither. Lady
St. James, preserving perfect silence, let her go on. Lady Clonbrony
imagining that this silence arose from coincidence of opinion,
proceeded with all the eloquence she possessed, which was very little,
repeating the same exclamations, and reiterating her vow of perpetual
expatriation; till at last an elderly lady, who was a stranger to
her, and whom she had till this moment scarcely noticed, took up the
defence of Ireland with much warmth and energy: the eloquence with
which she spoke, and the respect with which she was heard, astonished
Lady Clonbrony.

“Who is she?” whispered her ladyship.

“Does not your ladyship know Lady Oranmore--the Irish Lady Oranmore?”

“Lord bless me!--what have I said!--what have I done!--Oh! why did you
not give me a hint, Lady St. James?”

“I was not aware that your ladyship was not acquainted with Lady
Oranmore,” replied Lady St. James, unmoved by her distress.

Every body sympathized with Lady Oranmore, and admired the honest zeal
with which she abided by her country, and defended it against unjust
aspersions and affected execrations. Every one present enjoyed Lady
Clonbrony’s confusion, except Miss Nugent, who sat with her eyes bowed
down by penetrative shame during the whole of this scene: she was glad
that Lord Colambre was not witness to it; and comforted herself with
the hope that, upon the whole, Lady Clonbrony would be benefited by
the pain she had felt. This instance might convince her that it was
not necessary to deny her country to be received in any company in
England; and that those who have the courage and steadiness to be
themselves, and to support what they feel and believe to be the truth,
must command respect. Miss Nugent hoped that in consequence of this
conviction Lady Clonbrony would lay aside the little affectations by
which her manners were painfully constrained and ridiculous; and,
above all, she hoped that what Lady Oranmore had said of Ireland might
dispose her aunt to listen with patience to all Lord Colambre might
urge in favour of returning to her home. But Miss Nugent hoped in
vain. Lady Clonbrony never in her life generalized any observations,
or drew any but a partial conclusion from the most striking facts.

“Lord! my dear Grace!” said she, as soon as they were seated in
their carriage, “what a scrape I got into to-night at supper, and
what disgrace I came to!--and all this because I did not know Lady
Oranmore. Now you see the inconceivable disadvantage of not knowing
every body--every body of a certain rank, of course, I mean.”

Miss Nugent endeavoured to slide in her own moral on the occasion, but
it would not do.

“Yes, my dear, Lady Oranmore may talk in that kind of style of
Ireland, because, on the other hand, she is so highly connected in
England; and, besides, she is an old lady, and may take liberties; in
short, she is Lady Oranmore, and that’s enough.”

The next morning, when they all met at breakfast, Lady Clonbrony
complained bitterly of her increased rheumatism, of the disagreeable,
stupid party they had had the preceding night, and of the necessity of
going to another formal party to-morrow night, and the next, and the
next night, and, in the true fine lady style, deplored her situation,
and the impossibility of avoiding those things,

  “Which felt they curse, yet covet still to feel.”

Miss Nugent determined to retire as soon as she could from the
breakfast-room, to leave Lord Colambre an opportunity of talking over
his family affairs at full liberty. She knew by the seriousness of
his countenance that his mind was intent upon doing so, and she hoped
that his influence with his father and mother would not be exerted in
vain. But just as she was rising from the breakfast-table, in came Sir
Terence O’Fay, and seating himself quite at his ease, in spite of Lady
Clonbrony’s repulsive looks, his awe of Lord Colambre having now worn
off, “I’m tired,” said he, “and have a right to be tired; for it’s no
small walk I’ve taken for the good of this noble family this morning.
And, Miss Nugent, before I say more, I’ll take a cup of _ta_ from you,
if you please.”

Lady Clonbrony rose, with great stateliness, and walked to the
farthest end of the room, where she established herself at her
writing-table, and began to write notes.

Sir Terence wiped his forehead deliberately.--“Then I’ve had a fine
run--Miss Nugent, I believe you never saw me run; but I can run, I
promise you, when it’s to serve a friend--And my lord (turning to
Lord Clonbrony), what do you think I run for this morning--to buy a
bargain--and of what?--a bargain of a bad debt--a debt of yours, which
I bargained for, and up just in time--and Mordicai’s ready to hang
himself this minute--For what do you think that rascal was bringing
upon you--but an execution?--he was.”

“An execution!” repeated every body present, except Lord Colambre.

“And how has this been prevented, sir?” said Lord Colambre.

“Oh! let me alone for that,” said Sir Terence. “I got a hint from
my little friend, Paddy Brady, who would not be paid for it either,
though he’s as poor as a rat. Well! as soon as I got the hint, I
dropped the thing I had in my hand, which was the Dublin Evening,
and ran for the bare life--for there wasn’t a coach--in my slippers,
as I was, to get into the prior creditor’s shoes, who is the little
solicitor that lives in Crutched Friars, which Mordicai never dreamt
of, luckily; so he was very genteel, though he was taken on a sudden,
and from his breakfast, which an Englishman don’t like particularly--I
popped him a douceur of a draft, at thirty-one days, on Garraghty,
the agent; of which he must get notice; but I won’t descant on the
law before the ladies--he handed me over his debt and execution, and
he made me prior creditor in a trice. Then I took coach in state, the
first I met, and away with me to Long Acre--saw Mordicai. ‘Sir,’ says
I, ‘I hear you’re meditating an execution on a friend of mine.’--‘Am
I?’ said the rascal; ‘who told you so?’--‘No matter,’ said I; ‘but
I just called in to let you know there’s no use in life of your
execution; for there’s a prior creditor with his execution to be
satisfied first.’ So he made a great many black faces, and said a
great deal, which I never listened to, but came off here clean to tell
you all the story.”

“Not one word of which do I understand,” said Lady Clonbrony.

“Then, my dear, you are very ungrateful,” said Lord Clonbrony.

Lord Colambre said nothing, for he wished to learn more of Sir Terence
O’Fay’s character, of the state of his father’s affairs, and of the
family methods of proceeding in matters of business.

“Faith! Terry, I know I’m very thankful to you--But an execution’s an
ugly thing,--and I hope there’s no danger.”

“Never fear!” said Sir Terence: “hav’n’t I been at my wits’ ends for
myself or my friends ever since I come to man’s estate--to years of
discretion, I should say, for the deuce a foot of estate have I! But
use has sharpened my wits pretty well for your service; so never be in
dread, my good lord; for look ye!” cried the reckless knight, sticking
his arms akimbo, “look ye here! in Sir Terence O’Fay stands a host
that desires no better than to encounter, single-witted, all the duns
in the united kingdoms, Mordicai the Jew inclusive.”

“Ah! that’s the devil, that Mordicai,” said Lord Clonbrony; “that’s
the only man on earth I dread.”

“Why, he is only a coachmaker, is not he?” said Lady Clonbrony: “I
can’t think how you can talk, my lord, of dreading such a low man.
Tell him, if he’s troublesome, we won’t bespeak any more carriages;
and, I’m sure, I wish you would not be so silly, my lord, to employ
him any more, when you know he disappointed me the last birthday about
the landau, which I have not got yet.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” said Lord Clonbrony; “you don’t know what you are
talking of--Terry, I say, even a friendly execution is an ugly thing.”

“Phoo! phoo!--an ugly thing!--So is a fit of the gout--but one’s all
the better for it after. ‘Tis just a renewal of life, my, lord, for
which one must pay a bit of a fine, you know. Take patience, and leave
me to manage all properly--you know I’m used to these things: only you
recollect, if you please, how I managed my friend Lord----it’s bad to
be mentioning names--but Lord _Every-body-knows-who_--didn’t I bring
him through cleverly, when there was that rascally attempt to seize
the family plate? I had notice, and what did I do, but broke open
a partition between that lord’s house and my lodgings, which I had
taken next door; and so, when the sheriffs officers were searching
below on the ground floor, I just shoved the plate easy through to
my bedchamber at a moment’s warning, and then bid the gentlemen walk
in, for they couldn’t set a foot in my paradise, the devils!--So they
stood looking at it through the wall, and cursing me, and I holding
both my sides with laughter at their fallen faces.”

Sir Terence and Lord Clonbrony laughed in concert.

