richard lovell edgeworth a selection from his memoirs edited by beatrix l. tollemache (hon. mrs. lionel tollemache) rivington, percival & co. king street, covent garden london by the same author engelberg, and other verses. with frontispiece. crown vo. s. jonquille, or, the swiss smuggler. translated from the french of madame combe. crown vo. s. grisons incidents in olden times. crown vo. s. d. london rivington, percival & co. life is an inn there is an inn where many a guest may enter, tarry, take his rest. when he departs there's nought to pay, only he carries nought away. 'not so,' i cried, 'for raiment fine, sweet thoughts, heart-joys, and hopes that shine, may clothe anew his flitting form, as wings that change the creeping worm. his toil-worn garb he casts aside, and journeys onward glorified.' b. l. t. richard lovell edgeworth chapter some years ago, i came across the memoirs of richard lovell edgeworth in a second-hand bookshop, and found it so full of interest and amusement, that i am tempted to draw the attention of other readers to it. as the volumes are out of print, i have not hesitated to make long extracts from them. the first volume is autobiographical, and the narrative is continued in the second volume by edgeworth's daughter maria, who was her father's constant companion, and was well fitted to carry out his wish that she should complete the memoirs. richard lovell edgeworth was born at bath in . he was a shining example of what a good landlord can do for his tenants, and how an active mind will always find objects of interest without constantly requiring what are called amusements; for the leisure class should be like sundays in a week, and as the ideal sunday should be a day when we can store up good and beautiful thoughts to refresh us during the week, a day when there is no hurry, no urgent business to trouble us, a day when we have time to rise above the sordid details of life and enjoy its beauties; so it seems to me that those who are not obliged to work for their living should do their part in the world by adding to its store of good and wise thoughts, by cultivating the arts and raising the standard of excellence in them, and by bringing to light truths which had been forgotten, or which had been hidden from our forefathers. richard edgeworth was eminently a practical man, impulsive, as we learn from his imprudent marriage at nineteen, but with a strong sense of duty. his mother, who was welsh, brought him up in habits of thrift and industry very unlike those of his ancestors, which he records in the early pages of his memoirs. his great-grandmother seems to have been a woman of strong character and courage in spite of her belief in fairies and her dread of them, for he writes that 'while she was living at liscard, she was, on some sudden alarm, obliged to go at night to a garret at the top of the house for some gunpowder, which was kept there in a barrel. she was followed upstairs by an ignorant servant girl, who carried a bit of candle without a candlestick between her fingers. when lady edgeworth had taken what gunpowder she wanted, had locked the door, and was halfway downstairs again, she observed that the girl had not her candle, and asked what she had done with it; the girl recollected, and answered that she had left it "stuck in the barrel of black salt." lady edgeworth bid her stand still, and instantly returned by herself to the room where the gunpowder was, found the candle as the girl had described, put her hand carefully underneath it, carried it safely out, and when she got to the bottom of the stairs dropped on her knees, and thanked god for their deliverance' when we remember that it was richard edgeworth, the father of maria, who trained and encouraged her first efforts in literature, we feel that we owe him a debt of gratitude; but our interest is increased when we read his memoirs, for we then find ourselves brought into close contact with a very intelligent and vigorous mind, keen to take part in the scientific experiments of the day, while his upright moral character and earnest and well-directed efforts to improve his irish property win our admiration; and when we remember that he married in succession four wives, and preserved harmony among the numerous members of his household, our admiration becomes wonder, and we would fain learn the secret of his success. one element in his success doubtless was that he kept every one around him usefully employed, and in the manner most suited to each. he knew how to develop innate talent, and did not crush or overpower those around him. he owed much to the early training of a sensible mother, and he gives an anecdote of his early childhood, which i will quote:-- 'my mother was not blind to my faults. she saw the danger of my passionate temper. it was a difficult task to correct it; though perfectly submissive to her, i was with others rebellious and outrageous in my anger. my mother heard continual complaints of me; yet she wisely forbore to lecture or punish me for every trifling misdemeanour; she seized proper occasions to make a strong impression upon my mind. 'one day my elder brother tom, who, as i have said, was almost a man when i was a little child, came into the nursery where i was playing, and where the maids were ironing. upon some slight provocation or contradiction from him, i flew into a violent passion; and, snatching up one of the boxirons which the maid had just laid down, i flung it across the table at my brother. he stooped instantly; and, thank god! it missed him. there was a redhot heater in it, of which i knew nothing until i saw it thrown out, and until i heard the scream from the maids. they seized me, and dragged me downstairs to my mother. knowing that she was extremely fond of my brother, and that she was of a warm indignant temper, they expected that signal vengeance would burst upon me. they all spoke at once. when my mother heard what i had done, i saw she was struck with horror, but she said not one word in anger to me. she ordered everybody out of the room except myself, and then drawing me near her, she spoke to me in a mild voice, but in a most serious manner. first, she explained to me the nature of the crime which i had run the hazard of committing; she told me she was sure that i had no intention seriously to hurt my brother, and did not know that if the iron had hit my brother, it must have killed him. while i felt this first shock, and whilst the horror of murder was upon me, my mother seized the moment to conjure me to try in future to command my passions. i remember her telling me that i had an uncle by the mother's side who had such a violent temper, that in a fit of passion one of his eyes actually started out of its socket. "you," said my mother to me, "have naturally a violent temper; if you grow up to be a man without learning to govern it, it will be impossible for you then to command yourself; and there is no knowing what crime you may in a fit of passion commit, and how miserable you may, in consequence of it, become. you are but a very young child, yet i think you can understand me. instead of speaking to you as i do at this moment, i might punish you severely; but i think it better to treat you like a reasonable creature. my wish is to teach you to command your temper--nobody can do that for you so well as you can do it for yourself." 'as nearly as i can recollect, these were my mother's words; i am certain this was the sense of what she then said to me. the impression made by the earnest solemnity with which she spoke never, during the whole course of my life, was effaced from my mind. from that moment i determined to govern my temper.' acting upon the old adage that example is better than precept, his mother taught him at an early age to observe the good and bad qualities of the persons he met. the study of character she justly felt to be most important, and yet it is not one of the subjects taught in schools except by personal collision with other boys, and incidentally in reading history. when sent to school at warwick, he learned not only the first rudiments of grammar, but 'also the rudiments of that knowledge which leads us to observe the difference of tempers and characters in our fellow-creatures. the marking how widely they differ, and by what minute varieties they are distinguished, continues, to the end of life, an inexhaustible subject of discrimination.' may not maria have gained much valuable training in the art of novel-writing from a father who was so impressed with the value of the study of character? the gospel precept which we read as 'judge not,' should surely be translated 'condemn not,' and does not forbid a mental exercise which is necessary in our intercourse with others. among the circumstances which had considerable influence on his character, he mentions: 'my mother was reading to me some passages from shakespeare's plays, marking the characters of coriolanus and of julius caesar, which she admired. the contempt which coriolanus expresses for the opinion and applause of the vulgar, for "the voices of the greasyheaded multitude," suited well with that disdain for low company with which i had been first inspired by the fable of the lion and the cub.* it is probable that i understood the speeches of coriolanus but imperfectly; yet i know that i sympathised with my mother's admiration, my young spirit was touched by his noble character, by his generosity, and, above all, by his filial piety and his gratitude to his mother.' he mentions also that 'some traits in the history of cyrus, which was read to me, seized my imagination, and, next to joseph in the old testament, cyrus became the favourite of my childhood. my sister and i used to amuse ourselves with playing cyrus at the court of his grandfather astyages. at the great persian feasts, i was, like young cyrus, to set an example of temperance, to eat nothing but watercresses, to drink nothing but water, and to reprove the cupbearer for making the king, my grandfather, drunk. to this day i remember the taste of those water-cresses; and for those who love to trace the characters of men in the sports of children, i may mention that my character for sobriety, if not for water-drinking, has continued through life.' * in gay's fables. when richard edgeworth encouraged his daughter maria's literary tastes, he was doubtless mindful how much pleasure and support his own mother had derived from studying the best authors; and when we read later of the affectionate terms on which maria stood with her various stepmothers and their families, we cannot help thinking that she must have inherited at least one of the beautiful traits in her grandmother's character which richard edgeworth especially dwells on: 'she had the most generous disposition that i ever met with; not only that common generosity, which parts with money, or money's worth, freely, and almost without the right hand knowing what the left hand doeth; but she had also an entire absence of selfish consideration. her own wishes or opinions were never pursued merely because they were her own; the ease and comfort of everybody about her were necessary for her well-being. every distress, as far as her fortune, or her knowledge, or her wit or eloquence could reach, was alleviated or removed; and, above all, she could forgive, and sometimes even forget injuries.' richard's taste for science early showed itself, when at seven years old his curiosity was excited by an electric battery which was applied to his mother's paralysed side. he says:-- 'at this time electricity was but little known in ireland, and its fame as a cure for palsy had been considerably magnified. it, as usual, excited some sensation in the paralytic limbs on the first trials. one of the experiments on my mother failed of producing a shock, and mr. deane seemed at a loss to account for it. i had observed that the wire which was used to conduct the electric fluid, had, as it hung in a curve from the instrument to my mother's arm, touched the hinge of a table which was in the way, and i had the courage to mention this circumstance, which was the real cause of failure.' it was when he was eight years old, and while travelling with his father, that his attention was caught by 'a man carrying a machine five or six feet in diameter, of an oval form, and composed of slender ribs of steel. i begged my father to inquire what it was. we were told that it was the skeleton of a lady's hoop. it was furnished with hinges, which permitted it to fold together in a small compass, so that more than two persons might sit on one seat of a coach--a feat not easily performed, when ladies were encompassed with whalebone hoops of six feet extent. my curiosity was excited by the first sight of this machine, probably more than another child's might have been, because previous agreeable associations had given me some taste for mechanics, which was still a little further increased by the pleasure i took in examining this glittering contrivance. thus even the most trivial incidents in childhood act reciprocally as cause and effect in forming our tastes.' it was in that mrs. edgeworth, continuing much out of health, resolved to consult a certain lord trimblestone, who had been very successful in curing various complaints. lord trimblestone received mr. and mrs. edgeworth most cordially and hospitably, and though he could not hope to cure her, recommended some palliatives. he had more success with another lady whose disorder was purely nervous. his treatment of her was so original that i must quote it at length: 'instead of a grave and forbidding physician, her host, she found, was a man of most agreeable manners. lady trimblestone did everything in her power to entertain her guest, and for two or three days the demon of ennui was banished. at length the lady's vapours returned; everything appeared changed. melancholy brought on a return of alarming nervous complaints--convulsions of the limbs --perversion of the understanding--a horror of society; in short, all the complaints that are to be met with in an advertisement enumerating the miseries of a nervous patient. in the midst of one of her most violent fits, four mutes, dressed in white, entered her apartment; slowly approaching her, they took her without violence in their arms, and without giving her time to recollect herself, conveyed her into a distant chamber hung with black and lighted with green tapers. from the ceiling, which was of a considerable height, a swing was suspended, in which she was placed by the mutes, so as to be seated at some distance from the ground. one of the mutes set the swing in motion; and as it approached one end of the room, she was opposed by a grim menacing figure armed with a huge rod of birch. when she looked behind her, she saw a similar figure at the other end of the room, armed in the same manner. the terror, notwithstanding the strange circumstances which surrounded her, was not of that sort which threatens life; but every instant there was an immediate hazard of bodily pain. after some time, the mutes appeared again, with great composure took the lady out of the swing, and conducted her to her apartment. when she had reposed some time, a servant came to inform her that tea was ready. fear of what might be the consequence of a refusal prevented her from declining to appear. no notice was taken of what had happened, and the evening and the next day passed without any attack of her disorder. on the third day the vapours returned--the mutes reappeared--the menacing flagellants again affrighted her, and again she enjoyed a remission of her complaints. by degrees the fits of her disorder became less frequent, the ministration of her tormentors less necessary, and in time the habits of hypochondriacism were so often interrupted, and such a new series of ideas was introduced into her mind, that she recovered perfect health, and preserved to the end of her life sincere gratitude for her adventurous physician.' three years were spent by richard at corpus christi college, oxford, while his vacations were often passed at bath by the wish of his father, who was anxious that his son should be introduced to good society at an early age. it was there that richard saw beau nash,' the popular monarch of bath,' and also 'the remains of the celebrated lord chesterfield. i looked in vain for that fire, which we expect to see in the eye of a man of wit and genius. he was obviously unhappy, and a melancholy spectacle.' of the young ladies he says: 'i soon perceived that those who made the best figure in the ballroom were not always qualified to please in conversation; i saw that beauty and grace were sometimes accompanied by a frivolous character, by disgusting envy, or despicable vanity. all this i had read of in poetry and prose, but there is a wide difference, especially among young people, between what is read and related, and what is actually seen. books and advice make much more impression in proportion as we grow older. we find by degrees that those who lived before us have recorded as the result of their experience the very things that we observe to be true.' it was while still at college that he married miss elers without waiting for his father's consent; he soon found that his young wife did not sympathise with his pursuits; but he adds, 'though i heartily repented my folly, i determined to bear with firmness and temper the evil, which i had brought upon myself. perhaps pride had some share in my resolution.' he had a son before he was twenty, and soon afterwards took his wife to edgeworth town to introduce her to his parents; but a few days after his arrival his mother, who had long been an invalid, felt that her end was approaching, and calling him to her bedside, told him, with a sort of pleasure, that she felt she should die before night. she added: 'if there is a state of just retribution in another world, i must be happy, for i have suffered during the greatest part of my life, and i know that i did not deserve it by my thoughts or actions.' her dying advice to him was,'"my son, learn how to say no." she warned me further of an error into which, from the vivacity of my temper, i was most likely to fall. "your inventive faculty," said she, "will lead you eagerly into new plans; and you may be dazzled by some new scheme before you have finished, or fairly tried what you had begun. resolve to finish; never procrastinate."' chapter it was in , while stopping at chester and examining a mechanical exhibition there, that edgeworth first heard of dr. darwin, who had lately invented a carriage which could turn in a small compass without danger of upsetting. richard on hearing this determined to try his hand on coach building, and had a handsome phaeton constructed upon the same principle; this he showed in london to the society for the encouragement of arts, and mentioned that he owed the original idea to dr. darwin. he then wrote to the latter describing the reception of his invention, and was invited to his house. the doctor was out when he arrived at lichfield, but mrs. darwin received him, and after some conversation on books and prints asked him to drink tea. he discovered later that dr. darwin had imagined him to be a coachmaker, but that mrs. darwin had found out the mistake. 'when supper was nearly finished, a loud rapping at the door announced the doctor. there was a bustle in the hall, which made mrs. darwin get up and go to the door. upon her exclaiming that they were bringing in a dead man, i went to the hall: i saw some persons, directed by one whom i guessed to be dr. darwin, carrying a man, who appeared motionless. "he is not dead," said dr. darwin. "he is only dead drunk. i found him," continued the doctor, "nearly suffocated in a ditch; i had him lifted into my carriage, and brought hither, that we might take care of him to-night." candles came, and what was the surprise of the doctor and of mrs. darwin to find that the person whom he had saved was mrs. darwin's brother! who, for the first time in his life, as i was assured, had been intoxicated in this manner, and who would undoubtedly have perished had it not been for dr. darwin's humanity. 'during this scene i had time to survey my new friend, dr. darwin. he was a large man, fat, and rather clumsy; but intelligence and benevolence were painted in his countenance. he had a considerable impediment in his speech, a defect which is in general painful to others; but the doctor repaid his auditors so well for making them wait for his wit or his knowledge, that he seldom found them impatient.' at lichfield he met mr. bolton of snow hill, birmingham, who asked him to his house, and showed him over the principal manufactories of birmingham, where he further improved his knowledge of practical mechanics. his time was now principally devoted to inventions; he received a silver medal in from the society of arts for a perambulator, as he calls it, an instrument for measuring land. this is a curious instance of the changed use of a word, as we now associate perambulators with babies. in he received the society's gold medal for various machines, and about this time produced what might have been the forerunner of the bicycle, 'a huge hollow wheel made very light, withinside of which, in a barrel of six feet diameter, a man should walk. whilst he stepped thirty inches, the circumference of the large wheel, or rather wheels, would revolve five feet on the ground; and as the machine was to roll on planks, and on a plane somewhat inclined, when once the vis inertia of the machine should be overcome, it would carry on the man within it as fast as he could possibly walk. ... it was not finished; i had not yet furnished it with the means of stopping or moderating its motion. a young lad got into it, his companions launched it on a path which led gently down hill towards a very steep chalk-pit. this pit was at such a distance as to be out of their thoughts when they set the wheel in motion. on it ran. the lad withinside plied his legs with all his might. the spectators who at first stood still to behold the operation were soon alarmed by the shouts of their companion, who perceived his danger. the vehicle became quite ungovernable; the velocity increased as it ran down hill. fortunately, the boy contrived to jump from his rolling prison before it reached the chalk-pit; but the wheel went on with such velocity as to outstrip its pursuers, and, rolling over the edge of the precipice, it was dashed to pieces. 'the next day, when i came to look for my machine, intending to try it upon some planks, which had been laid for it, i found, to my no small disappointment, that the object of all my labours and my hopes was lying at the bottom of a chalk-pit, broken into a thousand pieces. i could not at that time afford to construct another wheel of that sort, and i cannot therefore determine what might have been the success of my scheme.' he goes on to say: 'i shall mention a sailing carriage that i tried on this common. the carriage was light, steady, and ran with amazing velocity. one day, when i was preparing for a sail in it with my friend and schoolfellow, mr. william foster, my wheel-boat escaped from its moorings just as we were going to step on board. with the utmost difficulty we overtook it; and as i saw three or four stage-coaches on the road, and feared that this sailing chariot might frighten their horses, i, at the hazard of my life, got into my carriage while it was under full sail, and then, at a favourable part of the road, i used the means i had of guiding it easily out of the way. but the sense of the mischief which must have ensued if i had not succeeded in getting into the machine at the proper place, and stopping it at the right moment, was so strong, as to deter me from trying any more experiments on this carriage in such a dangerous place.' i have already given the changed use of the word perambulator. as an example of the different use of a word in the last century, i may mention telegraph, by which he means signalling either by moving wooden arms or by showing lights. this mode of conveying a message he first applied in order to win a wager: 'a famous match was at that time pending at newmarket between two horses that were in every respect as nearly equal as possible. lord march, one evening at ranelagh, expressed his regret to sir francis delaval that he was not able to attend newmarket at the next meeting. "i am obliged," said he, "to stay in london; i shall, however, be at the turf coffee-house; i shall station fleet horses on the road to bring me the earliest intelligence of the event of the race, and i shall manage my bets accordingly." 'i asked at what time in the evening he expected to know who was winner. he said about nine in the evening. i asserted that i should be able to name the winning horse at four o'clock in the afternoon. lord march heard my assertion with so much incredulity, as to urge me to defend myself; and at length i offered to lay five hundred pounds that i would in london name the winning horse at newmarket at five o'clock in the evening of the day when the great match in question was to be run.' the wager was however given up when edgeworth told lord march that he did not depend upon the fleetness or strength of horses to carry the desired intelligence. his friend, sir francis delaval, immediately put up under his directions an apparatus between his house and part of piccadilly. he adds: 'i also set up a night telegraph between a house which sir francis delaval occupied at hampstead, and one to which i had access in great russell street, bloomsbury. this nocturnal telegraph answered well, but was too expensive for common use.' later on he writes to dr. darwin: 'i have been employed for two months in experiments upon a telegraph of my own invention. by day, at eighteen or twenty miles distance, i show, by four pointers, isosceles triangles, twenty feet high, on four imaginary circles, eight imaginary points, which correspond with the figures , , , , , , , , so that seven thousand different combinations are formed, of four figures each, which refer to a dictionary of words. by night, white lights are used.' dr. darwin in reply says: 'the telegraph you described, i dare say, would answer the purpose. it would be like a giant wielding his long arms and talking with his fingers: and those long arms might be covered with lamps in the night.' it is curious now to read mr. edgeworth's words: 'i will venture to predict that it will at some future period be generally practised, not only in these islands, but that it will in time become a means of communication between the most distant parts of the world, wherever arts and sciences have civilised mankind.' it was some years later, in , when ireland was in a disturbed state, and threatened by a french invasion, that edgeworth laid his scheme for telegraphs before the government, and offered to keep open communication between dublin and cork if the government would pay the expense. he made a trial between two hills fifteen miles apart, and a message was sent and an answer received in five minutes. the government paid little attention to his offer, and finally refused it. two months later the french were on the irish coasts, and great confusion and distress was occasioned by the want of accurate news. 'the troops were harassed with contradictory orders and forced marches for want of intelligence, and from that indecision, which must always be the consequence of insufficient information. many days were spent in terror, and in fruitless wishes for an english fleet. ... at last ireland was providentially saved by the change of the wind, which prevented the enemy from effecting a landing on her coast.' another of edgeworth's inventions was a one-wheeled carriage adapted to go over narrow roads; it was made fast by shafts to the horse's sides, and was furnished with two weights or counterpoises that hung below the shafts. in this carriage he travelled to birmingham and astonished the country folk on the way. i must now give a sketch of edgeworth's matrimonial adventures. they began after a strange fashion, when, at fifteen, he and some young companions had a merry-making at his sister's marriage, and one of the party putting on a white cloak as a surplice, proposed to marry richard to a young lady who was his favourite partner. with the door key as a ring the mock parson gabbled over a few words of the marriage service. when richard's father heard of this mock marriage he was so alarmed that he treated it seriously, and sued and got a divorce for his son in the ecclesiastical court. it was while visiting dr. darwin at lichfield that edgeworth made some friendships which influenced his whole life. at the bishop's palace, where canon seward lived, he first met miss honora sneyd, who was brought up as a daughter by mrs. seward. he was much struck by her beauty and by her mental gifts, and says: 'now for the first time in my life, i saw a woman that equalled the picture of perfection which existed in my imagination. i had long suffered much from the want of that cheerfulness in a wife, without which marriage could not be agreeable to a man with such a temper as mine. i had borne this evil, i believe, with patience; but my not being happy at home exposed me to the danger of being too happy elsewhere.' he describes in another place his first wife as 'prudent, domestic, and affectionate; but she was not of a cheerful temper. she lamented about trifles; and the lamenting of a female with whom we live does not render home delightful.' his friend, mr. day,* was also intimate at the palace, but did not admire honora at that time ( ) as much as edgeworth did. mr. day thought 'she danced too well; she had too much an air of fashion in her dress and manners; and her arms were not sufficiently round and white to please him.' * the author of sandford and merton. he was at this time much preoccupied with an orphan, sabrina sydney, whom he had taken from the foundling hospital, and whom he was educating with the idea of marrying her ultimately. honora, on the other hand, had received the addresses of mr. andre, afterwards major andre, who was shot as a spy during the american war. but want of fortune caused the parents on both sides to discourage this attachment, and it was broken off. it was in that mr. day, having placed sabrina at a boarding-school, became conscious of honora's attractions, and began to think of marrying her. 'he wrote me one of the most eloquent letters i ever read,' says edgeworth, 'to point out to me the folly and meanness of indulging a hopeless passion for any woman, let her merit be what it might; declaring at the same time that he "never would marry so as to divide himself from his chosen friend. tell me," said he, "have you sufficient strength of mind totally to subdue love that cannot be indulged with peace, or honour, or virtue?" 'i answered that nothing but trial could make me acquainted with the influence which reason might have over my feelings; that i would go with my family to lichfield, where i could be in the company of the dangerous object; and that i would faithfully acquaint him with all my thoughts and feelings. we went to lichfield, and stayed there for some time with mr. day. i saw him continually in company with honora sneyd. i saw that he was received with approbation, and that he looked forward to marrying her at no very distant period. when i saw this, i can affirm with truth that i felt pleasure, and even exultation. i looked to the happiness of two people for whom i had the most perfect esteem, without the intervention of a single sentiment or feeling that could make me suspect i should ever repent having been instrumental to their union.' later on mr. day wrote a long letter to honora, describing his scheme of life (which was very peculiar), and his admiration for her, and asking whether she could return his affections and be willing to lead the secluded life which was his ideal. this letter he gave to edgeworth to deliver. 'i took the packet; my friend requested that i would go to the palace and deliver it myself. i went, and i delivered it with real satisfaction to honora. she desired me to come next morning for an answer. ... i gave the answer to mr. day, and left him to peruse it by himself. when i returned, i found him actually in a fever. the letter contained an excellent answer to his arguments in favour of the rights of men, and a clear, dispassionate view of the rights of women. 'miss honora sneyd would not admit the unqualified control of a husband over all her actions. she did not feel that seclusion from society was indispensably necessary to preserve female virtue, or to secure domestic happiness. upon terms of reasonable equality she supposed that mutual confidence might best subsist. she said that, as mr. day had decidedly declared his determination to live in perfect seclusion from what is usually called the world, it was fit she should decidedly declare that she would not change her present mode of life, with which she had no reason to be dissatisfied, for any dark and untried system that could be proposed to her. . . . one restraint, which had acted long and steadily upon my feelings, was now removed; my friend was no longer attached to miss honora sneyd. my former admiration of her returned with unabated ardour. . . . this admiration was unknown to everybody but mr. day; ... he represented to me the danger, the criminality of such an attachment; i knew that there is but one certain method of escaping such dangers --flight. i resolved to go abroad.' chapter mr. day and edgeworth went to france, and the latter spent nearly two years at lyons, where his wife joined him. here he found interest and occupation in some engineering works by which the course of the rhone was to be diverted and some land gained to enlarge the city, which lies hemmed in between the rhone and the saone. when the works were nearly completed, an old boatman warned edgeworth 'that a tremendous flood might be expected in ten days from the mountains of savoy. i represented this to the company, and proposed to employ more men, and to engage, by increased wages, those who were already at work, to continue every day till it was dark, but i could not persuade them to a sudden increase of their expenditure. . . . at five or six o'clock one morning, i was awakened by a prodigious noise on the ramparts under my windows. i sprang out of bed, and saw numbers of people rushing towards the rhone. i foreboded the disaster! dressed myself, and hastened to the river. . . when i reached the rhone, i beheld a tremendous sight! all the work of several weeks, carried on daily by nearly a hundred men, had been swept away. piles, timber, barrows, tools, and large parts of expensive machinery were all carried down the torrent, and thrown in broken pieces upon the banks. the principal part of the machinery had been erected upon an island opposite the rampart; here there still remained some valuable timber and engines, which might, probably, be saved by immediate exertion. the old boatman, whom i have mentioned before, was at the water-side; i asked him to row me over to the island, that i might give orders how to preserve what remained belonging to the company. my old friend, the boatman, represented to me, with great kindness, the imminent danger to which i should expose myself. "sir," he added, "the best swimmer in lyons, unless he were one of the rhone-men, could not save himself if the boat overset, and you cannot swim at all." '"very true," i replied, "but the boat will not overset; and both my duty and my honour require that i should run every hazard for those who have put so much trust in me." my old boatman took me over safely, and left me on the island; but in returning by himself, the poor fellow's little boat was caught by a wave, and it skimmed to the bottom like a slate or an oyster-shell that is thrown obliquely into the water. a general exclamation was uttered from the shore; but, in a few minutes, the boatman was seen sitting upon a row of piles in the middle of the river, wringing his long hair with great composure. 'i have mentioned this boatman repeatedly as an old man, and such he was to all appearance; his hair was grey, his face wrinkled, his back bent, and all his limbs and features had the appearance of those of a man of sixty, yet his real age was but twenty-seven years. he told me that he was the oldest boatman on the rhone; that his younger brothers had been worn out before they were twenty-five years old.' the french society at lyons included many agreeable people; but edgeworth singles out from among them, as his special friend, the marquis de la poype, who understood english, and was well acquainted with english literature. he pressed edgeworth to pay him a visit at his chateau in dauphiny, and the latter adds: 'i promised to pass with him some of the christmas holidays. an english gentleman went with me. we arrived in the evening at a very antique building, surrounded by a moat, and with gardens laid out in the style which was common in england in the beginning of the last century. these were enclosed by high walls, intersected by canals, and cut into parterres by sandy walks. we were ushered into a good drawing-room, the walls of which were furnished with ancient tapestry. when dinner was served, we crossed a large and lofty hall, that was hung round with armour, and with the spoils of the chase; we passed into a moderate-sized eating-room, in which there was no visible fireplace, but which was sufficiently heated by invisible stoves. the want of the cheerful light of a fire cast a gloom over our repast, and the howling of the wind did not contribute to lessen this dismal effect. but the dinner was good, and the wine, which was produced from the vineyard close to the house, was excellent. madame de la poype, and two or three of her friends, who were on a visit at her house, conversed agreeably, and all feeling of winter and seclusion was forgotten. 'at night, when i was shown into my chamber, the footman asked if i chose to have my bed warmed. i inquired whether it was well aired; he assured me, with a tone of integrity, that i had nothing to fear, for "that it had not been slept in for half a year." the french are not afraid of damp beds, but they have a great dread of catching some infectious disease from sleeping in any bed in which a stranger may have recently lain. 'my bedchamber at this chateau was hung with tapestry, and as the footman assured me of the safety of my bed, he drew aside a piece of the tapestry, which discovered a small recess in the wall that held a grabat, in which my servant was invited to repose. my servant was an englishman, whose indignation nothing but want of words to express it could have concealed; he deplored my unhappy lot; as for himself, he declared, with a look of horror, that nothing could induce him to go into such a pigeon-hole. i went to visit the accommodations of my companion, mr. rosenhagen. i found him in a spacious apartment hung all round with tapestry, so that there was no appearance of any windows. i was far from being indifferent to the comfort of a good dry bed; but poor mr. rosenhagen, besides being delicate, was hypochondriac. with one of the most rueful countenances i ever beheld, he informed me that he must certainly die of cold. his teeth chattered whilst he pointed to the tapestry at one end of the room, which waved to and fro with the wind; and, looking behind it, i found a large, stone casement window without a single pane of glass, or shutters of any kind. he determined not to take off his clothes; but i, gaining courage from despair, undressed, went to bed, and never slept better in my life, or ever awakened in better health or spirits than at ten o'clock the next morning. 'after breakfast the marquis took us to visit the grotto de la baume, which was at the distance of not more than two leagues from his house. we were most hospitably received at the house of an old officer, who was seigneur of the place. his hall was more amply furnished with implements of the chase and spoils of the field than any which i have ever seen, or ever heard described. there were nets of such dimensions, and of such strength, as were quite new to me; bows, cross-bows, of prodigious power; guns of a length and weight that could not be wielded by the strength of modern arms; some with old matchlocks, and with rests to be stuck into the ground, and others with wheel-locks; besides modern fire-arms of all descriptions; horns of deer, and tusks of wild boars, were placed in compartments in such numbers, that every part of the walls was covered either with arms or trophies. 'the master of the mansion, in bulk, dress, and general appearance, was suited to the style of life which might be expected from what we had seen at our entrance. he was above six feet high, strong, and robust, though upwards of sixty years of age; he wore a leather jerkin, and instead of having his hair powdered, and tied in a long queue, according to the fashion of the day, he wore his own short grey locks; his address was plain, frank, and hearty, but by no means coarse or vulgar. he was of an ancient family, but of a moderate fortune.' here edgeworth adds a long description of the grotto and its stalactites. they returned to dine with the old officer at his castle. 'our dinner was in its arrangement totally unlike anything i had seen in france, or anywhere else. it consisted of a monstrous, but excellent, wild boar ham; this, and a large savoury pie of different sorts of game, were the principal dishes; which, with some common vegetables, amply satisfied our hunger. the blunt hospitality of this rural baron was totally different from that which is to be met with in remote parts of the country of england. it was more the open-heartedness of a soldier than the roughness of a squire.' during the winter of edgeworth was busy making plans for flour-mills to be erected on a piece of land gained from the river. but his stay in lyons was cut short as the news reached him in march that mrs. edgeworth, who had returned to england for her confinement, had died after giving birth to a daughter. he travelled home with his son through burgundy and paris, and on reaching england arranged to meet mr. day at woodstock. his friend greeted him with the words,' have you heard anything of honora sneyd ?' mr. edgeworth continues: 'i assured him that i had heard nothing but what he had told me when he was in france; that she had some disease in her eyes, and that it was feared she would lose her sight.' i added that i was resolved to offer her my hand, even if she had undergone such a dreadful privation. '"my dear friend," said he, "while virtue and honour forbade you to think of her, i did everything in my power to separate you; but now that you are both at liberty, i have used the utmost expedition to reach you on your arrival in england, that i might be the first to tell you that honora is in perfect health and beauty, improved in person and in mind; and, though surrounded by lovers, still her own mistress." 'at this moment i enjoyed the invaluable reward of my steady adherence to the resolution which i had formed on leaving england, never to keep up the slightest intercourse with her by letter, message, or inquiry. i enjoyed also the proof my friend gave me of his generous affection. mr. day had now come several hundred miles for the sole purpose of telling me of the fair prospects before me. . . . 'a new era in my life was now beginning. ... i went directly to lichfield, to dr. darwin's. the doctor was absent, but his sister, an elderly maiden lady, who then kept house for him, received me kindly. '"you will excuse me," said the good lady, "for not making tea for you this evening, as i am engaged to the miss sneyds; but perhaps you will accompany me, as i am sure you will be welcome." 'it was summer--we found the drawing-room at mr. sneyd's filled by all my former acquaintances and friends, who had, without concert among themselves, assembled as if to witness the meeting of two persons, whose sentiments could scarcely be known even to the parties themselves. 'i have been told that the last person whom i addressed or saw, when i came into the room, was honora sneyd. this i do not remember; but i am perfectly sure that, when i did see her, she appeared to me most lovely, even more lovely than when we parted. what her sentiments might be it was impossible to divine. 'my addresses were, after some time, permitted and approved; and, with the consent of her father, miss honora sneyd and i were married ( ), by special licence, in the ladies' choir, in the cathedral at lichfield. immediately after the marriage ceremony we left lichfield, and went to ireland.' now followed what was perhaps the happiest period of mr. edgeworth's life, but it was uneventful. the young couple saw little society while living at edgeworth town; and after a three years' residence in ireland, they visited england to rub off the rust of isolation in contact with their intellectual friends. he says: 'we certainly found a considerable change for the better as to comfort, convenience, and conversation among our english acquaintance. so much so, that we were induced to remain in england. . . . my mind was kept up to the current of speculation and discovery in the world of science, and continual hints for reflection and invention were suggested to me. . . . my attention was about this period turned to clockwork, and i invented several pieces of mechanism for measuring time. these, with the assistance of a good workman, i executed successfully. i then (in ) finished a clock on a new construction. its accuracy was tried at the observatory at oxford . . . and it is now (in ) going well at my house in ireland.' edgeworth now enjoyed the pleasure of having an intelligent companion, and says: 'my wife had an eager desire for knowledge of all sorts, and, perhaps to please me, became an excellent theoretic mechanic. mechanical amusements occupied my mornings, and i dedicated my evenings to the best books upon various subjects. i strenuously endeavoured to improve my own understanding, and to communicate whatever i knew to my wife. indeed, while we read and conversed together during the long winter evenings, the clearness of her judgment assisted me in every pursuit of literature in which i was engaged; as her understanding had arrived at maturity before she had acquired any strong prejudices on historical subjects, she derived uncommon advantage from books. 'we had frequent visitors from town; and as our acquaintance were people of literature and science, conversation with them exercised and arranged her thoughts upon whatever subject they were employed. nor did we neglect the education of our children: honora had under her care, at this time, two children of her own, and three of mine by my former marriage.' edgeworth and his friend mr. day were both great admirers of rousseau's emile and of his scheme of bringing up children to be hardy, fearless, and independent. edgeworth brought up his eldest boy after this fashion; but though he succeeded in making him hardy, and training him in 'all the virtues of a child bred in the hut of a savage, and all the knowledge of things which could well be acquired at an early age by a boy bred in civilised society,' yet he adds: 'he was not disposed to obey; his exertions generally arose from his own will; and, though he was what is commonly called good-tempered and good-natured, though he generally pleased by his looks, demeanour, and conversation, he had too little deference for others, and he showed an invincible dislike to control.' in passing through paris, edgeworth and mr. day went to see rousseau, who took a good deal of notice of edgeworth's son; he judged him to be a boy of abilities, and he thought from his answers that 'history can be advantageously learned by children, if it be taught reasonably and not merely by rote.' 'but,' said rousseau, 'i remark in your son a propensity to party prejudice, which will be a great blemish in his character.' 