“This is a good story,” said Miss Nugent, smiling; “but surely, Sir
Terence, such things are never done in real life?”

“Done! ay, are they; and I could tell you a hundred better strokes, my
dear Miss Nugent.”

“Grace!” cried Lady Clonbrony, “do pray have the goodness to seal and
send these notes; for really,” whispered she, as her niece came to the
table, “I _cawnt stee_, I _cawnt_ bear that man’s _vice_, his accent
grows horrider and horrider!”

Her ladyship rose, and left the room.

“Why, then,” continued Sir Terence, following Miss Nugent to the
table, where she was sealing letters--“I must tell you how I _sa_rved
that same man on another occasion, and got the victory, too.”

No general officer could talk of his victories, or fight his battles
o’er again, with more complacency than Sir Terence O’Fay recounted his
_civil_ exploits.

“Now I’ll tell you, Miss Nugent. There was a footman in the family,
not an Irishman, but one of your powdered English scoundrels that
ladies are so fond of having hanging to the backs of their carriages;
one Fleming he was, that turned spy, and traitor, and informer, went
privately and gave notice to the creditors where the plate was hid
in the thickness of the chimney; but if he did, what happened? Why,
I had my counter-spy, an honest little Irish boy, in the creditor’s
shop, that I had secured with a little douceur of usquebaugh; and
he outwitted, as was natural, the English lying valet, and gave us
notice, just in the nick, and I got ready for their reception; and,
Miss Nugent, I only wish you’d seen the excellent sport we had,
letting them follow the scent they got; and when they were sure of
their game, what did they find?--Ha! ha! ha!--dragged out, after a
world of labour, a heavy box of--a load of brick-bats; not an item
of my friend’s plate, that was all snug in the coal-hole, where them
dunces never thought of looking for it--Ha! ha! ha!”

“But come, Terry,” cried Lord Clonbrony, “I’ll pull down your
pride.--How finely, another time, your job of the false ceiling
answered in the hall. I’ve heard that story, and have been told how
the sheriff’s fellow thrust his bayonet up through your false plaster,
and down came tumbling the family plate--hey! Terry?--That hit cost
your friend, Lord Every-body-knows-who, more than your head’s worth,
Terry.”

“I ask your pardon, my lord, it never cost him a farthing.”

“When he paid 7000_l._ for the plate, to redeem it?”

“Well! and did not I make up for that at the races of ----? The
creditors learned that my lord’s horse, Naboclish, was to run at ----
races; and, as the sheriff’s officer knew he dare not touch him on the
race-ground, what does he do, but he comes down early in the morning
on the mail-coach, and walks straight down to the livery stables.
He had an exact description of the stables, and the stall, and the
horse’s body clothes.

“I was there, seeing the horse taken care of; and, knowing the cut
of the fellow’s jib, what does I do, but whips the body clothes off
Naboclish, and claps them upon a garrone, that the priest would not
ride.

“In comes the bailiff--‘Good morrow to you, sir,’ says I, leading out
of the stable my lord’s horse, with an _ould_ saddle and bridle on.

“‘Tim Neal,’ says I to the groom, who was rubbing down the garrone’s
heels, ‘mind your hits to-day, and _wee’l_ wet the plate to-night.”

“‘Not so fast, neither,’ says the bailiff--‘here’s my writ for seizing
the horse.’

“‘Och,’ says I, ‘you wouldn’t be so cruel.’

“‘That’s all my eye,’ says he, seizing the garrone, while I mounted
Naboclish, and rode him off deliberately.”

“Ha! ha! ha!--That _was_ neat, I grant you, Terry,” said Lord
Clonbrony. “But what a dolt of a born ignoramus must that sheriff’s
fellow have been, not to know Naboclish when he saw him!”

“But stay, my lord--stay, Miss Nugent--I have more for you,” following
her wherever she moved--“I did not let him off so, even. At the cant,
I bid and bid against them for the pretended Naboclish, till I left
him on their hands for 500 guineas--ha! ha! ha!--was not that famous?”

“But,” said Miss Nugent, “I cannot believe you are in earnest, Sir
Terence--Surely this would be--”

“What?--out with it, my dear Miss Nugent.”

“I am afraid of offending you.”

“You can’t, my dear, I defy you--say the word that came to the
tongue’s end; it’s always the best.”

“I was going to say, swindling,” said the young lady, colouring
deeply.

“Oh, you was going to say wrong, then! It’s not called swindling
amongst gentlemen who know the world--it’s only jockeying--fine
sport--and very honourable to help a friend at a dead lift. Any thing
to help a friend out of a present pressing difficulty.”

“And when the present difficulty is over, do your friends never think
of the future?”

“The future! leave the future to posterity,” said Sir Terence; “I’m
counsel only for the present; and when the evil comes, it’s time
enough to think of it. I can’t bring the guns of my wits to bear till
the enemy’s alongside of me, or within sight of me at the least. And
besides, there never was a good commander yet, by sea or land, that
would tell his little expedients beforehand, or before the very day of
battle.”

“It must be a sad thing,” said Miss Nugent, sighing deeply, “to be
reduced to live by little expedients--daily expedients.”

Lord Colambre struck his forehead, but said nothing.

“But if you are beating your brains about your own affairs, my Lord
Colambre, my dear,” said Sir Terence, “there’s an easy way of settling
your family affairs at once; and since you don’t like little daily
expedients, Miss Nugent, there’s one great expedient, and an expedient
for life, that will settle it all to your satisfaction--and ours. I
hinted it delicately to you before; but, between friends, delicacy is
impertinent; so I tell you, in plain English, you’ve nothing to do but
go and propose yourself, just as you stand, to the heiress Miss B----,
that desires no better--”

“Sir!” cried Lord Colambre, stepping forward, red with sudden anger.

Miss Nugent laid her hand upon his arm. “Oh, my lord!”

“Sir Terence O’Fay,” continued Lord Colambre, in a moderated tone,
“you are wrong to mention that young lady’s name in such a manner.”

“Why then I said only Miss B----, and there are a whole hive of
_bees_. But I’ll engage she’d thank me for what I suggested, and think
herself the queen bee if my expedient was adopted by you.”

“Sir Terence,” said his lordship, smiling, “if my father thinks proper
that you should manage his affairs, and devise expedients for him, I
have nothing to say on that point; but I must beg you will not trouble
yourself to suggest expedients for me, and that you will have the
goodness to leave me to settle my own affairs.”

Sir Terence made a low bow, and was silent for five seconds; then
turning to Lord Clonbrony, who looked much more abashed than he
did, “By the wise one, my good lord, I believe there are some
men--noblemen, too--that don’t know their friends from their enemies.
It’s my firm persuasion, now, that if I had served you as I served my
friend I was talking of, your son there would, ten to one, think I had
done him an injury by saving the family plate.”

“I certainly should, sir. The family plate, sir, is not the first
object in my mind,” replied Lord Colambre; “family honour--Nay, Miss
Nugent, I must speak,” continued his lordship; perceiving, by her
countenance, that she was alarmed.

“Never fear, Miss Nugent, dear,” said Sir Terence; “I’m as cool as
a cucumber.--Faith! then, my Lord Colambre, I agree with you, that
family honour’s a mighty fine thing, only troublesome to one’s self
and one’s friends, and expensive to keep up with all the other
expenses and debts a gentleman has now-a-days. So I, that am under no
natural obligations to it by birth or otherwise, have just stood by it
through life, and asked myself, before I would volunteer being bound
to it, what could this same family honour do for a man in this world?
And, first and foremost, I never remember to see family honour stand
a man in much stead in a court of law--never saw family honour stand
against an execution, or a custodiam, or an injunction even.--‘Tis
a rare thing, this same family honour, and a very fine thing; but I
never knew it yet, at a pinch, pay for a pair of boots even,” added
Sir Terence, drawing up his own with much complacency.

At this moment, Sir Terence was called out of the room by one who
wanted to speak to him on particular business.

“My dear father,” cried Lord Colambre, “do not follow him; stay, for
one moment, and hear your son, your true friend.”

Miss Nugent left the room.