'i asked how he could in so short a time form so decided an opinion. he told me that, whenever my son saw a handsome horse, or a handsome carriage in the street, he always exclaimed, "that is an english horse or an english carriage!" and that, even down to a pair of shoe-buckles, everything that appeared to be good of its kind was always pronounced by him to be english. "his sort of party prejudice," said rousseau, "if suffered to become a ruling motive in his mind, will lead to a thousand evils; for not only will his own country, his own village or club, or even a knot of his private acquaintance, be the object of his exclusive admiration; but he will be governed by his companions, whatever they may be, and they will become the arbiters of destiny."' it was while at lyons that edgeworth realised thaf rousseau's system of education was not altogether satisfactory. he says: 'i had begun his education upon the mistaken principles of rousseau; and i had pursued them with as much steadiness, and, so far as they could be advantageous, with as much success as i could desire. whatever regarded the health, strength, and agility of my son had amply justified the system of my master; but i found myself entangled in difficulties with regard to my child's mind and temper. he was generous, brave, good-natured, and what is commonly called goodtempered; but he was scarcely to be controlled. it was difficult to urge him to anything that did not suit his fancy, and more difficult to restrain him from what he wished to follow. in short, he was self-willed, from a spirit of independence, which had been inculcated by his early education, and which he cherished the more from the inexperience of his own powers. 'i must here acknowledge, with deep regret, not only the error of a theory, which i had adopted at a very early age, when older and wiser persons than myself had been dazzled by the eloquence of rousseau; but i must also reproach myself with not having, after my arrival in france, paid as much attention to my boy as i had done in england, or as much as was necessary to prevent the formation of those habits, which could never afterwards be eradicated.' edgeworth, finding that the tutor he had brought from england was not able to control his son, resolved to send young richard to school at lyons. the jesuits had lately been dismissed, but the peres de l'oratoire had taken charge of their seminary, and to them edgeworth resolved to intrust his son, having been first assured by the superior that he would not attempt to convert the boy, and would forbid the under-masters to do so. a certain pere jerome, however, desired to make the boy a good catholic; and the superior frankly told edgeworth the circumstance, saying, 'one day he took your boy between his knees, and began from the beginning of things to teach him what he ought to believe. "my little man," said he, "did you ever hear of god?" '"yes." '"you know that, before he made the world, his spirit brooded over the vast deep, which was a great sea without shores, and without bottom. then he made this world out of earth." '"where did he find the earth ?" asked the boy. '"at the bottom of the sea," replied father jerome. '"but," said the boy, "you told me just now that the sea had no bottom!"' the superior of the college des oratoires concluded, 'you may, sir, i think, be secure that your son, when capable of making such a reply, is in no great danger of becoming a catholic from the lectures of such profound teachers as these.' this son, having no turn for scholarship, ultimately went to sea, a life which his hardihood and fearlessness of danger peculiarly fitted him for. some years afterwards he married an american lady and settled in south carolina. it was, perhaps, a failure in this first experiment in education which made edgeworth devote so much care to the training of his younger children. chapter after six years of happiness honora's health gave way, and consumption set in; some months of anxious nursing followed before she died, to the great grief of her husband. she left several children, and her dying wish was that he should marry her sister elizabeth. mr. edgeworth was, at first, benumbed by grief, and unable to take an interest in his former pursuits; but in the society of his wife's family he gradually recovered cheerfulness, and began to consider his wife's dying advice to marry her sister. he remarks: 'nothing is more erroneous than the common belief, that a man who has lived in the greatest happiness with one wife will be the most averse to take another. on the contrary, the loss of happiness, which he feels when he loses her, necessarily urges him to endeavour to be again placed in a situation which has constituted his former felicity. 'i felt that honora had judged wisely, and from a thorough knowledge of my character, when she had advised me to marry again.' after these observations it is not surprising to hear that edgeworth became engaged to elizabeth sneyd in the autumn of . they were staying for the marriage at brereton hall in cheshire, and their banns were published in the parish church; but on the very morning appointed for the marriage, the clergyman received a letter which roused so many scruples in his mind as to make edgeworth think it cruel to press him to perform the ceremony. the rector of st. andrew's, holborn, was less scrupulous, and they were married there on christmas day . the following summer mr. and mrs. edgeworth rented davenport hall in cheshire, where they lived a quiet retired life, spending a good deal of their time with their friends sir charles and lady holte at brereton. edgeworth amused himself by making a clock for the steeple at brereton, and a chronometer of a singular construction, which, he says,'i intended to present to the king ... to add to his majesty's collection of uncommon clocks and watches which i had seen at st. james's.' the autobiography from which i have been quoting was begun by edgeworth when he was about sixty-three, and it breaks off abruptly at the date of . the illness which interrupted his task did not, however, prove fatal, for he lived nearly ten years afterwards. his daughter maria takes up the narrative, and in her introduction she says, 'in continuing these memoirs, i shall endeavour to follow the example that my father has set me of simplicity and of truth.' the following memorandum was found in edgeworth's handwriting: 'in the year i returned to ireland, with a firm determination to dedicate the remainder of my life to the improvement of my estate, and to the education of my children; and farther, with the sincere hope of contributing to the amelioration of the inhabitants of the country from which i drew my subsistence.' when in the spring of edgeworth visited ireland with his friend mr. day, the latter was surprised and disgusted by the state of dublin and of the country in general. he found 'the streets of dublin were wretchedly paved, and more dirty than can be easily imagined.' edgeworth adds: 'as we passed through the country, the hovels in which the poor were lodged, which were then far more wretched than they are at present, or than they have been for the last twenty years, the black tracts of bog, and the unusual smell of the turf fuel, were to him never-ceasing topics of reproach and lamentation. mr. day's deep-seated prejudice in favour of savage life was somewhat shaken by this view of want and misery, which philosophers of a certain class in london and paris chose at that time to dignify by the name of simplicity. the modes of living in the houses of the gentry were much the same in ireland as in england. this surprised my friend. he observed, that if there was any difference, it was that people of similar fortune did not restrain themselves equally in both countries to the same prudent economy; but that every gentleman in ireland, of two or three thousand pounds a year, lived in a certain degree of luxury and show that would be thought presumptuous in persons of the same fortune in england. 'on our journey to my father's house, i had occasion to vote at a contested election in one of the counties through which we passed. here a scene of noise, riot, confusion, and drunkenness was exhibited, not superior indeed in depravity and folly, but of a character or manner so different from what my friend had even seen in his own country, that he fell into a profound melancholy.' it was to remedy this wretched state of things in ireland that edgeworth resolved in to devote his energies. it is curious to read his account of the relations between landlord and tenant in ireland at this date. he soon learned that firmness was required in his dealings with his tenants as well as kindness. 'he omitted a variety of old feudal remains of fines and penalties; but there was one clause, which he continued in every lease with a penalty attached to it, called an alienation fine--a fine of so much an acre upon the tenant's reletting any part of the devised land.' he wisely resolved to receive his rents himself, and to avoid the intervention of any agent or driver ('a person who drives and impounds cattle for rent or arrears'). 'in every case where the tenant had improved the land, or even where he had been industrious, though unsuccessful, his claim to preference over every new proposer, his tenanfs right, as it is called, was admitted. but the mere plea of "i have lived under your honour, or your honour's father or grandfather" or "i have been on your honour's estate so many years" he disregarded. farms, originally sufficient for the comfortable maintenance of a man, his wife, and family, had in many cases been subdivided from generation to generation, the father giving a bit of the land to each son to settle him. it was an absolute impossibility that the land should ever be improved if let in these miserable lots. nor was it necessary that each son should hold land, or advantageous that each should live on his "little potato garden" without further exertion of mind or body. 'there was a continual struggle between landlord and tenant upon the question of long and short leases. . . . the offer of immediate high rent, or of fines to be paid down directly, tempted the landlord's extravagance, or supplied his present necessities, at the expense of his future interests. . . . many have let for ninety-nine years; and others, according to a form common in 'ireland, for three lives, renewable for ever, paying a small fine on the insertion of a new life at the failure of each. these leases, in course of years, have been found extremely disadvantageous to the landlord, the property having risen so much in value that the original rent was absurdly disproportioned. 'the longest term my father ever gave,' says his daughter maria, 'was thirty-one years, with one or sometimes two lives. he usually gave one life, reserving to himself the option of adding another --the son, perhaps, of the tenant--if he saw that the tenant deserved it by his conduct. this sort of power to encourage and reward in the hands of a landlord is advantageous in ireland. it acts as a motive for exertion; it keeps up the connection and dependence which there ought to be between the different ranks, without creating any servile habits, or leaving the improving tenant insecure as to the fair reward of his industry. 'edgeworth's plan was to take not that which, abstractedly viewed, is the best possible course, but that which is the best the circumstances will altogether allow. 'when the oppressive duty-work in ireland was no longer claimed, and no longer inserted in irish leases, there arose a difficulty to gentlemen in getting labourers at certain times of the year, when all are anxious to work for themselves; for instance, at the seasons for cutting turf, setting potatoes, and getting home the harvest. 'to provide against this difficulty, landlords adopted a system of taking duty-work, in fact, in a new form. they had cottiers (cottagers), day-labourers established in cottages, on their estate, usually near their own residence. many of these cabins were the poorest habitations that can be imagined; and these were given rent free, that is, the rent was to be worked out on whatever days, or on whatever occasions, it was called for. the grazing for the cow, the patch of land for flax, and the ridge or ridges of potato land were also to be paid for in days' labour in the same manner. the uncertainty of this tenure at will, that is, at the pleasure of the landlord, with the rent in labour and time, variable also at his pleasure or convenience, became rather more injurious to the tenant than the former fixed mode of sacrificing so many days' duty-work, even at the most hazardous seasons of the year. 'my father wished to have entirely avoided this cottager system; but he was obliged to adopt a middle course. to his labourers he gave comfortable cottages at a low rent, to be held at will from year to year; but he paid them wages exactly the same as what they could obtain elsewhere. thus they were partly free and partly bound. they worked as free labourers; but they were obliged to work, that they might pay their rent. and their houses being better, and other advantages greater, than they could obtain elsewhere, they had a motive for industry and punctuality; thus their services and their attachment were properly secured. . . . my father's indulgence as to the time he allowed his tenantry for the payment of their rent was unusually great. he left always a year's rent in their hands: this was half a year more time than almost any other gentleman in our part of the country allowed. . . . he was always very exact in requiring that the rents should not, in their payments, pass beyond the half-yearly days--the th of march and th of september. in this point they knew his strictness so well that they seldom ventured to go into arrear, and never did so with impunity. . . . they would have cheated, loved, and despised a more easy landlord, and his property would have gone to ruin, without either permanently bettering their interests or their morals. he, therefore, took especial care that they should be convinced of his strictness in punishing as well as of his desire to reward. 'where the offender was tenant, and the punisher landlord, it rarely happened, even if the law reached the delinquent, that public opinion sided with public justice. in ireland it has been, time immemorial, common with tenants, who have had advantageous bargains, and who have no hopes of getting their leases renewed, to waste the ground as much as possible; to break it up towards the end of the term; or to overhold, that is, to keep possession of the land, refusing to deliver it up. 'a tenant, who held a farm of considerable value, when his lease was out, besought my father to permit him to remain on the farm for another year, pleading that he had no other place to which he could, at that season, it being winter, remove his large family. the permission was granted; but at the end of the year, taking advantage of this favour, he refused to give up the land. proceedings at law were immediately commenced against him; and it was in this case that the first trial in ireland was brought, on an act for recovering double rent from a tenant for holding forcible possession after notice to quit. 'this vexatious and unjust practice of tenants against landlords had been too common, and had too long been favoured by the party spirit of juries; who, being chiefly composed of tenants, had made it a common cause, and a principle, if it could in any way be avoided, never to give a verdict, as they said, against themselves. but in this case the indulgent character of the landlord, combined with the ability and eloquence of his advocate, succeeded in moving the jury--a verdict was obtained for the landlord. the double rent was paid; and the fraudulent tenant was obliged to quit the country unpitied. real good was done by this example.' edgeworth objected strongly to a practice common among the gentry, 'to protect their tenants when they got into any difficulties by disobeying the laws. smuggling and illicit distilling seemed to be privileged cases, where, the justice and expediency of the spirit of the law being doubtful, escaping from the letter of it appeared but a trial of ingenuity or luck. in cases that admitted of less doubt, in the frequent breach of the peace from quarrels at fairs, rescuing of cattle drivers for rent, or in other more serious outrages, tenants still looked to their landlord for protection; and hoped, even to the last, that his honour's or his lordship's interest would get the fine taken off, the term of imprisonment shortened, or the condemned criminal snatched from execution. he [edgeworth] never would, on any occasion, or for the persons he was known to like best, interfere to protect, as it is called, that is, to screen, or to obtain pardon for any one of his tenants or dependants, if they had really infringed the laws, or had deserved punishment. . . . he set an example of being scrupulous to the most exact degree as a grand juror, both as to the money required for roads or for any public works, and as to the manner in which it was laid out. 'to his character as a good landlord was soon added that he was a real gentleman. this phrase, pronounced with well-known emphasis, comprises a great deal in the opinion of the lower irish. they seem to have an instinct for the real gentleman, whom they distinguish, if not at first sight, infallibly at first hearing, from every pretender to the character. they observe that the real gentleman bears himself most kindly, is always the most civil in speech, and ever seems the most tender of the poor. . . . 'they soon began to rely upon his justice as a magistrate. this is a point where, their interest being nearly concerned, they are wonderfully quick and clearsighted; they soon discovered that mr. edgeworth leaned neither to protestant nor catholic, to presbyterian nor methodist; that he was not the favourer nor partial protector of his own or any other man's followers. they found that the law of the land was not in his hands an instrument of oppression, or pretence for partiality. they discerned that he did even justice; neither inclining to the people, for the sake of popularity; nor to the aristocracy, for the sake of power. this was a thing so unusual, that they could at first hardly believe that it was really what they saw. 'soon after his return to ireland he set about improving a considerable tract of land, reletting it at an advanced rent, which gave the actual monied measure of his skill and success.' he also wrote a paper on the draining and planting of bogs, in which he gives minute directions for carrying out the work, for he was no mere theorist, but experimented on his own property; and he was not ashamed to own when he had made a mistake, but was constantly learning from experience. he had for a while to turn from peaceful occupations and take his share in patriotic efforts for parliamentary reform; this reform was pressed on the parliament sitting in dublin by a delegation from a convention of the irish volunteers. they were raised in during the american war, when england had not enough troops for the defence of ireland. the principal irish nobility and gentry enrolled themselves, and the force at length increased, till it numbered , men, under the command of officers of their own choosing. the irish patriots now felt their power, and used it with prudence and energy. they obtained the repeal of many noxious laws--one in particular was a penal statute passed in the reign of william iii. against the catholics ordaining forfeiture of inheritance against those catholics who had been educated abroad.' at the pleasure of any informer, it confiscated their estates to the next protestant heir; that statute further deprived papists of the power of obtaining any legal property by purchase; and, simply for officiating in the service of his religion, any catholic priest was liable to be imprisoned for life. some of these penalties had fallen into disuse; but, as mr. dunning stated to the english house of commons, "many respectable catholics still lived in fear of them, and some actually paid contributions to persons who, on the strength of this act, threatened them with prosecutions." lord shelburne stated in the house of lords "that even the most odious part of this statute had been recently acted upon in the case of one moloury, an irish priest, who had been informed against, apprehended, convicted, and committed to prison, by means of the lowest and most despicable of mankind, a common informing constable. the privy council used efforts in behalf of the prisoner; but, in consequence of the written law, the king himself could not give a pardon, and the prisoner must have died in jail if lord shelburne and his colleagues had not released him at their own risk."' this law was repealed by the english house of commons without a negative, and only one bishop opposed its repeal in the house of lords. having won this victory, the irish patriots continued their campaign, and now sought to win general emancipation from the legislative and commercial restrictions of england. it was in that the first convention of volunteer delegates met, and some months after mr. grattan moved an address to the throne asserting the legislative independence of ireland. 'the address passed; the repeal of a certain act, empowering england to legislate for ireland, followed; and the legislative independence of this country was acknowledged.' edgeworth sympathised with the enthusiasm which prevailed throughout ireland at this time; but he was shrewd enough to see that what was further required for the real benefit of the country was 'an effectual reformation of the irish house of commons.' the counties were insufficiently represented, and the boroughs were venal. the irish parliament was, in fact, an oligarchy, and edgeworth realised this danger. he, however, wished the reform to be carried on 'through the intervention of parliament,' while the more extreme party insisted on sending delegates from the volunteers to a convention in dublin. this military convention 'met at the royal exchange in dublin, november the th, --parliament was then sitting. an armed convention assembled in the capital, and sitting at the same time with the houses of lords and commons, deliberating on a legislative question, was a new and unprecedented spectacle. 'in this convention, as in all public assemblies, there was a violent and a moderate party. lord charlemont, the president of the assembly, was at the head of the moderate men. though not convinced of the strict legality of the meeting, he thought a reform in parliament so important and desirable an object, that to the probability or chance of obtaining this great advantage it was the wisdom of a true patriot to sacrifice punctilio, and to hazard all, but, what he was too wise and good to endanger, the peace of the country. lord charlemont accepted the office of president, specially with the hope that he and his friends might be able to influence the convention in favour of proceedings at once temperate and firm. the very sincerity of his desire to attain a reform rendered him clear-sighted as to the means to be pursued; and while he wished that the people should be allowed every degree of liberty consistent with safety, no man was less inclined to democracy, or could feel more horror at the idea of involving his country in a state of civil anarchy. 'the bishop of deny (lord bristol), wishing well to ireland, but of a far less judicious character than lord charlemont, was at the head of the opposite party. . . . lord charlemont, foreseeing the danger of disagreement between the parliament and convention, if at this time any communication were opened between them, earnestly deprecated the attempts. it was his desire that the convention, after declaring their opinion in favour of a parliamentary reform, should adjourn without adopting a specific plan; and that they should refer it to future meetings of each county, to send to parliament, in the regular constitutional manner, their petitions and addresses. mr. flood, however, whose abilities and eloquence had predominant influence over the convention, and who wished to distinguish himself in parliament as the proposer of reform, prevailed upon the convention, on one of the last nights of their meeting, to send him, accompanied by other members of parliament from among the volunteer delegates, directly to the house of commons then sitting. there he was to make a motion on the question of parliamentary reform, introducing to the house his specific plan from the convention. the appearance of mr. flood, and of the delegates by whom he was accompanied, in their volunteer uniforms, in the irish house of commons, excited an extraordinary sensation. those who were present, and who have given an account of the scene that ensued, describe it as violent and tumultuous in the extreme. on both sides the passions were worked up to a dangerous height. the debate lasted all night. "the tempest, for, towards morning, debate there was none, at last ceased." the question was put, and mr. flood's motion for reform in parliament was negatived by a very large majority. the house of commons then entered into resolutions declaratory of their fixed determination to maintain their just rights and privileges against any encroachments whatever, adding that it was at that time indispensably necessary to make such a declaration. further, an address was moved, intended to be made the joint address of lords and commons to the throne, expressing their satisfaction with his majesty's government, and their resolution to support that government, and the constitution, with their lives and fortunes. the address was carried up to the lords, and immediately agreed to. this was done with the celerity of passion on all sides. 'meantime an armed convention continued sitting the whole night, waiting for the return of their delegates from the house of commons, and impatient to learn the fate of mr. flood's motion. one step more, and irreparable, fatal imprudence might have been committed. lord charlemont, the president of the convention, felt the danger; and it required all the influence of his character, all the assistance of the friends of moderation, to prevail upon the assembly to dissolve, without waiting longer to hear the report from their delegates in the house of commons. the convention had, in fact, nothing more to do, or nothing that they could attempt without peril; but it was difficult to persuade the assembly to dissolve the meeting, and to return quietly to their respective counties and homes. this point, however, was fortunately accomplished, and early in the morning the meeting terminated.' miss edgeworth adds: 'i have heard my father say that he ever afterwards rejoiced in the share he had in preserving one of the chiefs of this volunteer convention from a desperate resolution, and in determining the assembly to a temperate termination.' writing of this convention many years afterwards, edgeworth says: 'there never was any assembly in the british empire more in earnest in the business on which they were convened, or less influenced by courtly interference or cabal. but the object was in itself unattainable. 'the idea of admitting roman catholics to the right of voting for representatives was not urged even by the most liberal and most enlightened members of the convention; and the number, and wealth, and knowledge of protestant voters in ireland could not decently be considered as sufficient to elect an adequate and fair representation of the people.' the reforms were never carried, though fresh efforts, equally unsuccessful, were made when pitt became minister. chapter it was in that edgeworth had a severe fall from a scaffolding, the result of which was, as his friend dr darwin prophesied, an attack of jaundice. when the workmen brought him home, he tried to reassure his family by telling them the story of a french marquis,' who fell from a balcony at versailles, and who, as it was court politeness that nothing unfortunate should ever be mentioned in the king's presence, replied to his majesty's inquiry if he wasn't hurt by his fall, "tout au contraire, sire"' to all our inquiries whether he was hurt, my father replied, 'tout au contraire, mes aimes.' his friendship for mr. day, which had existed for many years, was now interrupted by mr. day's sudden death from a fall from his horse in . edgeworth thought of writing his life, as he considered him to have been a man of such original and noble character as to deserve a public eulogium. he goes on to say: 'to preserve a portrait to posterity, it must either be the likeness of some celebrated individual, or it must represent a face which, independently of peculiar associations, corresponds with the universal ideas of beauty. so the pen of the biographer should portray only those who by their public have interested us in their private characters; or who, in a superior degree, have possessed the virtues and mental endowments which claim the general love and admiration of mankind.' this biography, however, was never finished, as edgeworth found another friend, mr. keir, had undertaken it; he therefore sent the materials to him, but some of them are incorporated in the memoirs, sabrina, whom mr. day had educated, and intended to marry (though he gave up the idea when he doubted her docility and power of adaptiveness to his strange theories of life), ultimately married his friend, mr. bicknel, while mr. day married miss milne, a clever and accomplished lady, who had sufficient tact to fall in with his wishes, and a wifely devotion which made up to her for their seclusion from general society. in her widowhood she found mr. edgeworth a most faithful and helpful friend; he offered to come over and aid in the search which was made at mr. day's death for a large sum of money which was not forthcoming, and which it was thought he might, after his eccentric fashion, have concealed; as he took this measure when, 'at the time of the american war, he had apprehended that there would have been a national bankruptcy, and under this dread he had sold out of the stocks. ... a very considerable sum had been buried under the floor of the study in his mother's house. this he afterwards took up, and placed again in the public funds at the return of peace.' mr. day had, before his marriage, promised to leave his library to his friend edgeworth, but no mention was made of this in the will; he left almost everything to mrs. day. she, however, hearing of mr. day's promise, offered his library to his friend; but edgeworth, in the same generous spirit, refused it, and mrs. day then wrote to him as follows: 'my dear mr. edgeworth,--i will ingenuously own, that of all the bequests mr. day could have made, the leaving his whole library from me would have mortified me the most--indeed, more than if he had disposed of all his other property, and left me only that. my ideas of him are so much associated with his books, that to part with them would be, as it were, breaking some of the last ties which still connect me with so beloved an object. the being in the midst of books he has been accustomed to read, and which contain his marks and notes, will still give him a sort of existence with me. unintelligible as such fond chimeras may appear to many people, i am persuaded they are not so to you.' maria edgeworth adds: 'generous people understand each other. mrs day, of a noble disposition herself, always distinguished in my father the same generosity of disposition. she had, she said, ever considered him as "the most purely disinterested and proudly independent of mr. day's friends."' edgeworth was a devoted father; and the loss of his daughter honora, a gifted girl of fifteen, was a great blow to him. she was the child of his beloved wife honora, and he had taken great pleasure in guiding her studies and watching the development of her character. ever since he had settled in his irish home one of edgeworth's chief interests had been the education of his large family; maria records with pride that at the age of seven honora was able to answer the following questions: 'if a line move its own length through the air so as to produce a surface, what figure will it describe?' she answered, 'a square! she was then asked: 'if that square be moved downwards or upwards in the air the space of the length of one of its own sides, what figure will it, at the end of its motion, have described in the air?' after a few minutes' silence she answered, 'a cube.' edgeworth was careful to train not only the reasoning powers, but also the imaginative faculty of his children; he delighted in good poetry and fiction, and read aloud well, and his daughter writes: 'from the arabian tales to shakespeare, milton, homer, and the greek tragedians, all were associated in the minds of his children with the delight of hearing passages from them first read by their father.' he was an enthusiastic admirer of the ancient classics--homer and the greek tragedians in particular. from the best translations of the ancient tragedies he selected for reading aloud the most striking passages, and pope's 'iliad' and 'odyssey' he read several times to his family, in certain portions every day. in his grief for his child, edgeworth turned to his earliest friend, his sister, the favourite companion of his childhood, and from her he received all the consolation that affectionate sympathy could give; but, as he said, 'for real grief there is no sudden cure; all human resource is in time and occupation.' it was about this time that darwin published the now forgotten poem, 'the botanic garden,' and edgeworth wrote to his friend expressing his admiration for it; but maria adds: 'with as much sincerity as he gave praise, my father blamed and opposed whatever he thought was faulty in his friend's poem. dr. darwin had formed a false theory, that poetry is painting to the eye; this led him to confine his attention to the language of description, or to the representation of that which would produce good effect in picture. to this one mistaken opinion he sacrificed the more lasting and more extensive fame, which he might have ensured by exercising the powers he possessed of rousing the passions and pleasing the imagination. 'when my father found that it was in vain to combat a favourite false principle, he endeavoured to find a subject which should at once suit his friend's theory and his genius. he urged him to write a "cabinet of gems." the ancient gems would have afforded a subject eminently suited to his descriptive powers. . . . the description of medea, and of some of the labours of hercules, etc., which he has introduced into his "botanic garden," show how admirably he would have succeeded had he pursued this plan; and i cannot help regretting that the suggestions of his friend could not prevail upon him to quit for nobler objects his vegetable loves.' edgeworth's prediction has not yet come true, nor does it seem likely that it ever will, 'that in future times some critic will arise, who shall re-discover the "botanic garden,"' and build his fame upon this discovery. dr. darwin did not follow his friend's advice, to choose a better subject for his next poem; nor did edgeworth do what his friend wished, which was to publish a decade of inventions with neat maps. in the education of his children, he had already learned the value of the observation of children's ways and mental states. having found that rousseau's system was imperfect, he was groping after some better method. his daughter writes: 'long before he ever thought of writing or publishing, he had kept a register of observations and facts relative to his children. this he began in the year . he and mrs. honora edgeworth kept notes of every circumstance which occurred worth recording. afterwards mrs elizabeth edgeworth and he continued the same practice; and in consequence of his earnest exhortations, i began in or to note down anecdotes of the children whom he was then educating. besides these, i often wrote for my own amusement and instruction some of his conversation-lessons, as we may call them, with his questions and explanations, and the answers of the children. . . . to all who ever reflected upon education it must have occurred that facts and experiments were wanting in this department of knowledge, while assertions and theories abounded. i claim for my father the merit of having been the first to recommend, both by example and precept, what bacon would call the experimental method in education. if i were obliged to rest on any single point my father's credit as a lover of truth, and his utility as a philanthropist and as a philosophical writer, it should be on his having made this first record of experiments in education. ... in noting anecdotes of children, the greatest care must be taken that the pupils should not know that any such register is kept. want of care in this particular would totally defeat the object in view, and would lead to many and irremediable bad consequences, and would make the children affected and false, or would create a degree of embarrassment and constraint which must prevent the natural action of the understanding or the feelings. ... in the registry of such observations, considered as contributing to a history of the human mind, nothing should be neglected as trivial. the circumstances which may seem most trifling to vulgar observers may be most valuable to the philosopher; they may throw light, for example, on the manner in which ideas and language are formed and generalised.' edgeworth and his daughter maria brought out their joint work, practical education, in . maria adds: 'so commenced that literary partnership, which for so many years was the pride and joy of my life.' we who were born in the first half of the nineteenth century can remember the delight of reading about frank and rosamund, and harry and lucy, and feel a debt of gratitude to the writers who gave us so many pleasant hours. edgeworth's patience in teaching was surprising, as maria remarks, in a man of his vivacity. 'he would sit quietly while a child was thinking of the answer to a question without interrupting, or suffering it to be interrupted, and would let the pupil touch and quit the point repeatedly; and without a leading observation or exclamation, he would wait till the steps of reasoning and invention were gone through, and were converted into certainties. . . . the tranquillising effect of this patience was of great advantage. the pupil's mind became secure, not only of the point in question, but steady in the confidence of its future powers. it was his principle to excite the attention fully and strongly for a short time, and never to go to the point of fatigue. ... in the education of the heart, his warmth of approbation and strength of indignation had powerful and salutary influence in touching and developing the affections. the scorn in his countenance when he heard of any base conduct; the pleasure that lighted up his eyes when he heard of any generous action; the eloquence of his language, and vehemence of his emphasis, commanded the sympathy of all who could see, hear, feel, or understand. added to the power of every moral or religious motive, sympathy with the virtuous enthusiasm of those we love and reverence produces a great and salutary effect. 'it often happens that a preceptor appears to have a great influence for a time, and that this power suddenly dissolves. this is, and must be the case, wherever any sort of deception has been used. my father never used any artifice of this kind, and consequently he always possessed that confidence, which is the reward of plain dealing--a confidence which increases in the pupil's mind with age, knowledge, and experience.' the readers of the second part of 'harry and lucy' will remember the driving tour through england, which they took with their parents, who were careful to point out to them all that was of interest, and to rouse their powers of observation. and in the same manner edgeworth, 'at the time when he was building or carrying on experiments, or work of any sort, constantly explained to his children whatever was done, and by his questions, adapted to their several ages and capacities, exercised their powers of observation, reasoning, and invention. 'it often happened that trivial circumstances, by which the curiosity of the children had been excited, or experiments obvious to the senses, by which they had been interested, led afterwards to deeper reflection or to philosophical inquiries, suited to others in the family of more advanced age and knowledge. the animation spread through the house by connecting children with all that is going on, and allowing them to join in thought or conversation with the grown-up people of the family, was highly useful, and thus both sympathy and emulation excited mental exertion in the most agreeable manner.' in he wrote of his son lovell: 'he has been employed in building and other active pursuits, which seldom fall to the share of young men, but which seem as agreeable to him as the occupations of a mail-coachman, a groom, or a stable-boy are to some youths. i am every day more convinced of the advantages of good education.' he adds: 'one of my younger boys is what is called a genius--that is to say, he has vivacity, attention, and good organs. i do not think one tear per month is shed in the house, nor the voice of reproof heard, nor the hand of restraint felt. to educate a second race costs no trouble. ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute! the result of this watchful and tender interest in his children's education may be judged by a passage in the later part of the memoirs, where his daughter says: 'when i was writing this page (july ), this brother was with me; and when i stopped to make some inquiry from him as to his recollection of that period of his life, he reminded me of many circumstances of my father's kindness to him, and brought to me letters written on his first entrance into the world, highly characteristic of the warmth of my father's affections, and of the strength of his mind. . . . the conviction is full and strong on my own mind, that a father's confiding kindness, and plain sincerity to a young man, when he first sets out in the world, make an impression the most salutary and indelible. when his sons first quitted the paternal roof, they were all completely at liberty; he never took any indirect means to watch over or to influence them; he treated them on all occasions with entire openness and confidence. in their tastes and pursuits, joys and sorrows, they were sure of their father's sympathy; in all difficulties or disappointments, they applied to him, as their best friend, for counsel, consolation, or support; and the delight that he took in any exertion of their talents, or in any instance of their honourable conduct, they felt as a constant generous excitement.' edgeworth had no ambition on his own account to be an author; but his wish to supply wholesome literature for the young led him into writing, conjointly with his daughter, several books. besides these was one which had a different object, in the essay on irish bulls he 'wished' (his daughter writes) 'to show the english public the eloquence, wit, and talents of the lower classes of people in ireland. . . . he excelled in imitating the irish, because he never overstepped the modesty or the assurance of nature. he marked exquisitely the happy confidence, the shrewd wit of the people, without condescending to produce effect by caricature. he knew not only their comic talents, but their powers of pathos; and often when he had just heard from them some pathetic complaint, he has repeated it to me while the impression was fresh. in the chapter on wit and eloquence in irish bulls, there is a speech of a poor freeholder to a candidate, who asked for his vote; this speech was made to my father when he was canvassing the county of longford. it was repeated to me a few hours afterwards, and i wrote it down instantly, without, i believe, the variation of a word. 'in the same chapter there is the complaint of a poor widow against her landlord, and the landlord's reply in his own defence. this passage was quoted, i am told, by campbell in one of his celebrated lectures on eloquence. it was supposed by him to have been a quotation from a fictitious narrative, but, on the contrary, it is an unembellished fact. my father was the magistrate before whom the widow and her landlord appeared, and made that complaint and defence, which he repeated, and i may say acted, for me. the speeches i instantly wrote word for word, and the whole was described exactly from the life of his representation.' edgeworth was anxious that his children should have no unpleasant associations with their first steps in reading; he therefore took great pains to find out the easiest way of teaching them to read, and wrote for this purpose a rational primer. maria adds: 'nothing but the true desire to be useful could have induced any man of talents to choose such inglorious labours; but he thought no labour, however humble, beneath him, if it promised improvement in education. . . . his principle of always giving distinct marks for each different sound of the vowels has been since brought into more general use. it forms the foundation of pestalozzi's plan of teaching to read. but one of the most useful of the marks in the rational primer, the mark of obliteration, designed to show what letters are to be omitted in pronouncing words, has not, i believe, been adopted by any public instructor.' among the calls on edgeworth's time about was the management of the embarrassed affairs of a relation; he had some difficulties with the creditors, but in trying to collect arrears of rent he found himself not only in difficulty, but in actual peril. there existed in ireland at this time a class of persons calling themselves gentlemen tenants--the worst tenants in the world --middlemen, who relet the lands, and live upon the produce, not only in idleness, but in insolent idleness. this kind of half gentry, or mock gentry, seemed to consider it as the most indisputable privilege of a gentleman not to pay his debts. they were ever ready to meet civil law with military brag of war. whenever a swaggering debtor of this species was pressed for payment, he began by protesting or confessing that 'he considered himself used in an ungentlemanlike manner;' and ended by offering to give, instead of the value of his bond or promise, 'the satisfaction of a gentleman, at any hour or place. . . . my father,' says maria, 'has often since rejoiced in the recollection of his steadiness at this period of his life. as far as the example of an individual could go, it was of service in his neighbourhood. it showed that such lawless proceedings as he had opposed could be effectually resisted; and it discountenanced that braggadocio style of doing business which was once in ireland too much in fashion.' chapter it was in that edgeworth left ireland, and he and his family spent nearly two years at clifton for the health of one of his sons. maria writes: 'this was the first time i had ever been with him in what is called the world; where he was not only a useful, but a most entertaining guide and companion. his observations upon characters, as they revealed themselves by slight circumstances, were amusing and just. he was a good judge of manners, and of all that related to appearance, both in men and women. believing, as he did, that young people, from sympathy, imitate or catch involuntarily the habits and tone of the company they keep, he thought it of essential consequence that on their entrance into the world they should see the best models. "no company or good company," was his maxim. by good he did not mean fine. airs and conceit he despised, as much as he disliked vulgarity. affectation was under awe before him from an instinctive perception of his powers of ridicule. he could not endure, in favour of any pretensions of birth, fortune, or fashion, the stupidity of a formal circle, or the inanity of commonplace conversation. . .. sometimes, perhaps, he went too far, and at this period of his life was too fastidious in his choice of society; or when he did go into mixed company, if he happened to be suddenly struck with any extravagance or meanness of fashion, he would inveigh against these with such vehemence as gave a false idea of his disposition. his auditors . . . were provoked to find that one, who could please in any company, should disdain theirs; and that he, who seemed made for society, should prefer living shut up with his own friends and family. an inconvenience arose from this, which is of more consequence than the mere loss of popularity, that he was not always known or understood by those who were really worthy of his acquaintance and regard.' his daughter says later: 'the whole style and tone of society (in ireland) are altered.--the fashion has passed away of those desperately long, formal dinners, which were given two or three times a year by each family in the country to their neighbours, where the company had more than they could eat, and twenty times more than they should drink; where the gentlemen could talk only of claret, horses, or dogs; and the ladies, only of dress or scandal; so that in the long hours, when they were left to their own discretion, after having examined and appraised each other's finery, many an absent neighbour's character was torn to pieces, merely for want of something to say or to do in the stupid circle. but now the dreadful circle is no more; the chairs, which formerly could only take that form, at which the firmest nerves must ever tremble, are allowed to stand, or turn in any way which may suit the convenience and pleasure of conversation. the gentlemen and ladies are not separated from the time dinner ends till the midnight hour, when the carriages come to the door to carry off the bodies of the dead (drunk). 'a taste for reading and literary conversation has been universally acquired and diffused. literature has become, as my father long ago prophesied that it would become, fashionable; so that it is really necessary to all, who would appear to advantage, even in the society of their country neighbours.' referring to her father's conversational powers, maria adds: 'his style in speaking and writing were as different as it is possible to conceive. in writing, cool and careful, as if on his guard against his natural liveliness of imagination; he was so cautious to avoid exaggeration, that he sometimes repressed enthusiasm. the character of his writings, if i mistake not, is good sense; the characteristic of his conversation was genius and vivacity--one moment playing on the surface, the next diving to the bottom of the subject. when anything touched his feelings, exciting either admiration or indignation, he poured forth enthusiastic eloquence, and then changed quickly to reasoning or wit. his transitions from one thought and feeling, or from one subject and tone to another, were so frequent and rapid, as to surprise, and sometimes to bewilder persons of slow intellect; but always to entertain and delight those of quick capacity. . . . 'his openness in conversation went too far, almost to imprudence, exposing him not only to be misrepresented, but to be misunderstood. . . . whenever he perceived in any of his friends, or in one of his children, an error of mind, or fault of character, dangerous to their happiness; or when he saw good opportunity of doing them service, by apposite and strong remark or eloquent appeal in conversation, he pursued his object with all the boldness of truth, and with all the warmth of affection. . . . 'i will not deny, what i have heard from some whose truth and sense i cannot question, that his manner, somewhat unusual, of drawing people out, however kindly intended, often abashed the timid, and alarmed the cautious; but, in the judgments to be formed of the understandings of all with whom he conversed, he was uncommonly indulgent. he allowed for the prejudices or for the deficiencies of education; and he foresaw, with the prophetic eye of benevolence, what the understanding or character might become if certain improvements were effected. in discerning genius or abilities of any kind, his penetration was so quick and just that it seemed as if he possessed some mental divining rod revealing to him hidden veins of talent, and giving him the power of discovering mines of intellectual wealth, which lay unsuspected even by the possessor. 'to young persons his manner was most kind and encouraging. i have been gratified by the assurance that many have owed to the instruction and encouragement received from him in casual conversation their first hopes of themselves, their resolution to improve, and a happy change in the colour and fortune of their future lives. . . . time mellowed but did not impair his vivacity; so that seeming less connected with high animal spirits, it acquired more the character of intellectual energy. still in age, as in youth, he never needed the stimulus of convivial company, or of new auditors; his spirits and conversation were always more delightful in his own family and in everyday life than in company, even the most literary or distinguished.' the relations between edgeworth and his daughter maria were peculiarly close, and she gratefully acknowledges how much she owed to his suggestions and criticisms. he did not share his friend mr. day's objections to literary ladies, and was a great admirer of mrs. barbauld's writings: 'ever the true friend and champion of female literature, and zealous for the honour of the female sex, he rejoiced with all the enthusiasm of a warm heart when he found, as he now did, female genius guided by feminine discretion. he exulted in every instance of literary celebrity, supported by the amiable and respectable virtues of private life; proving by example that the cultivation of female talents does not unfit women for their domestic duties and situation in society.' when maria began to write she always told her father her rough plan, and he, 'with the instinct of a good critic, used to fix immediately upon that which would best answer the purpose.--"sketch that and show it to me!"--these words' (she adds), 'from the experience of his sagacity, never failed to inspire me with hopes of success. it was then sketched. sometimes, when i was fond of a particular part, i use to dilate on it in the sketch; but to this he always objected --"i don't want any of your painting--none of your drapery!--i can imagine all that--let me see the bare skeleton." . . . 'after a sketch had his approbation, he would not see the filling it up till it had been worked upon for a week or a fortnight, or till the first thirty or forty pages were written; then they were read to him; and if he thought them going on tolerably well, the pleasure in his eyes, the approving sound of his voice, even without the praise he so warmly bestowed, were sufficient and delightful excitements to "go on and finish." when he thought that there was spirit in what was written, but that it required, as it often did, great correction, he would say, "leave that to me; it is my business to cut and correct--yours to write on." his skill in cutting, his decision in criticism, was peculiarly useful to me. his ready invention and infinite resource, when i had run myself into difficulties or absurdities, never failed to extricate me at my utmost need. . . . 'independently of all the advantages, which i as an individual received from my father's constant course of literary instruction, this was of considerable utility in another and less selfish point of view. my father called upon all the family to hear and judge of all we were writing. the taste for literature, and for judging of literary composition, was by this means formed and exercised in a large family, including a succession of nine or ten children, who grew up during the course of these twenty-five years. stories of children exercised the judgment of children, and so on in proportion to their respective ages, all giving their opinions, and trying their powers of criticism fearlessly and freely. . . . 'he would sometimes advise me to lay by what was done for several months, and turn my mind to something else, that we might look back at it afterwards with fresh eyes. . . . 'i may mention, because it leads to a general principle of criticism, that, in many cases, the attempt to join truth and fiction did not succeed: for instance, mr. day's educating sabrina for his wife suggested the story of virginia and clarence hervey in "belinda." but to avoid representing the real character of mr. day, which i did not think it right to draw, i used the incident with fictitious characters, which i made as unlike the real persons as i possibly could. my father observed to me afterwards that, in this and other instances, the very circumstances that were taken from real life are those that have been objected to as improbable or impossible; for this, as he showed me, there are good and sufficient reasons. in the first place, anxiety to avoid drawing the characters that were to be blameable or ridiculous from any individuals in real life, led me to apply whatever circumstances were taken from reality to characters quite different from those to whom the facts had occurred; and consequently, when so applied, they were unsuitable and improbable: besides, as my father remarked the circumstances which in real life fix the attention, because they are out of the common course of events, are for this very reason unfit for the moral purposes, as well as for the dramatic effect of fiction. the interest we take in hearing an uncommon fact often depends on our belief in its truth. introduce it into fiction, and this interest ceases, the reader stops to question the truth or probability of the narrative, the illusion and the dramatic effect are destroyed; and as to the moral, no safe conclusion for conduct can be drawn from any circumstances which have not frequently happened, and which are not likely often to recur. in proportion as events are extraordinary, they are useless or unsafe as foundations for prudential reasoning. 'besides all this, there are usually some small concurrent circumstances connected with extraordinary facts, which we like and admit as evidences of the truth, but which the rules of composition and taste forbid the introducing into fiction; so that the writer is reduced to the difficulty either of omitting the evidence on which the belief of reality rests, or of introducing what may be contrary to good taste, incongruous, out of proportion to the rest of the story, delaying its progress or destructive of its unity. in short, it is dangerous to put a patch of truth into a fiction, for the truth is too strong for the fiction, and on all sides pulls it asunder.' to live with edgeworth must have been to enjoy a constant mental stimulus; he could not bear his companions to use words without attaching ideas to them; he did not want talk to consist of a fluent utterance of second-hand thoughts, but always encouraged the expression of genuine opinion. to show how willing edgeworth was to help a child in understanding a word which was new to it, i will quote from one of his letters to maria: 'give my love to little f, and tell her that i had not time to explain a section to her. i therefore beg that, with as little explanation as possible, you will bisect a lemon before her, and point out the appearance of the rind, of the cavities, and seeds; and afterwards, at your leisure, get a small cylinder of wood turned for her, and cut it into a transverse section and into a longitudinal section.' it is curious to note the difference in tone which there is between the children's books written by him and maria and those of the second half of the nineteenth century. our duty to our neighbour is the edgeworth watchword, while our duty to god is the watchword of miss yonge and her school of writers. the swing of the pendulum is constantly passing from morality to religion and back again, because both are required for the perfect life. among the experiments which edgeworth made in the management of his children was that: 'formerly' (maria writes) 'from having observed how apt children are to dispute and quarrel when they are left much together, and from fear of the strong becoming tyrants, and the weak slaves, it had been thought prudent to separate them a good deal. it was believed that they would consequently grow fonder of each other's company, and that they would enjoy it more as they grew more reasonable, from not having the recollection of anything disagreeable in each other's tempers. but my father became thoroughly convinced that the separation of children in a family may lead to evils greater than any partial good that can result from it. the attempt may induce artifice and disobedience on the part of the children; the separation can scarcely be effected; and, if it were effected, would tend to make the children miserable. he saw that their little quarrels, and the crossings of their tempers and fancies, are nothing in comparison with the inestimable blessings of that fondness, that family affection which grows up among children, who have with each other an early and constant community of pleasures and pains. separation as a punishment, as a just consequence of children's quarrelling, and as the best means of preventing their disputes, he always found useful. but, except in extreme cases, he had rarely recourse to it, and such seldom occurred. . . . the greatest change, which twenty years further experience made in his practice and opinions in education, was to lessen rather than to increase regulations and restrictions. he saw that, where there is liberty of action, one thing balances another; that nice calculations lead to false results in practice, because we cannot command all the necesssary circumstances of the data. . . . 'for many years of his life he had, i think, been under one important mistake, in his expectations relative to the conduct of his fellow-creatures, and of the effects of cultivating the human understanding. he had believed that, if rational creatures could be made clearly to see and understand that virtue will render them happy, and vice will render them miserable, either in this world or in the next, they would afterwards, in consequence of this conviction, follow virtue, and avoid vice. . . . 'hence, both as to national and domestic education, he formerly dwelt principally upon the cultivation of the understanding, meaning chiefly the reasoning faculty as applied to the conduct. but to see the best, and to follow it, are not, alas! necessary consequences of each other. resolution is often wanting where conviction is perfect. --resolution is most necessary to all our active, and habit most essential to all our passive virtues. probably nine times out of ten the instances of imprudent or vicious conduct arise, not from want of knowledge of good and evil, or from want of conviction that the one leads to happiness, and the other to misery; but from actual deficiency in the strength of resolution, deficiency arising from want of early training in the habit of self control.' maria adds: 'the silence which has been observed in practical education on the subject of religion has been misunderstood by some, and misrepresented by others. ... to those who, with upright and benevolent intentions, from a sense of public duty, and in a spirit of christian charity, made remonstrances on this subject, he thought it due to give all the explanation in his power;' and he writes: 'the authors continue to preserve the silence upon this subject, which they before thought prudent; but they disavow, in explicit terms, the design of laying down a system of education founded upon morality, exclusive of religion. . . . we most earnestly deprecate the imputation of disregarding religion in education. . . . we are convinced that religious obligation is indispensably necessary in the education of all descriptions of people in every part of the world. 'we dread fanaticism and intolerance, whilst we wish to hold religion in a higher point of view than as a subject of seclusive possession, or of outward exhibition. to introduce the awful ideas of god's superintendence upon puerile occasions, we decline. ... i hope i shall obtain the justice due to me on the subject, and that it will appear that i consider religion, in the large sense of the word, to be the only certain bond of society. 'you have turned back our thoughts to this most important subject (education), upon which, next to a universal reverence for religion, we believe the happiness of mankind to depend.' maria adds: 'i have often been witness of the care with which he explained the nature and enforced the observance of that great bond of civil society, which rests upon religion. the solemnity of the manner in which he administered an oath can never leave my memory; and i have seen the salutary effect this produced on the minds of those of the lower irish, who are supposed to be the least susceptible of such impressions. but it was not on the terrors of religion he chiefly dwelt. no man could be more sensible than he was of the consolatory, fortifying influence of the christian religion in sustaining the mind in adversity, poverty, and age. no man knew better its power to carry hope and peace in the hour of death to the penitent criminal. when from party bigotry it has happened that a priest has been denied admittance to the condemned criminal, my father has gone to the county gaol to soothe the sufferer's mind, and to receive that confession on which, to the poor catholic's belief, his salvation depended. . . . nor did he ever weaken in any heart in which it ever existed that which he considered as the greatest blessing that a human creature can enjoy--firm religious faith and hope.' the following extract from a letter written to the roman catholics of the county of longford will show that edgeworth was no bigoted protestant, but was in advance of his time in the broad views he took of religious liberty: 'ever since i have taken any part in the politics of ireland, i have uniformly thought that there should be no civil distinctions between its inhabitants upon account of their religious opinions. i concurred with a great character at the national convention, in endeavouring to persuade our roman catholic brethren to take a decided part in favour of parliamentary reform. they declined it; and it then became absurd and dangerous for individuals to demand rights in the name of a class of citizens who would not avow their claim to them. . . . i wish ... to declare myself in favour of a full participation of rights amongst every denomination of men in ireland; and if i can, by my personal interference at any public meeting of our county, serve your cause, i shall think it my duty to attend.' chapter during edgeworth's stay in england in and he paid frequent visits to london, and he used to describe to his children a curious meeting which he had in a coffee-house with an old acquaintance whom he had not seen for thirty years: he observed a gentleman eyeing him with much attention, who at last exclaimed, "it is he. certainly, sir, you are mr. edgeworth?" '"i am, sir." '"gentlemen," said the stranger, with much importance, addressing himself to several people who were near him, "here is the best dancer in england, and a man to whom i am under infinite obligations, for i owe to him the foundation of my fortune. mr. edgeworth and i were scholars of the famous aldridge; and once when we practised together, mr. edgeworth excelled me so much, that i sat down upon the ground, and burst out a-crying; he could actually complete an entrechat of ten distinct beats, which i could not accomplish! however, i was well consoled by him; for he invented, for aldridge's benefit, the tambourine dance, which had uncommon success. the dresses were chinese. twelve assistants held small drums furnished with bells; these were struck in the air by the dancer's feet when held as high as their arms could reach. this aldridge performed, and improved upon by stretching his legs asunder, so as to strike two drums at the same time. those not being the days of elegant dancing, i afterwards," continued the stranger, "exhibited at paris the tambourine dance, to so much advantage, that i made fifteen hundred pounds by it." 'the person who made this singular address and eulogium was the celebrated dancer, mr. slingsby. his testimony proves that my father did not overrate his powers as a dancer; but it was not to boast of a frivolous excellence that he told this anecdote to his children; it was to express his satisfaction at having, after the first effervescence of boyish spirits had subsided, cultivated his understanding, turned his inventive powers to useful objects, and chosen as the companions of his maturer years men of the first order of intellect.' he also took the opportunity while in england of visiting his scientific friends--watt, darwin, keir, and wedgwood; and it was now that his friendship began with mr. william strutt of derby, with whom he became acquainted by means of mr. darwin. it was about this time that he lost his old friend lord longford. maria says of him: 'his services in the british navy, and his character as an irish senator, have been fully appreciated by the public. his value in private life, and as a friend, can be justly estimated only by those who have seen and felt how strongly his example and opinions have, for a long course of years, continued to influence his family, and all who had the honour of his friendship. the permanence of this influence after death is a stronger proof of the sincerity of the esteem and admiration felt for the character of the individual than any which can be given during his lifetime. i can bear witness that, in one instance, it never ceased to operate. i know that on every important occasion of my father's life, where he was called upon to judge or act, long after lord longford was no more, his example and opinions seemed constantly present to him; he delighted in the recollection of instances of his friend's sound judgment, honour, and generosity; these he applied in his own conduct, and held up to the emulation of his children.' doubtless edgeworth felt, as charles lamb expresses it: 'deaths overset one, and put one out long after the recent grief. two or three have died within the last two twelvemonths, and so many parts of me have been numbed. one sees a picture, reads an anecdote, starts a casual fancy, and thinks to tell of it to this person in preference to every other; the person is gone whom it would have peculiarly suited. it won't do for another. every departure destroys a class of sympathies. there's captain burney gone! what fun has whist now? what matters it what you lead if you can no longer fancy him looking over you? one never hears anything but the image of the particular person occurs with whom alone almost you would care to share the intelligence. thus one distributes oneself about, and now for so many parts of me i have lost the market.' the departure of edgeworth and his family from clifton in the autumn of was hastened by the news that disturbances were breaking out in ireland. dr. beddoes of clifton, who was courting edgeworth's daughter anna, had to console himself with the permission to follow her to ireland in the spring, where they were married at edgeworth town in april . it was not till the autumn of that the disturbances in ireland became alarming; and in a letter to dr. darwin, edgeworth writes: 'just recovering from the alarm occasioned by a sudden irruption of defenders into this neighbourhood, and from the business of a county meeting, and the glory of commanding a squadron of horse, and from the exertion requisite to treat with proper indifference an anonymous letter sent by persons who have sworn to assassinate me; i received the peaceful philosophy of zoonomia; and though it has been in my hands not many minutes, i found much to delight and instruct me. . . . 'we were lately in a sad state here--the sans culottes (literally so) took a very effectual way of obtaining power; they robbed of arms all the houses in the country, thus arming themselves and disarming their opponents. by waking the bodies of their friends, the human corpse not only becomes familiar to the sans culottes of ireland, but is associated with pleasure in their minds by the festivity of these nocturnal orgies. an insurrection of such people, who have been much oppressed, must be infinitely more horrid than anything that has happened in france; for no hired executioners need be sought from the prisons or the galleys. and yet the people here are altogether better than in england. . . . the peasants, though cruel, are generally docile, and of the strongest powers, both of body and mind. 'a good government may make this a great country, because the raw material is good and simple. in england, to make a carte-blanche fit to receive a proper impression, you must grind down all the old rags to purify them.' his daughter adds: 'the disturbances in the county of longford were quieted for a time by the military; but again in the autumn of the ensuing year (september ), rumours of an invasion prevailed, and spread with redoubled force through ireland, disturbing commerce, and alarming all ranks of well-disposed subjects.' chapter it was in that sorrow again visited the happy circle at edgeworth town, and edgeworth wrote thus of his wife to dr. darwin: 'she declines rapidly. but her mind suffers as little as possible. i am convinced from all that i have seen, that good sense diminishes all the evils of life, and alleviates even the inevitable pain of declining health. by good sense, i mean that habit of the understanding which employs itself in forming just estimates of every object that lies before it, and in regulating the temper and conduct. mrs. edgeworth, ever since i knew her, has carefully improved and cultivated this faculty; and i do not think i ever saw any person extract more good, and suffer less evil, than she has, from the events of life. . . .' mrs. edgeworth died in the autumn of the year . maria adds: 'i have heard my father say, that during the seventeen years of his marriage with this lady, he never once saw her out of temper, and never received from her an unkind word or an angry look,' edgeworth paid the same compliment to his third wife which he had done to his second--he quickly replaced her. his fourth wife was the daughter of dr. beaufort, a highly cultivated man, whose family were great friends of mrs. ruxton, edgeworth's sister. edgeworth wrote a long letter about scientific matters to darwin, and kept his most important news to the last: 'i am going to be married to a young lady of small fortune and large accomplishments,--compared with my age, much youth (not quite thirty), and more prudence--some beauty, more sense--uncommon talents, more uncommon temper,--liked by my family, loved by me. if i can say all this three years hence, shall not i have been a fortunate, not to say a wise man?' maria adds: 'a few days after the preceding letter was written, we heard that a conspiracy had been discovered in dublin, that the city was under arms, and its inhabitants in the greatest terror. dr. beaufort and his family were there; my father, who was at edgeworth town, set out immediately to join them. 'on his way he met an intimate friend of his; one stage they travelled together, and a singular conversation passed. this friend, who as yet knew nothing of my father's intentions, began to speak of the marriage of some other person, and to exclaim against the folly and imprudence of any man's marrying in such disturbed times. "no man of honour, sense or feeling, would incumber himself with a wife at such a time!" my father urged that this was just the time when a man of honour, sense, or feeling would wish, if he loved a woman, to unite his fate with hers, to acquire the right of being her protector. 'the conversation dropped there. but presently they talked of public affairs--of the important measure expected to be proposed, of a union between england and ireland--of what would probably be said and done in the next session of parliament: my father, foreseeing that this important national question would probably come on, had just obtained a seat in parliament. his friend, not knowing or recollecting this, began to speak of the imprudence of commencing a political career late in life. '"no man, you know," said he, "but a fool, would venture to make a first speech in parliament, or to marry, after he was fifty." 'my father laughed, and surrendering all title to wisdom, declared that, though he was past fifty, he was actually going in a few days, as he hoped, to be married, and in a few months would probably make his "first speech in parliament." 'he found dublin as it had been described to him under arms, in dreadful expectation. the timely apprehension of the heads of the conspiracy at this crisis prevented a revolution, and saved the capital. but the danger for the country seemed by no means over, --insurrections, which were to have been general and simultaneous, broke out in different parts of the kingdom. the confessions of a conspirator, who had turned informer, and the papers seized and published, proved that there existed in the country a deep and widely spread spirit of rebellion. . . . 'instead of delaying his marriage, which some would have advised, my father urged for an immediate day. on the st of may he was married to miss beaufort, by her brother, the rev. william beaufort, at st. anne's church in dublin. they came down to edgeworth town immediately, through a part of the country that was in actual insurrection. late in the evening they arrived safe at home, and my father presented his bride to his expecting, anxious family. 'of her first entrance and appearance that evening i can recollect only the general impression, that it was quite natural, without effort or pretension. the chief thing remarkable was, that she, of whom we were all thinking so much, seemed to think so little of herself. . . . 'the sisters of the late mrs. edgeworth, those excellent aunts (mrs. mary and charlotte sneyd), instead of returning to their english friends and relations, remained at edgeworth town. this was an auspicious omen to the common people in our neighbourhood, by whom they were universally beloved--it spoke well, they said, for the new lady. in his own family, the union and happiness she would secure were soon felt, but her superior qualities, her accurate knowledge, judgment, and abilities, in decision and in action, appeared only as occasions arose and called for them. she was found always equal to the occasion, and superior to the expectation.' maria had not at first been in favour of her father's marrying miss beaufort, but she soon changed her opinion after becoming intimate with her, and writing of her father's choice of a wife says: 'he did not late in life marry merely to please his own fancy, but he chose a companion suited to himself, and a mother fit for his family. this, of all the blessings we owe to him, has proved the greatest.' the family at edgeworth town passed the summer quietly and happily, but (maria continues) 'towards the autumn of the year , this country became in such a state that the necessity of resorting to the sword seemed imminent. even in the county of longford, which had so long remained quiet, alarming symptoms appeared, not immediately in our neighbourhood, but within six or seven miles of us, near granard. the people were leagued in secret rebellion, and waited only for the expected arrival of the french army to break out. in the adjacent counties military law had been proclaimed, and our village was within a mile of the bounds of the disturbed county of westmeath. though his own tenantry, and all in whom he put trust, were as quiet, and, as far as he could judge, as well-disposed as ever, yet my father was aware, from information of too good authority to be doubted, that there were disaffected persons in the vicinity. 'numbers held themselves in abeyance, not so much from disloyalty, as from fear that they should be ultimately the conquered party. those who were really and actually engaged, and in communication with the rebels and with the foreign enemy, were so secret and cunning that no proofs could be obtained against them. 'one instance may be given. a mr. pallas, who lived at growse hall, lately received information that a certain offender was to be found in a lone house, which was described to him. he took a party of men with him in the night, and he got to the house very early in the morning. it was scarcely light. the soldiers searched, but no man was to be found. mr. pallas ordered them to search again, for that he was certain the man was in the house; they searched again, but in vain; they gave up the point, and were preparing to mount their horses, when one man, who had stayed a little behind his companions, saw, or thought he saw, something move at the end of the garden behind the house. he looked, and beheld a man's arm come out of the ground: he ran to the spot and called to his companions; but the arm disappeared; they searched, but nothing was to be seen; and though the soldier still persisted in his story, he was not believed "come," cries one of the party, "don't waste your time here looking for an apparition among these cabbage-stalks--go back once more to the house!" they went to the house, and lo! there stood the man they were in search of in the middle of the kitchen. 'upon examination it was found that from his garden to his house there had been practiced a secret passage underground: a large meal-chest in the kitchen had a false bottom, which lifted up and down at pleasure, to let him into his subterraneous dwelling. 'whenever he expected the house to be searched, down he went; the moment the search was over, up he came; and had practised this with success, till he grew rash, and returned one moment too soon. . . . 'previous to this time, the principal gentry in the county had raised corps of yeomanry; but my father had delayed doing so, because, as long as the civil authority had been sufficient, he was unwilling to resort to military interference, or to the ultimate law of force, of the abuse of which he had seen too many recent examples. however, it now became necessary, even for the sake of justice to his own tenantry, that they should be put upon a footing with others, have equal security of protection, and an opportunity of evincing their loyal dispositions. he raised a corps of infantry, into which he admitted catholics as well as protestants. this was so unusual, and thought to be so hazardous a degree of liberality, that by some of an opposite party it was attributed to the worst motives. many who wished him well came privately to let him know of the odium to which he exposed himself. 'the corps of edgeworth town infantry was raised, but the arms were, by some mistake of the ordnance officer, delayed. the anxiety for their arrival was extreme, for every day and every hour the french were expected to land. 'the alarm was now so general that many sent their families out of the country. my father was still in hopes that we might safely remain. at the first appearance of disturbance in ireland he had offered to carry his sisters-in-law, the mrs. sneyd, to their friends in england, but this offer they refused. of the domestics, three men were english and protestant, two irish and catholic; the women were all irish and catholic excepting the housekeeper, an englishwoman who had lived with us many years. there were no dissensions or suspicions between the catholics and the protestants in the family; and the english servants did not desire to quit us at this crisis. 'at last came the dreaded news. the french, who landed at killala, were, as we learned, on their march towards longford. the touch of ithuriel's spear could not have been more sudden or effectual than the arrival of this intelligence in showing people in their real forms. in some faces joy struggled for a moment with feigned sorrow, and then, encouraged by sympathy, yielded to the natural expression. still my father had no reason to distrust those in whom he had placed confidence; his tenants were steady; he saw no change in any of the men of his corps, though they were in the most perilous situation, having rendered themselves obnoxious to the rebels and invaders by becoming yeomen, and yet standing without means of resistance or defence, their arms not having arrived. 'the evening of the day when the news of the success and approach of the french came to edgeworth town all seemed quiet; but early next morning, september th, a report reached us that the rebels were up in arms within a mile of the village, pouring in from the county of westmeath hundreds strong. 'this much being certain, that men armed with pikes were assembled, my father sent off an express to the next garrison town (longford) requesting the commanding officer to send him assistance for the defence of this place. he desired us to be prepared to set out at a moment's warning. we were under this uncertainty, when an escort with an ammunition cart passed through the village on its way to longford. it contained several barrels of powder, intended to blow up the bridges, and to stop the progress of the enemy. one of the officers of the party rode up to our house and offered to let us have the advantage of his escort. but, after a few minutes' deliberation, this friendly proposal was declined: my father determined that he would not stir till he knew whether he could have assistance; and as it did not appear as yet absolutely necessary that we should go, we stayed--fortunately for us. 'about a quarter of an hour after the officer and the escort had departed, we, who were all assembled in the portico of the house, heard a report like a loud clap of thunder. the doors and windows shook with some violent concussion; a few minutes afterwards the officer galloped into the yard, and threw himself off his horse into my father's arms almost senseless. the ammunition cart had blown up, one of the officers had been severely wounded, and the horses and the man leading them killed; the wounded officer was at a farmhouse on the longford road, at about two miles' distance. the fear of the rebels was now suspended in concern for this accident; mrs. edgeworth went immediately to give her assistance; she left her carriage for the use of the wounded gentleman, and rode back. at the entrance of the village she was stopped by a gentleman in great terror, who, taking hold of the bridle of her horse, begged her not to attempt to go farther, assuring her that the rebels were coming into the town. but she answered that she must and would return to her family. she rode on, and found us waiting anxiously for her. no assistance could be afforded from longford; the rebels were reassembling, and advancing towards the village; and there was no alternative but to leave our house as fast as possible. one of our carriages having been left with the wounded officer, we had but one at this moment for our whole family, eleven in number. no mode of conveyance could be had for some of our female servants; our faithful english housekeeper offered to stay till the return of the carriage, which had been left with the officer; and as we could not carry her, we were obliged, most reluctantly, to leave her behind to follow, as we hoped, immediately. as we passed through the village we heard nothing but the entreaties, lamentations, and objurations of those who could not procure the means of carrying off their goods or their families; most painful when we could give no assistance. 'next to the safety of his own family, my father's greatest anxiety was for his defenceless corps. no men could behave better than they did at this first moment of trial. not one absented himself, though many, living at a distance, might, if they had been so inclined, have found plausible excuses for non-appearance. 'he ordered them to march to longford. the idea of going to longford could not be agreeable to many of them, who were catholics. there was no reluctance shown, however, by the catholics of this corps to go among those who called themselves orangemen. 'we expected every instant to hear the shout of the rebels entering edgeworth town. when we had got about half-a-mile out of the village, my father suddenly recollected that he had left on his table a paper containing a list of his corps, and that, if this should come into the hands of the rebels, it might be of dangerous consequence to his men; it would serve to point out their houses for pillage, and their families for destruction. he turned his horse instantly and galloped back for it. the time of his absence appeared immeasurably long, but he returned safely after having destroyed the dangerous paper. 'longford was crowded with yeomanry of various corps, and with the inhabitants of the neighbourhood, who had flocked thither for protection. with great difficulty the poor edgeworth town infantry found lodgings. we were cordially received by the landlady of a good inn. though her house was, as she said, fuller than it could hold, as she was an old friend of my father's, she did contrive to give us two rooms, in which we eleven were thankful to find ourselves. all our concern now was for those we had left behind. we heard nothing of our housekeeper all night, and were exceedingly alarmed; but early the next morning, to our great joy, she arrived. she told us that, after we had left her, she waited hour after hour for the carriage; she could hear nothing of it, as it had gone to longford with the wounded officer. towards evening, a large body of rebels entered the village; she heard them at the gate, and expected that they would have broken in the next instant; but one, who seemed to be a leader, with a pike in his hand, set his back against the gate, and swore that, if he was to die for it the next minute, he would have the life of the first man who should open that gate or set enemy's foot withinside of that place. he said the housekeeper, who was left in it, was a good gentlewoman, and had done him a service, though she did not know him, nor he her. he had never seen her face, but she had, the year before, lent his wife, when in distress, sixteen shillings, the rent of flax-ground, and he would stand her friend now. 'he kept back the mob: they agreed to send him to the house with a deputation of six, to know the truth, and to ask for arms. the six men went to the back door and summoned the housekeeper; one of them pointed his blunderbuss at her, and told her that she must fetch all the arms in the house; she said she had none. her champion asked her to say if she remembered him. "no," to her knowledge she had never seen his face. he asked if she remembered having lent a woman money to pay her rent of flaxground the year before. "yes," she remembered that, and named the woman, the time, and the sum. his companions were thus satisfied of the truth of what he had asserted. he bid her not to be frighted, for that no harm should happen to her, nor any belonging to her; not a soul should get leave to go into her master's house; not a twig should be touched, nor a leaf harmed. his companions huzzaed and went off. afterwards, as she was told, he mounted guard at the gate during the whole time the rebels were in the town. 'when the carriage at last returned, it was stopped by the rebels, who filled the street; they held their pikes to the horses and to the coachman's breast, accusing him of being an orangeman, because, as they said, he wore the orange colours (our livery being yellow and brown). a painter, a friend of ours, who had been that day at our house, copying some old family portraits, happened to be in the street at that instant, and called out to the mob, "gentlemen, it is yellow! gentlemen, it is not orange!" in consequence of this happy distinction they let go the coachman; and the same man who had mounted guard at the gate, came up with his friends, rescued the carriage, and surrounding the coachman with their pikes brought him safely into the yard. the pole of the carriage having been broken in the first onset, the housekeeper could not leave edgeworth town till morning. she passed the night in walking up and down, listening and watching, but the rebels returned no more, and thus our house was saved by the gratitude of a single individual. 'we had scarcely time to rejoice in the escape of our housekeeper and safety of our house, when we found that new dangers arose even from this escape. the house being saved created jealousy and suspicion in the minds of many, who at this time saw everything through the mist of party prejudice. the dislike to my father's corps appeared every hour more strong. he saw the consequences that might arise from the slightest breaking out of quarrel. it was not possible for him to send his men, unarmed as they still were, to their homes, lest they should be destroyed by the rebels; yet the officers of the other corps wished to have them sent out of the town, and to this effect joined in a memorial to government. some of these officers disliked my father, from differences of electioneering interests; others, from his not having kept up an acquaintance with them; and others, not knowing him in the least, were misled by party reports and misrepresentations. 'these petty dissensions were, however, at one moment suspended and forgotten in a general sense of danger. an express arrived late one night with the news that the french, who were rapidly advancing, were within a few miles of the town of longford. a panic seized the people. there were in the town eighty of the carabineers and two corps of yeomanry, but it was proposed to evacuate the garrison. my father strongly opposed this measure, and undertook, with fifty men, if arms and ammunition were supplied, to defend the gaol of longford, where there was a strong pass, at which the enemy might be stopped. he urged that a stand might be made there till the king's army should come up. the offer was gladly accepted--men, arms, and ammunition, all he could want or desire, were placed at his disposal. he slept that night in the gaol, with everything prepared for its defence; but the next morning fresh news came, that the french had turned off from the longford road, and were going towards granard; of this, however, there was no certainty. my father, by the desire of the commanding officer, rode out to reconnoitre, and my brother went to the top of the courthouse with a telescope for the same purpose. we (mrs. edgeworth, my aunts, my sisters, and myself) were waiting to hear the result in one of the upper sitting-rooms of the inn, which fronted the street. we heard a loud shout, and going to the window, we saw the people throwing up their hats, and heard huzzas. an express had arrived with news that the french and the rebels had been beaten; that general lake had come up with them at a place called ballynamuck, near granard; that rebels and french were killed, and that the french generals and officers were prisoners. 'we were impatient for my father, when we heard this joyful news; he had not yet returned, and we looked out of the window in hopes of seeing him; but we could see only a great number of people of the town shaking hands with each other. this lasted a few minutes, and then the crowd gathered in silence round one man, who spoke with angry vehemence and gesticulation, stamping, and frequently wiping his forehead. we thought he was a mountebank haranguing the populace, till we saw that he wore a uniform. listening with curiosity to hear what he was saying, we observed that he looked up towards us, and we thought we heard him pronounce the names of my father and brother in tones of insult. we could scarcely believe what we heard him say. pointing up to the top of the court-house, he exclaimed, "that young edgeworth ought to be dragged down from the top of that house." 'our housekeeper burst into the room, so much terrified she could hardly speak. '"my master, ma'am!--it is all against my master. the mob say they will tear him to pieces, if they catch hold of him. they say he 's a traitor, that he illuminated the gaol to deliver it up to the french." 'no words can give an idea of our astonishment. "illuminated!" what could be meant by the gaol being illuminated? my father had literally but two farthing candles, by the light of which he had been reading the newspaper late the preceding night. these, however, were said to be signals for the enemy. the absurdity of the whole was so glaring that we could scarcely conceive the danger to be real, but our pale landlady's fears were urgent; she dreaded that her house should be pulled down. 