“Hear your natural friend for one moment,” cried Lord Colambre. “Let
me beseech you, father, not to have recourse to any of these paltry
expedients, but trust your son with the state of your affairs, and we
shall find some honourable means--”

“Yes, yes, yes, very true; when you’re of age, Colambre, we’ll talk of
it; but nothing can be done till then. We shall get on, we shall get
through, very well, till then, with Terry’s assistance; and I must beg
you will not say a word more against Terry--I can’t bear it--I can’t
bear it--I can’t do without him. Pray don’t detain me--I can say no
more--except,” added he, returning to his usual concluding sentence,
“that there need, at all events, be none of this, if people would but
live upon their own estates, and kill their own mutton.” He stole
out of the room, glad to escape, however shabbily, from present
explanation and present pain. There are persons without resource, who,
in difficulties, return always to the same point, and usually to the
same words.

While Lord Colambre was walking up and down the room, much vexed
and disappointed at finding that he could make no impression on his
father’s mind, nor obtain his confidence, Lady Clonbrony’s woman, Mrs.
Petito, knocked at the door, with a message from her lady, to beg, if
Lord Colambre was _by himself_, he would go to her dressing-room, as
she wished to have a conference with him. He obeyed her summons.

“Sit down, my dear Colambre--” And she began precisely with her old
sentence--“With the fortune I brought your father, and with my lord’s
estate, I _cawnt_ understand the meaning of all these pecuniary
difficulties; and all that strange creature Sir Terence says is
algebra to me, who speak English. And I am particularly sorry he was
let in this morning--but he’s such a brute that he does not think any
thing of forcing one’s door, and he tells my footman he does not mind
_not at home_ a pinch of snuff. Now what can you do with a man who
could say that sort of thing, you know?--the world’s at an end.”

“I wish my father had nothing to do with him, ma’am, as much as you
can wish it,” said Lord Colambre; “but I have said all that a son can
say, and without effect.”

“What particularly provokes me against him,” continued Lady Clonbrony,
“is what I have just heard from Grace, who was really hurt by it, too,
for she is the warmest friend in the world: I allude to the creature’s
indelicate way of touching upon a tender _pint_, and mentioning an
amiable young heiress’s name. My dear Colambre, I trust you have given
me credit for my inviolable silence all this time, upon the _pint_
nearest my heart. I am rejoiced to hear you _was_ so warm when she
was mentioned inadvertently by that brute, and I trust you now see
the advantages of the projected union in as strong and agreeable a
_pint_ of view as I do, my own Colambre; and I should leave things to
themselves, and let you prolong the _dees_ of courtship as you please,
only for what I now hear incidentally from my lord and the brute,
about pecuniary embarrassments, and the necessity of something being
done before next winter. And, indeed, I think now, in propriety, the
proposal cannot be delayed much longer; for the world begins to talk
of the thing as done; and even Mrs. Broadhurst, I know, had no doubt
that, if this _contretemps_ about the poor Berryls had not occurred,
your proposal would have been made before the end of last week.”

Our hero was not a man to make a proposal because Mrs. Broadhurst
expected it, or to marry because the world said he was going to be
married. He steadily said, that, from the first moment the subject had
been mentioned, he had explained himself distinctly; that the young
lady’s friends could not, therefore, be under any doubt as to his
intentions; that, if they had voluntarily deceived themselves, or
exposed the lady in situations from which the world was led to make
false conclusions, he was not answerable: he felt his conscience at
ease--entirely so, as he was convinced that the young lady herself,
for whose merit, talents, independence, and generosity of character he
professed high respect, esteem, and admiration, had no doubts either
of the extent or the nature of his regard.

“Regard, respect, esteem, admiration!--Why, my dearest Colambre! this
is saying all I want; satisfies me, and I am sure would satisfy Mrs.
Broadhurst, and Miss Broadhurst too.”

“No doubt it will, ma’am: but not if I aspired to the honour of Miss
Broadhurst’s hand, or professed myself her lover.”

“My dear, you are mistaken: Miss Broadhurst is too sensible a girl,
a vast deal, to look for love, and a dying lover, and all that sort
of stuff: I am persuaded--indeed I have it from good, from the best
authority, that the young lady--you know one must be delicate in these
cases, where a young lady of such fortune, and no despicable family
too, is concerned; therefore I cannot speak quite plainly--but I say
I have it from the best authority, that you would be preferred to any
other suitor, and, in short, that--”

“I beg your pardon, madam, for interrupting you,” cried Lord Colambre,
colouring a good deal; “but you must excuse me if I say, that the only
authority on which I could believe this is one from which I am morally
certain I shall never hear it--from Miss Broadhurst herself.”

“Lord, child! if you only ask her the question, she would tell you it
is truth, I dare say.”

“But as I have no curiosity on the subject, ma’am--”

“Lord bless me! I thought everybody had curiosity. But still, without
curiosity, I am sure it would gratify you when you did hear it; and
can’t you just put the simple question?”

“Impossible!”

“Impossible!--now that is so very provoking when the thing is all but
done. Well, take your own time; all I will ask of you then is, to let
things go on as they are going--smoothly and pleasantly; and I’ll
not press you further on the subject at present. Let things go on
smoothly, that’s all I ask, and say nothing.”

“I wish I could oblige you, mother; but I cannot do this. Since you
tell me that the world and Miss Broadhurst’s friends have already
misunderstood my intentions, it becomes necessary, in justice to
the young lady and to myself, that I should make all further doubt
impossible--I shall, therefore, put an end to it at once, by leaving
town to-morrow.”

Lady Clonbrony, breathless for a moment with surprise, exclaimed,
“Bless me! leave town to-morrow! Just at the beginning of the season!
Impossible!--I never saw such a precipitate rash young man. But stay
only a few weeks, Colambre; the physicians advise Buxton for my
rheumatism, and you shall take us to Buxton early in the season--you
cannot refuse me that. Why, if Miss Broadhurst was a dragon, you could
not be in a greater hurry to run away from her. What are you afraid
of?”

“Of doing what is wrong--the only thing, I trust, of which I shall
ever be afraid.”

Lady Clonbrony tried persuasion and argument--such argument as she
could use--but all in vain--Lord Colambre was firm in his resolution;
at last, she came to tears; and her son, in much agitation, said, “I
cannot bear this, mother!--I would do any thing you ask, that I could
do with honour; but this is impossible.”

“Why impossible? I will take all blame upon myself; and you are sure
that Miss Broadhurst does not misunderstand you, and you esteem her,
and admire her, and all that; and all I ask; is, that you’ll go on as
you are, and see more of her; and how do you know but you may fall in
love with her, as you call it, to-morrow?”

“Because, madam, since you press me so far, my affections are engaged
to another person. Do not look so dreadfully shocked, my dear
mother--I have told you truly, that I think myself too young, much too
young, yet to marry. In the circumstances in which I know my family
are, it is probable that I shall not for some years be able to marry
as I wish. You may depend upon it that I shall not take any step, I
shall not even declare my attachment to the object of my affection,
without your knowledge; and, far from being inclined headlong to
follow my own passions--strong as they are--be assured that the honour
of my family, your happiness, my mother, my father’s, are my first
objects: I shall never think of my own till these are secured.”

Of the conclusion of this speech, Lady Clonbrony heard only the
sound of the words; from the moment her son had pronounced that his
affections were engaged, she had been running over in her head every
probable and improbable person she could think of; at last, suddenly
starting up, she opened one of the folding-doors into the next
apartment, and called, “Grace!--Grace Nugent!--put down your pencil,
Grace, this minute, and come here!”

Miss Nugent obeyed with her usual alacrity; and the moment she entered
the room, Lady Clonbrony, fixing her eyes full upon her, said,
“There’s your cousin Colambre tells me his affections are engaged.”

“Yes, to Miss Broadhurst, no doubt,” said Miss Nugent, smiling, with a
simplicity and openness of countenance, which assured Lady Clonbrony
that all was safe in that quarter: a suspicion which had darted into
her mind was dispelled.

“No doubt--Ay, do you hear that _no doubt_, Colambre?--Grace, you see,
has no doubt; nobody has any doubt but yourself, Colambre.”

“And are your affections engaged, and not to Miss Broadhurst?” said
Miss Nugent, approaching Lord Colambre.

“There now! you see how you surprise and disappoint every body,
Colambre.”