'we wrote immediately to the commanding officer, informing him of what we had heard, and requesting his advice and assistance. he came to us, and recommended that we should send a messenger to warn mr. edgeworth of his danger, and to request that he would not return to longford that day. the officer added that, in consequence of the rejoicings for the victory, his men would probably be all drunk in a few hours, and that he could not answer for them. this officer, a captain of yeomanry, was a good-natured but inefficient man, who spoke under considerable nervous agitation, and seemed desirous to do all he could, but not to be able to do anything. we wrote instantly, and with difficulty found a man who undertook to convey the note. it was to be carried to meet him on one road, and mrs. edgeworth and i determined to drive out to meet him on the other. we made our way down a back staircase into the inn yard, where the carriage was ready. several gentlemen spoke to us as we got into the carriage, begging us not to be alarmed: mrs. edgeworth answered that she was more surprised than alarmed. the commanding officer and the sovereign of longford walked by the side of the carriage through the town; and as the mob believed that we were going away not to return, we got through without much molestation. we went a few miles on the road toward edgeworth town, till at a tenant's house we heard that my father had passed half an hour ago; that he was riding in company with an officer, supposed to be of lord cornwallis's or general lake's army; that they had taken a short cut, which led into longford by another entrance:--most fortunately, not that at which an armed mob had assembled, expecting the object of their fury. seeing him return to the inn with an officer of the king's army, they imagined, as we were afterwards told, that he was brought back a prisoner, and they were satisfied. 'the moment we saw him safe, we laughed at our own fears, and again doubted the reality of the danger, more especially as he treated the idea with the utmost incredulity and scorn. 'major (now general) eustace was the officer who returned with him. he dined with us; everything appeared quiet. the persons who had taken refuge at the inn were now gone to their homes, and it was supposed that, whatever dispositions to riot had existed, the news of the approach of some of lord cornwallis's suite, or of troops who were to bring in the french prisoners, would prevent all probability of disturbance. in the evening the prisoners arrived at the inn; a crowd followed them, but quietly. a sun-burnt, coarse-looking man, in a huge cocked hat, with a quantity of gold lace on his clothes, seemed to fix all attention; he was pointed out as the french general homberg, or sarrazin. as he dismounted from his horse, he threw the bridle over its neck, and looked at the animal as being his only friend. 'we heard my father in the evening ask major eustace to walk with him through the town to the barrack-yard to evening parade; and we saw them go out together without our feeling the slightest apprehension. we remained at the inn. by this time colonel handfield, major cannon, and some other officers, had arrived, and they were at the inn at dinner in a parlour on the ground-floor, under our room. it being hot weather, the windows were open. nothing now seemed to be thought of but rejoicings for the victory. candles were preparing for the illumination; waiters, chambermaids, landlady, were busy scooping turnips and potatoes for candlesticks, to stand in every pane of every loyal window. 'in the midst of this preparation, half an hour after my father had left us, we heard a great uproar in the street. at first we thought the shouts were only rejoicings for victory, but as they came nearer we heard screechings and yellings indescribably horrible. a mob had gathered at the gates of the barrack-yard, and joined by many soldiers of the yeomanry on leaving parade, had followed major eustace and my father from the barracks. the major being this evening in coloured clothes, the people no longer knew him to be an officer, nor conceived, as they had done before, that mr. edgeworth was his prisoner. the mob had not contented themselves with the horrid yells that they heard, but had been pelting them with hard turf, stones, and brickbats. from one of these my father received a blow on the side of his head, which came with such force as to stagger and almost to stun him; but he kept himself from falling, knowing that if he once fell he would be trampled under foot. he walked on steadily till he came within a few yards of the inn, when one of the mob seized hold of major eustace by the collar. my father seeing the windows of the inn open, called with a loud voice, "major eustace is in danger!" 'the officers, who were at dinner, and who till that moment had supposed the noise in the street to be only drunken rejoicings, immediately ran out and rescued major eustace and my father. at the sight of british officers and drawn swords, the populace gave way, and dispersed in different directions. 'the preparation for the illumination then went on as if nothing had intervened. all the panes of our windows in the front room were in a blaze of light by the time the mob returned through the street. the night passed without further disturbance. 'as early as we could the next morning we left longford, and returned homewards, all danger from rebels being now over, and the rebellion having been terminated by the late battle. 'when we came near edgeworth town, we saw many well-known faces at the cabin doors looking out to welcome us. one man, who was digging in his field by the roadside, when he looked up as our horses passed, and saw my father, let fall his spade and clasped his hands; his face, as the morning sun shone upon it, was the strongest picture of joy i ever saw. the village was a melancholy spectacle; windows shattered and doors broken. but though the mischief done was great, there had been little pillage. within our gates we found all property safe; literally "not a twig touched, nor a leaf harmed." within the house everything was as we had left it--a map that we had been consulting was still open upon the library table, with pencils, and slips of paper containing the first lessons in arithmetic, in which some of the young people had been engaged the morning we had driven from home; a pansy, in a glass of water, which one of the children had been copying, was still on the chimney-piece. these trivial circumstances, marking repose and tranquillity, struck us at this moment with an unreasonable sort of surprise, and all that had passed seemed like an incoherent dream. the joy of having my father in safety remained, and gratitude to heaven for his preservation. these feelings spread inexpressible pleasure over what seemed to be a new sense of existence. even the most common things appeared delightful; the green lawn, the still groves, the birds singing, the fresh air, all external nature, and all the goods and conveniences of life, seemed to have wonderfully increased in value from the fear into which we had been put of losing them irrevocably. 'the first thing my father did, the day we came home, was to draw up a memorial to the lord-lieutenant, desiring to have a court-martial held on the sergeant who, by haranguing the populace, had raised the mob at longford; his next care was to walk through the village, to examine what damage had been done by the rebels, and to order that repairs of all his tenants' houses should be made at his expense. a few days after our return, government ordered that the arms of the edgeworth town infantry should be forwarded by the commanding-officer at longford. through the whole of their hard week's trial the corps had, without any exception, behaved perfectly well. it was perhaps more difficult to honest and brave men passively to bear such a trial than any to which they could have been exposed in action. 'when the arms for the corps arrived, my father, in delivering them to the men, thanked them publicly for their conduct, assuring them that he would remember it whenever he should have opportunities of serving them, collectively or individually. in long-after years, as occasions arose, each who continued to deserve it found in him a friend, and felt that he more than fulfilled his promise. . . . before we quit this subject, it may be useful to record that the french generals who headed this invasion declared they had been completely deceived as to the state of ireland. they had expected to find the people in open rebellion, or at least, in their own phrase, organised for insurrection; but to their dismay they found only ragamuffins, as they called them, who, in joining their standard, did them infinitely more harm than good. it is a pity that the lower irish could not hear the contemptuous manner in which the french, both officers and soldiers, spoke of them and of their country. the generals described the stratagems which had been practised upon them by their good allies--the same rebels frequently returning with different tones and new stories, to obtain double and treble provisions of arms, ammunition, and uniforms--selling the ammunition for whisky, and running away at the first fire in the day of battle. the french, detesting and despising those by whom they had been thus cheated, pillaged, and deserted, called them beggars, rascals, and savages. they cursed also without scruple their own directory for sending them, after they had, as they boasted, conquered the world, to be at last beaten on an irish bog. officers and soldiers joined in swearing that they would never return to a country where they could find neither bread, wine, nor discipline, and where the people lived on roots, whisky, and lying.' maria ends this exciting chapter of the memoirs with these moral reflections: 'at all times it is disadvantageous to those who have the reputation of being men of superior abilities, to seclude themselves from the world. it raises a belief that they despise those with whom they do not associate; and this supposed contempt creates real aversion. the being accused of pride or singularity may not, perhaps, in the estimation of some lofty spirits and independent characters, appear too great a price to pay for liberty and leisure; they will care little if they be misunderstood or misrepresented by the vulgar; they will trust to truth and time to do them justice. this may be all well in ordinary life, and in peaceable days; but in civil commotions the best and the wisest, if he have not made himself publicly known, so as to connect himself with the interests and feelings of his neighbours, will find none to answer for his character if it be attacked, or to warn him of the secret machinations of his enemies; none who on any sudden emergency will risk their own safety in his defence: he may fall and be trampled upon by numbers, simply because it is nobody's business or pleasure to rally to his aid. time and reason right his character, and may bring all who have injured, or all who have mistaken him, to repentance and shame, but in the interval he must suffer--he may perish.' chapter . the british government seem to have thought it best at this time to pursue a laissez faire policy in ireland, in order to convince the irish of their weakness, and to show them that, although a bundle of sticks when loosened allows each stick to be used for beating, and it may therefore be argued that sticks, being meant for fighting, should never be bound in a bundle, yet each single stick may easily get broken. of course the government intended to intervene before it was too late, and to suggest to the irish that it was time to think of a union with their stronger neighbours. on this subject, maria remarks: 'it is certain that the combinations of the disaffected at home and the advance of foreign invaders, were not checked till the peril became imminent, and till the purpose of creating universal alarm had been fully effected. as soon as the commander-in-chief and the lord-lieutenant (at the time joined in the same person) exerted his full military and civil power, the invaders were defeated, and the rebellion was extinguished. the petty magisterial tyrants, who had been worse than vain of their little brief authority, were put down, or rather, being no longer upheld, sank to their original and natural insignificance. the laws returned to their due course; and, with justice, security and tranquillity, were restored. 'my father honestly, not ostentatiously, used his utmost endeavours to obliterate all that could tend to perpetuate ill-will in the country. among the lower classes in his neighbourhood he endeavoured to discourage that spirit of recrimination and retaliation which the lower irish are too prone to cherish, and of which they are proud. "revenge is sweet, and i'll have it" were words which an old beggar-woman was overheard muttering to herself as she tottered along the road. . . . 'the lower irish are such acute observers that there is no deceiving them as to the state of the real feelings of their superiors. . . . 'it was soon seen by all of those who had any connection with him, that my father was sincere in his disdain of vengeance--of this they had convincing proof in his refusing to listen to the tales of slander, which so many were ready to pour into his ear, against those who had appeared to be his enemies. 'they saw that he determined to have a public trial of the man who had instigated the longford mob, but that, for the sake of justice, and to record what his own conduct had been, he did not seek this trial from any petty motives of personal resentment. 'during the course of the trial, it appeared that the sergeant was a mere ignorant enthusiast, who had been worked up to frenzy by some, more designing than himself. having accomplished his own object of publicly proving every fact that concerned his own honour and character, my father felt desirous that the poor culprit, who was now ashamed and penitent, should not be punished. the evidence was not pressed against him, and he was acquitted. as they were leaving the courthouse my father saw, and spoke in a playful tone to the penitent sergeant, who, among his other weaknesses, happened to be much afraid of ghosts. "sergeant, i congratulate you," said he, "upon my being alive here before you--i believe you would rather meet me than my ghost!" then cheering up the man with the assurance of his perfect forgiveness, he passed on. 'the malevolent passions' my father always considered as the greatest foes to human felicity--they would not stay in his mind--he was of too good and too happy a nature. he forgot all, but the moral which he drew for his private use from this longford business. he kept ever afterwards the resolution he had made, to mix more with general society. 'his thoughts were soon called to that most important question, of the union between england and ireland, which it was expected would be discussed at the meeting of parliament. 'it was late in life to begin a political career--imprudently so, had it been with the common views of family advancement or of personal fame; but his chief hope, in going into parliament, was to obtain assistance in forwarding the great object of improving the education of the people: he wished also to assist in the discussion of the union. he was not without a natural desire, which he candidly avowed, to satisfy himself how far he could succeed as a parliamentary speaker, and how far his mind would stand the trial of political competition or the temptations of ambition. 'on the subject of the union he had not yet been able, in parliamentary phrase, to make up his mind: and he went to the house in that state in which so many profess to find themselves, and so few ever really are--anxious to hear the arguments on both sides, and open to be decided by whoever could show him that which was best for his country. 'the debate on the first proposal of the union was protracted to an unusual length, and when he rose to speak, it was late at night, or rather it was early in the morning--two o'clock--the house had been so wearied that many of the members were asleep. it was an inauspicious moment. no person present, not even the speaker, who was his intimate friend, could tell on which side he would vote. curiosity was excited: some of the outstretched members were roused by their neighbours, whose anxiety to know on which side he would vote prompted them to encourage him to proceed. this curiosity was kept alive as he went on; and when people perceived that it was not a set speech, they became interested. he stated his doubts, just as they had really occurred, balancing the arguments as he threw them by turns into each scale, as they had balanced one another in his judgment; so that the doubtful beam nodded from side to side, while all watched to see when its vibrations would settle. all the time he kept both parties in good humour, because each expected to have him their own at last. after stating many arguments in favour of what appeared to him to be the advantages of the union, he gave his vote against it, because, he said, he had been convinced by what he had heard in that house this night, that the union was at this time decidedly against the wishes of the great majority of men of sense and property in the nation. he added that if he should be convinced that the opinion of the country changed at the final discussion of the question, his vote would be in its favour. 'one of the anti-unionists, who happened not to know my father personally, imagined from his accent, style, and manner of speaking, that he was an englishman, and accused the government of having brought a new member over from england, to impose him upon the house, as an impartial country gentleman, who was to make a pretence of liberality by giving a vote against the union, while, by arguing in its favour, he was to make converts for the measure. many on the ministerial bench, who had still hopes that, on a future occasion, mr. edgeworth might be convinced and brought to vote with them, complimented him highly, declaring that they were completely surprised when they learned how he voted; for that undoubtedly the best arguments on their side of the question had been produced in his speech. lord castlereagh found the measure so much against the sense of the house that he pressed it no further at that time. 'this session my father had the satisfaction of turning the attention of the house to a subject which he considered to be of greater and more permanent importance than the union, or than any merely political measure could prove to his country, the education of the people. by his exertions a select committee was appointed, and they adopted the resolutions drawn up by him. when the report of this committee was brought up to the house, my father spoke at large upon the subject. 'in his speech he said: it was impossible, when moral principles are instilled into the human mind, when people are regularly taught their duty to god and man, that abominable tenets can prevail to the subversion of subordination and society. he would venture to assert, though the power of the sword was great, that the force of education was greater. it was notorious that the writings of one man, mr. burke, had changed the opinions of the whole people of england against the french revolution. ... if proper books were circulated through the country, and if the public mind was prepared for the reception of their doctrines, it would be impossible to make the ignorance of the people an instrument of national ruin. 'there is, he contended, a fund of goodness in the irish as well as in the english nature. did god give different minds to different countries? no, the difference of mind arose from education. it therefore became the duty of parliament to improve as much as possible the public understanding--for the misfortunes of ireland were owing not to the heart, but the head: the defect was not from nature, but from want of culture. 'during this session my father spoke again two or three times, on some questions of revenue regulations and excise laws: of little consequence separately considered, but of importance in one respect, in their effect on the morality of the people. he pointed out that nothing could with more certainty tend to increase the crime of perjury than the multiplying custom-house oaths, and what are termed oaths of office. ... in ireland the habits of the common people are already too lax with regard to truth. the difference of religion, and the facilities of absolution, present difficulties so formidable to their moral improvement as to require all the counteracting powers of education, example, public opinion, and law. . . . multiplying oaths injures the revenue, by increasing incalculably the means of evading the very laws and penalties by which it is attempted to bind the subject. experience proves that this is a danger of no small account to the revenue; though trifling when compared with the importance of the general effect on national morality, and on the safety and tranquillity of the state, all which must ultimately rest, at all times and in all countries, upon religious sanctions. "it was not," my father observed, "by increasing pains and penalties, or by any severity of punishment, that the observance of laws can be secured; on the contrary, small but certain punishments, and few but punctually executed laws, are most likely to secure obedience, and to effect public prosperity."' he writes to darwin in march : 'the fatigue of the session was enormous. i am a unionist, but i vote and speak against the union now proposed to us--as to my reasons, are they not published in the reports of our debates? it is intended to force this measure down the throats of the irish, though five-sixths of the nation are against it. now, though i think such union as would identify the nations, so as that ireland should be as yorkshire to great britain, would be an excellent thing: yet i also think that the good people of ireland ought to be persuaded of this truth, and not be dragooned into the submission. 'the minister avows that seventy-two boroughs are to be compensated --i.e. bought by the people of ireland with one million and a half of their own money; and he makes this legal by a very small majority, made up chiefly by these very borough members. when thirty-eight country members out of sixty-four are against the measure, and twenty-eight counties out of thirty-two have petitioned against it, this is such abominable corruption that it makes our parliamentary sanction worse than ridiculous. 'i had the honour of offering, for myself, and for a large number of other gentlemen, that, if a minister could by any means win the nation to the measure, and show us even a small preponderance in his favour, we would vote with him. 'so far for politics. i had a charming opportunity of advancing myself and my family, but i did not think it wise to quarrel with myself, and lose my good opinion at my time of life. what did lie in my way for a vote i will not say, but i stated in my place in the house, that i had been offered three thousand guineas for my seat during the few remaining weeks of the session.' in he writes:--'the influence of the crown was never so strongly exerted as upon this occasion. it is but justice, however, to lord cornwallis and lord castlereagh to give it as my opinion, that they began this measure with sanguine hopes that they could convince the reasonable part of the community that a cordial union between the two countries would essentially advance the interests of both. when, however, the ministry found themselves in a minority, and that a spirit of general opposition was rising in the country, a member of the house, who had been long practised in parliamentary intrigues, had the audacity to tell lord castlereagh from his place, that "if he did not employ the usual means of persuasion on the members of the house, he would fail in his attempt, and that the sooner he set about it the better." 'this advice was followed; and it is well known what benches were filled with the proselytes that had been made by the convincing arguments which had obtained a majority. 'he went in the spring of to england, and visited his old friends, mr. keir, mr. watt, dr. darwin, and mr. william strutt of derby. in passing through different parts of the country he saw, and delighted in showing us, everything curious and interesting in art and nature. travelling, he used to say, was from time to time necessary, to change the course of ideas, and to prevent the growth of local prejudices. 'he went to london, and paid his respects to his friend sir joseph banks, attended the meetings of the royal society, and met various old acquaintances whom he had formerly known abroad.' maria writes:--'in his own account of his earlier life he has never failed to mark the time and manner of the commencement of valuable friendships with the same care and vividness of recollection with which some men mark the date of their obtaining promotion, places, or titles. i follow the example he has set me. 'my father's and mrs. edgeworth's families were both numerous, and among such numbers, even granting the dispositions to be excellent and the understandings cultivated, the chances were against their suiting; but, happily, all the individuals of the two families, though of various talents, ages, and characters, did, from their first acquaintance, coalesce. . . . after he had lost such a friend as mr. day . . . who could have dared to hope that he should ever have found another equally deserving to possess his whole confidence and affection? yet such a one it pleased god to give him--and to give him in the brother of his wife. and never man felt more strongly grateful for the double blessing. to captain beaufort he became as much attached as he had ever been to lord longford or to mr. day. 'his father-in-law, dr. beaufort, was also particularly agreeable to him as a companion, and helpful as a friend.' consumption again carried off one of edgeworth's family: his daughter elizabeth died at clifton in august . the continent, which had been practically closed for some years to travellers, was open in at the time of the short peace, and edgeworth gladly availed himself of the opportunity of mixing in the literary and scientific society in paris, and of showing his wife the treasures of the louvre--treasures increased by the spoil of other countries. the tour was arranged for the autumn, and edgeworth was looking forward to visiting dr. darwin on the way, when he received a letter begun by the doctor, describing his move from derby to the priory, a few miles out of the town, and sending a playful message to maria: 'pray tell the authoress that the water nymphs of our valley will be happy to assist her next novel.' a few lines after, the pen had stopped; another hand added the sad news that dr. darwin had been taken suddenly ill with fainting fits: he revived and spoke, but died that morning. the sudden death of such an old and valued friend was a great shock to edgeworth. some months later, his daughter mentions that, 'in passing through england, we went to derby, and to the priory, to which we had been so kindly invited by him who was now no more. the priory was all stillness, melancholy, and mourning. it was a painful visit, yet not without satisfaction; for my father's affectionate manner seemed to soothe the widow and daughters of his friend, who were deeply sensible of the respect and zealous regard he showed for dr. darwin's memory.' chapter mr. and mrs. edgeworth, with their daughters maria and charlotte, travelled through the low countries--'a delightful tour,' maria writes--and at length reached paris, where they spent the winter - . they soon got introductions, through the abbe morellet, into that best circle of society, 'which was composed of all that remained of the ancient men of letters, and of the most valuable of the nobility; not of those who had accepted of places from buonaparte, nor yet of those emigrants who have been wittily and too justly described as returning to france after the revolution, sans avoir rien appris, ou rien oublie.' . . . 'we felt,' maria writes, 'the characteristic charms of parisian conversation, the polish and ease which in its best days distinguished it from that of any other capital. 'during my father's former residence in france, at the time when he was engaged in directing the works of the rhone and saone at lyons, as he mentions in his memoirs, he wrote a treatise on the construction of mills. he wished that d'alembert should read it, to verify the mathematical calculations, and for this purpose he had put it into the hands of morellet. d'alembert approved of the essay; and my father became advantageously known to morellet as a man of science, and as one who had gratuitously and honourably conducted a useful work in france. his predominating taste thus continued, as in former times, its influence, was still a connecting link between him and old and new friends. on this and many other occasions he proved the truth of what has been asserted, that no effort is ever lost: his exertions at lyons in , after an interval of thirty years, now becoming of unexpected advantage to him and to his family at paris. . . . 'in paris there is an institution resembling our london society of arts, la societe d'encouragement pour l'industrie nationale: of this my father was made a member, and he presented to it the model of a lock of his invention. in getting this executed, he became acquainted with some of the working mechanics in paris, and had an opportunity of observing how differently work of this kind is carried on there and in birmingham. instead of the assemblage of artificers in manufactories, such as we see in birmingham, each artisan in paris, working out his own purposes in his own domicile, must in his time "play many parts," and among these many to which he is incompetent, either from want of skill or want of practice: so that, in fact, even supposing french artisans to be of equal ability and industry with english competitors, they are at least a century behind, by thus being precluded from all the miraculous advantages of the division of labour. . . . 'my father had left england with a strong desire to see buonaparte, and had procured a letter from the lord chamberlain (lord essex), and had applied to lord whitworth, our ambassador at paris, who was to present him. but soon after our arrival at paris, he learned that buonaparte was preparing the way for becoming emperor, contrary to the wishes and judgment of the most enlightened part of the french nation. . . . 'my father could no longer consider buonaparte as a great man, abiding by his principles, and content with the true glory of being the first citizen of a free people; but as one meditating usurpation, and on the point of overturning, for the selfish love of dominion, the liberty of france. with this impression, my father declared that he would not go to the court of a usurper. he never went to his levees, nor would he be presented to him. 'my father had not the presumption to imagine that in a cursory view, during a slight tour, and a residence of four or five months at paris, he could become thoroughly acquainted with france. besides, his living chiefly with the select society which i have described precluded the possibility of seeing much of what were called les nouveaux riches. 'the few general observations he made on french society at this time i shall mention. he observed that, among the families of the old nobility, domestic happiness and virtue had much increased since the revolution, in consequence of the marriages which, after they lost their wealth and rank, had been formed, not according to the usual fashion of old french alliances, but from disinterested motives, from the perception of the real suitability of tempers and characters. the women of this class in general, withdrawn from politics and political intrigue, were more domestic and amiable. . . . 'with regard to literature, he observed that it had considerably degenerated. for the good taste, wit, and polished style which had characterised french literature before the revolution there was no longer any demand, and but few competent judges remained. the talents of the nation had been forced by circumstances into different directions. at one time, the hurry and necessity of the passing moment had produced political pamphlets and slight works of amusement, formed to catch the public revolutionary taste. at another period, the contending parties, and the real want of freedom in the country, had repressed literary efforts. science, which flourished independently of politics, and which was often useful and essential to the rulers, had meanwhile been encouraged, and had prospered. the discoveries and inventions of men of science showed that the same positive quantity of talent existed in france as in former times, though appearing in a new form.' the charms of paris and its society were rudely broken by edgeworth receiving one morning a visit from a police officer requiring him immediately to attend at the palais de justice. edgeworth was in bed with a cold when this summons came. he writes to miss charlotte sneyd:--'my being ill was not a sufficient excuse; i got up and dressed myself slowly, to gain time for thinking--drank one dish of chocolate, ordered my carriage, and went with my exempt to the palais de justice. there i was shown into a parlour, or rather a guard-room, where a man like an under-officer was sitting at a desk. in a few minutes i was desired to walk upstairs into a long narrow room, in different parts of which ten or twelve clerks were sitting at different tables. to one of these i was directed--he asked my name, wrote it on a printed card, and demanding half a crown, presented the card to me, telling me it was a passport. i told him i did not want a passport; but he pressed it upon me, assuring me that i had urgent necessity for it, as i must quit paris immediately. then he pointed out to me another table, where another clerk was pleased to place me in the most advantageous point of view for taking my portrait, and he took my written portrait with great solemnity, and this he copied into my passport. i begged to know who was the principal person in the room, and to him i applied to learn the cause of the whole proceeding. he coolly answered that if i wanted to know i must apply to the grand juge. to the grand juge i drove, and having waited till the number ninety-three was called, the number of the ticket which had been given to me at the door, i was admitted, and the grand juge most formally assured me that he knew nothing of the affair, but that all i had to do was to obey. i returned home, and, on examining my passport, found that i was ordered to quit paris in twenty-four hours. i went directly to our ambassador, lord whitworth, who lived at the extremity of the town: he was ill--with difficulty i got at his secretary, mr. talbot, to whom i pointed out that i applied to my ambassador from a sense of duty and politeness, before i would make any application to private friends, though i believed that i had many in paris who were willing and able to assist me. the secretary went to the ambassador, and in half an hour wrote an official note to talleyrand, to ask the why and the wherefore. he advised me in the meantime to quit paris, and to go to some village near it--passy or versailles. passy seemed preferable, because it is the nearest to paris--only a mile and a half distant. before i quitted paris i made another attempt to obtain some explanation from the grand juge. i could not see him, or even his secretary, for a considerable time; and when at length the secretary appeared, it was only to tell me that i could not see the grand juge. "cannot i write," said i, "to your grand juge?" he answered hesitatingly, "yes." a huissier took in my note, and another excellent one from the friend who was with me, f. d. the huissier returned presently, holding my papers out to me at arm's length--"the grand juge knows nothing of this matter." 'i returned home, dined, ordered a carriage to be ready to take me to passy, wrote a letter to buonaparte, stating my entire ignorance of the cause of my deportation, and asserting that i was unconnected with any political party. f. d. engaged that the letter should be delivered; and mrs. e. and charlotte remaining to settle our affairs at paris, i set off for passy with maria, where my friend f. d. had taken the best lodging he could find for me in the village. madame g. had offered me her country house at passy; but though she pressed that offer most kindly we would not accept of it, lest we should compromise our friends. another friend, mons. de p, offered his country house, but, for the same reason, this offer was declined. we arrived at passy about ten o'clock at night, and though a deporte, i slept tolerably well. before i was up, my friend mons. de p. was with me--breakfasted with us in our little oven of a parlour --conversed two hours most agreeably. our other friend, f. d, came also before we had breakfasted, and just as i had mounted on a table to paste some paper over certain deficiencies in the window, enter m. p. and le b------h. '"mon ami, ce n'est pas la peine!" cried they both at once, their faces rayonnant de joie. "you need not give yourself so much trouble; you will not stay here long. we have seen the grand juge, and your detention arises from a mistake. it was supposed that you are brother to the abbe edgeworth--we are to deliver a petition from you, stating what your relationship to the abbe really is. this shall be backed by an address signed by all your friends at paris, and you will be then at liberty to return." 'i objected to writing any petition, and at all events i determined to consult my ambassador, who had conducted himself well towards me. i wrote to lord whitworth, stating the facts, and declaring that nothing could ever make me deny the honour of being related to the abbe edgeworth. lord whitworfh advised me, however, to state the fact that i was not the abbe's brother. . . . 'no direct answer was received from the first consul; but perhaps the revocation of the order of the grand juge came from him. we were assured that my father's letter had been read by him, and that he declared he knew nothing of the affair; and so far from objecting to any man for being related to the abbe edgeworth, he declared that he considered him as a most respectable, faithful subject, and that he wished that he had many such.' before this unpleasant occurrence edgeworth had thought of taking a house in paris for two years and sending for his other children; but he now, in spite of the entreaties of his french friends, altered his plans and resolved to return home. maria writes:--'he was prudent and decided--had he been otherwise, we might all have been among the number of our countrymen who were, contrary to the law of nations, and to justice and reason, made prisoners in france at the breaking out of the war. we were fortunate in getting safe to free and happy england a short time before war was declared, and before the detention of the english took place. 'my eldest brother had the misfortune to be among those who were detained. his exile was rendered as tolerable as circumstances would permit by the indefatigable kindness of our friends the d' s. but it was an exile of eleven years--from to --six years of that time spent at verdun!' chapter instead of returning at once to ireland, the edgeworths went to edinburgh to visit henry edgeworth, whose declining health caused his father much anxiety. maria writes:--'he mended rapidly while we were at edinburgh; and this improvement in his health added to the pleasure his father felt in seeing the interest his son had excited among the friends he had made for himself in edinburgh--men of the first abilities and highest characters, both in literature and science--whom we knew by their works, as did all the world; with some of whom my father had had the honour of corresponding, but to whom he was personally unknown. imagine the pleasure he felt at being introduced to them by his son, and in hearing gregory, alison, playfair, dugald stewart, speak of henry as if he actually belonged to themselves, and with the most affectionate regard. . . . 'on our journey homewards, in passing through scotland, we met with much hospitality and kindness, and much that was interesting in the country and in its inhabitants. but the circumstance that remains the most fixed in my recollection, and that which afterwards influenced my father's life the most, happened to be the books we read during our last day's journey. these were the lives of robertson the historian, and of reid, which had been just given to us by mr. stewart. in the life of reid there are some passages which struck my father particularly. i recollect at the moment when i was reading to him, his stretching eagerly across from his side of the carriage to mine, and marking the book with his pencil with strong and reiterated marks of approbation. the passages relate to the means which dr. reid employed to prevent the decay of his faculties as he advanced in years; to remedy the errors and deficiencies of one failing sense by the increased activity of another, and by the resources of reasoning and ingenuity to resist, as far as possible, or to render supportable, the infirmities of age . . . my father never forgot this passage, and acted on it years afterwards.' it was not henry who was taken first, but charlotte, who was 'fresh as a rose' on her first tour abroad. in april she died of the same disease as her sisters, and about two years after her brother henry followed her to the grave. it needed a brave heart to bear up under such sorrows, but edgeworth, though he felt them keenly, would not sink into the lethargy of grief, but roused himself to work for the public good. he was on the board appointed to inquire into the education of the people of ireland, and two of his papers on the subject were printed in the reports of the commissioners; he also drew up the plan of a school for edgeworth town, which was afterwards carried into execution by his son, lovell; and at this time he was writing his memoirs, a task which was interrupted by a severe illness in . he had hardly recovered from this before he was engaged in the government survey of bogs, and maria writes:--'it was late in the year, and the weather unfavourable. in laying out and verifying the work of the surveyors employed, he was usually out from daybreak to sunset, often fifteen hours without food, traversing on foot, with great bodily exertion, wastes and deserts of bog, so wet and dangerous as to be scarcely passable at that season, even by the common irish best used to them. in these bogs there frequently occur great holes, filled with water of the same colour as the bog, or sometimes covered over with a slight surface of the peat heath or grass, called by the common people a shakingscraw. 'in traversing these bogs a man must pick his way carefully, sometimes wading, sometimes leaping from one landing place to another, choosing these cautiously, lest they should not sustain his weight: avoiding certain treacherous green spots on which the unwary might be tempted to set foot, and would sink, never to rise again.' the work was fatiguing, but the open air life seemed to give him new vigour, and his health was reestablished. the work had interested him much, and he believed that an immense tract of bog might be reclaimed. the obstacles he foresaw were want of capital and the danger of litigation. as long as the bogs were unprofitable there was no incitement to a strict definition of boundaries, but if the land was reclaimed many lawsuits would follow. maria thus describes the difficulties encountered by her father:--'he wished to undertake the improvement of a large tract of bog in his neighbourhood, and for this purpose desired to purchase it from the proprietor; but the proprietor had not the power or the inclination to sell it. my father, anxious to try a decisive experiment on a large scale, proposed to rent it from him, and offered a rent, till then unheard of, for bogland. the proprietor professed himself satisfied to accept the proposal, provided my father would undertake to indemnify him for any expense to which he might be put by future lawsuits concerning the property or boundaries of this bog. he was aware that if he were to give a lease for a long term, even for sixty years, this would raise the idea that the bog would become profitable; and still further, if ever it should be really improved and profitable, it would become an object of contention and litigation to many who might fancy they had claims, which, as long as the bog was nearly without value, they found it not worth while to urge. it was impossible to enter into the insurance proposed, and, consequently, he could not obtain this tract of bog, or further prosecute his plan. the same sort of difficulty must frequently recur. parts of different estates pass through extensive tracts of bog, of which the boundaries are uncertain. the right to cut the turf is usually vested in the occupiers of adjoining farms; but they are at constant war with each other about boundaries, and these disputes, involving the original grants of the lands, hundreds of years ago, with all subsequent deeds and settlements, appear absolutely interminable. . . . 'it may not be at present a question of much interest to the british public, because no such large decisive experiment as was proposed has yet been tried as to the value and attainableness of the object; but its magnitude and importance are incontestable, the whole extent of peat soil in ireland exceeding, as it is confidently pronounced, , , acres, of which about half might be converted to the general purposes of agriculture.' it was in that edgeworth constructed, 'upon a plan of his own invention, a spire for the church of edgeworth town. this spire was formed of a skeleton of iron, covered with slates, painted and sanded to resemble portland stone. it was put together on the ground within the tower of the church, and when finished it was drawn up at once, with the assistance of counterbalancing weights, to the top of the tower, and there to be fixed in its place. 'the novelty of the construction of this spire, even in this its first skeleton state, excited attention, and as it drew towards its completion, and near the moment when, with its covering of slates, altogether amounting to many tons weight, it was to move, or not to move, fifty feet from the ground to the top of the tower, everybody in the neighbourhood, forming different opinions of the probability of its success or failure, became interested in the event. 'several of my father's friends and acquaintances, in our own and from adjoining counties, came to see it drawn up. fortunately, it happened to be a very fine autumn day, and the groups of spectators of different ranks and ages, assembled and waiting in silent expectation, gave a picturesque effect to the whole. a bugle sounded as the signal for ascent. the top of the spire appearing through the tower of the church, began to move upwards; its gilt ball and arrow glittered in the sun, while with motion that was scarcely perceptible it rose majestically. not one word or interjection was uttered by any of the men who worked the windlasses at the top of the tower. 'it reached its destined station in eighteen minutes, and then a flag streamed from its summit and gave notice that all was safe. not the slightest accident or difficulty occurred.' maria adds:--'the conduct of the whole had been trusted to my brother william (the civil engineer), and the first words my father said, when he was congratulated upon the success of the work, were that his son's steadiness in conducting business and commanding men gave him infinitely more satisfaction than he could feel from the success of any invention of his own.' towards the close of edgeworth was requested, as he understood, by a committee of the house of commons on broad wheels, to look over and report on a mass of evidence on the subject. this he did, but then found that it was a private request of the chairman, sir john sinclair, who begged that the report might be given to the board of agriculture. this edgeworth declined, but wrote instead and presented an essay on springs applied to carts; and in he published an essay on roads, and wheel carriages. his daughter writes:--'in the course of the drudgery which he went through he received a great counterbalancing pleasure from the following passage, which he chanced to meet with in a letter to the committee, written by a gentleman to whom he was personally a stranger: '"mr. edgeworth was the first who pointed out the great benefit of springs in aiding the draught of horses. the subject deserves more attention than it has hitherto met with. no discovery relative to carriages has been made in our time of equal importance; and the ingenious author of it deserves highly of some mark of public gratitude."' maria adds:--'those ingenious ideas, which had been but the amusement of youth, as he advanced in life, he turned to public utility: for instance, the mode of conveying secret and swift intelligence, which he had suggested at first only to decide a trifling wager between him and some young nobleman, he afterwards improved into a national telegraph, and through all difficulties and disappointments persevered till it was established. in the same manner, his juvenile amusements with the sailing chariot led to experiments on the resistance of the air, which in more mature years he pursued in the patient spirit of philosophical investigation, and turned to good account for the real business of life, and for the advancement of science. 'on this subject, in the year , he published in the transactions of the royal society (vol. ) "an essay on the resistance of the air," of which the object, as he states, is to determine the force of the wind upon surfaces of different size and figure, or upon the same surface, when placed in different directions, inclined at different angles, or curved in different arches. . . . after trying several experiments on surfaces of various shapes, he ascertained the difference of resistance in different cases, suggested the probable cause of these variations, and opened a large field for future curious and useful speculation; useful it may be called, as well as curious, because such knowledge applies immediately to the wants and active business of life, to the construction of wind- and water-mills, and to the extensive purposes of navigation. the theory of philosophers and the practice of mechanics and seamen were, and perhaps are still, at variance as to the manner in which sails of wind-mills and of ships should be set. dr. hooke, in his day, expressed "his surprise at the obstinacy of seamen in continuing, after what appeared the clearest demonstration to the contrary, to prefer what are called bellying or bunting sails, to such as are hauled tight." the doctor said that he would, at some future time, add the test of experiment to mathematical investigation in support of his theory. 'it is remarkable that this test of experiment, when at length it was applied, confirmed the truth of what the philosopher had reprobated as an obstinate vulgar error. my father, in his essay on the resistance of the air, gives the result of his experiments on a flat and curved surface of the same dimensions, and explains the cause of the error into which dr. hooke, m. parent, and other mathematicians had fallen in their theoretic reasonings. . . . 'it is remarkable that a man of naturally lively imagination and of inventive genius should not, in science, have ever followed any fanciful theory of his own, but that all he did should have been characterised by patient investigation and prudent experiment. . . . 'in science, it is not given to man to finish; to persevere, to advance a step or two, is all that can be accomplished, and all that will be expected by the real philosopher. '"we will endeavour" is the humble and becoming motto of our philosophical society.' chapter in his seventy-first year edgeworth had a dangerous illness, and though he seemed to recover from it for a time, he never regained his former strength. one great privation was that, from the failure of his sight, he became dependent on others to read and write for him. but his cheerful fortitude did not fail, though he felt that his days were numbered. he had promised to try some private experiments for the dublin society, and with the help of his son william he carried out a set of experiments on wheel carriages in april and in may . almost his last literary effort was to dictate some pages which he contributed to his daughter maria's novel ormond, and he delighted in having the proofsheets read to him and in correcting them. mrs. ritchie has given some touching details of his last days in her introduction to a new edition of ormond. maria writes:--'the whole of moriaty's history, and his escape from prison, were dictated without any alteration, or hesitation of a word, to honora and me. this history mr. edgeworth heard from the actual hero of it, michael dunne, whom he chanced to meet in the town of navan, where he was living respectably. he kept a shop where mr. edgeworth went to purchase some boards, and observing something very remarkable about the man's countenance, he questioned him as they were looking at the lumber in his yard, and dunne readily told his tale almost in the very words used by moriaty. . . . mr. edgeworth also wrote the meeting between moriaty and his wife when he jumps out of the carriage the moment he hears her voice.' edgeworth kept his intellectual faculties to the last. 'to the last they continued clear, vigorous, energetic; and to the last were exerted in doing good, and in fulfilling every duty, public and private. . . . 'in the closing hours of his life his bodily sufferings subsided, and in the most serene and happy state, he said, before he sank to that sleep from which he never wakened: '"i die with the soft feeling of gratitude to my friends and submission to the god who made me."' he died the th of june . it may be thought to be an easy task to make an abridgment of a biography, but in some ways it is almost as difficult as it is for the sketcher to choose what he will put into his picture and yet preserve a due proportion and give a faithful idea of the whole scene before him. i have tried to give such portions of the memoirs as will present the many-sided character of r. l. edgeworth in relation to his scientific, literary, and educational work, and in relation to his position as a landlord, a father, and a friend. he was a singular instance of great mental activity with little ambition; of a genial nature in his own family circle and among his friends, he withdrew from the multitude, and refused to lower his standard of cultivated intercourse in order to win favour with coarser natures. he is chiefly remembered now as an educational reformer and as the guide of maria edgeworth in the earlier stages of her literary career. what she achieved was in great part due to her father's judicious training and encouragement. a little more ambition and the spur of poverty might have made edgeworth better known as an inventor of useful machines: it is curious to remark how nearly he invented the bicycle. he saw the advantage that light railways would be to ireland, but the breath of mechanical life, steam, as a power, he did not foresee. he might have written a book on 'the domestic life,' so fully had he mastered the secrets of a happy home. he was naturally passionate, but had trained himself to be on his guard against his temper, and was always anxious to improve and to correct any bad habit or fault: even in old age he was constantly on the watch lest bodily infirmities should lead to moral deterioration. he was not too proud to own when he had made mistakes, but used the experience he had gained, and carefully studied his own character and the circumstances which had been most beneficial in forming it. he controlled his expenses as prudently as his temper, and would not allow his inventive faculties to lead him into unjustifiable outlays. his daughter mentions that 'when he was a youth of nineteen, an old gentleman, who saw him passing by his window, said of him, judging by the liveliness of his manner and appearance, "there goes a young fellow who will in a few years dissipate all the fortune his prudent father has been nursing for him his whole life." 'the prophecy was, by a kind neighbour, repeated to him, and, as i have heard him say, it made such an impression as tended considerably to prevent its own accomplishment. 'he acquired the habit of calculating and forming estimates most accurately. he not only estimated what every object of fancy and taste would cost, but he accustomed himself to consider what the actual enjoyment of the indulgence would be. ... he upon all occasions carefully separated the idea of the pleasure of possession from that of contemplating any object of taste.' she also mentions that 'he observed, that the happiness that people derive from the cultivation of their understandings is not in proportion to the talents and capacities of the individual, but is compounded of the united measure of these, and of the use made of them by the possessor; this must include good or ill temper, and other moral dispositions. some with transcendent talents waste these in futile projects; others make them a source of misery, by indulging that overweening anxiety for fame which ends in disappointment, and excites too often the powerful passions of envy and jealousy; others, too humble, or too weak, fret away their spirits and their life in deploring that they were not born with more abilities. but though so many lament the want of talents, few actually derive as much happiness as they might from the share of understanding which they possess. my father never wasted his time in deploring the want of that which he could by exertion acquire. nor did he suffer fame in any pursuit to be his first object.' we feel that we are in the moral atmosphere of paley and butler when she adds:--'far beyond the pleasures of celebrity, or praise in any form, he classed self-approbation and benevolence: these he thought the most secure sources of satisfaction in this world.' this is the spirit of the eighteenth century, the clear cold tone of the moral philosopher, not the enthusiastic impulse of the fervid theologian, of pusey, keble, or newman. one star does indeed differ from another in glory, but all give brilliance to our firmament and raise our thoughts from earth. such a life as richard edgeworth's seems to me to be more instructive than even that excellent moral guide-book written by sir john lubbock, the uses of life, because abstract maxims take less hold of uncultivated or unanalytical minds than the portrait of a man of flesh and blood. bunyan's pilgrim's progress reaches many hearts which are unmoved by an ordinary sermon, and edgeworth's life was indeed a progress, a constant striving not only to improve himself but to help others onward in the right way. he showed what a good landlord could do in ireland, and what a good father can do in binding a family in happy union. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the illustrations by john everett millais used in the first edition of _orley farm_ (chapman and hall, london, ). see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) orley farm by anthony trollope first published in serial form march, , through october, , and in book form in , both by chapman and hall. [illustration: orley farm. (frontispiece)] contents volume i i. the commencement of the great orley farm case. ii. lady mason and her son. iii. the cleeve. iv. the perils of youth. v. sir peregrine makes a second promise. vi. the commercial room, bull inn, leeds. vii. the masons of groby park. viii. mrs. mason's hot luncheon. ix. a convivial meeting. x. mr., mrs., and miss furnival. xi. mrs. furnival at home. xii. mr. furnival's chambers. xiii. guilty, or not guilty. xiv. dinner at the cleeve. xv. a morning call at mount pleasant villa. xvi. mr. dockwrath in bedford row. xvii. von bauhr. xviii. the english von bauhr. xix. the staveley family. xx. mr. dockwrath in his own office. xxi. christmas in harley street. xxii. christmas at noningsby. xxiii. christmas at groby park. xxiv. christmas in great st. helens. xxv. mr. furnival again at his chambers. xxvi. why should i not? xxvii. commerce. xxviii. monkton grange. xxix. breaking covert. xxx. another fall. xxxi. footsteps in the corridor. xxxii. what bridget bolster had to say. xxxiii. the angel of light. xxxiv. mr. furnival looks for assistance. xxxv. love was still the lord of all. xxxvi. what the young men thought about it. xxxvii. peregrine's eloquence. xxxviii. oh, indeed! xxxix. why should he go? xl. i call it awful. volume ii xli. how can i save him? xlii. john kenneby goes to hamworth. xliii. john kenneby's courtship. xliv. showing how lady mason could be very noble. xlv. showing how mrs. orme could be very weak minded. xlvi. a woman's idea of friendship. xlvii. the gem of the four families. xlviii. the angel of light under a cloud. xlix. mrs. furnival can't put up with it. l. it is quite impossible. li. mrs. furnival's journey to hamworth. lii. showing how things went on at noningsby. liii. lady mason returns home. liv. telling all that happened beneath the lamp-post. lv. what took place in harley street. lvi. how sir peregrine did business with mr. round. lvii. the loves and hopes of albert fitzallen. lviii. miss staveley declines to eat minced veal. lix. no surrender. lx. what rebekah did for her son. lxi. the state of public opinion. lxii. what the four lawyers thought about it. lxiii. the evening before the trial. lxiv. the first journey to alston. lxv. felix graham returns to noningsby. lxvi. showing how miss furnival treated her lovers. lxvii. mr. moulder backs his opinion. lxviii. the first day of the trial. lxix. the two judges. lxx. how am i to bear it? lxxi. showing how john kenneby and bridget bolster bore themselves in court. lxxii. mr. furnival's speech. lxxiii. mrs. orme tells the story. lxxiv. young lochinvar. lxxv. the last day. lxxvi. i love her still. lxxvii. john kenneby's doom. lxxviii. the last of the lawyers. lxxix. farewell. lxxx. showing how affairs settled themselves at noningsby. illustrations volume i orley farm. frontispiece sir peregrine and his heir. chapter iii there was sorrow in her heart, and deep thought in her mind. chapter v "there is nothing like iron, sir; nothing." chapter vi and then they all marched out of the room, each with his own glass. chapter ix mr. furnival's welcome home. chapter xi "your son lucius did say--shopping." chapter xiii over their wine. chapter xiv von bauhr's dream. chapter xvii the english von bauhr and his pupil. chapter xviii christmas at noningsby--morning. chapter xxii christmas at noningsby--evening. chapter xxii "why should i not?" chapter xxv monkton grange. chapter xxviii felix graham in trouble. chapter xxix footsteps in the corridor. chapter xxxi the angel of light. chapter xxxiii lucius mason in his study. chapter xxxvi peregrine's eloquence. chapter xxxvii lady stavely interrupting her son and sophia furnival. chapter xxxix volume ii john kenneby and miriam dockwrath. chapter xlii guilty. chapter xliv lady mason after her confession. chapter xlv "bread sauce is so ticklish." chapter xlvii "never is a very long word." chapter l "tom," she said, "i have come back." chapter li lady mason going before the magistrates. chapter liii sir peregrine at mr. round's office. chapter lvi "tell me, madeline, are you happy now?" chapter lviii "no surrender." chapter lix mr. chaffanbrass and mr. solomon aram. chapter lxii the court. chapter lxiv the drawing-room at noningsby. chapter lxv "and how are they all at noningsby?" chapter lxvi lady mason leaving the court. chapter lxx "how can i bear it?" chapter lxx bridget bolster in court. chapter lxxi lucius mason, as he leaned on the gate that was no longer his own. chapter lxxiii farewell! chapter lxxix farewell! chapter lxxix volume i. chapter i. the commencement of the great orley farm case. it is not true that a rose by any other name will smell as sweet. were it true, i should call this story "the great orley farm case." but who would ask for the ninth number of a serial work burthened with so very uncouth an appellation? thence, and therefore,--orley farm. i say so much at commencing in order that i may have an opportunity of explaining that this book of mine will not be devoted in any special way to rural delights. the name might lead to the idea that new precepts were to be given, in the pleasant guise of a novel, as to cream-cheeses, pigs with small bones, wheat sown in drills, or artificial manure. no such aspirations are mine. i make no attempts in that line, and declare at once that agriculturists will gain nothing from my present performance. orley farm, my readers, will be our scene during a portion of our present sojourn together, but the name has been chosen as having been intimately connected with certain legal questions which made a considerable stir in our courts of law. it was twenty years before the date at which this story will be supposed to commence that the name of orley farm first became known to the wearers of the long robe. at that time had died an old gentleman, sir joseph mason, who left behind him a landed estate in yorkshire of considerable extent and value. this he bequeathed, in a proper way, to his eldest son, the joseph mason, esq., of our date. sir joseph had been a london merchant; had made his own money, having commenced the world, no doubt, with half a crown; had become, in turn, alderman, mayor, and knight; and in the fulness of time was gathered to his fathers. he had purchased this estate in yorkshire late in life--we may as well become acquainted with the name, groby park--and his eldest son had lived there with such enjoyment of the privileges of an english country gentleman as he had been able to master for himself. sir joseph had also had three daughters, full sisters of joseph of groby, whom he endowed sufficiently and gave over to three respective loving husbands. and then shortly before his death, three years or so, sir joseph had married a second wife, a lady forty-five years his junior, and by her he also left one son, an infant only two years old when he died. for many years this prosperous gentleman had lived at a small country house, some five-and-twenty miles from london, called orley farm. this had been his first purchase of land, and he had never given up his residence there, although his wealth would have entitled him to the enjoyment of a larger establishment. on the birth of his youngest son, at which time his eldest was nearly forty years old, he made certain moderate provision for the infant, as he had already made moderate provision for his young wife; but it was then clearly understood by the eldest son that orley farm was to go with the groby park estate to him as the heir. when, however, sir joseph died, a codicil to his will, executed with due legal formalities, bequeathed orley farm to his youngest son, little lucius mason. then commenced those legal proceedings which at last developed themselves into the great orley farm case. the eldest son contested the validity of the codicil; and indeed there were some grounds on which it appeared feasible that he should do so. this codicil not only left orley farm away from him to baby lucius, but also interfered in another respect with the previous will. it devised a sum of two thousand pounds to a certain miriam usbech, the daughter of one jonathan usbech who was himself the attorney who had attended upon sir joseph for the making out of this very will, and also of this very codicil. this sum of two thousand pounds was not, it is true, left away from the surviving joseph, but was to be produced out of certain personal property which had been left by the first will to the widow. and then old jonathan usbech had died, while sir joseph mason was still living. all the circumstances of the trial need not be detailed here. it was clearly proved that sir joseph had during his whole life expressed his intention of leaving orley farm to his eldest son; that he was a man void of mystery, and not given to secrets in his money matters, and one very little likely to change his opinion on such subjects. it was proved that old jonathan usbech at the time in which the will was made was in very bad circumstances, both as regards money and health. his business had once not been bad, but he had eaten and drunk it, and at this period was feeble and penniless, overwhelmed both by gout and debt. he had for many years been much employed by sir joseph in money matters, and it was known that he was so employed almost up to the day of his death. the question was whether he had been employed to make this codicil. the body of the will was in the handwriting of the widow, as was also the codicil. it was stated by her at the trial that the words were dictated to her by usbech in her husband's hearing, and that the document was then signed by her husband in the presence of them both, and also in the presence of two other persons--a young man employed by her husband as a clerk, and by a servant-maid. these two last, together with mr. usbech, were the three witnesses whose names appeared in the codicil. there had been no secrets between lady mason and her husband as to his will. she had always, she said, endeavoured to induce him to leave orley farm to her child from the day of the child's birth, and had at last succeeded. in agreeing to this sir joseph had explained to her, somewhat angrily, that he wished to provide for usbech's daughter, and that now he would do so out of moneys previously intended for her, the widow, and not out of the estate which would go to his eldest son. to this she had assented without a word, and had written the codicil in accordance with the lawyer's dictation, he, the lawyer, suffering at the time from gout in his hand. among other things lady mason proved that on the date of the signatures mr. usbech had been with sir joseph for sundry hours. then the young clerk was examined. he had, he said, witnessed in his time four, ten, twenty, and, under pressure, he confessed to as many as a hundred and twenty business signatures on the part of his employer, sir joseph. he thought he had witnessed a hundred and twenty, but would take his oath he had not witnessed a hundred and twenty-one. he did remember witnessing a signature of his master about the time specified by the date of the codicil, and he remembered the maid-servant also signing at the same time. mr. usbech was then present; but he did not remember mr. usbech having the pen in his hand. mr. usbech, he knew, could not write at that time, because of the gout; but he might, no doubt, have written as much as his own name. he swore to both the signatures--his own and his master's; and in cross-examination swore that he thought it probable that they might be forgeries. on re-examination he was confident that his own name, as there appearing, had been written by himself; but on re-cross-examination, he felt sure that there was something wrong. it ended in the judge informing him that his word was worth nothing, which was hard enough on the poor young man, seeing that he had done his best to tell all that he remembered. then the servant-girl came into the witness-box. she was sure it was her own handwriting. she remembered being called in to write her name, and seeing the master write his. it had all been explained to her at the time, but she admitted that she had not understood the explanation. she had also seen the clerk write his name, but she was not sure that she had seen mr. usbech write. mr. usbech had had a pen in his hand; she was sure of that. the last witness was miriam usbech, then a very pretty, simple girl of seventeen. her father had told her once that he hoped sir joseph would make provision for her. this had been shortly before her father's death. at her father's death she had been sent for to orley farm, and had remained there till sir joseph died. she had always regarded sir joseph and lady mason as her best friends. she had known sir joseph all her life, and did not think it unnatural that he should provide for her. she had heard her father say more than once that lady mason would never rest till the old gentleman had settled orley farm upon her son. not half the evidence taken has been given here, but enough probably for our purposes. the will and codicil were confirmed, and lady mason continued to live at the farm. her evidence was supposed to have been excellently given, and to have been conclusive. she had seen the signature, and written the codicil, and could explain the motive. she was a woman of high character, of great talent, and of repute in the neighbourhood; and, as the judge remarked, there could be no possible reason for doubting her word. nothing also could be simpler or prettier than the evidence of miriam usbech, as to whose fate and destiny people at the time expressed much sympathy. that stupid young clerk was responsible for the only weak part of the matter; but if he proved nothing on one side, neither did he prove anything on the other. this was the commencement of the great orley farm case, and having been then decided in favour of the infant it was allowed to slumber for nearly twenty years. the codicil was confirmed, and lady mason remained undisturbed in possession of the house, acting as guardian for her child till he came of age, and indeed for some time beyond that epoch. in the course of a page or two i shall beg my readers to allow me to introduce this lady to their acquaintance. miriam usbech, of whom also we shall see something, remained at the farm under lady mason's care till she married a young attorney, who in process of time succeeded to such business as her father left behind him. she suffered some troubles in life before she settled down in the neighbouring country town as mrs. dockwrath, for she had had another lover, the stupid young clerk who had so villainously broken down in his evidence; and to this other lover, whom she had been unable to bring herself to accept, lady mason had given her favour and assistance. poor miriam was at that time a soft, mild-eyed girl, easy to be led, one would have said; but in this matter lady mason could not lead her. it was in vain to tell her that the character of young dockwrath did not stand high, and that young kenneby, the clerk, should be promoted to all manner of good things. soft and mild-eyed as miriam was, love was still the lord of all. in this matter she would not be persuaded; and eventually she gave her two thousand pounds to samuel dockwrath, the young attorney with the questionable character. this led to no breach between her and her patroness. lady mason, wishing to do the best for her young friend, had favoured john kenneby, but she was not a woman at all likely to quarrel on such a ground as this. "well, miriam," she had said, "you must judge for yourself, of course, in such a matter as this. you know my regard for you." "oh yes, ma'am," said miriam, eagerly. "and i shall always be glad to promote your welfare as mrs. dockwrath, if possible. i can only say that i should have had more satisfaction in attempting to do so for you as mrs. kenneby." but, in spite of the seeming coldness of these words, lady mason had been constant to her friend for many years, and had attended to her with more or less active kindness in all the sorrows arising from an annual baby and two sets of twins--a progeny which before the commencement of my tale reached the serious number of sixteen, all living. among other solid benefits conferred by lady mason had been the letting to mr. dockwrath of certain two fields, lying at the extremity of the farm property, and quite adjacent to the town of hamworth in which old mr. usbech had resided. these had been let by the year, at a rent not considered to be too high at that period, and which had certainly become much lower in proportion to the value of the land, as the town of hamworth had increased. on these fields mr. dockwrath expended some money, though probably not so much as he averred; and when noticed to give them up at the period of young mason's coming of age, expressed himself terribly aggrieved. "surely, mr. dockwrath, you are very ungrateful," lady mason had said to him. but he had answered her with disrespectful words; and hence had arisen an actual breach between her and poor miriam's husband. "i must say, miriam, that mr. dockwrath is unreasonable," lady mason had said. and what could a poor wife answer? "oh! lady mason, pray let it bide a time till it all comes right." but it never did come right; and the affair of those two fields created the great orley farm case, which it will be our business to unravel. and now a word or two as to this orley farm. in the first place let it be understood that the estate consisted of two farms. one, called the old farm, was let to an old farmer named greenwood, and had been let to him and to his father for many years antecedent to the days of the masons. mr. greenwood held about three hundred acres of land, paying with admirable punctuality over four hundred a year in rent, and was regarded by all the orley people as an institution on the property. then there was the farm-house and the land attached to it. this was the residence in which sir joseph had lived, keeping in his own hands this portion of the property. when first inhabited by him the house was not fitted for more than the requirements of an ordinary farmer, but he had gradually added to it and ornamented it till it was commodious, irregular, picturesque, and straggling. when he died, and during the occupation of his widow, it consisted of three buildings of various heights, attached to each other, and standing in a row. the lower contained a large kitchen, which had been the living-room of the farm-house, and was surrounded by bake-house, laundry, dairy, and servants' room, all of fair dimensions. it was two stories high, but the rooms were low, and the roof steep and covered with tiles. the next portion had been added by sir joseph, then mr. mason, when he first thought of living at the place. this also was tiled, and the rooms were nearly as low; but there were three stories, and the building therefore was considerably higher. for five-and-twenty years the farm-house, so arranged, had sufficed for the common wants of sir joseph and his family; but when he determined to give up his establishment in the city, he added on another step to the house at orley farm. on this occasion he built a good dining-room, with a drawing-room over it, and bed-room over that; and this portion of the edifice was slated. the whole stood in one line fronting on to a large lawn which fell steeply away from the house into an orchard at the bottom. this lawn was cut in terraces, and here and there upon it there stood apple-trees of ancient growth; for here had been the garden of the old farm-house. they were large, straggling trees, such as do not delight the eyes of modern gardeners; but they produced fruit by the bushel, very sweet to the palate, though probably not so perfectly round, and large, and handsome as those which the horticultural skill of the present day requires. the face of the house from one end to the other was covered with vines and passion-flowers, for the aspect was due south; and as the whole of the later addition was faced by a verandah, which also, as regarded the ground-floor, ran along the middle building, the place in summer was pretty enough. as i have said before, it was irregular and straggling, but at the same time roomy and picturesque. such was orley farm-house. there were about two hundred acres of land attached to it, together with a large old-fashioned farm-yard, standing not so far from the house as most gentlemen farmers might perhaps desire. the farm buildings, however, were well hidden, for sir joseph, though he would at no time go to the expense of constructing all anew, had spent more money than such a proceeding would have cost him doctoring existing evils and ornamenting the standing edifices. in doing this he had extended the walls of a brewhouse, and covered them with creepers, so as to shut out from the hall door the approach to the farm-yard, and had put up a quarter of a mile of high ornamental paling for the same purpose. he had planted an extensive shrubbery along the brow of the hill at one side of the house, had built summer-houses, and sunk a ha-ha fence below the orchard, and had contrived to give to the place the unmistakable appearance of an english gentleman's country-house. nevertheless, sir joseph had never bestowed upon his estate, nor had it ever deserved, a more grandiloquent name than that which it had possessed of old. orley farm-house itself is somewhat more than a mile distant from the town of hamworth, but the land runs in the direction of the town, not skirting the high road, but stretching behind the cottages which stand along the pathway; and it terminates in those two fields respecting which mr. dockwrath the attorney became so irrationally angry at the period of which we are now immediately about to treat. these fields lie on the steep slope of hamworth hill, and through them runs the public path from the hamlet of roxeth up to hamworth church; for, as all the world knows, hamworth church stands high, and is a landmark to the world for miles and miles around. within a circuit of thirty miles from london no land lies more beautifully circumstanced with regard to scenery than the country about hamworth; and its most perfect loveliness commences just beyond the slopes of orley farm. there is a little village called coldharbour, consisting of some half-dozen cottages, situated immediately outside lady mason's gate,--and it may as well be stated here that this gate is but three hundred yards from the house, and is guarded by no lodge. this village stands at the foot of cleeve hill. the land hereabouts ceases to be fertile, and breaks away into heath and common ground. round the foot of the hill there are extensive woods, all of which belong to sir peregrine orme, the lord of the manor. sir peregrine is not a rich man, not rich, that is, it being borne in mind that he is a baronet, that he represented his county in parliament for three or four sessions, and that his ancestors have owned the cleeve estate for the last four hundred years; but he is by general repute the greatest man in these parts. we may expect to hear more of him also as the story makes its way. i know many spots in england and in other lands, world-famous in regard to scenery, which to my eyes are hardly equal to cleeve hill. from the top of it you are told that you may see into seven counties; but to me that privilege never possessed any value. i should not care to see into seventeen counties, unless the country which spread itself before my view was fair and lovely. the country which is so seen from cleeve hill is exquisitely fair and lovely;--very fair, with glorious fields of unsurpassed fertility, and lovely with oak woods and brown open heaths which stretch away, hill after hill, down towards the southern coast. i could greedily fill a long chapter with the well-loved glories of cleeve hill; but it may be that we must press its heather with our feet more than once in the course of our present task, and if so, it will be well to leave something for those coming visits. "ungrateful! i'll let her know whether i owe her any gratitude. haven't i paid her her rent every half-year as it came due? what more would she have? ungrateful, indeed! she is one of those women who think that you ought to go down on your knees to them if they only speak civilly to you. i'll let her know whether i'm ungrateful." these words were spoken by angry mr. samuel dockwrath to his wife, as he stood up before his parlour-fire after breakfast, and the woman to whom he referred was lady mason. mr. samuel dockwrath was very angry as he so spoke, or at any rate he seemed to be so. there are men who take a delight in abusing those special friends whom their wives best love, and mr. dockwrath was one of these. he had never given his cordial consent to the intercourse which had hitherto existed between the lady of orley farm and his household, although he had not declined the substantial benefits which had accompanied it. his pride had rebelled against the feeling of patronage, though his interest had submitted to the advantages thence derived. a family of sixteen children is a heavy burden for a country attorney with a small practice, even though his wife may have had a fortune of two thousand pounds; and thus mr. dockwrath, though he had never himself loved lady mason, had permitted his wife to accept all those numberless kindnesses which a lady with comfortable means and no children is always able to bestow on a favoured neighbour who has few means and many children. indeed, he himself had accepted a great favour with reference to the holding of those two fields, and had acknowledged as much when first he took them into his hands some sixteen or seventeen years back. but all that was forgotten now; and having held them for so long a period, he bitterly felt the loss, and resolved that it would ill become him as a man and an attorney to allow so deep an injury to pass unnoticed. it may be, moreover, that mr. dockwrath was now doing somewhat better in the world than formerly, and that he could afford to give up lady mason, and to demand also that his wife should give her up. those trumpery presents from orley farm were very well while he was struggling for bare bread, but now, now that he had turned the corner,--now that by his divine art and mystery of law he had managed to become master of that beautiful result of british perseverance, a balance at his banker's, he could afford to indulge his natural antipathy to a lady who had endeavoured in early life to divert from him the little fortune which had started him in the world. miriam dockwrath, as she sat on this morning, listening to her husband's anger, with a sick little girl on her knee, and four or five others clustering round her, half covered with their matutinal bread and milk, was mild-eyed and soft as ever. hers was a nature in which softness would ever prevail;--softness, and that tenderness of heart, always leaning, and sometimes almost crouching, of which a mild eye is the outward sign. but her comeliness and prettiness were gone. female beauty of the sterner, grander sort may support the burden of sixteen children, all living,--and still survive. i have known it to do so, and to survive with much of its youthful glory. but that mild-eyed, soft, round, plumpy prettiness gives way beneath such a weight as that: years alone tell on it quickly; but children and limited means combined with years leave to it hardly a chance. "i'm sure i'm very sorry," said the poor woman, worn with her many cares. "sorry; yes, and i'll make her sorry, the proud minx. there's an old saying, that those who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones." "but, samuel, i don't think she means to be doing you any harm. you know she always did say-- don't, bessy; how can you put your fingers into the basin in that way?" "sam has taken my spoon away, mamma." "i'll let her know whether she's doing any harm or no. and what signifies what was said sixteen years ago? has she anything to show in writing? as far as i know, nothing of the kind was said." "oh, i remember it, samuel; i do indeed!" "let me tell you then that you had better not try to remember anything about it. if you ain't quiet, bob, i'll make you, pretty quick; d'ye hear that? the fact is, your memory is not worth a curse. where are you to get milk for all those children, do you think, when the fields are gone?" "i'm sure i'm very sorry, samuel." "sorry; yes, and somebody else shall be sorry too. and look here, miriam, i won't have you going up to orley farm on any pretence whatever; do you hear that?" and then, having given that imperative command to his wife and slave, the lord and master of that establishment walked forth into his office. on the whole miriam usbech might have done better had she followed the advice of her patroness in early life, and married the stupid clerk. chapter ii. lady mason and her son. i trust that it is already perceived by all persistent novel readers that very much of the interest of this tale will be centred in the person of lady mason. such educated persons, however, will probably be aware that she is not intended to be the heroine. the heroine, so called, must by a certain fixed law be young and marriageable. some such heroine in some future number shall be forthcoming, with as much of the heroic about her as may be found convenient; but for the present let it be understood that the person and character of lady mason is as important to us as can be those of any young lady, let her be ever so gracious or ever so beautiful. in giving the details of her history, i do not know that i need go back beyond her grandfather and grandmother, who were thoroughly respectable people in the hardware line; i speak of those relatives by the father's side. her own parents had risen in the world,--had risen from retail to wholesale, and considered themselves for a long period of years to be good representatives of the commercial energy and prosperity of great britain. but a fall had come upon them,--as a fall does come very often to our excellent commercial representatives--and mr. johnson was in the "gazette." it would be long to tell how old sir joseph mason was concerned in these affairs, how he acted as the principal assignee, and how ultimately he took to his bosom as his portion of the assets of the estate, young mary johnson, and made her his wife and mistress of orley farm. of the family of the johnsons there were but three others, the father, the mother, and a brother. the father did not survive the disgrace of his bankruptcy, and the mother in process of time settled herself with her son in one of the lancashire manufacturing towns, where john johnson raised his head in business to some moderate altitude, sir joseph having afforded much valuable assistance. there for the present we will leave them. i do not think that sir joseph ever repented of the perilous deed he did in marrying that young wife. his home for many years had been desolate and solitary; his children had gone from him, and did not come to visit him very frequently in his poor home at the farm. they had become grander people than him, had been gifted with aspiring minds, and in every turn and twist which they took, looked to do something towards washing themselves clean from the dirt of the counting-house. this was specially the case with sir joseph's son, to whom the father had made over lands and money sufficient to enable him to come before the world as a country gentleman with a coat of arms on his coach-panel. it would be inconvenient for us to run off to groby park at the present moment, and i will therefore say no more just now as to joseph junior, but will explain that joseph senior was not made angry by this neglect. he was a grave, quiet, rational man, not however devoid of some folly; as indeed what rational man is so devoid? he was burdened with an ambition to establish a family as the result of his success in life; and having put forth his son into the world with these views, was content that that son should act upon them persistently. joseph mason, esq., of groby park, in yorkshire, was now a county magistrate, and had made some way towards a footing in the county society around him. with these hopes, and ambition such as this, it was probably not expedient that he should spend much of his time at orley farm. the three daughters were circumstanced much in the same way: they had all married gentlemen, and were bent on rising in the world; moreover, the steadfast resolution of purpose which characterised their father was known by them all,--and by their husbands: they had received their fortunes, with some settled contingencies to be forthcoming on their father's demise; why, then, trouble the old gentleman at orley farm? under such circumstances the old gentleman married his young wife,--to the great disgust of his four children. they of course declared to each other, corresponding among themselves by letter, that the old gentleman had positively disgraced himself. it was impossible that they should make any visits whatever to orley farm while such a mistress of the house was there;--and the daughters did make no such visits. joseph, the son, whose monetary connection with his father was as yet by no means fixed and settled in its nature, did make one such visit, and then received his father's assurance--so at least he afterwards said and swore--that this marriage should by no means interfere with the expected inheritance of the orley farm acres. but at that time no young son had been born,--nor, probably, was any such young son expected. the farm-house became a much brighter abode for the old man, for the few years which were left to him, after he had brought his young wife home. she was quiet, sensible, clever, and unremitting in her attention. she burthened him with no requests for gay society, and took his home as she found it, making the best of it for herself, and making it for him much better than he had ever hitherto known it. his own children had always looked down upon him, regarding him merely as a coffer from whence money might be had; and he, though he had never resented this contempt, had in a certain measure been aware of it. but there was no such feeling shown by his wife. she took the benefits which he gave her graciously and thankfully, and gave back to him in return, certainly her care and time, and apparently her love. for herself, in the way of wealth and money, she never asked for anything. and then the baby had come, young lucius mason, and there was of course great joy at orley farm. the old father felt that the world had begun again for him, very delightfully, and was more than ever satisfied with his wisdom in regard to that marriage. but the very genteel progeny of his early youth were more than ever dissatisfied, and in their letters among themselves dealt forth harder and still harder words upon poor sir joseph. what terrible things might he not be expected to do now that his dotage was coming on? those three married ladies had no selfish fears--so at least they declared, but they united in imploring their brother to look after his interests at orley farm. how dreadfully would the young heir of groby be curtailed in his dignities and seignories if it should be found at the last day that orley farm was not to be written in his rent-roll! and then, while they were yet bethinking themselves how they might best bestir themselves, news arrived that sir joseph had suddenly died. sir joseph was dead, and the will when read contained a codicil by which that young brat was made the heir to the orley farm estate. i have said that lady mason during her married life had never asked of her husband anything for herself; but in the law proceedings which were consequent upon sir joseph's death, it became abundantly evident that she had asked him for much for her son,--and that she had been specific in her requests, urging him to make a second heir, and to settle orley farm upon her own boy, lucius. she herself stated that she had never done this except in the presence of a third person. she had often done so in the presence of mr. usbech the attorney,--as to which mr. usbech was not alive to testify; and she had also done so more than once in the presence of mr. furnival, a barrister,--as to which mr. furnival, being alive, did testify--very strongly. as to that contest nothing further need now be said. it resulted in the favour of young lucius mason, and therefore, also, in the favour of the widow;--in the favour moreover of miriam usbech, and thus ultimately in the favour of mr. samuel dockwrath, who is now showing himself to be so signally ungrateful. joseph mason, however, retired from the battle nothing convinced. his father, he said, had been an old fool, an ass, an idiot, a vulgar, ignorant fool; but he was not a man to break his word. that signature to the codicil might be his or might not. if his, it had been obtained by fraud. what could be easier than to cheat an old doting fool? many men agreed with joseph mason, thinking that usbech the attorney had perpetrated this villainy on behalf of his daughter; but joseph mason would believe, or say that he believed--a belief in which none but his sisters joined him,--that lady mason herself had been the villain. he was minded to press the case on to a court of appeal, up even to the house of lords; but he was advised that in doing so he would spend more money than orley farm was worth, and that he would, almost to a certainty, spend it in vain. under this advice he cursed the laws of his country, and withdrew to groby park. lady mason had earned the respect of all those around her by the way in which she bore herself in the painful days of the trial, and also in those of her success,--especially also by the manner in which she gave her evidence. and thus, though she had not been much noticed by her neighbours during the short period of her married life, she was visited as a widow by many of the more respectable people round hamworth. in all this she showed no feeling of triumph; she never abused her husband's relatives, or spoke much of the harsh manner in which she had been used. indeed, she was not given to talk about her own personal affairs; and although, as i have said, many of her neighbours