“I am sorry that Miss Nugent should be disappointed,” said Lord
Colambre.

“But because I am disappointed, pray do not call me Miss Nugent, or
turn away from me, as if you were displeased.”

“It must, then, be some Cambridgeshire lady,” said Lady Clonbrony. “I
am sure I am very sorry he ever went to Cambridge--Oxford I advised:
one of the Miss Berryls, I presume, who have nothing. I’ll have no
more to do with those Berryls--there was the reason of the son’s vast
intimacy. Grace, you may give up all thoughts of Sir Arthur.”

“I have no thoughts to give up, ma’am,” said Miss Nugent, smiling.
“Miss Broadhurst,” continued she, going on eagerly with what she was
saying to Lord Colambre, “Miss Broadhurst is my friend, a friend I
love and admire; but you will allow that I strictly kept my promise,
never to praise her to you, till you should begin to praise her to me.
Now recollect, last night, you did praise her to me, so justly, that
I thought you liked her, I confess; so that it is natural I should
feel a little disappointed. Now you know the whole of my mind; I have
no intention to encroach on your confidence; therefore, there is no
occasion to look so embarrassed. I give you my word, I will never
speak to you again upon the subject,” said she, holding out her hand
to him, “provided you will never again call me Miss Nugent. Am I not
your own cousin Grace?--Do not be displeased with her.”

“You are my own dear cousin Grace; and nothing can be farther from my
mind than any thought of being displeased with her; especially just at
this moment, when I am going away, probably, for a considerable time.”

“Away!--when?--where?”

“To-morrow morning, for Ireland.”

“Ireland! of all places,” cried Lady Clonbrony. “What upon earth puts
it into your head to go to Ireland? You do very well to go out of the
way of falling in love ridiculously, since that is the reason of your
going; but what put Ireland into your head, child?”

“I will not presume to ask my mother what put Ireland out of her
head,” said Lord Colambre, smiling; “but she will recollect that it is
my native country.”

“That was your father’s fault, not mine,” said Lady Clonbrony; “for
I wished to have been confined in England: but he would have it to
say that his son and heir was born at Clonbrony Castle--and there was
a great argument between him and my uncle, and something about the
Prince of Wales and Caernarvon Castle was thrown in, and that turned
the scale, much against my will; for it was my wish that my son should
be an Englishman born--like myself. But, after all, I don’t see that
having the misfortune to be born in a country should tie one to it in
any sort of way; and I should have hoped your English _edication_,
Colambre, would have given you too liberal _idears_ for that--so I
_reely_ don’t see why you should go to Ireland merely because it’s
your native country.”

“Not merely because it is my native country--but I wish to go
thither--I desire to become acquainted with it--because it is the
country in which my father’s property lies, and from which we draw our
subsistence.”

“Subsistence! Lord bless me, what a word! fitter for a pauper than
a nobleman--subsistence! Then, if you are going to look after your
father’s property, I hope you will make the agents do their duty, and
send us remittances. And pray how long do you mean to stay?”

“Till I am of age, madam, if you have no objection. I will spend the
ensuing months in travelling in Ireland; and I will return here by the
time I am of age, unless you and my father should, before that time,
be in Ireland.”

“Not the least chance of that, if I can prevent it, I promise you,”
 said Lady Clonbrony.

Lord Colambre and Miss Nugent sighed.

“And I am sure I shall take it very unkindly of you, Colambre, if you
go and turn out a partisan for Ireland, after all, like Grace Nugent.”

“A partisan! no;--I hope not a partisan, but a friend,” said Miss
Nugent.

“Nonsense, child!--I hate to hear people, women especially, and young
ladies particularly, talk of being friends to this country or that
country. What can they know about countries? Better think of being
friends to themselves, and friends to their friends.”

“I was wrong,” said Miss Nugent, “to call myself a friend to Ireland;
I meant to say, that Ireland had been a friend to me: that I found
Irish friends, when I had no others; an Irish home, when I had no
other; that my earliest and happiest years, under your kind care, had
been spent there; and I can never forget _that_, my dear aunt--I hope
you do not wish that I should.”

“Heaven forbid, my sweet Grace!” said Lady Clonbrony, touched by her
voice and manner; “Heaven forbid! I don’t wish you to do or be any
thing but what you are; for I am convinced there’s nothing I could ask
you would not do for me: and, I can tell you, there’s few things you
could ask, love, I would not do for you.”

A wish was instantly expressed in the eyes of her niece.

Lady Clonbrony, though not usually quick at interpreting the wishes
of others, understood and answered before she ventured to make her
request in words.

“Ask any thing but _that_, Grace--Return to Clonbrony, while I am able
to live in London? That I never can or will do for you or any body!”
 looking at her son in all the pride of obstinacy: “so there is an end
of the matter. Go you where you please, Colambre; and I shall stay
where I please:--I suppose, as your mother, I have a right to say this
much?”

Her son, with the utmost respect, assured her that he had no design to
infringe upon her undoubted liberty of judging for herself; that he
had never interfered, except so far as to tell her circumstances of
her affairs with which she seemed to be totally unacquainted, and of
which it might he dangerous to her to continue in ignorance.

“Don’t talk to me about affairs,” cried she, drawing her hand away
from her son. “Talk to my lord, or my lord’s agents, since you are
going to Ireland about business--I know nothing about business; but
this I know, I shall stay in England, and be in London, every season,
as long as I can afford it; and when I cannot afford to live here, I
hope I shall not live any where. That’s my notion of life; and that’s
my determination, once for all; for, if none of the rest of the
Clonbrony family have any, I thank Heaven I have some spirit.” Saying
this, in her most stately manner she walked out of the room. Lord
Colambre instantly followed her: for after the resolution and the
promise he had made, he did not dare to trust himself at this moment
with Miss Nugent.

There was to be a concert this night at Lady Clonbrony’s, at which
Mrs. and Miss Broadhurst were of course expected. That they might not
he quite unprepared for the event of her son’s going to Ireland, Lady
Clonbrony wrote a note to Mrs. Broadhurst, begging her to come half
an hour earlier than the time mentioned in the cards, “that she might
talk over something _particular_ that had just occurred.”

What passed at this cabinet council, as it seems to have had no
immediate influence on affairs, we need not record. Suffice it
to observe, that a great deal was said, and nothing done. Miss
Broadhurst, however, was not a young lady who could easily be
deceived, even where her passions were concerned. The moment her
mother told her of Lord Colambre’s intended departure, she saw the
whole truth. She had a strong mind, capable of looking steadily at
truth. Surrounded as she had been from her childhood by every means
of self-indulgence which wealth and flattery could bestow, she had
discovered early what few persons in her situation discover till late
in life, that selfish gratifications may render us incapable of other
happiness, but can never, of themselves, make us happy. Despising
flatterers, she had determined to make herself friends--to make them
in the only possible way--by deserving them. Her father realized
his immense fortune by the power and habit of constant, bold, and
just calculation. The power and habit which she had learned from
him she applied on a far larger scale: with him it was confined to
speculations for the acquisition of money; with her, it extended to
the attainment of happiness. He was calculating and mercenary: she was
estimative and generous.

Miss Nugent was dressing for the concert, or rather was sitting
half-dressed before her glass, reflecting, when Miss Broadhurst came
into her room. Miss Nugent immediately sent her maid out of the room.

“Grace,” said Miss Broadhurst, looking at Grace with an air of open
deliberate composure, “you and I are thinking of the same thing--of
the same person.”

“Yes, of Lord Colambre,” said Miss Nugent, ingenuously and
sorrowfully.

“Then I can put your mind at ease, at once, my dear friend, by
assuring you that I shall think of him no more. That I have thought
of him, I do not deny--I have thought, that if, notwithstanding the
difference in our ages and other differences, he had preferred me, I
should have preferred him to any person who has ever yet addressed
me. On our first acquaintance, I clearly saw that he was not disposed
to pay court to my fortune; and I had also then coolness of judgment
sufficient to perceive that it was not probable he should fall in
love with my person. But I was too proud in my humility, too strong
in my honesty, too brave, too ignorant; in short, I knew nothing of
the matter. We are all of us, more or less, subject to the delusions
of vanity, or hope, or love--I--even I!--who thought myself so
clear-sighted, did not know how, with one flutter of his wings, Cupid
can set the whole atmosphere in motion; change the proportions, size,
colour, value, of every object; lead us into a _mirage_, and leave us
in a dismal desert.”

“My dearest friend!” said Miss Nugent in a tone of true sympathy.

“But none but a coward or a fool would sit down in the desert and
weep, instead of trying to make his way back before the storm rises,
obliterates the track, and overwhelms every thing. Poetry apart, my
dear Grace, you may be assured that I shall think no more of Lord
Colambre.”

“I believe you are right. But I am sorry, very sorry, it must be so.”

“Oh, spare me your sorrow!”

“My sorrow is for Lord Colambre,” said Miss Nugent. “Where will he
find such a wife?--Not in Miss Berryl, I am sure, pretty as she is; a
mere fine lady!--Is it possible that Lord Colambre should prefer such
a girl--Lord Colambre!”

Miss Broadhurst looked at her friend as she spoke, and saw truth in
her eyes; saw that she had no suspicion that she was herself the
person beloved.

“Tell me, Grace, are you sorry that Lord Colambre is going away?”

“No, I am glad. I was sorry when I first heard it; but now I am glad,
very glad: it may save him from a marriage unworthy of him, restore
him to himself, and reserve him for--, the only woman I ever saw who
is suited to him, who is equal to him, who would value and love him as
he deserves to be valued and loved.”

“Stop, my dear; if you mean me, I am not, and I never can be, that
woman. Therefore, as you are my friend, and wish my happiness, as I
sincerely believe you do, never, I conjure you, present such an idea
before my mind again--it is out of my mind, I hope, for ever. It is
important to me that you should know and believe this. At least I
will preserve my friends. Now let this subject never be mentioned
or alluded to again between us, my dear. We have subjects enough of
conversation; we need not have recourse to pernicious sentimental
gossipings. There is great difference between wanting _a confidante_,
and treating a friend with confidence. My confidence you possess; all
that ought, all that is to be known of my mind, you know, and--Now I
will leave you in peace to dress for the concert.”

“Oh, don’t go! you don’t interrupt me. I shall be dressed in a few
minutes; stay with me, and you may be assured, that neither now,
nor at any other time, shall I ever speak to you on the subject you
desire me to avoid. I entirely agree with you about _confidantes_ and
sentimental gossipings: I love you for not loving them.”

A loud knock at the door announced the arrival of company.

“Think no more of love, but as much as you please of admiration--dress
yourself as fast as you can,” said Miss Broadhurst. “Dress, dress, is
the order of the day.”

“Order of the day and order of the night, and all for people I don’t
care for in the least,” said Grace. “So life passes!”

“Dear me, Miss Nugent,” cried Petito, Lady Clonbrony’s woman, coming
in with a face of alarm, “not dressed yet! My lady is gone down, and
Mrs. Broadhurst and my Lady Pococke’s come, and the Honourable Mrs.
Trembleham; and signor, the Italian singing gentleman, has been
walking up and down the apartments there by himself, disconsolate,
this half hour. Oh, merciful! Miss Nugent, if you could stand still
for one single particle of a second. So then I thought of stepping in
to Miss Nugent; for the young ladies are talking so fast, says I to
myself, at the door, they will never know how time goes, unless I give
‘em a hint. But now my lady is below, there’s no need, to be sure,
to be nervous, so we may take the thing quietly, without being in a
flustrum. Dear ladies, is not this now a very sudden motion of our
young lord’s for Ireland? Lud a mercy! Miss Nugent, I’m sure your
motions is sudden enough; and your dress behind is all, I’m sure, I
can’t tell how.”

“Oh, never mind,” said the young lady, escaping from her; “it will do
very well, thank you, Petito.”

“It will do very well, never mind,” repeated Petito, muttering
to herself, as she looked after the ladies, whilst they ran down
stairs. “I can’t abide to dress any young lady who says never
mind, and it will do very well. That, and her never talking to one
confi_dan_tially, or trusting one with the least bit of her secrets,
is the thing I can’t put up with from Miss Nugent; and Miss Broadhurst
holding the pins to me, as much as to say, do your business, Petito,
and don’t talk.--Now, that’s so impertinent, as if one wasn’t the same
flesh and blood, and had not as good a right to talk of every thing,
and hear of every thing, as themselves. And Mrs. Broadhurst, too,
cabinet-councilling with my lady, and pursing up her city mouth, when
I come in, and turning off the discourse to snuff, forsooth; as if I
was an ignoramus, to think they closeted themselves to talk of snuff.
Now, I think a lady of quality’s woman has as good a right to be
trusted with her lady’s secrets as with her jewels; and if my Lady
Clonbrony was a real lady of quality, she’d know that, and consider
the one as much my paraphernalia as the other. So I shall tell my lady
to-night, as I always do when she vexes me, that I never lived in an
Irish family before, and don’t know the ways of it--then she’ll tell
me she was born in Hoxfordshire--then I shall say, with my saucy look,
‘Oh, was you, my lady--I always forget that you was an Englishwoman:’
then may be she’ll say, ‘Forget! you forget yourself strangely,
Petito.’ Then I shall say, with a great deal of dignity, ‘If your
ladyship thinks so, my lady, I’d better go.’ And I’d desire no better
than that she would take me at my word; for my Lady Dashfort’s is a
much better place, I’m told, and she’s dying to have me, I know.”

And having formed this resolution, Petito concluded her apparently
interminable soliloquy, and went with my lord’s gentleman into the
antechamber, to hear the concert, and give her judgment on every
thing: as she peeped in through the vista of heads into the Apollo
saloon--for to-night the Alhambra was transformed into the Apollo
saloon--she saw that whilst the company, rank behind rank, in close
semicircles, had crowded round the performers to hear a favourite
singer, Miss Broadhurst and Lord Colambre were standing in the outer
semicircle, talking to one another earnestly. Now would Petito have
given up her reversionary chance of the three nearly new gowns she
expected from Lady Clonbrony, in case she stayed; or, in case she
went, the reversionary chance of any dress of Lady Dashfort’s, except
her scarlet velvet, merely to hear what Miss Broadhurst and Lord
Colambre were saying. Alas! she could only see their lips move; and
of what they were talking, whether of music or love, and whether
the match was to be on or off, she could only conjecture. But the
diplomatic style having now descended to waiting-maids, Mrs. Petito
talked to her friends in the antechamber with as mysterious and
consequential an air and tone as a chargé d’affaires, or as the
lady of a chargé d’affaires, could have assumed. She spoke of her
_private belief_; of _the impression left upon her mind_; and her
_confidential_ reasons for thinking as she did; of her “having had it
from the _fountain’s_ head;” and of “her fear of any _committal_ of
her authorities.”

Notwithstanding all these authorities, Lord Colambre left London next
day, and pursued his way to Ireland, determined that he would see and
judge of that country for himself, and decide whether his mother’s
dislike to residing there was founded on caprice or on reasonable
causes.

In the mean time, it was reported in London that his lordship was
gone to Ireland to make out the title to some estate, which would be
necessary for his marriage settlement with the great heiress, Miss
Broadhurst. Whether Mrs. Petito or Sir Terence O’Fay had the greater
share in raising and spreading this report, it would be difficult to
determine; but it is certain, however or by whomsoever raised, it was
most useful to Lord Clonbrony, by keeping his creditors quiet.




CHAPTER VI.