visited her, she did not lay herself out for society. she accepted and returned their attention, but for the most part seemed to be willing that the matter should so rest. the people around by degrees came to know her ways, they spoke to her when they met her, and occasionally went through the ceremony of a morning call; but did not ask her to their tea-parties, and did not expect to see her at picnic and archery meetings. among those who took her by the hand in the time of her great trouble was sir peregrine orme of the cleeve,--for such was the name which had belonged time out of mind to his old mansion and park. sir peregrine was a gentleman now over seventy years of age, whose family consisted of the widow of his only son, and the only son of that widow, who was of course the heir to his estate and title. sir peregrine was an excellent old man, as i trust may hereafter be acknowledged; but his regard for lady mason was perhaps in the first instance fostered by his extreme dislike to her stepson, joseph mason of groby. mr. joseph mason of groby was quite as rich a man as sir peregrine, and owned an estate which was nearly as large as the cleeve property; but sir peregrine would not allow that he was a gentleman, or that he could by any possible transformation become one. he had not probably ever said so in direct words to any of the mason family, but his opinion on the matter had in some way worked its way down to yorkshire, and therefore there was no love to spare between these two county magistrates. there had been a slight acquaintance between sir peregrine and sir joseph; but the ladies of the two families had never met till after the death of the latter. then, while that trial was still pending, mrs. orme had come forward at the instigation of her father-in-law, and by degrees there had grown up an intimacy between the two widows. when the first offers of assistance were made and accepted, sir peregrine no doubt did not at all dream of any such result as this. his family pride, and especially the pride which he took in his widowed daughter-in-law, would probably have been shocked by such a surmise; but, nevertheless, he had seen the friendship grow and increase without alarm. he himself had become attached to lady mason, and had gradually learned to excuse in her that want of gentle blood and early breeding which as a rule he regarded as necessary to a gentleman, and from which alone, as he thought, could spring many of those excellences which go to form the character of a lady. it may therefore be asserted that lady mason's widowed life was successful. that it was prudent and well conducted no one could doubt. her neighbours of course did say of her that she would not drink tea with mrs. arkwright of mount pleasant villa because she was allowed the privilege of entering sir peregrine's drawing-room; but such little scandal as this was a matter of course. let one live according to any possible or impossible rule, yet some offence will be given in some quarter. those who knew anything of lady mason's private life were aware that she did not encroach on sir peregrine's hospitality. she was not at the cleeve as much as circumstances would have justified, and at one time by no means so much as mrs. orme would have desired. in person she was tall and comely. when sir joseph had brought her to his house she had been very fair,--tall, slight, fair, and very quiet,--not possessing that loveliness which is generally most attractive to men, because the beauty of which she might boast depended on form rather than on the brightness of her eye, or the softness of her cheek and lips. her face too, even at that age, seldom betrayed emotion, and never showed signs either of anger or of joy. her forehead was high, and though somewhat narrow, nevertheless gave evidence of considerable mental faculties; nor was the evidence false, for those who came to know lady mason well, were always ready to acknowledge that she was a woman of no ordinary power. her eyes were large and well formed, but somewhat cold. her nose was long and regular. her mouth also was very regular, and her teeth perfectly beautiful; but her lips were straight and thin. it would sometimes seem that she was all teeth, and yet it is certain that she never made an effort to show them. the great fault of her face was in her chin, which was too small and sharp, thus giving on occasions something of meanness to her countenance. she was now forty-seven years of age, and had a son who had reached man's estate; and yet perhaps she had more of woman's beauty at this present time than when she stood at the altar with sir joseph mason. the quietness and repose of her manner suited her years and her position; age had given fulness to her tall form; and the habitual sadness of her countenance was in fair accordance with her condition and character. and yet she was not really sad,--at least so said those who knew her. the melancholy was in her face rather than in her character, which was full of energy,--if energy may be quiet as well as assured and constant. of course she had been accused a dozen times of matrimonial prospects. what handsome widow is not so accused? the world of hamworth had been very certain at one time that she was intent on marrying sir peregrine orme. but she had not married, and i think i may say on her behalf that she had never thought of marrying. indeed, one cannot see how such a woman could make any effort in that line. it was impossible to conceive that a lady so staid in her manner should be guilty of flirting; nor was there any man within ten miles of hamworth who would have dared to make the attempt. women for the most part are prone to love-making--as nature has intended that they should be; but there are women from whom all such follies seem to be as distant as skittles and beer are distant from the dignity of the lord chancellor. such a woman was lady mason. at this time--the time which is about to exist for us as the period at which our narrative will begin--lucius mason was over twenty-two years old, and was living at the farm. he had spent the last three or four years of his life in germany, where his mother had visited him every year, and had now come home intending to be the master of his own destiny. his mother's care for him during his boyhood, and up to the time at which he became of age, had been almost elaborate in its thoughtfulness. she had consulted sir peregrine as to his school, and sir peregrine, looking to the fact of the lad's own property, and also to the fact, known by him, of lady mason's means for such a purpose, had recommended harrow. but the mother had hesitated, had gently discussed the matter, and had at last persuaded the baronet that such a step would be injudicious. the boy was sent to a private school of a high character, and sir peregrine was sure that he had been so sent at his own advice. "looking at the peculiar position of his mother," said sir peregrine to his young daughter-in-law, "at her very peculiar position, and that of his relatives, i think it will be better that he should not appear to assume anything early in life; nothing can be better conducted than mr. crabfield's establishment, and after much consideration i have had no hesitation in recommending her to send her son to him." and thus lucius mason had been sent to mr. crabfield, but i do not think that the idea originated with sir peregrine. "and perhaps it will be as well," added the baronet, "that he and perry should not be together at school, though i have no objection to their meeting in the holidays. mr. crabfield's vacations are always timed to suit the harrow holidays." the perry here mentioned was the grandson of sir peregrine--the young peregrine who in coming days was to be the future lord of the cleeve. when lucius mason was modestly sent to mr. crabfield's establishment at great marlow, young peregrine orme, with his prouder hopes, commenced his career at the public school. mr. crabfield did his duty by lucius mason, and sent him home at seventeen a handsome, well-mannered lad, tall and comely to the eye, with soft brown whiskers sprouting on his cheek, well grounded in greek, latin, and euclid, grounded also in french and italian, and possessing many more acquirements than he would have learned at harrow. but added to these, or rather consequent on them, was a conceit which public-school education would not have created. when their mothers compared them in the holidays, not openly with outspoken words, but silently in their hearts, lucius mason was found by each to be the superior both in manners and knowledge; but each acknowledged also that there was more of ingenuous boyhood about peregrine orme. peregrine orme was a year the younger, and therefore his comparative deficiencies were not the cause of any intense sorrow at the cleeve; but his grandfather would probably have been better satisfied--and perhaps also so would his mother--had he been less addicted to the catching of rats, and better inclined towards miss edgeworth's novels and shakespeare's plays, which were earnestly recommended to him by the lady and the gentleman. but boys generally are fond of rats, and very frequently are not fond of reading; and therefore, all this having been duly considered, there was not much deep sorrow in those days at the cleeve as to the boyhood of the heir. but there was great pride at orley farm, although that pride was shown openly to no one. lady mason in her visits at the cleeve said but little as to her son's present excellences. as to his future career in life she did say much both to sir peregrine and to mrs. orme, asking the council of the one and expressing her fears to the other; and then, sir peregrine having given his consent, she sent the lad to germany. he was allowed to come of age without any special signs of manhood, or aught of the glory of property; although, in his case, that coming of age did put him into absolute possession of his inheritance. on that day, had he been so minded, he could have turned his mother out of the farm-house, and taken exclusive possession of the estate; but he did in fact remain in germany for a year beyond this period, and returned to orley farm only in time to be present at the celebration of the twenty-first birthday of his friend peregrine orme. this ceremony, as may be surmised, was by no means slurred over without due rejoicing. the heir at the time was at christchurch; but at such a period a slight interruption to his studies was not to be lamented. there had been sir peregrine ormes in those parts ever since the days of james i; and indeed in days long antecedent to those there had been knights bearing that name, some of whom had been honourably beheaded for treason, others imprisoned for heresy; and one made away with on account of a supposed royal amour,--to the great glorification of all his descendants. looking to the antecedents of the family, it was only proper that the coming of age of the heir should be duly celebrated; but lucius mason had had no antecedents; no great-great-grandfather of his had knelt at the feet of an improper princess; and therefore lady mason, though she had been at the cleeve, had not mentioned the fact that on that very day her son had become a man. but when peregrine orme became a man--though still in his manhood too much devoted to rats--she gloried greatly in her quiet way, and whispered a hope into the baronet's ear that the young heir would not imitate the ambition of his ancestor. "no, by jove! it would not do now at all," said sir peregrine, by no means displeased at the allusion. and then that question as to the future life of lucius mason became one of great importance, and it was necessary to consult, not only sir peregrine orme, but the young man himself. his mother had suggested to him first the law: the great mr. furnival, formerly of the home circuit, but now practising only in london, was her very special friend, and would give her and her son all possible aid in this direction. and what living man could give better aid than the great mr. furnival? but lucius mason would have none of the law. this resolve he pronounced very clearly while yet in germany, whither his mother visited him, bearing with her a long letter written by the great mr. furnival himself. but nevertheless young mason would have none of the law. "i have an idea," he said, "that lawyers are all liars." whereupon his mother rebuked him for his conceited ignorance and want of charity; but she did not gain her point. she had, however, another string to her bow. as he objected to be a lawyer, he might become a civil engineer. circumstances had made sir peregrine orme very intimate with the great mr. brown. indeed, mr. brown was under great obligations to sir peregrine, and sir peregrine had promised to use his influence. but lucius mason said that civil engineers were only tradesmen of an upper class, tradesmen with intellects; and he, he said, wished to use his intellect, but he did not choose to be a tradesman. his mother rebuked him again, as well he deserved that she should,--and then asked him of what profession he himself had thought. "philology," said he; "or as a profession, perhaps literature. i shall devote myself to philology and the races of man. nothing considerable has been done with them as a combined pursuit." and with these views he returned home--while peregrine orme at oxford was still addicted to the hunting of rats. but with philology and the races of man he consented to combine the pursuit of agriculture. when his mother found that he wished to take up his abode in his own house, she by no means opposed him, and suggested that, as such was his intention, he himself should farm his own land. he was very ready to do this, and had she not represented that such a step was in every way impolitic, he would willingly have requested mr. greenwood of the old farm to look elsewhere, and have spread himself and his energies over the whole domain. as it was he contented himself with desiring that mr. dockwrath would vacate his small holding, and as he was imperative as to that his mother gave way without making it the cause of a battle. she would willingly have left mr. dockwrath in possession, and did say a word or two as to the milk necessary for those sixteen children. but lucius mason was ducal in his ideas, and intimated an opinion that he had a right to do what he liked with his own. had not mr. dockwrath been told, when the fields were surrendered to him as a favour, that he would only have them in possession till the heir should come of age? mr. dockwrath had been so told; but tellings such as these are easily forgotten by men with sixteen children. and thus mr. mason became an agriculturist with special scientific views as to chemistry, and a philologist with the object of making that pursuit bear upon his studies with reference to the races of man. he was convinced that by certain admixtures of ammonia and earths he could produce cereal results hitherto unknown to the farming world, and that by tracing out the roots of words he could trace also the wanderings of man since the expulsion of adam from the garden. as to the latter question his mother was not inclined to contradict him. seeing that he would sit at the feet neither of mr. furnival nor of mr. brown, she had no objection to the races of man. she could endure to be talked to about the oceanic mongolidae and the iapetidae of the indo-germanic class, and had perhaps her own ideas that such matters, though somewhat foggy, were better than rats. but when he came to the other subject, and informed her that the properly plentiful feeding of the world was only kept waiting for the chemists, she certainly did have her fears. chemical agriculture is expensive; and though the results may possibly be remunerative, still, while we are thus kept waiting by the backwardness of the chemists, there must be much risk in making any serious expenditure with such views. "mother," he said, when he had now been at home about three months, and when the fiat for the expulsion of samuel dockwrath had already gone forth, "i shall go to liverpool to-morrow." "to liverpool, lucius?" "yes. that guano which i got from walker is adulterated. i have analyzed it, and find that it does not contain above thirty-two and a half hundredths of--of that which it ought to hold in a proportion of seventy-five per cent. of the whole." "does it not?" "no; and it is impossible to obtain results while one is working with such fictitious materials. look at that bit of grass at the bottom of greenwood's hill." "the fifteen-acre field? why, lucius, we always had the heaviest crops of hay in the parish off that meadow." "that's all very well, mother; but you have never tried,--nobody about here ever has tried, what the land can really produce. i will throw that and the three fields beyond it into one; i will get greenwood to let me have that bit of the hill-side, giving him compensation of course--" "and then dockwrath would want compensation." "dockwrath is an impertinent rascal, and i shall take an opportunity of telling him so. but as i was saying, i will throw those seventy acres together, and then i will try what will be the relative effects of guano and the patent blood, but i must have real guano, and so i shall go to liverpool." "i think i would wait a little, lucius. it is almost too late for any change of that kind this year." "wait! yes, and what has come of waiting? we don't wait at all in doubling our population every thirty-three years; but when we come to the feeding of them we are always for waiting. it is that waiting which has reduced the intellectual development of one half of the human race to its present terribly low state--or rather prevented its rising in a degree proportionate to the increase of the population. no more waiting for me, mother, if i can help it." "but, lucius, should not such new attempts as that be made by men with large capital?" said the mother. "capital is a bugbear," said the son, speaking on this matter quite _ex cathedrâ_, as no doubt he was entitled to do by his extensive reading at a german university--"capital is a bugbear. the capital that is really wanting is thought, mind, combination, knowledge." "but, lucius--" "yes, i know what you are going to say, mother. i don't boast that i possess all these things; but i do say that i will endeavour to obtain them." "i have no doubt you will; but should not that come first?" "that is waiting again. we all know as much as this, that good manure will give good crops if the sun be allowed full play upon the land, and nothing but the crop be allowed to grow. that is what i shall attempt at first, and there can be no great danger in that." and so he went to liverpool. lady mason during his absence began to regret that she had not left him in the undisturbed and inexpensive possession of the mongolidae and the iapetidae. his rent from the estate, including that which she would have paid him as tenant of the smaller farm, would have enabled him to live with all comfort; and, if such had been his taste, he might have become a philosophical student, and lived respectably without adding anything to his income by the sweat of his brow. but now the matter was likely to become serious enough. for a gentleman farmer determined to wait no longer for the chemists, whatever might be the results, an immediate profitable return per acre could not be expected as one of them. any rent from that smaller farm would now be out of the question, and it would be well if the payments made so punctually by old mr. greenwood were not also swallowed up in the search after unadulterated guano. who could tell whether in the pursuit of science he might not insist on chartering a vessel, himself, for the peruvian coast? chapter iii. the cleeve. i have said that sir peregrine orme was not a rich man, meaning thereby that he was not a rich man considering his acknowledged position in the county. such men not uncommonly have their tens, twelves, and twenty thousands a year; but sir peregrine's estate did not give him above three or four. he was lord of the manor of hamworth, and possessed seignorial rights, or rather the skeleton and remembrance of such rights with reference to a very large district of country; but his actual property--that from which he still received the substantial benefits of ownership--was not so large as those of some of his neighbours. there was, however, no place within the county which was so beautifully situated as the cleeve, or which had about it so many of the attractions of age. the house itself had been built at two periods,--a new set of rooms having been added to the remains of the old elizabethan structure in the time of charles ii. it had not about it anything that was peculiarly grand or imposing, nor were the rooms large or even commodious; but everything was old, venerable, and picturesque. both the dining-room and the library were panelled with black wainscoating; and though the drawing-rooms were papered, the tall, elaborately-worked wooden chimney-pieces still stood in them, and a wooden band or belt round the rooms showed that the panels were still there, although hidden by the modern paper. but it was for the beauty and wildness of its grounds that the cleeve was remarkable. the land fell here and there into narrow, wild ravines and woody crevices. the soil of the park was not rich, and could give but little assistance to the chemists in supplying the plentiful food expected by mr. mason for the coming multitudes of the world; it produced in some parts heather instead of grass, and was as wild and unprofitable as cleeve common, which stretched for miles outside the park palings; but it seemed admirably adapted for deer and for the maintenance of half-decayed venerable oaks. young timber also throve well about the place, and in this respect sir peregrine was a careful landlord. there ran a river through the park,--the river cleeve, from which the place and parish are said to have taken their names;--a river, or rather a stream, very narrow and inconsiderable as to its volume of water, but which passed for some two miles through so narrow a passage as to give to it the appearance of a cleft or fissure in the rocks. the water tumbled over stones through this entire course, making it seem to be fordable almost everywhere without danger of wet feet; but in truth there was hardly a spot at which it could be crossed without a bold leap from rock to rock. narrow as was the aperture through which the water had cut its way, nevertheless a path had been contrived now on one side of the stream and now on the other, crossing it here and there by slight hanging wooden bridges. the air here was always damp with spray, and the rocks on both sides were covered with long mosses, as were also the overhanging boughs of the old trees. this place was the glory of the cleeve, and as far as picturesque beauty goes it was very glorious. there was a spot in the river from whence a steep path led down from the park to the water, and at this spot the deer would come to drink. i know nothing more beautiful than this sight, when three or four of them could be so seen from one of the wooden bridges towards the hour of sunset in the autumn. sir peregrine himself at this time was an old man, having passed his seventieth year. he was a fine, handsome english gentleman with white hair, keen gray eyes, a nose slightly aquiline, and lips now too closely pressed together in consequence of the havoc which time had made among his teeth. he was tall, but had lost something of his height from stooping,--was slight in his form, but well made, and vain of the smallness of his feet and the whiteness of his hands. he was generous, quick tempered, and opinionated; generally very mild to those who would agree with him and submit to him, but intolerant of contradiction, and conceited as to his experience of the world and the wisdom which he had thence derived. to those who were manifestly his inferiors he was affable, to his recognised equals he was courteous, to women he was almost always gentle;--but to men who claimed an equality which he would not acknowledge, he could make himself particularly disagreeable. in judging the position which a man should hold in the world, sir peregrine was very resolute in ignoring all claims made by wealth alone. even property in land could not in his eyes create a gentleman. a gentleman, according to his ideas, should at any rate have great-grandfathers capable of being traced in the world's history; and the greater the number of such, and the more easily traceable they might be on the world's surface, the more unquestionable would be the status of the claimant in question. such being the case, it may be imagined that joseph mason, esq., of groby park did not rank high in the estimation of sir peregrine orme. i have said that sir peregrine was fond of his own opinion; but nevertheless he was a man whom it was by no means difficult to lead. in the first place he was singularly devoid of suspicion. the word of a man or of a woman was to him always credible, until full proof had come home to him that it was utterly unworthy of credit. after that such a man or woman might as well spare all speech as regards the hope of any effect on the mind of sir peregrine orme. he did not easily believe a fellow-creature to be a liar, but a liar to him once was a liar always. and then he was amenable to flattery, and few that are so are proof against the leading-strings of their flatterers. all this was well understood of sir peregrine by those about him. his gardener, his groom, and his woodman all knew his foibles. they all loved him, respected him, and worked for him faithfully; but each of them had his own way in his own branch. and there was another person at the cleeve who took into her own hands a considerable share of the management and leading of sir peregrine, though, in truth, she made no efforts in that direction. this was mrs. orme, the widow of his only child, and the mother of his heir. mrs. orme was a younger woman than mrs. mason of orley farm by nearly five years, though her son was but twelve months junior to lucius mason. she had been the daughter of a brother baronet, whose family was nearly as old as that of the ormes; and therefore, though she had come penniless to her husband, sir peregrine had considered that his son had married well. she had been a great beauty, very small in size and delicate of limb, fair haired, with soft blue wondering eyes, and a dimpled cheek. such she had been when young peregrine orme brought her home to the cleeve, and the bride at once became the darling of her father-in-law. one year she had owned of married joy, and then all the happiness of the family had been utterly destroyed, and for the few following years there had been no sadder household in all the country-side than that of sir peregrine orme. his son, his only son, the pride of all who knew him, the hope of his political party in the county, the brightest among the bright ones of the day for whom the world was just opening her richest treasures, fell from his horse as he was crossing into a road, and his lifeless body was brought home to the cleeve. all this happened now twenty years since, but the widow still wears the colours of mourning. of her also the world of course said that she would soon console herself with a second love; but she too has given the world the lie. from that day to the present she has never left the house of her father-in-law; she has been a true child to him, and she has enjoyed all a child's privileges. there has been but little favour for any one at the cleeve who has been considered by the baronet to disregard the wishes of the mistress of the establishment. any word from her has been law to him, and he has of course expected also that her word should be law to others. he has yielded to her in all things, and attended to her will as though she were a little queen, recognizing in her feminine weakness a sovereign power, as some men can and do; and having thus for years indulged himself in a quixotic gallantry to the lady of his household, he has demanded of others that they also should bow the knee. during the last twenty years the cleeve has not been a gay house. during the last ten those living there have been contented, and in the main happy; but there has seldom been many guests in the old hall, and sir peregrine has not been fond of going to other men's feasts. he inherited the property very early in life, and then there were on it some few encumbrances. while yet a young man he added something to these, and now, since his own son's death, he has been setting his house in order, that his grandson should receive the family acres intact. every shilling due on the property has been paid off; and it is well that this should be so, for there is reason to fear that the heir will want a helping hand out of some of youth's difficulties,--perhaps once or twice before his passion for rats gives place to a good english gentleman-like resolve to hunt twice a week, look after his timber, and live well within his means. the chief fault in the character of young peregrine orme was that he was so young. there are men who are old at one-and-twenty,--are quite fit for parliament, the magistrate's bench, the care of a wife, and even for that much sterner duty, the care of a balance at the bankers; but there are others who at that age are still boys,--whose inner persons and characters have not begun to clothe themselves with the "toga virilis." i am not sure that those whose boyhoods are so protracted have the worst of it, if in this hurrying and competitive age they can be saved from being absolutely trampled in the dust before they are able to do a little trampling on their own account. fruit that grows ripe the quickest is not the sweetest; nor when housed and garnered will it keep the longest. for young peregrine there was no need of competitive struggles. the days have not yet come, though they are no doubt coming, when "detur digniori" shall be the rule of succession to all titles, honours, and privileges whatsoever. only think what a life it would give to the education of the country in general, if any lad from seventeen to twenty-one could go in for a vacant dukedom; and if a goodly inheritance could be made absolutely incompatible with incorrect spelling and doubtful proficiency in rule of three! luckily for peregrine junior these days are not yet at hand, or i fear that there would be little chance for him. while lucius mason was beginning to think that the chemists might be hurried, and that agriculture might be beneficially added to philology, our friend peregrine had just been rusticated, and the head of his college had intimated to the baronet that it would be well to take the young man's name off the college books. this accordingly had been done, and the heir of the cleeve was at present at home with his mother and grandfather. what special act of grace had led to this severity we need not inquire, but we may be sure that the frolics of which he had been guilty had been essentially young in their nature. he had assisted in driving a farmer's sow into the man's best parlour, or had daubed the top of the tutor's cap with white paint, or had perhaps given liberty to a bag full of rats in the college hall at dinner-time. such were the youth's academical amusements, and as they were pursued with unremitting energy it was thought well that he should be removed from oxford. then had come the terrible question of his university bills. one after another, half a score of them reached sir peregrine, and then took place that terrible interview,--such as most young men have had to undergo at least once,--in which he was asked how he intended to absolve himself from the pecuniary liabilities which he had incurred. "i am sure i don't know," said young orme, sadly. "but i shall be glad, sir, if you will favour me with your intentions," said sir peregrine, with severity. "a gentleman does not, i presume, send his orders to a tradesman without having some intention of paying him for his goods." [illustration: sir peregrine and his heir.] "i intended that they should all be paid, of course." "and how, sir? by whom?" "well, sir,--i suppose i intended that you should pay them;" and the scapegrace as he spoke looked full up into the baronet's face with his bright blue eyes,--not impudently, as though defying his grandfather, but with a bold confidence which at once softened the old man's heart. sir peregrine turned away and walked twice the length of the library; then, returning to the spot where the other stood, he put his hand on his grandson's shoulder. "well, peregrine, i will pay them," he said. "i have no doubt that you did so intend when you incurred them;--and that was perhaps natural. i will pay them; but for your own sake, and for your dear mother's sake, i hope that they are not very heavy. can you give me a list of all that you owe?" young peregrine said that he thought he could, and sitting down at once he made a clean breast of it. with all his foibles, follies, and youthful ignorances, in two respects he stood on good ground. he was neither false nor a coward. he continued to scrawl down items as long as there were any of which he could think, and then handed over the list in order that his grandfather might add them up. it was the last he ever heard of the matter; and when he revisited oxford some twelve months afterwards, the tradesmen whom he had honoured with his custom bowed to him as low as though he had already inherited twenty thousand a year. peregrine orme was short in stature as was his mother, and he also had his mother's wonderfully bright blue eyes; but in other respects he was very like his father and grandfather;--very like all the ormes who had lived for ages past. his hair was light; his forehead was not large, but well formed and somewhat prominent; his nose had something, though not much, of the eagle's beak; his mouth was handsome in its curve, and his teeth were good, and his chin was divided by a deep dimple. his figure was not only short, but stouter than that of the ormes in general. he was very strong on his legs; he could wrestle, and box, and use the single-stick with a quickness and precision that was the terror of all the freshmen who had come in his way. mrs. orme, his mother, no doubt thought that he was perfect. looking at the reflex of her own eyes in his, and seeing in his face so sweet a portraiture of the nose and mouth and forehead of him whom she had loved so dearly and lost so soon, she could not but think him perfect. when she was told that the master of lazarus had desired that her son should be removed from his college, she had accused the tyrant of unrelenting, persecuting tyranny; and the gentle arguments of sir peregrine had no effect towards changing her ideas. on that disagreeable matter of the bills little or nothing was said to her. indeed, money was a subject with which she was never troubled. sir peregrine conceived that money was a man's business, and that the softness of a woman's character should be preserved by a total absence of all pecuniary thoughts and cares. and then there arose at the cleeve a question as to what should immediately be done with the heir. he himself was by no means so well prepared with an answer as had been his friend lucius mason. when consulted by his grandfather, he said that he did not know. he would do anything that sir peregrine wished. would sir peregrine think it well that he should prepare himself for the arduous duties of a master of hounds? sir peregrine did not think this at all well, but it did not appear that he himself was prepared with any immediate proposition. then peregrine discussed the matter with his mother, explaining that he had hoped at any rate to get the next winter's hunting with the h.h.;--which letters have represented the hamworth fox hunt among sporting men for many years past. to this his mother made no objection, expressing a hope, however, that he would go abroad in the spring. "home-staying youths have ever homely wits," she said to him, smiling on him ever so sweetly. "that's quite true, mother," he said. "and that's why i should like to go to leicestershire this winter." but going to leicestershire this winter was out of the question. chapter iv. the perils of youth. going to leicestershire was quite out of the question for young orme at this period of his life, but going to london unfortunately was not so. he had become acquainted at oxford with a gentleman of great skill in his peculiar line of life, whose usual residence was in the metropolis; and so great had been the attraction found in the character and pursuits of this skilful gentleman, that our hero had not been long at the cleeve, after his retirement from the university, before he visited his friend. cowcross street, smithfield, was the site of this professor's residence, the destruction of rats in a barrel was his profession, and his name was carroty bob. it is not my intention to introduce the reader to carroty bob in person, as circumstances occurred about this time which brought his intimacy with mr. orme to an abrupt conclusion. it would be needless to tell how our hero was induced to back a certain terrier, presumed to be the pride of smithfield; how a great match came off, second only in importance to a contest for the belt of england; how money was lost and quarrels arose, and how peregrine orme thrashed one sporting gent within an inch of his life, and fought his way out of carroty bob's house at twelve o'clock at night. the tale of the row got into the newspapers, and of course reached the cleeve. sir peregrine sent for his grandson into his study, and insisted on knowing everything;--how much money there was to pay, and what chance there might be of an action and damages. of an action and damages there did not seem to be any chance, and the amount of money claimed was not large. rats have this advantage, that they usually come cheaper than race-horses; but then, as sir peregrine felt sorely, they do not sound so well. "do you know, sir, that you are breaking your mother's heart?" said sir peregrine, looking very sternly at the young man--as sternly as he was able to look, let him do his worst. peregrine the younger had a very strong idea that he was not doing anything of the kind. he had left her only a quarter of an hour since; and though she had wept during the interview, she had forgiven him with many caresses, and had expressed her opinion that the chief fault had lain with carroty bob and those other wretched people who had lured her dear child into their villainous den. she had altogether failed to conceal her pride at his having fought his way out from among them, and had ended by supplying his pocket out of her own immediate resources. "i hope not, sir," said peregrine the younger, thinking over some of these things. "but you will, sir, if you go on with this shameless career. i do not speak of myself. i do not expect you to sacrifice your tastes for me; but i did think that you loved your mother!" "so i do;--and you too." "i am not speaking about myself sir. when i think what your father was at your age;--how nobly--" and then the baronet was stopped in his speech, and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. "do you think that your father, sir, followed such pursuits as these? do you think that he spent his time in the pursuit of--rats?" "well; i don't know; i don't think he did. but i have heard you say, sir, that you sometimes went to cockfights when you were young." "to cockfights! well, yes. but let me tell you, sir, that i always went in the company of gentlemen--that is, when i did go, which was very seldom." the baronet in some after-dinner half-hour had allowed this secret of his youth to escape from him, imprudently. "and i went to the house in cowcross street with lord john fitzjoly." "the last man in all london with whom you ought to associate! but i am not going to argue with you, sir. if you think, and will continue to think, that the slaughtering of vermin is a proper pursuit--" "but, sir, foxes are vermin also." "hold your tongue, sir, and listen to me. you know very well what i mean, sir. if you think that--rats are a proper pursuit for a gentleman in your sphere of life, and if all that i can say has no effect in changing your opinion--i shall have done. i have not many years of life before me, and when i shall be no more, you can squander the property in any vile pursuits that may be pleasing to you. but, sir, you shall not do it while i am living; nor, if i can help it, shall you rob your mother of such peace of mind as is left for her in this world. i have only one alternative for you, sir--." sir peregrine did not stop to explain what might be the other branch of this alternative. "will you give me your word of honour as a gentleman that you will never again concern yourself in this disgusting pursuit?" "never, grandfather!" said peregrine, solemnly. sir peregrine before he answered bethought himself that any pledge given for a whole life-time must be foolish; and he bethought himself also that if he could wean his heir from rats for a year or so, the taste would perish from lack of nourishment. "i will say for two years," said sir peregrine, still maintaining his austere look. "for two years!" repeated peregrine the younger; "and this is the fourth of october." "yes, sir; for two years," said the baronet, more angry than ever at the young man's pertinacity, and yet almost amused at his grandson's already formed resolve to go back to his occupation at the first opportunity allowed. "couldn't you date it from the end of august, sir? the best of the matches always come off in september." "no, sir; i will not date it from any other time than the present. will you give me your word of honour as a gentleman, for two years?" peregrine thought over the proposition for a minute or two in sad anticipation of all that he was to lose, and then slowly gave his adhesion to the terms. "very well, sir;--for two years." and then he took out his pocket-book and wrote in it slowly. it was at any rate manifest that he intended to keep his word, and that was much; so sir peregrine accepted the promise for what it was worth. "and now," said he, "if you have got nothing better to do, we will ride down to crutchley wood." "i should like it of all things," said his grandson. "samson wants me to cut a new bridle-path through from the larches at the top of the hill down to crutchley bottom; but i don't think i'll have it done. tell jacob to let us have the nags; i'll ride the gray pony. and ask your mother if she'll ride with us." it was the manner of sir peregrine to forgive altogether when he did forgive; and to commence his forgiveness in all its integrity from the first moment of the pardon. there was nothing he disliked so much as being on bad terms with those around him, and with none more so than with his grandson. peregrine well knew how to make himself pleasant to the old man, and when duly encouraged would always do so. and thus the family party, as they rode on this occasion through the woods of the cleeve, discussed oaks and larches, beech and birches, as though there were no such animal as a rat in existence, and no such place known as cowcross street. "well, perry, as you and samson are both of one mind, i suppose the path must be made," said sir peregrine, as he got off his horse at the entrance of the stable-yard, and prepared to give his feeble aid to mrs. orme. shortly after this the following note was brought up to the cleeve by a messenger from orley farm:-- my dear sir peregrine, if you are quite disengaged at twelve o'clock to-morrow, i will walk over to the cleeve at that hour. or if it would suit you better to call here as you are riding, i would remain within till you come. i want your kind advice on a certain matter. most sincerely yours, mary mason. thursday. lady mason, when she wrote this note, was well aware that it would not be necessary for her to go to the cleeve. sir peregrine's courtesy would not permit him to impose any trouble on a lady when the alternative of taking that trouble on himself was given to him. moreover, he liked to have some object for his daily ride; he liked to be consulted "on certain matters;" and he especially liked being so consulted by lady mason. so he sent word back that he would be at the farm at twelve on the following day, and exactly at that hour his gray pony or cob might have been seen slowly walking up the avenue to the farm-house. the cleeve was not distant from orley farm more than two miles by the nearest walking-path, although it could not be driven much under five. with any sort of carriage one was obliged to come from the cleeve house down to the lodge on the hamworth and alston road, and then to drive through the town of hamworth, and so back to the farm. but in walking one would take the path along the river for nearly a mile, thence rise up the hill to the top of crutchley wood, descend through the wood to crutchley bottom, and, passing along the valley, come out at the foot of cleeve hill, just opposite to orley farm gate. the distance for a horseman was somewhat greater, seeing that there was not as yet any bridle-way through crutchley wood. under these circumstances the journey between the two houses was very frequently made on foot; and for those walking from the cleeve house to hamworth the nearest way was by lady mason's gate. lady mason's drawing-room was very pretty, though it was by no means fashionably furnished. indeed, she eschewed fashion in all things, and made no pretence of coming out before the world as a great lady. she had never kept any kind of carriage, though her means, combined with her son's income, would certainly have justified her in a pony-chaise. since lucius had become master of the house he had presented her with such a vehicle, and also with the pony and harness complete; but as yet she had never used it, being afraid, as she said to him with a smile, of appearing ambitious before the stern citizens of hamworth. "nonsense, mother," he had replied, with a considerable amount of young dignity in his face. "we are all entitled to those comforts for which we can afford to pay without injury to any one. i shall take it ill of you if i do not see you using it." "oh, sir peregrine, this is so kind of you," said lady mason, coming forward to meet her friend. she was plainly dressed, without any full exuberance of costume, and yet everything about her was neat and pretty, and everything had been the object of feminine care. a very plain dress may occasion as much study as the most elaborate,--and may be quite as worthy of the study it has caused. lady mason, i am inclined to think, was by no means indifferent to the subject, but then to her belonged the great art of hiding her artifice. "not at all; not at all," said sir peregrine, taking her hand and pressing it, as he always did. "what is the use of neighbours if they are not neighbourly?" this was all very well from sir peregrine in the existing case; but he was not a man who by any means recognised the necessity of being civil to all who lived near him. to the great and to the poor he was neighbourly; but it may be doubted whether he would have thought much of lady mason if she had been less good looking or less clever. "ah! i know how good you always are to me. but i'll tell you why i am troubling you now. lucius went off two days since to liverpool." "my grandson told me that he had left home." "he is an excellent young man, and i am sure that i have every reason to be thankful." sir peregrine, remembering the affair in cowcross street, and certain other affairs of a somewhat similar nature, thought that she had; but for all that he would not have exchanged his own bright-eyed lad for lucius mason with all his virtues and all his learning. "and indeed i am thankful," continued the widow. "nothing can be better than his conduct and mode of life; but--" "i hope he has no attraction at liverpool, of which you disapprove." "no, no; there is nothing of that kind. his attraction is--; but perhaps i had better explain the whole matter. lucius, you know, has taken to farming." "he has taken up the land which you held yourself, has he not?" "yes, and a little more; and he is anxious to add even to that. he is very energetic about it, sir peregrine." "well; the life of a gentleman farmer is not a bad one; though in his special circumstances i would certainly have recommended a profession." "acting upon your advice i did urge him to go to the bar. but he has a