The tide did not permit the packet to reach the Pigeon-house, and the
impatient Lord Colambre stepped into a boat, and was rowed across the
Bay of Dublin. It was a fine summer morning. The sun shone bright on
the Wicklow mountains. He admired, he exulted in the beauty of the
prospect; and all the early associations of his childhood, and the
patriotic hopes of his riper years, swelled his heart as he approached
the shores of his native land. But scarcely had he touched his mother
earth, when the whole course of his ideas was changed; and if his
heart swelled, it swelled no more with pleasurable sensations, for
instantly he found himself surrounded and attacked by a swarm of
beggars and harpies, with strange figures and stranger tones; some
craving his charity, some snatching away his luggage, and at the same
time bidding him “never trouble himself,” and “never fear.” A scramble
in the boat and on shore for bags and parcels began, and an amphibious
fight betwixt men, who had one foot on sea and one on land, was seen;
and long and loud the battle of trunks and portmanteaus raged! The
vanquished departed, clinching their empty hands at their opponents,
and swearing inextinguishable hatred; while the smiling victors stood
at ease, each grasping his booty--bag, basket, parcel, or portmanteau:
“And, your honour, where _will_ these go?--Where _will_ we carry ‘em
all to for your honour?” was now the question. Without waiting for
an answer, most of the goods were carried at the discretion of the
porters to the custom-house, where, to his lordship’s astonishment,
after this scene of confusion, he found that he had lost nothing but
his patience; all his goods were safe, and a few _tinpennies_ made
his officious porters happy men and boys; blessings were showered
upon his honour, and he was left in peace at an excellent hotel, in
---- street, Dublin. He rested, refreshed himself, recovered his
good-humour, and walked into the coffee-house, where he found several
officers, English, Irish, and Scotch. One English officer, a very
gentlemanlike, sensible-looking man, of middle age, was sitting
reading a little pamphlet, when Lord Colambre entered: he looked
up from time to time, and in a few minutes rose and joined the
conversation; it turned upon the beauties and defects of the city of
Dublin. Sir James Brooke (for that was the name of the gentleman)
showed one of his brother officers the book which he had been reading,
observing that, in his opinion, it contained one of the best views
of Dublin which he had ever seen, evidently drawn by the hand of a
master, though in a slight, playful, and ironical style: it was “An
intercepted Letter from China.” The conversation extended from Dublin
to various parts of Ireland, with all which Sir James Brooke showed
that he was well acquainted. Observing that this conversation was
particularly interesting to Lord Colambre, and quickly perceiving
that he was speaking to one not ignorant of books, Sir James spoke of
different representations and misrepresentations of Ireland. In answer
to Lord Colambre’s inquiries, he named the works which had afforded
him the most satisfaction; and with discriminative, not superficial
celerity, touched on all ancient and modern authors on this subject,
from Spenser and Davies to Young and Beaufort. Lord Colambre became
anxious to cultivate the acquaintance of a gentleman who appeared
so able and willing to afford him information. Sir James Brooke, on
his part, was flattered by this eagerness of attention, and pleased
by our hero’s manners and conversation: so that, to their mutual
satisfaction, they spent much of their time together whilst they were
at this hotel; and meeting frequently in society in Dublin, their
acquaintance every day increased and grew into intimacy; an intimacy
which was highly advantageous to Lord Colambre’s views of obtaining a
just idea of the state of manners in Ireland. Sir James Brooke had at
different periods been quartered in various parts of the country--had
resided long enough in each to become familiar with the people, and
had varied his residence sufficiently to form comparisons between
different counties, their habits, and characteristics. Hence he had it
in his power to direct the attention of our young observer at once to
the points most worthy of his examination, and to save him from the
common error of travellers--the deducing general conclusions from a
few particular cases, or arguing from exceptions, as if they were
rules. Lord Colambre, from his family connexions, had of course
immediate introduction into the best society in Dublin, or rather into
all the good society of Dublin. In Dublin there is positively good
company, and positively bad; but not, as in London, many degrees of
comparison: not innumerable luminaries of the polite world, moving in
different orbits of fashion; but all the bright planets of note and
name move and revolve in the same narrow limits. Lord Colambre did
not find that either his father’s or his mother’s representations of
society resembled the reality which he now beheld. Lady Clonbrony had,
in terms of detestation, described Dublin such as it appeared to her
soon after the Union; Lord Clonbrony had painted it with convivial
enthusiasm, such as he saw it long and long before the Union, when
_first_ he drank claret at the fashionable clubs. This picture,
unchanged in his memory, and unchangeable by his imagination, had
remained, and ever would remain, the same. The hospitality of which
the father boasted, the son found in all its warmth, but meliorated
and refined; less convivial, more social; the fashion of hospitality
had improved. To make the stranger eat or drink to excess, to set
before him old wine and old plate, was no longer the sum of good
breeding. The guest now escaped the pomp of grand entertainments;
was allowed to enjoy ease and conversation, and to taste some of
that feast of reason and that flow of soul so often talked of, and
so seldom enjoyed. Lord Colambre found a spirit of improvement, a
desire for knowledge, and a taste for science and literature, in most
companies, particularly among gentlemen belonging to the Irish bar:
nor did he in Dublin society see any of that confusion of ranks or
predominance of vulgarity, of which his mother had complained. Lady
Clonbrony had assured him, that, the last time she had been at the
drawing-room at the Castle, a lady, whom she afterwards found to be a
grocer’s wife, had turned angrily when her ladyship had accidentally
trodden on her train, and had exclaimed with a strong brogue, “I’ll
thank you, ma’am, for the rest of my tail.”

Sir James Brooke, to whom Lord Colambre, without _giving up his
authority_, mentioned the fact, declared that he had no doubt the
thing had happened precisely as it was stated; but that this was one
of the extraordinary cases which ought not to pass into a general
rule,--that it was a slight instance of that influence of temporary
causes, from which no conclusions, as to national manners, should be
drawn.

“I happened,” continued Sir James, “to be quartered in Dublin soon
after the Union took place; and I remember the great but transient
change that appeared from the removal of both houses of parliament:
most of the nobility and many of the principal families among the
Irish commoners, either hurried in high hopes to London, or retired
disgusted and in despair to their houses in the country. Immediately,
in Dublin, commerce rose into the vacated seats of rank; wealth rose
into the place of birth. New faces and new equipages appeared: people,
who had never been heard of before, started into notice, pushed
themselves forward, not scrupling to elbow their way even at the
castle; and they were presented to my lord-lieutenant and to my
lady-lieutenant; for their excellencies might have played their
vice-regal parts to empty benches, had they not admitted such
persons for the moment to fill their court. Those of former times,
of hereditary pretensions and high-bred minds and manners, were
scandalized at all this; and they complained with justice, that the
whole _tone_ of society was altered; that the decorum, elegance,
polish, and charm of society was gone. And I, among the rest,” said
Sir James, “felt and deplored their change. But, now it’s all over, we
may acknowledge, that, perhaps, even those things which we felt most
disagreeable at the time were productive of eventual benefit.

“Formerly, a few families had set the fashion. From time immemorial
every thing had, in Dublin, been submitted to their hereditary
authority; and conversation, though it had been rendered polite by
their example, was, at the same time, limited within narrow bounds.
Young people, educated upon a more enlarged plan, in time grew up;
and, no authority or fashion forbidding it, necessarily rose to their
just place, and enjoyed their due influence in society. The want of
manners, joined to the want of knowledge, in the _nouveaux riches_,
created universal disgust: they were compelled, some by ridicule, some
by bankruptcies, to fall back into their former places, from which
they could never more emerge. In the mean time, some of the Irish
nobility and gentry, who had been living at an unusual expense in
London--an expense beyond their incomes--were glad to return home to
refit; and they brought with them a new stock of ideas, and some taste
for science and literature, which, within these latter years, have
become fashionable, indeed indispensable, in London. That part of the
Irish aristocracy, who, immediately upon the first incursions of the
vulgarians, had fled in despair to their fastnesses in the country,
hearing of the improvements which had gradually taken place in
society, and assured of the final expulsion of the barbarians,
ventured from their retreats, and returned to their posts in town. So
that now,” concluded Sir James, “you find a society in Dublin composed
of a most agreeable and salutary mixture of birth and education,
gentility and knowledge, manner and matter; and you see, pervading the
whole, new life and energy, new talent, new ambition, a desire and a
determination to improve and be improved--a perception that higher
distinction can now be obtained in almost all company, by genius and
merit, than by airs and address.... So much for the higher order. Now,
among the class of tradesmen and shopkeepers, you may amuse yourself,
my lord, with marking the difference between them and persons of the
same rank in London.”

Lord Colambre had several commissions to execute for his English
friends, and he made it his amusement in every shop to observe the
manners and habits of the people. He remarked that there are in Dublin
two classes of tradespeople: one, who go into business with intent to
make it their occupation for life, and as a slow but sure means of
providing for themselves and their families; another class, who take
up trade merely as a temporary resource, to which they condescend for
a few years; trusting that they shall, in that time, make a fortune,
retire, and commence or re-commence gentlemen. The Irish regular men
of business are like all other men of business--punctual, frugal,
careful, and so forth; with the addition of more intelligence,
invention, and enterprise, than are usually found in Englishmen of
the same rank. But the Dublin tradesmen _pro tempore_ are a class by
themselves: they begin without capital, buy stock upon credit, in
hopes of making large profits, and, in the same hopes, sell upon
credit.

Now, if the credit they can obtain is longer than that which they are
forced to give, they go on and prosper; if not, they break, become
bankrupts, and sometimes, as bankrupts, thrive. By such men, of
course, every _short cut_ to fortune is followed: whilst every habit,
which requires time to prove its advantage, is disregarded; nor, with
such views, can a character for _punctuality_ have its just value.
In the head of a man, who intends to be a tradesman to-day, and a
gentleman to-morrow, the ideas of the honesty and the duties of a
tradesman, and of the honour and the accomplishments of a gentleman,
are oddly jumbled together, and the characteristics of both are lost
in the compound.

He will _oblige_ you, but he will not obey you; he will do you a
favour, but he will not do you _justice_; he will do _anything to
serve you_, but the particular thing you order he neglects; he asks
your pardon, for he would not, for all the goods in his warehouse,
_disoblige_ you; not for the sake of your custom, but he has a
particular regard for your family. Economy, in the eyes of such a
tradesman, is, if not a mean vice, at least a shabby virtue, of which
he is too polite to suspect his customers, and to which he is proud of
proving himself superior. Many London tradesmen, after making their
thousands and their tens of thousands, feel pride in still continuing
to live like plain men of business; but from the moment a Dublin
tradesman of this style has made a few hundreds, he sets up his
gig, and then his head is in his carriage, and not in his business;
and when he has made a few thousands, he buys or builds a country
house--and, then, and thenceforward, his head, heart, and soul, are in
his country-house, and only his body in the shop with his customers.

Whilst he is making money, his wife, or rather his lady, is
spending twice as much out of town as he makes in it. At the word
country-house, let no one figure to himself a snug little box like
that in which a _warm_ London citizen, after long years of toil,
indulges himself, one day out of seven, in repose--enjoying, from his
gazabo, the smell of the dust, and the view of passing coaches on the
London road: no, these Hibernian villas are on a much more magnificent
scale; some of them formerly belonged to Irish members of parliament,
who were at a distance from their country-seats. After the Union these
were bought by citizens and tradesmen, who spoiled, by the mixture of
their own fancies, what had originally been designed by men of good
taste.

Some time after Lord Colambre’s arrival in Dublin, he had an
opportunity of seeing one of these villas, which belonged to Mrs.
Raffarty, a grocer’s lady, and sister to one of Lord Clonbrony’s
agents, Mr. Nicholas Garraghty. Lord Colambre was surprised to find
that his father’s agent resided in Dublin: he had been used to see
agents, or stewards, as they are called in England, live in the
country, and usually on the estate of which they have the management.
Mr. Nicholas Garraghty, however, had a handsome house in a fashionable
part of Dublin. Lord Colambre called several times to see him, but he
was out of town, receiving rents for some other gentlemen, as he was
agent for more than one property.

Though our hero had not the honour of seeing Mr. Garraghty, he had the
pleasure of finding Mrs. Raffarty one day at her brother’s house. Just
as his lordship came to the door, she was going, on her jaunting-car,
to her villa, called Tusculum, situate near Bray. She spoke much of
the beauties of the vicinity of Dublin; found his lordship was going
with Sir James Brooke, and a party of gentlemen, to see the county
of Wicklow; and his lordship and party were entreated to do her the
honour of taking in their way a little collation at Tusculum.

Our hero was glad to have an opportunity of seeing more of a species
of fine lady with which he was unacquainted.

The invitation was verbally made, and verbally accepted; but the lady
afterwards thought it necessary to send a written invitation in due
form, and the note she sent directed to the _Most Right Honourable_
the Lord Viscount Colambre. On opening it he perceived that it could
not have been intended for him. It ran as follows:

    “MY DEAR JULIANA O’LEARY,

    “I have got a promise from Colambre, that he will be with us
    at Tusculum on Friday, the 20th, in his way from the county of
    Wicklow, for the collation I mentioned; and expect a large party
    of officers: so pray come early, with your house, or as many as
    the jaunting-car can bring. And pray, my dear, be _elegant_. You
    need not let it transpire to Mrs. O’G----; but make my apologies
    to Miss O’G----, if she says any thing, and tell her I’m quite
    concerned I can’t ask her for that day; because, tell her, I’m so
    crowded, and am to have none that day but _real quality_.

    “Yours ever and ever,

    “ANASTASIA RAFFARTY.

    “P.S. And I hope to make the gentlemen stop the night with me: so
    will not have beds. Excuse haste and compliments, &c.

    “_Tusculum, Sunday 15._”

After a charming tour in the county of Wicklow, where the beauty of
the natural scenery, and the taste with which those natural beauties
had been cultivated, far surpassed the sanguine expectations Lord
Colambre had formed, his lordship and his companions arrived at
Tusculum, where he found Mrs. Raffarty, and Miss Juliana O’Leary,
very elegant, with a large party of the ladies and gentlemen of Bray,
assembled in a drawing-room, fine with bad pictures and gaudy gilding;
the windows were all shut, and the company were playing cards with all
their might. This was the fashion of the neighbourhood. In compliment
to Lord Colambre and the officers, the ladies left the card-tables;
and Mrs. Raffarty, observing that his lordship seemed _partial_ to
walking, took him out, as she said, “to do the honours of nature and
art.”

His lordship was much amused by the mixture, which was now exhibited
to him, of taste and incongruity, ingenuity and absurdity, genius
and blunder; by the contrast between the finery and vulgarity, the
affectation and ignorance, of the lady of the villa. We should be
obliged to _stop_ too long at Tusculum were we to attempt to detail
all the odd circumstances of this visit; but we may record an example
or two, which may give a sufficient idea of the whole.

In the first place, before they left the drawing-room, Miss Juliana
O’Leary pointed out to his lordship’s attention a picture over the
drawing-room chimney-piece. “Is not it a fine piece, my lord?” said
she, naming the price Mrs. Raffarty had lately paid for it at an
auction. “It has a right to be a fine piece, indeed; for it cost a
fine price!” Nevertheless this _fine_ piece was a vile daub; and our
hero could only avoid the sin of flattery, or the danger of offending
the lady, by protesting that he had no judgment in pictures.

“Indeed! I don’t pretend to be a connoisseur or conoscenti myself; but
I’m told the style is undeniably modern. And was not I lucky, Juliana,
not to let that _Medona_ be knocked down to me? I was just going to
bid, when I heard such smart bidding; but, fortunately, the auctioneer
let out that it was done by a very old master--a hundred years old.
Oh! your most obedient, thinks I!--if that’s the case, it’s not for my
money: so I bought this, in lieu of the smoke-dried thing, and had it
a bargain.”

In architecture, Mrs. Raffarty had as good a taste and as much skill
as in painting. There had been a handsome portico in front of the
house: but this interfering with the lady’s desire to have a viranda,
which she said could not he dispensed with, she had raised the whole
portico to the second story, where it stood, or seemed to stand, upon
a tarpaulin roof. But Mrs. Raffarty explained, that the pillars,
though they looked so properly substantial, were really hollow
and as light as feathers, and were supported with cramps, without
_disobliging_ the front wall of the house at all to signify.

Before she showed the company any farther, she said, she must premise
to his lordship, that she had been originally stinted in room for
her improvements, so that she could not follow her genius liberally;
she had been reduced to have some things on a confined scale, and
occasionally to consult her pocket-compass; but she prided herself
upon having put as much into a tight pattern as could well be;
that had been her whole ambition, study, and problem; for she was
determined to have at least the honour of having a little _taste_ of
every thing at Tusculum.

So she led the way to a little conservatory, and a little pinery, and
a little grapery, and a little aviary, and a little pheasantry, and a
little dairy for show, and a little cottage for ditto, with a grotto
full of shells, and a little hermitage full of earwigs, and a little
ruin full of looking-glass, “to enlarge and multiply the effect of the
Gothic.”--“But you could only put your head in, because it was just
fresh painted, and though there had been a fire ordered in the ruin
all night, it had only smoked.”