will of his own, and a mind altogether made up as to the line of life which he thinks will suit him best. what i fear now is, that he will spend more money upon experiments than he can afford." "experimental farming is an expensive amusement," said sir peregrine, with a very serious shake of his head. "i am afraid it is; and now he has gone to liverpool to buy--guano," said the widow, feeling some little shame in coming to so inconsiderable a conclusion after her somewhat stately prologue. "to buy guano! why could he not get his guano from walker, as my man symonds does?" "he says it is not good. he analyzed it, and--" "fiddlestick! why didn't he order it in london, if he didn't like walker's. gone to liverpool for guano! i'll tell you what it is, lady mason; if he intends to farm his land in that way, he should have a very considerable capital at his back. it will be a long time before he sees his money again." sir peregrine had been farming all his life, and had his own ideas on the subject. he knew very well that no gentleman, let him set to work as he might with his own land, could do as well with it as a farmer who must make a living out of his farming besides paying the rent;--who must do that or else have no living; and he knew also that such operations as those which his young friend was now about to attempt was an amusement fitted only for the rich. it may be also that he was a little old-fashioned, and therefore prejudiced against new combinations between agriculture and chemistry. "he must put a stop to that kind of work very soon, lady mason; he must indeed; or he will bring himself to ruin--and you with him." lady mason's face became very grave and serious. "but what can i say to him, sir peregrine? in such a matter as that i am afraid that he would not mind me. if you would not object to speaking to him?" sir peregrine was graciously pleased to say that he would not object. it was a disagreeable task, he said, that of giving advice to a young man who was bound by no tie either to take it or even to receive it with respect. "you will not find him at all disrespectful; i think i can promise that," said the frightened mother; and that matter was ended by a promise on the part of the baronet to take the case in hand, and to see lucius immediately on his return from liverpool. "he had better come and dine at the cleeve," said sir peregrine, "and we will have it out after dinner." all of which made lady mason very grateful. chapter v. sir peregrine makes a second promise. we left lady mason very grateful at the end of the last chapter for the promise made to her by sir peregrine with reference to her son; but there was still a weight on lady mason's mind. they say that the pith of a lady's letter is in the postscript, and it may be that that which remained for lady mason to say, was after all the matter as to which she was most anxious for assistance. "as you are here," she said to the baronet, "would you let me mention another subject?" "surely," said he, again putting down his hat and riding-stick. sir peregrine was not given to close observation of those around him, or he might have seen by the heightened colour of the lady's face, and by the slight nervous hesitation with which she began to speak, that she was much in earnest as to this other matter. and had he been clever in his powers of observation he might have seen also that she was anxious to hide this feeling. "you remember the circumstances of that terrible lawsuit?" she said, at last. "what; as to sir joseph's will? yes; i remember them well." "i know that i shall never forget all the kindness that you showed me," said she. "i don't know how i should have lived through it without you and dear mrs. orme." "but what about it now?" "i fear i am going to have further trouble." "do you mean that the man at groby park is going to try the case again? it is not possible after such a lapse of time. i am no lawyer, but i do not think that he can do it." "i do not know--i do not know what he intends, or whether he intends anything; but i am sure of this,--that he will give me trouble if he can. but i will tell you the whole story, sir peregrine. it is not much, and perhaps after all may not be worth attention. you know the attorney in hamworth who married miriam usbech?" "what, samuel dockwrath? oh, yes; i know him well enough; and to tell the truth i do not think very well of him. is he not a tenant of yours?" "not at present." and then lady mason explained the manner in which the two fields had been taken out of the lawyer's hands by her son's order. "ah! he was wrong there," said the baronet. "when a man has held land so long it should not be taken away from him except under pressing circumstances; that is if he pays his rent." "mr. dockwrath did pay his rent, certainly; and now, i fear, he is determined to do all he can to injure us." "but what injury can mr. dockwrath do you?" "i do not know, but he has gone down to yorkshire,--to mr. mason's place; i know that; and he was searching through some papers of old mr. usbech's before he went. indeed, i may say that i know as a fact that he has gone to mr. mason with the hope that these law proceedings may be brought on again." "you know it as a fact?" "i think i may say so." "but, dear lady mason, may i ask you how you know this as a fact?" "his wife was with me yesterday," she said, with some feeling of shame as she disclosed the source from whence she had obtained her information. "and did she tell the tale against her own husband?" "not as meaning to say anything against him, sir peregrine; you must not think so badly of her as that; nor must you think that i would willingly obtain information in such a manner. but you must understand that i have always been her friend; and when she found that mr. dockwrath had left home on a matter in which i am so nearly concerned, i cannot but think it natural that she should let me know." to this sir peregrine made no direct answer. he could not quite say that he thought it was natural, nor could he give any expressed approval of any such intercourse between lady mason and the attorney's wife. he thought it would be better that mr. dockwrath should be allowed to do his worst, if he had any intention of doing evil, and that lady mason should pass it by without condescending to notice the circumstance. but he made allowances for her weakness, and did not give utterance to his disapproval in words. "i know you think that i have done wrong," she then said, appealing to him; and there was a tone of sorrow in her voice which went to his heart. "no, not wrong; i cannot say that you have done wrong. it may be a question whether you have done wisely." "ah! if you only condemn my folly, i will not despair. it is probable i may not have done wisely, seeing that i had not you to direct me. but what shall i do now? oh, sir peregrine, say that you will not desert me if all this trouble is coming on me again!" "no, i will not desert you, lady mason; you may be sure of that." "dearest friend!" "but i would advise you to take no notice whatever of mr. dockwrath and his proceedings. i regard him as a person entirely beneath your notice, and if i were you i should not move at all in this matter unless i received some legal summons which made it necessary for me to do so. i have not the honour of any personal acquaintance with mr. mason of groby park." it was in this way that sir peregrine always designated his friend's stepson--"but if i understand the motives by which he may probably be actuated in this or in any other matter, i do not think it likely that he will expend money on so very unpromising a case." "he would do anything for vengeance." "i doubt if he would throw away his money even for that, unless he were very sure of his prey. and in this matter, what can he possibly do? he has the decision of the jury against him, and at the time he was afraid to carry the case up to a court of appeal." "but, sir peregrine, it is impossible to know what documents he may have obtained since that." "what documents can do you any harm;--unless, indeed, there should turn out to be a will subsequent to that under which your son inherits the property?" "oh, no; there was no subsequent will." "of course there was not; and therefore you need not frighten yourself. it is just possible that some attempt may be made now that your son is of age, but i regard even that as improbable." "and you would not advise me then to say anything to mr. furnival?" "no; certainly not--unless you receive some legal notice which may make it necessary for you to consult a lawyer. do nothing; and if mrs. dockwrath comes to you again, tell her that you are not disposed to take any notice of her information. mrs. dockwrath is, i am sure, a very good sort of woman. indeed i have always heard so. but, if i were you, i don't think that i should feel inclined to have much conversation with her about my private affairs. what you tell her you tell also to her husband." and then the baronet, having thus spoken words of wisdom, sat silent in his arm-chair; and lady mason, still looking into his face, remained silent also for a few minutes. "i am so glad i asked you to come," she then said. "i am delighted, if i have been of any service to you." "of any service! oh, sir peregrine, you cannot understand what it is to live alone as i do,--for of course i cannot trouble lucius with these matters; nor can a man, gifted as you are, comprehend how a woman can tremble at the very idea that those law proceedings may possibly be repeated." sir peregrine could not but remember as he looked at her that during all those law proceedings, when an attack was made, not only on her income but on her honesty, she had never seemed to tremble. she had always been constant to herself, even when things appeared to be going against her. but years passing over her head since that time had perhaps told upon her courage. "but i will fear nothing now, as you have promised that you will still be my friend." "you may be very sure of that, lady mason. i believe that i may fairly boast that i do not easily abandon those whom i have once regarded with esteem and affection; among whom lady mason will, i am sure, allow me to say that she is reckoned as by no means the least." and then taking her hand, the old gentleman bowed over it and kissed it. "my dearest, dearest friend!" said she; and lifting sir peregrine's beautifully white hand to her lips she also kissed that. it will be remembered that the gentleman was over seventy, and that this pretty scene could therefore be enacted without impropriety on either side. sir peregrine then went, and as he passed out of the door lady mason smiled on him very sweetly. it is quite true that he was over seventy; but nevertheless the smile of a pretty woman still had charms for him, more especially if there was a tear in her eye the while;--for sir peregrine orme had a soft heart. as soon as the door was closed behind him lady mason seated herself in her accustomed chair, and all trace of the smile vanished from her face. she was alone now, and could allow her countenance to be a true index of her mind. if such was the case her heart surely was very sad. she sat there perfectly still for nearly an hour, and during the whole of that time there was the same look of agony on her brow. once or twice she rubbed her hands across her forehead, brushing back her hair, and showing, had there been any one by to see it, that there was many a gray lock there mixed with the brown hairs. had there been any one by, she would, it may be surmised, have been more careful. there was no smile in her face now, neither was there any tear in her eye. the one and the other emblem were equally alien to her present mood. but there was sorrow at her heart, and deep thought in her mind. she knew that her enemies were conspiring against her,--against her and against her son; and what steps might she best take in order that she might baffle them? [illustration: there was sorrow in her heart, and deep thought in her mind.] "i have got that woman on the hip now." those were the words which mr. dockwrath had uttered into his wife's ears, after two days spent in searching through her father's papers. the poor woman had once thought of burning all those papers--in old days before she had become mrs. dockwrath. her friend, lady mason, had counselled her to do so, pointing out to her that they were troublesome, and could by no possibility lead to profit; but she had consulted her lover, and he had counselled her to burn nothing. "would that she had been guided by her friend!" she now said to herself with regard to that old trunk, and perhaps occasionally with regard to some other things. "i have got that woman on the hip at last!" and there had been a gleam of satisfaction in samuel's eye as he uttered the words which had convinced his wife that it was not an idle threat. she knew nothing of what the box had contained; and now, even if it had not been kept safe from her under samuel's private key, the contents which were of interest had of course gone. "i have business in the north, and shall be away for about a week," mr. dockwrath had said to her on the following morning. "oh, very well; then i'll put up your things," she had answered in her usual mild, sad, whining, household voice. her voice at home was always sad and whining, for she was overworked, and had too many cares, and her lord was a tyrant to her rather than a husband. "yes, i must see mr. mason immediately. and look here, miriam, i positively insist that you do not go to orley farm, or hold any intercourse whatever with lady mason. d'ye hear?" mrs. dockwrath said that she did hear, and promised obedience. mr. dockwrath probably guessed that the moment his back was turned all would be told at the farm, and probably also had no real objection to her doing so. had he in truth wished to keep his proceedings secret from lady mason he would not have divulged them to his wife. and then mr. dockwrath did start for the north, bearing certain documents with him; and soon after his departure mrs. dockwrath did pay a visit to orley farm. lady mason sat there perfectly still for about an hour thinking what she would do. she had asked sir peregrine, and had the advantage of his advice; but that did not weigh much with her. what she wanted from sir peregrine was countenance and absolute assistance in the day of trouble,--not advice. she had desired to renew his interest in her favour, and to receive from him his assurance that he would not desert her; and that she had obtained. it was of course also necessary that she should consult him; but in turning over within her own mind this and that line of conduct, she did not, consciously, attach any weight to sir peregrine's opinion. the great question for her to decide was this;--should she put herself and her case into the hands of her friend mr. furnival now at once, or should she wait till she had received some certain symptom of hostile proceedings? if she did see mr. furnival, what could she tell him? only this, that mr. dockwrath had found some document among the papers of old mr. usbech, and had gone off with the same to groby park in yorkshire. what that document might be she was as ignorant as the attorney's wife. when the hour was ended she had made up her mind that she would do nothing more in the matter, at any rate on that day. chapter vi. the commercial room, bull inn, leeds. mr. samuel dockwrath was a little man, with sandy hair, a pale face, and stone-blue eyes. in judging of him by appearance only and not by the ear, one would be inclined to doubt that he could be a very sharp attorney abroad and a very persistent tyrant at home. but when mr. dockwrath began to talk, one's respect for him began to grow. he talked well and to the point, and with a tone of voice that could command where command was possible, persuade where persuasion was required, mystify when mystification was needed, and express with accuracy the tone of an obedient humble servant when servility was thought to be expedient. we will now accompany him on his little tour into yorkshire. groby park is about seven miles from leeds, and as mr. dockwrath had in the first instance to travel from hamworth up to london, he did not reach leeds till late in the evening. it was a nasty, cold, drizzling night, so that the beauties and marvels of the large manufacturing town offered him no attraction, and at nine o'clock he had seated himself before the fire in the commercial room at the bull, had called for a pair of public slippers, and was about to solace all his cares with a glass of mahogany-coloured brandy and water and a cigar. the room had no present occupant but himself, and therefore he was able to make the most of all its comforts. he had taken the solitary arm-chair, and had so placed himself that the gas would fall direct from behind his head on to that day's "leeds and halifax chronicle," as soon as he should choose to devote himself to local politics. the waiter had looked at him with doubtful eyes when he asked to be shown into the commercial room, feeling all but confident that such a guest had no right to be there. he had no bulky bundles of samples, nor any of those outward characteristics of a commercial "gent" with which all men conversant with the rail and road are acquainted, and which the accustomed eye of a waiter recognises at a glance. and here it may be well to explain that ordinary travellers are in this respect badly treated by the customs of england, or rather by the hotel-keepers. all inn-keepers have commercial rooms, as certainly as they have taps and bars, but all of them do not have commercial rooms in the properly exclusive sense. a stranger, therefore, who has asked for and obtained his mutton-chop in the commercial room of the dolphin, the bear, and the george, not unnaturally asks to be shown into the same chamber at the king's head. but the king's head does a business with real commercials, and the stranger finds himself--out of his element. "'mercial, sir?" said the waiter at the bull inn, leeds, to mr. dockwrath, in that tone of doubt which seemed to carry an answer to his own question. but mr. dockwrath was not a man to be put down by a waiter. "yes," said he. "didn't you hear me say so?" and then the waiter gave way. none of those lords of the road were in the house at the moment, and it might be that none would come that night. mr. dockwrath had arrived by the . p.m. down, but the . p.m. up from the north followed quick upon his heels, and he had hardly put his brandy and water to his mouth before a rush and a sound of many voices were heard in the hall. there is a great difference between the entrance into an inn of men who are not known there and of men who are known. the men who are not known are shy, diffident, doubtful, and anxious to propitiate the chambermaid by great courtesy. the men who are known are loud, jocular, and assured;--or else, in case of deficient accommodation, loud, angry, and full of threats. the guests who had now arrived were well known, and seemed at present to be in the former mood. "well, mary, my dear, what's the time of day with you?" said a rough, bass voice, within the hearing of mr. dockwrath. "much about the old tune, mr. moulder," said the girl at the bar. "time to look alive and keep moving. will you have them boxes up stairs, mr. kantwise?" and then there were a few words about the luggage, and two real commercial gentlemen walked into the room. mr. dockwrath resolved to stand upon his rights, so he did not move his chair, but looked up over his shoulder at the new comers. the first man who entered was short and very fat;--so fat that he could not have seen his own knees for some considerable time past. his face rolled with fat, as also did all his limbs. his eyes were large, and bloodshot. he wore no beard, and therefore showed plainly the triple bagging of his fat chin. in spite of his overwhelming fatness, there was something in his face that was masterful and almost vicious. his body had been overcome by eating, but not as yet his spirit--one would be inclined to say. this was mr. moulder, well known on the road as being in the grocery and spirit line; a pushing man, who understood his business, and was well trusted by his firm in spite of his habitual intemperance. what did the firm care whether or no he killed himself by eating and drinking? he sold his goods, collected his money, and made his remittances. if he got drunk at night that was nothing to them, seeing that he always did his quota of work the next day. but mr. moulder did not get drunk. his brandy and water went into his blood, and into his eyes, and into his feet, and into his hands,--but not into his brain. the other was a little square man in the hardware line, of the name of kantwise. he disposed of fire-irons, grates, ovens, and kettles, and was at the present moment heavily engaged in the sale of certain newly-invented metallic tables and chairs lately brought out by the patent steel furniture company, for which mr. kantwise did business. he looked as though a skin rather too small for the purpose had been drawn over his head and face so that his forehead and cheeks and chin were tight and shiny. his eyes were small and green, always moving about in his head, and were seldom used by mr. kantwise in the ordinary way. at whatever he looked he looked sideways; it was not that he did not look you in the face, but he always looked at you with a sidelong glance, never choosing to have you straight in front of him. and the more eager he was in conversation--the more anxious he might be to gain his point, the more he averted his face and looked askance; so that sometimes he would prefer to have his antagonist almost behind his shoulder. and then as he did this, he would thrust forward his chin, and having looked at you round the corner till his eyes were nearly out of his head, he would close them both and suck in his lips, and shake his head with rapid little shakes, as though he were saying to himself, "ah, sir! you're a bad un, a very bad un." his nose--for i should do mr. kantwise injustice if i did not mention this feature--seemed to have been compressed almost into nothing by that skin-squeezing operation. it was long enough, taking the measurement down the bridge, and projected sufficiently, counting the distance from the upper lip; but it had all the properties of a line; it possessed length without breadth. there was nothing in it from side to side. if you essayed to pull it, your fingers would meet. when i shall have also said that the hair on mr. kantwise's head stood up erect all round to the height of two inches, and that it was very red, i shall have been accurate enough in his personal description. that mr. moulder represented a firm good business, doing tea, coffee, and british brandy on a well-established basis of capital and profit, the travelling commercial world in the north of england was well aware. no one entertained any doubt about his employers, hubbles and grease of houndsditch. hubbles and grease were all right, as they had been any time for the last twenty years. but i cannot say that there was quite so strong a confidence felt in the patent steel furniture company generally, or in the individual operations of mr. kantwise in particular. the world in yorkshire and lancashire was doubtful about metallic tables, and it was thought that mr. kantwise was too eloquent in their praise. mr. moulder when he had entered the room, stood still, to enable the waiter to peel off from him his greatcoat and the large shawl with which his neck was enveloped, and mr. kantwise performed the same operation for himself, carefully folding up the articles of clothing as he took them off. then mr. moulder fixed his eyes on mr. dockwrath, and stared at him very hard. "who's the party, james?" he said to the waiter, speaking in a whisper that was plainly heard by the attorney. "gen'elman by the . down," said james. "commercial?" asked mr. moulder, with angry frown. "he says so himself, anyways," said the waiter. "gammon!" replied mr. moulder, who knew all the bearings of a commercial man thoroughly, and could have put one together if he were only supplied with a little bit--say the mouth, as professor owen always does with the dodoes. mr. moulder now began to be angry, for he was a stickler for the rights and privileges of his class, and had an idea that the world was not so conservative in that respect as it should be. mr. dockwrath, however, was not to be frightened, so he drew his chair a thought nearer to the fire, took a sup of brandy and water, and prepared himself for war if war should be necessary. "cold evening, sir, for the time of year," said mr. moulder, walking up to the fireplace, and rolling the lumps of his forehead about in his attempt at a frown. in spite of his terrible burden of flesh, mr. moulder could look angry on occasions, but he could only do so when he was angry. he was not gifted with a command of his facial muscles. "yes," said mr. dockwrath, not taking his eyes from off the leeds and halifax chronicle. "it is coldish. waiter, bring me a cigar." this was very provoking, as must be confessed. mr. moulder had not been prepared to take any step towards turning the gentleman out, though doubtless he might have done so had he chosen to exercise his prerogative. but he did expect that the gentleman would have acknowledged the weakness of his footing, by moving himself a little towards one side of the fire, and he did not expect that he would have presumed to smoke without asking whether the practice was held to be objectionable by the legal possessors of the room. mr. dockwrath was free of any such pusillanimity. "waiter," he said again, "bring me a cigar, d'ye hear?" the great heart of moulder could not stand this unmoved. he had been an accustomed visitor to that room for fifteen years, and had always done his best to preserve the commercial code unsullied. he was now so well known, that no one else ever presumed to take the chair at the four o'clock commercial dinner if he were present. it was incumbent on him to stand forward and make a fight, more especially in the presence of kantwise, who was by no means stanch to his order. kantwise would at all times have been glad to have outsiders in the room, in order that he might puff his tables, and if possible effect a sale;--a mode of proceeding held in much aversion by the upright, old-fashioned, commercial mind. "sir," said mr. moulder, having become very red about the cheeks and chin, "i and this gentleman are going to have a bit of supper, and it ain't accustomed to smoke in commercial rooms during meals. you know the rules no doubt if you're commercial yourself;--as i suppose you are, seeing you in this room." now mr. moulder was wrong in his law, as he himself was very well aware. smoking is allowed in all commercial rooms when the dinner has been some hour or so off the table. but then it was necessary that he should hit the stranger in some way, and the chances were that the stranger would know nothing about commercial law. nor did he; so he merely looked mr. moulder hard in the face. but mr. kantwise knew the laws well enough, and as he saw before him a possible purchaser of metallic tables, he came to the assistance of the attorney. "i think you are a little wrong there, mr. moulder; eh; ain't you?" said he. "wrong about what?" said moulder, turning very sharply upon his base-minded compatriot. "well, as to smoking. it's nine o'clock, and if the gentleman--" "i don't care a brass farthing about the clock," said the other, "but when i'm going to have a bit of steak with my tea, in my own room, i chooses to have it comfortable." "goodness me, mr. moulder, how many times have i seen you sitting there with a pipe in your mouth, and half a dozen gents eating their teas the while in this very room? the rule of the case i take it to be this; when--" "bother your rules." "well; it was you spoke of them." "the question i take to be this," said moulder, now emboldened by the opposition he had received. "has the gentleman any right to be in this room at all, or has he not? is he commercial, or is he--miscellaneous? that's the chat, as i take it." "you're on the square there, i must allow," said kantwise. "james," said moulder, appealing with authority to the waiter, who had remained in the room during the controversy;--and now mr. moulder was determined to do his duty and vindicate his profession, let the consequences be what they might. "james, is that gentleman commercial, or is he not?" it was clearly necessary now that mr. dockwrath himself should take his own part, and fight his own battle. "sir," said he, turning to mr. moulder, "i think you'll find it extremely difficult to define that word;--extremely difficult. in this enterprising country all men are more or less commercial." "hear! hear!" said mr. kantwise. "that's gammon," said mr. moulder. "gammon it may be," said mr. dockwrath, "but nevertheless it's right in law. taking the word in its broadest, strictest, and most intelligible sense, i am a commercial gentleman; and as such i do maintain that i have a full right to the accommodation of this public room." "that's very well put," said mr. kantwise. "waiter," thundered out mr. moulder, as though he imagined that that functionary was down the yard at the taproom instead of standing within three feet of his elbow. "is this gent a commercial, or is he not? because if not,--then i'll trouble you to send mr. crump here. my compliments to mr. crump, and i wish to see him." now mr. crump was the landlord of the bull inn. "master's just stepped out, down the street," said james. "why don't you answer my question, sir?" said moulder, becoming redder and still more red about his shirt-collars. "the gent said as how he was 'mercial," said the poor man. "was i to go to contradict a gent and tell him he wasn't when he said as how he was?" "if you please," said mr. dockwrath, "we will not bring the waiter into this discussion. i asked for the commercial room, and he did his duty in showing me to the door of it. the fact i take to be this; in the south of england the rules to which you refer are not kept so strictly as in these more mercantile localities." "i've always observed that," said kantwise. "i travelled for three years in devonshire, somersetshire, and wiltshire," said moulder, "and the commercial rooms were as well kept there as any i ever see." "i alluded to surrey and kent," said mr. dockwrath. "they're uncommonly miscellaneous in surrey and kent," said kantwise. "there's no doubt in the world about that." "if the gentleman means to say that he's come in here because he didn't know the custom of the country, i've no more to say, of course," said moulder. "and in that case, i, for one, shall be very happy if the gentleman cam make himself comfortable in this room as a stranger, and i may say guest;--paying his own shot, of course." "and as for me, i shall be delighted," said kantwise. "i never did like too much exclusiveness. what's the use of bottling oneself up? that's what i always say. besides, there's no charity in it. we gents as are always on the road should show a little charity to them as ain't so well accustomed to the work." at this allusion to charity mr. moulder snuffled through his nose to show his great disgust, but he made no further answer. mr. dockwrath, who was determined not to yield, but who had nothing to gain by further fighting, bowed his head, and declared that he felt very much obliged. whether or no there was any touch of irony in his tone, mr. moulder's ears were not fine enough to discover. so they now sat round the fire together, the attorney still keeping his seat in the middle. and then mr. moulder ordered his little bit of steak with his tea. "with the gravy in it, james," he said, solemnly. "and a bit of fat, and a few slices of onion, thin mind, put on raw, not with all the taste fried out; and tell the cook if she don't do it as it should be done, i'll be down into the kitchen and do it myself. you'll join me, kantwise, eh?" "well, i think not; i dined at three, you know." "dined at three! what of that? a dinner at three won't last a man for ever. you might as well join me." "no, i think not. have you got such a thing as a nice red herring in the house, james?" "get one round the corner, sir." "do, there's a good fellow; and i'll take it for a relish with my tea. i'm not so fond of your solids three times a day. they heat the blood too much." "bother," grunted moulder; and then they went to their evening meal, over which we will not disturb them. the steak, we may presume, was cooked aright, as mr. moulder did not visit the kitchen, and mr. kantwise no doubt made good play with his unsubstantial dainty, as he spoke no further till his meal was altogether finished. "did you ever hear anything of that mr. mason who lives near bradford?" asked mr. kantwise, addressing himself to mr. moulder, as soon as the things had been cleared from the table, and that latter gentleman had been furnished with a pipe and a supply of cold without. "i remember his father when i was a boy," said moulder, not troubling himself to take his pipe from his mouth, "mason and martock in the old jewry; very good people they were too." "he's decently well off now, i suppose, isn't he?" said kantwise, turning away his face, and looking at his companion out of the corners of his eyes. "i suppose he is. that place there by the road-side is all his own, i take it. have you been at him with some of your rusty, rickety tables and chairs?" "mr. moulder, you forget that there is a gentleman here who won't understand that you're at your jokes. i was doing business at groby park, but i found the party uncommon hard to deal with." "didn't complete the transaction?" "well, no; not exactly; but i intend to call again. he's close enough himself, is mr. mason. but his lady, mrs. m.! lord love you, mr. moulder, that is a woman!" "she is; is she? as for me, i never have none of these private dealings. it don't suit my book at all; nor it ain't what i've been accustomed to. if a man's wholesale, let him be wholesale." and then, having enunciated this excellent opinion with much energy, he took a long pull at his brandy and water. "very old fashioned, mr. moulder," said kantwise, looking round the corner, then shutting his eyes and shaking his head. "may be," said moulder, "and yet none the worse for that. i call it hawking and peddling, that going round the country with your goods on your back. it ain't trade." and then there was a lull in the conversation, mr. kantwise, who was a very religious gentleman, having closed his eyes, and being occupied with some internal anathema against mr. moulder. "begging your pardon, sir, i think you were talking about one mr. mason who lives in these parts," said dockwrath. "exactly. joseph mason, esq., of groby park," said mr. kantwise, now turning his face upon the attorney. "i suppose i shall be likely to find him at home to-morrow, if i call?" "certainly, sir; certainly; leastwise i should say so. any personal acquaintance with mr. mason, sir? if so, i meant nothing offensive by my allusion to the lady, sir; nothing at all, i can assure you." "the lady's nothing to me, sir; nor the gentleman either;--only that i have a little business with him." "shall be very happy to join you in a gig, sir, to-morrow, as far as groby park; or fly, if more convenient. i shall only take a few patterns with me, and they're no weight at all,--none in the least, sir. they go on behind, and you wouldn't know it, sir." to this, however, mr. dockwrath would not assent. as he wanted to see mr. mason very specially, he should go early, and preferred going by himself. "no offence, i hope," said mr. kantwise. "none in the least," said mr. dockwrath. "and if you would allow me, sir, to have the pleasure of showing you a few of my patterns, i'm sure i should be delighted." this he said observing that mr. moulder was sitting over his empty glass with the pipe in his hand, and his eyes fast closed. "i think, sir, i could show you an article that would please you very much. you see, sir, that new ideas are coming in every day, and wood, sir, is altogether going out,--altogether going out as regards furniture. in another twenty years, sir, there won't be such a thing as a wooden table in the country, unless with some poor person that can't afford to refurnish. believe me, sir, iron's the thing now-a-days." "and indian-rubber," said dockwrath. "yes; indian-rubber's wonderful too. are you in that line, sir?" "well; no; not exactly." "it's not like iron, sir. you can't make a dinner-table for fourteen people out of indian-rubber, that will shut up into a box - by - deep, and - broad. why, sir, i can let you have a set of drawing-room furniture for fifteen ten that you've never seen equalled in wood for three times the money;--ornamented in the tastiest way, sir, and fit for any lady's drawing-room or boodoor. the ladies of quality are all getting them now for their boodoors. there's three tables, eight chairs, easy rocking-chair, music-stand, stool to match, and pair of stand-up screens, all gilt in real louey catorse; and it goes in three boxes - by - and - . think of that, sir. for fifteen ten and the boxes in." then there was a pause, after which mr. kantwise added--"if ready money, the carriage paid." and then he turned his head very much away, and looked back very hard at his expected customer. "i'm afraid the articles are not in my line," said mr. dockwrath. "it's the tastiest present for a gentleman to make to his lady that has come out since--since those sort of things have come out at all. you'll let me show you the articles, sir. it will give me the sincerest pleasure." and mr. kantwise proposed to leave the room in order that he might introduce the three boxes in question. "they would not be at all in my way," said mr. dockwrath. "the trouble would be nothing," said mr. kantwise, "and it gives me the greatest pleasure to make them known when i find any one who can appreciate such undoubted luxuries;" and so saying mr. kantwise skipped out of the room, and soon returned with james and boots, each of the three bearing on his shoulder a deal box nearly as big as a coffin, all of which were deposited in different parts of the room. mr. moulder in the meantime snored heavily, his head falling on to his breast every now and again. but nevertheless he held fast by his pipe. mr. kantwise skipped about the room with wonderful agility, unfastening the boxes, and taking out the contents, while joe the boots and james the waiter stood by assisting. they had never yet seen the glories of these chairs and tables, and were therefore not unwilling to be present. it was singular to see how ready mr. kantwise was at the work, how recklessly he threw aside the whitey-brown paper in which the various pieces of painted iron were enveloped, and with what a practised hand he put together one article after another. first there was a round loo-table, not quite so large in its circumference as some people might think desirable, but, nevertheless, a round loo-table. the pedestal with its three claws was all together. with a knowing touch mr. kantwise separated the bottom of what looked like a yellow stick, and, lo! there were three legs, which he placed carefully on the ground. then a small bar was screwed on to the top, and over the bar was screwed the leaf, or table itself, which consisted of three pieces unfolding with hinges. these, when the screw had been duly fastened in the centre, opened out upon the bar, and there was the table complete. it was certainly a "tasty" article, and the pride with which mr. kantwise glanced back at it was quite delightful. the top of the table was blue, with a red bird of paradise in the middle; and the edges of the table, to the breadth of a couple of inches, were yellow. the pillar also was yellow, as were the three legs. "it's the real louey catorse," said mr. kantwise, stooping down to go on with table number two, which was, as he described it, a "chess," having the proper number of blue and light-pink squares marked upon it; but this also had been made louey catorse with reference to its legs and edges. the third table was a "sofa," of proper shape, but rather small in size. then, one after another, he brought forth and screwed up the chairs, stools, and sundry screens, and within a quarter of an hour he had put up the whole set complete. the red bird of paradise and the blue ground appeared on all, as did also the yellow legs and edgings which gave to them their peculiarly fashionable character. "there," said mr. kantwise, looking at them with fond admiration, "i don't mind giving a personal guarantee that there's nothing equal to that for the money either in england or in france." "they are very nice," said mr. dockwrath. when a man has had produced before him for his own and sole delectation any article or articles, how can he avoid eulogium? mr. dockwrath found himself obliged to pause, and almost feared that he should find himself obliged to buy. "nice! i should rather think they are," said mr. kantwise, becoming triumphant,--"and for fifteen ten, delivered, boxes included. there's nothing like iron, sir, nothing; you may take my word for that. they're so strong, you know. look here, sir." and then mr. kantwise, taking two of the pieces of whitey-brown paper which had been laid aside, carefully spread one on the centre of the round table, and the other on the seat of one of the chairs. then lightly poising himself on his toe, he stepped on to the chair, and from thence on to the table. in that position he skillfully brought his feet together, so that his weight was directly on the leg, and gracefully waved his hands over his head. james and boots stood by admiring, with open mouths, and mr. dockwrath, with his hands in his pockets, was meditating whether he could not give the order without complying with the terms as to ready money. [illustration: "there is nothing like iron, sir; nothing."] "look at that for strength," said mr. kantwise from his exalted position. "i don't think any lady of your acquaintance, sir, would allow you to stand on her rosewood or mahogany loo-table. and if she did, you would not like to adventure it yourself. but look at this for strength," and he waved his arms abroad, still keeping his feet skilfully together in the same exact position. at that moment mr. moulder awoke. "so you've got your iron traps out, have you?" said he. "what; you're there, are you? upon my word i'd sooner you than me." "i certainly should not like to see you up here, mr. moulder. i doubt whether even this table would bear five-and-twenty stone. joe, lend me your shoulder, there's a good fellow." and then mr. kantwise, bearing very lightly on the chair, descended to the ground without accident. "now, that's what i call gammon," said moulder. "what is gammon, mr. moulder?" said the other, beginning to be angry. "it's all gammon. the chairs and tables is gammon, and so is the stools and the screens." "mr. moulder, i didn't call your tea and coffee and brandy gammon." "you can't; and you wouldn't do any harm if you did. hubbles and grease are too well known in yorkshire for you to hurt them. but as for all that show-off and gimcrack-work, i tell you fairly it ain't what i call trade, and it ain't fit for a commercial room. it's gammon, gammon, gammon! james, give me a bedcandle." and so mr. moulder took himself off to bed. "i think i'll go too," said mr. dockwrath. "you'll let me put you up the set, eh?" said mr. kantwise. "well; i'll think about it," said the attorney. "i'll not just give you an answer to-night. good night, sir; i'm very much obliged to you." and he too went, leaving mr. kantwise to repack his chairs and tables with the assistance of james the waiter. chapter vii. the masons of groby park. groby park is about seven miles from leeds, in the direction of bradford, and thither on the morning after the scene described in the last chapter mr. dockwrath was driven in one of the gigs belonging to the bull inn. the park itself is spacious, but is flat and uninteresting, being surrounded by a thin belt of new-looking fir-trees, and containing but very little old or handsome timber. there are on the high road two very important lodges, between which is a large ornamented gate, and from thence an excellent road leads to the mansion, situated in the very middle of the domain. the house is greek in its style of architecture,--at least so the owner says; and if a portico with a pediment and seven ionic columns makes a house greek, the house in groby park undoubtedly is greek. here lived mr. and mrs. mason, the three misses mason, and occasionally the two young messrs. mason; for the master of groby park was blessed with five children. he himself was a big, broad, heavy-browed man, in whose composition there was nothing of tenderness, nothing of poetry, and nothing of taste; but i cannot say that he was on the whole a bad man. he was just in his dealings, or at any rate endeavoured to be so. he strove hard to do his duty as a county magistrate against very adverse circumstances. he endeavoured to enable his tenants and labourers to live. he was severe to his children, and was not loved by them; but nevertheless they were dear to him, and he endeavoured to do his duty by them. the wife of his bosom was not a pleasant woman, but nevertheless he did his duty by her; that is, he neither deserted her, nor beat her, nor locked her up. i am not sure that he would not have been justified in doing one of these three things, or even all the three; for mrs. mason of groby park was not a pleasant woman. but yet he was a bad man in that he could never forget and never forgive. his mind and heart were equally harsh and hard and inflexible. he was a man who considered that it behoved him as a man to resent all injuries, and to have his pound of flesh in all cases. in his inner thoughts he had ever boasted to himself that he had paid all men all that he owed. he had, so he thought, injured no one in any of the relations of life. his tradesmen got their money regularly. he answered every man's letter. he exacted nothing from any man for which he did not pay. he never ill-used a servant either by bad language or by over-work. he never amused himself, but devoted his whole time to duties. he would fain even have been hospitable, could he have gotten his neighbours to come to him and have induced his wife to put upon the table sufficient food for them to eat. such being his virtues, what right had any one to injure him? when he got from his grocer adulterated coffee,--he analyzed the coffee, as his half-brother had done the guano,--he would have flayed the man alive if the law would have allowed him. had he not paid the man monthly, giving him the best price as though for the best article? when he was taken in with a warranty for a horse, he pursued the culprit to the uttermost. maid-servants who would not come from their bedrooms at six o'clock, he would himself disturb while enjoying their stolen slumbers. from his children he exacted all titles of respect, because he had a right to them. he wanted nothing that belonged to any one else, but he could not endure that aught should be kept from him which he believed to be his own. it may be imagined, therefore, in what light he esteemed lady mason and her son, and how he regarded their residence at orley farm, seeing that he firmly believed that orley farm was his own, if all the truth were known. i have already hinted that mrs. mason was not a delightful woman. she had been a beauty, and still imagined that she had not lost all pretension to be so considered. she spent, therefore, a considerable portion of her day in her dressing-room, spent a great deal of money for clothes, and gave herself sundry airs. she was a little woman with long eyes, and regular eyelashes, with a straight nose, and thin lips and regular teeth. her face was oval, and her hair was brown. it had at least once been all brown, and that which was now seen was brown also. but, nevertheless, although she was possessed of all these charms, you might look at her for ten days together, and on the eleventh you would not know her if you met her in the streets. but the appearance of mrs. mason was not her forte. she had been a beauty; but if it had been her lot to be known in history, it was not as a beauty that she would have been famous. parsimony was her great virtue, and a power of saving her strong point. i have said that she spent much money in dress, and some people will perhaps think that the two points