In all Mrs. Raffarty’s buildings, whether ancient or modern, there was
a studied crookedness.

Yes, she said, she hated every thing straight, it was so formal and
_unpicturesque_. “Uniformity and conformity,” she observed, “had their
day; but now, thank the stars of the present day, irregularity and
deformity bear the bell, and have the majority.”

As they proceeded and walked through the grounds, from which Mrs.
Raffarty, though she had done her best, could not take that which
nature had given, she pointed out to my lord “a happy moving
termination,” consisting of a Chinese bridge, with a fisherman leaning
over the rails. On a sudden, the fisherman was seen to tumble over the
bridge into the water. The gentlemen ran to extricate the poor fellow,
while they heard Mrs. Raffarty bawling to his lordship to beg he would
never mind, and not trouble himself.

When they arrived at the bridge, they saw the man hanging from part
of the bridge, and apparently struggling in the water; but when they
attempted to pull him up, they found it was only a stuffed figure,
which had been pulled into the stream by a real fish, which had seized
hold of the bait.

Mrs. Raffarty, vexed by the fisherman’s fall, and by the laughter
it occasioned, did not recover herself sufficiently to be happily
ridiculous during the remainder of the walk, nor till dinner was
announced, when she apologized for having changed the collation, at
first intended, into a dinner, which she hoped would be found no bad
substitute, and which she flattered herself might prevail on my lord
and the gentlemen to sleep, as there was no moon.

The dinner had two great faults--profusion and pretension. There was,
in fact, ten times more on the table than was necessary; and the
entertainment was far above the circumstances of the person by whom it
was given: for instance, the dish of fish at the head of the table had
been brought across the island from Sligo, and had cost five guineas;
as the lady of the house failed not to make known. But, after all,
things were not of a piece; there was a disparity between the
entertainment and the attendants; there was no proportion or fitness
of things; a painful endeavour at what could not be attained, and a
toiling in vain to conceal and repair deficiencies and blunders. Had
the mistress of the house been quiet; had she, as Mrs. Broadhurst
would say, but let things alone, let things take their course, all
would have passed off with well-bred people; but she was incessantly
apologizing, and fussing, and fretting inwardly and outwardly, and
directing and calling to her servants--striving to make a butler who
was deaf, and a boy who was harebrained, do the business of five
accomplished footmen of _parts and figure_. The mistress of the house
called for “plates, clean plates!--plates!”

  “But none did come, when she did call.”

Mrs. Raffarty called “Lanty! Lanty! My lord’s plate, there!--James!
bread to Captain Bowles!--James! port wine to the major!--James! James
Kenny! James!”

  “And panting _James_ toiled after her in vain.”

At length one course was fairly got through, and after a torturing
half hour, the second course appeared, and James Kenny was intent upon
one thing, and Lanty upon another, so that the wine-sauce for the hare
was spilt by their collision; but, what was worse, there seemed little
chance that the whole of this second course should ever be placed
altogether rightly upon the table. Mrs. Raffarty cleared her throat,
and nodded, and pointed, and sighed, and sent Lanty after Kenny, and
Kenny after Lanty; for what one did, the other undid; and at last the
lady’s anger kindled, and she spoke: “Kenny! James Kenny! set the
sea-cale at this corner, and put down the grass cross-corners; and
match your maccaroni yonder with _them_ puddens, set--Ogh! James! the
pyramid in the middle, can’t ye?”

The pyramid, in changing places, was overturned. Then it was that the
mistress of the feast, falling back in her seat, and lifting up her
hands and eyes in despair, ejaculated, “Oh, James! James!”

The pyramid was raised by the assistance of the military engineers,
and stood trembling again on its base; but the lady’s temper could not
be so easily restored to its equilibrium. She vented her ill humour on
her unfortunate husband, who happening not to hear her order to help
my lord to some hare, she exclaimed loud, that all the world might
hear, “Corny Raffarty! Corny Raffarty! you’re no more _gud_ at the
_fut_ of my table than a stick of celery!”

The comedy of errors, which this day’s visit exhibited, amused all
the spectators. But Lord Colambre, after he had smiled, sometimes
sighed.--Similar foibles and follies in persons of different rank,
fortune, and manner, appear to common observers so unlike that they
laugh without scruples of conscience in one case, at what in another
ought to touch themselves most nearly. It was the same desire to
appear what they were not, the same vain ambition to vie with superior
rank and fortune, or fashion, which actuated Lady Clonbrony and Mrs.
Raffarty; and whilst this ridiculous grocer’s wife made herself the
sport of some of her guests, Lord Colambre sighed, from the reflection
that what she was to them, his mother was to persons in a higher rank
of fashion.--He sighed still more deeply, when he considered, that,
in whatever station or with whatever fortune, extravagance, that is,
the living beyond our income, must lead to distress and meanness, and
end in shame and ruin. In the morning as they were riding away from
Tusculum and talking over their visit, the officers laughed heartily,
and rallying Lord Colambre upon his seriousness, accused him of having
fallen in love with Mrs. Raffarty, or with the _elegant_ Miss Juliana.
Our hero, who wished never to be nice over much, or serious out of
season, laughed with those that laughed, and endeavoured to catch the
spirit of the jest. But Sir James Brooke, who now was well acquainted
with his countenance, and who knew something of the history of his
family, understood his real feelings, and, sympathizing in them,
endeavoured to give the conversation a new turn.

“Look there, Bowles,” said he, as they were just riding into the town
of Bray; “look at the barouche standing at that green door, at the
farthest end of the town. Is not that Lady Dashfort’s barouche?”

“It looks like what she sported in Dublin last year,” said Bowles;
“but you don’t think she’d give us the same two seasons. Besides, she
is not in Ireland, is she? I did not hear of her intending to come
over again.”

“I beg your pardon,” said another officer; “she will come again to
so good a market, to marry her other daughter. I hear she said or
swore that she will marry the young widow, Lady Isabel, to an Irish
nobleman.”

“Whatever she says, she swears, and whatever she swears, she’ll do,”
 replied Bowles.

“Have a care, my Lord Colambre; if she sets her heart upon you for
Lady Isabel, she has you. Nothing can save you. Heart she has none,
so there you’re safe, my lord,” said the other officer; “but if Lady
Isabel sets her eye upon you, no basilisk’s is surer.”

“But if Lady Dashfort had landed I am sure we should have heard of it,
for she makes noise enough wherever she goes; especially in Dublin,
where all she said and did was echoed and magnified, till one could
hear of nothing else. I don’t think she has landed.”

“I hope to Heaven they may never land again in Ireland!” cried
Sir James Brooke: “one worthless woman, especially one worthless
Englishwoman of rank, does incalculable mischief in a country like
this, which looks up to the sister country for fashion. For my own
part, as a warm friend to Ireland, I would rather see all the toads
and serpents, and venomous reptiles, that St. Patrick carried off in
his bag, come back to this island, than these two _dashers_. Why, they
would bite half the women and girls in the kingdom with the rage for
mischief, before half the husbands and fathers could turn their heads
about. And, once bit, there’s no cure in nature or art.”

“No horses to this barouche!” cried Captain Bowles.--“Pray, sir, whose
carriage is this?” said the captain to a servant, who was standing
beside it.

“My Lady Dashfort, sir, it belongs to,” answered the servant, in
rather a surly English tone; and turning to a boy who was lounging at
the door, “Pat, bid them bring out the horses, for my ladies is in a
hurry to get home.”

Captain Bowles stopped to make his servant alter the girths of his
horse, and to satisfy his curiosity; and the whole party halted.
Captain Bowles beckoned to the landlord of the inn, who was standing
at his door.

“So, Lady Dashfort is here again?--This is her barouche, is not it?”

“Yes, sir, she is--it is.”

“And has she sold her fine horses?”

“Oh, no, sir--this is not her carriage at all--she is not here. That
is, she is here, in Ireland; but down in the county of Wicklow, on
a visit. And this is not her own carriage at all;--that is to say,
not that which she has with herself, driving; but only just the cast
barouche like, as she keeps

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