of character are not compatible. such people know nothing of a true spirit of parsimony. it is from the backs and bellies of other people that savings are made with the greatest constancy and the most satisfactory results. the parsimony of a mistress of a household is best displayed on matters eatable;--on matters eatable and drinkable; for there is a fine scope for domestic savings in tea, beer, and milk. and in such matters chiefly did mrs. mason operate, going as far as she dared towards starving even her husband. but nevertheless she would feed herself in the middle of the day, having a roast fowl with bread sauce in her own room. the miser who starves himself and dies without an ounce of flesh on his bones, while his skinny head lies on a bag of gold, is after all, respectable. there has been a grand passion in his life, and that grandest work of man, self-denial. you cannot altogether despise one who has clothed himself with rags and fed himself with bone-scrapings, while broadcloth and ortolans were within his easy reach. but there are women, wives and mothers of families, who would give the bone-scrapings to their husbands and the bones to their servants, while they hide the ortolans for themselves; and would dress children in rags, while they cram chests, drawers, and boxes with silks and satins for their own backs. such a woman one can thoroughly despise, and even hate; and such a woman was mrs. mason of groby park. i shall not trouble the reader at present with much description of the young masons. the eldest son was in the army, and the younger at cambridge, both spending much more money than their father allowed them. not that he, in this respect, was specially close-fisted. he ascertained what was sufficient,--amply sufficient as he was told by the colonel of the regiment and the tutor of the college,--and that amount he allowed, assuring both joseph and john that if they spent more, they would themselves have to pay for it out of the moneys which should enrich them in future years. but how could the sons of such a mother be other than spendthrifts? of course they were extravagant; of course they spent more than they should have done; and their father resolved that he would keep his word with them religiously. the daughters were much less fortunate, having no possible means of extravagance allowed to them. both the father and mother decided that they should go out into the county society, and therefore their clothing was not absolutely of rags. but any young lady who does go into society, whether it be of county or town, will fully understand the difference between a liberal and a stingy wardrobe. girls with slender provisions of millinery may be fit to go out,--quite fit in their father's eyes; and yet all such going out may be matter of intense pain. it is all very well for the world to say that a girl should be happy without reference to her clothes. show me such a girl, and i will show you one whom i should be very sorry that a boy of mine should choose as his sweetheart. the three misses mason, as they always were called by the groby park people, had been christened diana, creusa, and penelope, their mother having a passion for classic literature, which she indulged by a use of lemprière's dictionary. they were not especially pretty, nor were they especially plain. they were well grown and healthy, and quite capable of enjoying themselves in any of the amusements customary to young ladies,--if only the opportunities were afforded them. mr. dockwrath had thought it well to write to mr. mason, acquainting that gentleman with his intended visit. mr. mason, he said to himself, would recognise his name, and know whence he came, and under such circumstances would be sure to see him, although the express purpose of the proposed interview should not have been explained to him. such in result was exactly the case. mr. mason did remember the name of dockwrath, though he had never hitherto seen the bearer of it; and as the letter was dated from hamworth, he felt sufficient interest in the matter to await at home the coming of his visitor. "i know your name, mr. mason, sir, and have known it long," said mr. dockwrath, seating himself in the chair which was offered to him in the magistrate's study; "though i never had the pleasure of seeing you before,--to my knowledge. my name is dockwrath, sir, and i am a solicitor. i live at hamworth, and i married the daughter of old mr. usbech, sir, whom you will remember." mr. mason listened attentively as these details were uttered before him so clearly, but he said nothing, merely bowing his head at each separate statement. he knew all about old usbech's daughter nearly as well as mr. dockwrath did himself, but he was a man who knew how to be silent upon occasions. "i was too young, sir," continued dockwrath, "when you had that trial about orley farm to have anything to do with the matter myself, but nevertheless i remember all the circumstances as though it was yesterday. i suppose, sir, you remember them also?" "yes, mr. dockwrath, i remember them very well." "well, sir, my impression has always been that--" and then the attorney stopped. it was quite his intention to speak out plainly before mr. mason, but he was anxious that that gentleman should speak out too. at any rate it might be well that he should be induced to express some little interest in the matter. "your impression, you say, has always been--" said mr. mason, repeating the words of his companion, and looking as ponderous and grave as ever. his countenance, however, expressed nothing but his usual ponderous solemnity. "my impression always was--that there was something that had not been as yet found out." "what sort of thing, mr. dockwrath?" "well; some secret. i don't think that your lawyers managed the matter well, mr. mason." "you think you would have done it better, mr. dockwrath?" "i don't say that, mr. mason. i was only a lad at the time, and could not have managed it at all. but they didn't ferret about enough. mr. mason, there's a deal better evidence than any that is given by word of mouth. a clever counsel can turn a witness pretty nearly any way he likes, but he can't do that with little facts. he hasn't the time, you see, to get round them. your lawyers, sir, didn't get up the little facts as they should have done." "and you have got them up since, mr. dockwrath?" "i don't say that, mr. mason. you see all my interest lies in maintaining the codicil. my wife's fortune came to her under that deed. to be sure that's gone and spent long since, and the lord chancellor with all the judges couldn't enforce restitution; but, nevertheless, i wouldn't wish that any one should have a claim against me on that account." "perhaps you will not object to say what it is that you do wish?" "i wish to see right done, mr. mason; that's all. i don't think that lady mason or her son have any right to the possession of that place. i don't think that that codicil was a correct instrument; and in that case of mason versus mason i don't think that you and your friends got to the bottom of it." and then mr. dockwrath leaned back in his chair with an inward determination to say nothing more, until mr. mason should make some sign. that gentleman, however, still remained ponderous and heavy, and therefore there was a short period of silence--"and have you got to the bottom of it since, mr. dockwrath?" at last he said. "i don't say that i have," said the attorney. "might i ask then what it is you propose to effect by the visit with which you have honoured me? of course you are aware that these are very private matters; and although i should feel myself under an obligation to you, or to any man who might assist me to arrive at any true facts which have hitherto been concealed, i am not disposed to discuss the affair with a stranger on grounds of mere suspicion." "i shouldn't have come here, mr. mason, at very great expense, and personal inconvenience to myself in my profession, if i had not some good reason for doing so. i don't think that you ever got to the bottom of that matter, and i can't say that i have done so now; i haven't even tried. but i tell you what, mr. mason; if you wish it, i think i could put you in the way of--trying." "my lawyers are messrs. round and crook of bedford row. will it not be better that you should go to them, mr. dockwrath?" "no, mr. mason. i don't think it will be better that i should go to them. i know round and crook well, and don't mean to say a word against them; but if i go any farther into this affair i must do it with the principal. i am not going to cut my own throat for the sake of mending any man's little finger. i have a family of sixteen children, mr. mason, and i have to look about very sharp,--very sharp indeed." then there was another pause, and mr. dockwrath began to perceive that mr. mason was not by nature an open, demonstrative, or communicative man. if anything further was to be done, he himself must open out a little. "the fact is, mr. mason, that i have come across documents which you should have had at that trial. round and crook ought to have had them, only they weren't half sharp. why, sir, mr. usbech had been your father's man of business for years upon years, and yet they didn't half go through his papers. they turned 'em over and looked at 'em; but never thought of seeing what little facts might be proved." "and these documents are with you now, here?" "no, mr. mason, i am not so soft as that. i never carry about original documents unless when ordered to prove. copies of one or two items i have made; not regular copies, mr. mason, but just a line or two to refresh my memory." and mr. dockwrath took a small letter-case out of his breast coat pocket. by this time mr. mason's curiosity had been roused, and he began to think it possible that his visitor had discovered information which might be of importance to him. "are you going to show me any document?" said he. "that's as may be," said the attorney. "i don't know as yet whether you care to see it. i have come a long way to do you a service, and it seems to me you are rather shy of coming forward to meet me. as i said before, i've a very heavy family, and i'm not going to cut the nose off my own face to put money into any other man's pocket. what do you think my journey down here will cost me, including loss of time, and interruption to my business?" "look here, mr. dockwrath; if you are really able to put me into possession of any facts regarding the orley farm estate which i ought to know, i will see that you are compensated for your time and trouble. messrs. round and crook--" "i'll have nothing to do with round and crook. so that's settled, mr. mason." "then, mr. dockwrath--" "half a minute, mr. mason. i'll have nothing to do with round and crook; but as i know you to be a gentleman and a man of honour, i'll put you in possession of what i've discovered, and leave it to you afterwards to do what you think right about my expenses, time, and services. you won't forget that it is a long way from hamworth to groby park. and if you should succeed--" "if i am to look at this document, i must do so without pledging myself to anything," said mr. mason, still with much solemnity. he had great doubts as to his new acquaintance, and much feared that he was derogating from his dignity as a county magistrate and owner of groby park in holding any personal intercourse with him; but nevertheless he could not resist the temptation. he most firmly believed that that codicil had not expressed the genuine last will and fair disposition of property made by his father, and it might certainly be the case that proof of all that he believed was to be found among the papers of the old lawyer. he hated lady mason with all his power of hatred, and if there did, even yet, exist for him a chance of upsetting her claims and ruining her before the world, he was not the man to forego that chance. "well, sir, you shall see it," said mr. dockwrath; "or rather hear it, for there is not much to see." and so saying he extracted from his pocket-book a very small bit of paper. "i should prefer to read it, if it's all the same to you, mr. dockwrath. i shall understand it much better in that way." "as you like, mr. mason," said the attorney, handing him the small bit of paper. "you will understand, sir, that it's no real copy, but only a few dates and particulars, just jotted down to assist my own memory." the document, supported by which mr. dockwrath had come down to yorkshire, consisted of half a sheet of note paper, and the writing upon this covered hardly the half of it. the words which mr. mason read were as follows:-- date of codicil. th july --. witnesses to the instrument. john kenneby; bridget bolster; jonathan usbech. n.b. jonathan usbech died before the testator. mason and martock. deed of separation; dated th july --. executed at orley farm. witnesses john kenneby; and bridget bolster. deed was prepared in the office of jonathan usbech, and probably executed in his presence. that was all that was written on the paper, and mr. mason read the words to himself three times before he looked up, or said anything concerning them. he was not a man quick at receiving new ideas into his mind, or of understanding new points; but that which had once become intelligible to him and been made his own, remained so always. "well," said he, when he read the above words for the third time. "you don't see it, sir?" said mr. dockwrath. "see what?" said mr. mason, still looking at the scrap of paper. "why; the dates, to begin with." "i see that the dates are the same;--the th of july in the same year." "well," said mr. dockwrath, looking very keenly into the magistrate's face. "well," said mr. mason, looking over the paper at his boot. "john kenneby and bridget bolster were witnesses to both the instruments," said the attorney. "so i see," said the magistrate. "but i don't remember that it came out in evidence that either of them recollected having been called on for two signatures on the same day." "no; there was nothing of that came out;--or was even hinted at." "no; nothing even hinted at, mr. mason,--as you justly observe. that is what i mean by saying that round and crook's people didn't get up their little facts. believe me, sir, there are men in the profession out of london who know quite as much as round and crook. they ought to have had those facts, seeing that the very copy of the document was turned over by their hands." and mr. dockwrath hit the table heavily in the warmth of his indignation against his professional brethren. earlier in the interview mr. mason would have been made very angry by such freedom, but he was not angry now. "yes; they ought to have known it," said he. but he did not even yet see the point. he merely saw that there was a point worth seeing. "known it! of course they ought to have known it. look here, mr. mason! if i had it on my mind that i'd thrown over a client of mine by such carelessness as that, i'd--i'd strike my own name off the rolls; i would indeed. i never could look a counsel in the face again, if i'd neglected to brief him with such facts as those. i suppose it was carelessness; eh, mr. mason?" "oh, yes; i'm afraid so," said mr. mason, still rather in the dark. "they could have had no object in keeping it back, i should say." "no; none in life. but let us see, mr. dockwrath; how does it bear upon us? the dates are the same, and the witnesses the same." "the deed of separation is genuine. there is no doubt about that." "oh; you're sure of that?" "quite certain. i found it entered in the old office books. it was the last of a lot of such documents executed between mason and martock after the old man gave up the business. you see she was always with him, and knew all about it." "about the partnership deed?" "of course she did. she's a clever woman, mr. mason; very clever, and it's almost a pity that she should come to grief. she has carried it on so well; hasn't she?" mr. mason's face now became very black. "why," said he, "if what you seem to allege be true, she must be a--a--a--. what do you mean, sir, by pity?" mr. dockwrath shrugged his shoulders. "it is very blue," said he, "uncommon blue." "she must be a swindler; a common swindler. nay, worse than that." "oh, yes, a deal worse than that, mr. mason. and as for common;--according to my way of thinking there's nothing at all common about it. i look upon it as about the best got-up plant i ever remember to have heard of. i do, indeed, mr. mason." the attorney during the last ten minutes of the conversation had quite altered his tone, understanding that he had already achieved a great part of his object; but mr. mason in his intense anxiety did not observe this. had mr. dockwrath, in commencing the conversation, talked about "plants" and "blue," mr. mason would probably have rung his bell for the servant. "if it's anything, it's forgery," said mr. dockwrath, looking his companion full in the face. "i always felt sure that my father never intended to sign such a codicil as that." "he never did sign it, mr. mason." "and,--and the witnesses!" said mr. mason, still not enlightened as to the true extent of the attorney's suspicion. "they signed the other deed; that is two of them did. there is no doubt about that;--on that very day. they certainly did witness a signature made by the old gentleman in his own room on that th of july. the original of that document, with the date and their names, will be forthcoming soon enough." "well," said mr. mason. "but they did not witness two signatures." "you think not, eh!" "i'm sure of it. the girl bolster would have remembered it, and would have said so. she was sharp enough." "who wrote all the names then at the foot of the will?" said mr. mason. "ah! that's the question. who did write them? we know very well, mr. mason, you and i that is, who did not. and having come to that, i think we may give a very good guess who did." and then they both sat silent for some three or four minutes. mr. dockwrath was quite at his ease, rubbing his chin with his hand, playing with a paper-knife which he had taken from the study table, and waiting till it should please mr. mason to renew the conversation. mr. mason was not at his ease, though all idea of affecting any reserve before the attorney had left him. he was thinking how best he might confound and destroy the woman who had robbed him for so many years; who had defied him, got the better of him, and put him to terrible cost; who had vexed his spirit through his whole life, deprived him of content, and had been to him as a thorn ever present in a festering sore. he had always believed that she had defrauded him, but this belief had been qualified by the unbelief of others. it might have been, he had half thought, that the old man had signed the codicil in his dotage, having been cheated and bullied into it by the woman. there had been no day in her life on which he would not have ruined her, had it been in his power to do so. but now--now, new and grander ideas were breaking in upon his mind. could it be possible that he might live to see her, not merely deprived of her ill-gained money, but standing in the dock as a felon to receive sentence for her terrible misdeeds? if that might be so, would he not receive great compensation for all that he had suffered? would it not be sweet to his sense of justice that both of them should thus at last have their own? he did not even yet understand all that mr. dockwrath suspected. he did not fully perceive why the woman was supposed to have chosen as the date of her forgery, the date of that other genuine deed. but he did understand, he did perceive--at least so he thought,--that new and perhaps conclusive evidence of her villainy was at last within his reach. "and what shall we do now, mr. dockwrath?" he said at last. "well; am i to understand that you do me the honour of asking my advice upon that question as being your lawyer?" this question immediately brought mr. mason back to business that he did understand. "a man in my position cannot very well change his legal advisers at a moment's notice. you must be very well aware of that, mr. dockwrath. messrs. round and crook--" "messrs. round and crook, sir, have neglected your business in a most shameful manner. let me tell you that, sir." "well; that's as may be. i'll tell you what i'll do, mr. dockwrath; i'll think over this matter in quiet, and then i'll come up to town. perhaps when there i may expect the honour of a further visit from you." "and you won't mention the matter to round and crook?" "i can't undertake to say that, mr. dockwrath. i think it will perhaps be better that i should mention it, and then see you afterwards." "and how about my expenses down here?" just at this moment there came a light tap at the study door, and before the master of the house could give or withhold permission the mistress of the house entered the room. "my dear," she said, "i didn't know that you were engaged." "yes, i am engaged," said the gentleman. "oh, i'm sure i beg pardon. perhaps this is the gentleman from hamworth?" "yes, ma'am," said mr. dockwrath. "i am the gentleman from hamworth. i hope i have the pleasure of seeing you very well, ma'am?" and getting up from his chair he bowed politely. "mr. dockwrath, mrs. mason," said the lady's husband, introducing them; and then mrs. mason curtsied to the stranger. she too was very anxious to know what might be the news from hamworth. "mr. dockwrath will lunch with us, my dear," said mr. mason. and then the lady, on hospitable cares intent, left them again to themselves. chapter viii. mrs. mason's hot luncheon. though mr. dockwrath was somewhat elated by this invitation to lunch, he was also somewhat abashed by it. he had been far from expecting that mr. mason of groby park would do him any such honour, and was made aware by it of the great hold which he must have made upon the attention of his host. but nevertheless he immediately felt that his hands were to a certain degree tied. he, having been invited to sit down at mr. mason's table, with mrs. m. and the family,--having been treated as though he were a gentleman, and thus being for the time being put on a footing of equality with the county magistrate, could not repeat that last important question: "how about my expenses down here?" nor could he immediately go on with the grand subject in any frame of mind which would tend to further his own interests. having been invited to lunch, he could not haggle with due persistency for his share of the business in crushing lady mason, nor stipulate that the whole concern should not be trusted to the management of round and crook. as a source of pride this invitation to eat was pleasant to him, but he was forced to acknowledge to himself that it interfered with business. nor did mr. mason feel himself ready to go on with the conversation in the manner in which it had been hitherto conducted. his mind was full of orley farm and his wrongs, and he could bring himself to think of nothing else; but he could no longer talk about it to the attorney sitting there in his study. "will you take a turn about the place while the lunch is getting ready?" he said. so they took their hats and went out into the garden. "it is dreadful to think of," said mr. mason, after they had twice walked in silence the length of a broad gravel terrace. "what; about her ladyship?" said the attorney. "quite dreadful!" and mr. mason shuddered. "i don't think i ever heard of anything so shocking in my life. for twenty years, mr. dockwrath, think of that. twenty years!" and his face as he spoke became almost black with horror. "it is very shocking," said mr. dockwrath; "very shocking. what on earth will be her fate if it be proved against her? she has brought it on herself; that is all that one can say of her." "d---- her! d---- her!" exclaimed the other, gnashing his teeth with concentrated wrath. "no punishment will be bad enough for her. hanging would not be bad enough." "they can't hang her, mr. mason," said mr. dockwrath, almost frightened by the violence of his companion. "no; they have altered the laws, giving every encouragement to forgers, villains, and perjurers. but they can give her penal servitude for life. they must do it." "she is not convicted yet, you know." "d---- her!" repeated the owner of groby park again, as he thought of his twenty years of loss. eight hundred a year for twenty years had been taken away from him; and he had been worsted before the world after a hard fight. "d---- her!" he continued to growl between his teeth. mr. dockwrath when he had first heard his companion say how horrid and dreadful the affair was, had thought that mr. mason was alluding to the condition in which the lady had placed herself by her assumed guilt. but it was of his own condition that he was speaking. the idea which shocked him was the thought of the treatment which he himself had undergone. the dreadful thing at which he shuddered was his own ill usage. as for her;--pity for her! did a man ever pity a rat that had eaten into his choicest dainties? "the lunch is on the table, sir," said the groby park footman in the groby park livery. under the present household arrangement of groby park all the servants lived on board wages. mrs. mason did not like this system, though it had about it certain circumstances of economy which recommended it to her; it interfered greatly with the stringent aptitudes of her character and the warmest passion of her heart; it took away from her the delicious power of serving out the servants' food, of locking up the scraps of meat, and of charging the maids with voracity. but, to tell the truth, mr. mason had been driven by sheer necessity to take this step, as it had been found impossible to induce his wife to give out sufficient food to enable the servants to live and work. she knew that in not doing so she injured herself; but she could not do it. the knife in passing through the loaf would make the portion to be parted with less by one third than the portion to be retained. half a pound of salt butter would reduce itself to a quarter of a pound. portions of meat would become infinitesimal. when standing with viands before her, she had not free will over her hands. she could not bring herself to part with victuals, though she might ruin herself by retaining them. therefore, by the order of the master, were the servants placed on board wages. mr. dockwrath soon found himself in the dining-room, where the three young ladies with their mamma were already seated at the table. it was a handsome room, and the furniture was handsome; but nevertheless it was a heavy room, and the furniture was heavy. the table was large enough for a party of twelve, and might have borne a noble banquet; as it was the promise was not bad, for there were three large plated covers concealing hot viands, and in some houses lunch means only bread and cheese. mr. mason went through the form of introduction between mr. dockwrath and his daughters. "that is miss mason, that miss creusa mason, and this miss penelope. john, remove the covers." and the covers were removed, john taking them from the table with a magnificent action of his arm which i am inclined to think was not innocent of irony. on the dish before the master of the house,--a large dish which must i fancy have been selected by the cook with some similar attempt at sarcasm,--there reposed three scraps, as to the nature of which mr. dockwrath, though he looked hard at them, was unable to enlighten himself. but mr. mason knew them well, as he now placed his eyes on them for the third time. they were old enemies of his, and his brow again became black as he looked at them. the scraps in fact consisted of two drumsticks of a fowl and some indescribable bone out of the back of the same. the original bird had no doubt first revealed all its glories to human eyes,--presuming the eyes of the cook to be inhuman--in mrs. mason's "boodoor." then, on the dish before the lady, there were three other morsels, black-looking and very suspicious to the eye, which in the course of conversation were proclaimed to be ham,--broiled ham. mrs. mason would never allow a ham in its proper shape to come into the room, because it is an article upon which the guests are themselves supposed to operate with the carving-knife. lastly, on the dish before miss creusa there reposed three potatoes. the face of mr. mason became very black as he looked at the banquet which was spread upon his board, and mrs. mason, eyeing him across the table, saw that it was so. she was not a lady who despised such symptoms in her lord, or disregarded in her valour the violence of marital storms. she had quailed more than once or twice under rebuke occasioned by her great domestic virtue, and knew that her husband, though he might put up with much as regarded his own comfort, and that of his children, could be very angry at injuries done to his household honour and character as a hospitable english country gentleman. consequently the lady smiled and tried to look self-satisfied as she invited her guest to eat. "this is ham," said she with a little simper, "broiled ham, mr. dockwrath; and there is chicken at the other end; i think they call it--devilled." "shall i assist the young ladies to anything first?" said the attorney, wishing to be polite. "nothing, thank you," said miss penelope, with a very stiff bow. she also knew that mr. dockwrath was an attorney from hamworth, and considered herself by no means bound to hold any sort of conversation with him. "my daughters only eat bread and butter in the middle of the day," said the lady. "creusa, my dear, will you give mr. dockwrath a potato. mr. mason, mr. dockwrath will probably take a bit of that chicken." "i would recommend him to follow the girls' example, and confine himself to the bread and butter," said the master of the house, pushing about the scraps with his knife and fork. "there is nothing here for him to eat." "my dear!" exclaimed mrs. mason. "there is nothing here for him to eat," repeated mr. mason. "and as far as i can see there is nothing there either. what is it you pretend to have in that dish?" "my dear!" again exclaimed mrs. mason. "what is it?" repeated the lord of the house in an angry tone. "broiled ham, mr. mason." "then let the ham be brought in," said he. "diana, ring the bell." "but the ham is not cooked, mr. mason," said the lady. "broiled ham is always better when it has not been first boiled." "is there no cold meat in the house?" he asked. "i am afraid not," she replied, now trembling a little in anticipation of what might be coming after the stranger should have gone. "you never like large joints yourself, mr. mason; and for ourselves we don't eat meat at luncheon." "nor anybody else either, here," said mr. mason in his anger. "pray don't mind me, mr. mason," said the attorney, "pray don't, mr. mason. i am a very poor fist at lunch; i am indeed." "i am sure i am very sorry, very sorry, mr. mason," continued the lady. "if i had known that an early dinner was required, it should have been provided;--although the notice given was so very short." "i never dine early," said mr. dockwrath, thinking that some imputation of a low way of living was conveyed in this supposition that he required a dinner under the pseudonym of a lunch. "i never do, upon my word--we are quite regular at home at half-past five, and all i ever take in the middle of the day is a biscuit and a glass of sherry,--or perhaps a bite of bread and cheese. don't be uneasy about me, mrs. mason." the three young ladies, having now finished their repast, got up from the table and retired, following each other out of the room in a line. mrs. mason remained for a minute or two longer, and then she also went. "the carriage has been ordered at three, mr. m.," she said. "shall we have the pleasure of your company?" "no," growled the husband. and then the lady went, sweeping a low curtsy to mr. dockwrath as she passed out of the room. there was again a silence between the host and his guest for some two or three minutes, during which mr. mason was endeavouring to get the lunch out of his head, and to redirect his whole mind to lady mason and his hopes of vengeance. there is nothing perhaps so generally consoling to a man as a well-established grievance; a feeling of having been injured, on which his mind can brood from hour to hour, allowing him to plead his own cause in his own court, within his own heart,--and always to plead it successfully. at last mr. mason succeeded, and he could think of his enemy's fraud and forget his wife's meanness. "i suppose i may as well order my gig now," said mr. dockwrath, as soon as his host had arrived at this happy frame of mind. "your gig? ah, well. yes. i do not know that i need detain you any longer. i can assure you that i am much obliged to you, mr. dockwrath, and i shall hope to see you in london very shortly." "you are determined to go to round and crook, i suppose?" "oh, certainly." "you are wrong, sir. they'll throw you over again as sure as your name is mason." "mr. dockwrath, you must if you please allow me to judge of that myself." "oh, of course, sir, of course. but i'm sure that a gentleman like you, mr. mason, will understand--" "i shall understand that i cannot expect your services, mr. dockwrath,--your valuable time and services,--without remunerating you for them. that shall be fully explained to messrs. round and crook." "very well, sir; very well. as long as i am paid for what i do, i am content. a professional gentleman of course expects that. how is he to get along else; particular with sixteen children?" and then mr. dockwrath got into the gig, and was driven back to the bull at leeds. chapter ix. a convivial meeting. on the whole mr. dockwrath was satisfied with the results of his trip to groby park, and was in a contented frame of mind as he was driven back to leeds. no doubt it would have been better could he have persuaded mr. mason to throw over messrs. round and crook, and put himself altogether into the hands of his new adviser; but this had been too much to expect. he had not expected it, and had made the suggestion as the surest means of getting the best terms in his power, rather than with a hope of securing the actual advantage named. he had done much towards impressing mr. mason with an idea of his own sharpness, and perhaps something also towards breaking the prestige which surrounded the names of the great london firm. he would now go to that firm and make his terms with them. they would probably be quite as ready to acquiesce in the importance of his information as had been mr. mason. before leaving the inn after breakfast he had agreed to join the dinner in the commercial room at five o'clock, and mr. mason's hot lunch had by no means induced him to alter his purpose. "i shall dine here," he had said when mr. moulder was discussing with the waiter the all-important subject of dinner. "at the commercial table sir?" the waiter had asked, doubtingly. mr. dockwrath had answered boldly in the affirmative, whereat mr. moulder had growled; but mr. kantwise had expressed satisfaction. "we shall be extremely happy to enjoy your company," mr. kantwise had said, with a graceful bow, making up by his excessive courtesy for the want of any courtesy on the part of his brother-traveller. with reference to all this mr. moulder said nothing; the stranger had been admitted into the room, to a certain extent even with his own consent, and he could not now be turned out; but he resolved within his own mind that for the future he would be more firm in maintaining the ordinances and institutes of his profession. on his road home, mr. dockwrath had encountered mr. kantwise going to groby park, intent on his sale of a drawing-room set of the metallic furniture; and when he again met him in the commercial room he asked after his success. "a wonderful woman that, mr. dockwrath," said mr. kantwise, "a really wonderful woman; no particular friend of yours i think you say?" "none in the least, mr. kantwise," "then i may make bold to assert that for persevering sharpness she beats all that i ever met, even in yorkshire;" and mr. kantwise looked at his new friend over his shoulder, and shook his head as though lost in wonder and admiration. "what do you think she's done now?" "she didn't give you much to eat, i take it." "much to eat! i'll tell you what it is, mr. dockwrath; my belief is that woman would have an absolute pleasure in starving a christian; i do indeed. i'll tell you what she has done; she has made me put her up a set of them things at twelve, seventeen, six! i needn't tell you that they were never made for the money." "why, then, did you part with them at a loss?" "well; that's the question. i was soft, i suppose. she got round me, badgering me, till i didn't know where i was. she wanted them as a present for the curate's wife, she said. whatever should induce her to make a present!" "she got them for twelve, seventeen, six; did she?" said dockwrath, thinking that it might be as well to remember this, if he should feel inclined to make a purchase himself. "but they was strained, mr. dockwrath; i must admit they was strained,--particularly the loo." "you had gone through your gymnastics on it a little too often?" asked the attorney. but this mr. kantwise would not acknowledge. the strength of that table was such that he could stand on it for ever without injury to it; but nevertheless, in some other way it had become strained, and therefore he had sold the set to mrs. mason for £ _s._ _d._, that lady being minded to make a costly present to the wife of the curate of groby. when dinner-time came mr. dockwrath found that the party was swelled to the number of eight, five other undoubted commercials having brought themselves to anchor at the bull inn during the day. to all of these, mr. kantwise introduced him. "mr. gape, mr. dockwrath," said he, gracefully moving towards them the palm of his hand, and eyeing them over his shoulder. "mr. gape is in the stationery line," he added, in a whisper to the attorney, "and does for cumming and jibber of st. paul's churchyard. mr. johnson, mr. dockwrath. mr. j. is from sheffield. mr. snengkeld, mr. dockwrath;" and then he imparted in another whisper the necessary information as to mr. snengkeld. "soft goods, for brown brothers, of snow hill," and so on through the whole fraternity. each member bowed as his name was mentioned; but they did not do so very graciously, as mr. kantwise was not a great man among them. had the stranger been introduced to them by moulder,--moulder the patriarch,--his reception among them would have been much warmer. and then they sat down to dinner, mr. moulder taking the chair as president, and mr. kantwise sitting opposite to him, as being the longest sojourner at the inn. mr. dockwrath sat at the right hand of kantwise, discreetly avoiding the neighbourhood of moulder, and the others ranged themselves according to fancy at the table. "come up along side of me, old fellow," moulder said to snengkeld. "it ain't the first time that you and i have smacked our lips together over the same bit of roast beef." "nor won't, i hope, be the last by a long chalk, mr. moulder," said snengkeld, speaking with a deep, hoarse voice which seemed to ascend from some region of his body far below his chest. moulder and snengkeld were congenial spirits; but the latter, though the older man, was not endowed with so large a volume of body or so highly dominant a spirit. brown brothers, of snow hill, were substantial people, and mr. snengkeld travelled in strict accordance with the good old rules of trade which moulder loved so well. the politeness and general good manners of the company were something very pretty to witness. mr. dockwrath, as a stranger, was helped first, and every courtesy was shown to him. even mr. moulder carved the beef for him with a loving hand, and mr. kantwise was almost subservient in his attention. mr. dockwrath thought that he had certainly done right in coming to the commercial table, and resolved on doing so on all occasions of future journeys. so far all was good. the commercial dinner, as he had ascertained, would cost him only two shillings, and a much inferior repast eaten by himself elsewhere would have stood in his bill for three. so far all was good; but the test by which he was to be tried was now approaching him. when the dinner was just half over,--mr. moulder well knew how to mark the time,--that gentleman called for the waiter, and whispered an important order into that functionary's ears. the functionary bowed, retired from the room, and reappeared again in two minutes, bearing a bottle of sherry in each hand; one of these he deposited at the right hand of mr. moulder; and the other at the right hand of mr. kantwise. "sir," said mr. moulder, addressing himself with great ceremony to mr. dockwrath, "the honour of a glass of wine with you, sir," and the president, to give more importance to the occasion, put down his knife and fork, leaned back in his chair, and put both his hands upon his waistcoat, looking intently at the attorney out of his little eyes. mr. dockwrath was immediately aware that a crisis had come upon him which demanded an instant decision. if he complied with the president's invitation he would have to pay his proportion of all the wine bill that might be incurred that evening by the seven commercial gentlemen at the table, and he knew well that commercial gentlemen do sometimes call for bottle after bottle with a reckless disregard of expense. but to him, with his sixteen children, wine at an hotel was terrible. a pint of beer and a glass of brandy and water were the luxuries which he had promised himself, and with manly fortitude he resolved that he would not be coerced into extravagance by any president or any moulder. "sir," said he, "i'm obliged by the honour, but i don't drink wine to my dinner." whereupon mr. moulder bowed his head very solemnly, winked at snengkeld, and then drank wine with that gentleman. "it's the rule of the room," whispered mr. kantwise into mr. dockwrath's ear; but mr. dockwrath pretended not to hear him, and the matter was allowed to pass by for the time. but mr. snengkeld asked him for the honour, as also did mr. gape, who sat at moulder's left hand; and then mr. dockwrath began to wax angry. "i think i remarked before that i don't drink wine to my dinner," he said; and then the three at the president's end of the table all looked at each other very solemnly, and they all winked; and after that there was very little conversation during the remainder of the meal, for men knew that the goddess of discord was in the air. the cheese came, and with that a bottle of port wine, which was handed round, mr. dockwrath of course refusing to join in the conviviality; and then the cloth was drawn, and the decanters were put before the president. "james, bring me a little brandy-and-water," said the attorney, striving to put a bold face on the matter, but yet speaking with diminished voice. "half a moment, if you please, sir," said moulder; and then he exclaimed with stentorian voice, "james, the dinner bill." "yes, sir," said the waiter, and disappeared without any thought towards the requisition for brandy-and-water from mr. dockwrath. for the next five minutes they all remained silent, except that mr. moulder gave the queen's health as he filled his glass and pushed the bottles from him. "gentlemen, the queen," and then he lifted his glass of port up to the light, shut one eye as he looked at it, and immediately swallowed the contents as though he were taking a dose of physic. "i'm afraid they'll charge you for the wine," said mr. kantwise, again whispering to his neighbour. but mr. dockwrath paid no apparent attention to what was said to him. he was concentrating his energies with a view to the battle. james, the waiter, soon returned. he also knew well what was about to happen, and he trembled as he handed in the document to the president. "let's have it, james," said moulder, with much pleasantry, as he took the paper in his hand. "the old ticket i suppose; five bob a head." and then he read out the bill, the total of which, wine and beer included, came to forty shillings. "five shillings a head, gentlemen, as i said. you and i can make a pretty good guess as to the figure; eh, snengkeld?" and then he put down his two half-crowns on the waiter, as also did mr. snengkeld, and then mr. gape, and so on till it came to mr. kantwise. "i think you and i will leave it, and settle at the bar," said kantwise, appealing to dockwrath, and intending peace if peace were still possible. "no," shouted moulder, from the other end of the table; "let the man have his money now, and then his troubles will be over. if there's to be any fuss about it, let's have it out. i like to see the dinner bill settled as soon as the dinner is eaten. then one gets an appetite for one's supper." "i don't think i have the change," said kantwise, still putting off the evil day. "i'll lend, it you," said moulder, putting his hand into his trousers-pockets. but the money was forthcoming out of mr. kantwise's own proper repositories, and with slow motion he put down the five shillings one after the other. and then the waiter came to mr. dockwrath. "what's this?" said the attorney, taking up the bill and looking at it. the whole matter had been sufficiently explained to him, but nevertheless mr. moulder explained it again. "in commercial rooms, sir, as no doubt you must be well aware, seeing that you have done us the honour of joining us here, the dinner bill is divided equally among all the gentlemen as sit down. it's the rule of the room, sir. you has what you like, and you calls for what you like, and conwiviality is thereby encouraged. the figure generally comes to five shillings, and you afterwards gives what you like to the waiter. that's about it, ain't it, james?" "that's the rule, sir, in all commercial rooms as i ever see," said the waiter. the matter had been so extremely well put by mr. moulder, and that gentleman's words had carried with them so much conviction, that dockwrath felt himself almost tempted to put down the money; as far as his sixteen children and general ideas of economy were concerned he would have done so; but his legal mind could not bear to be beaten. the spirit of litigation within him told him that the point was to be carried. moulder, gape, and snengkeld together could not make him pay for wine he had neither ordered nor swallowed. his pocket was guarded by the law of the land, and not by the laws of any special room in which he might chance to find himself. "i shall pay two shillings for my dinner," said he, "and sixpence for my beer;" and then he deposited the half-crown. "do you mean us to understand," said moulder, "that after forcing your way into this room, and sitting down along with gentlemen at this table, you refuse to abide by the rules of the room?" and mr. moulder spoke and looked as though he thought that such treachery must certainly lead to most disastrous results. the disastrous result which a stranger might have expected at the moment would be a fit of apoplexy on the part of the worthy president. "i neither ordered that wine nor did i drink it," said mr. dockwrath, compressing his lips, leaning back in his chair, and looking up into one corner of the ceiling. "the gentleman certainly did not drink the wine," said kantwise, "i must acknowledge that; and as for ordering it, why that was done by the president, in course." "gammon!" said mr. moulder, and he fixed his eyes steadfastly upon his vice. "kantwise, that's gammon. the most of what you says is gammon." "mr. moulder, i don't exactly know what you mean by that word gammon, but it's objectionable. to my feelings it's very objectionable. i say that the gentleman did not drink the wine, and i appeal to the gentleman who sits at the gentleman's right, whether what i say is not correct. if what i say is correct, it can't be--gammon. mr. busby, did that gentleman drink the wine, or did he not?" "not as i see," said mr. busby, somewhat nervous at being thus brought into the controversy. he was a young man just commencing his travels, and stood in awe of the great moulder. "gammon!" shouted moulder, with a very red face. "everybody at the table knows he didn't drink the wine. everybody saw that he declined the honour when proposed, which i don't know that i ever saw a gentleman do at a commercial table till this day, barring that he was a teetotaller, which is gammon too. but its p.p. here, as every commercial gentleman knows, kantwise as well as the best of us." "p.p., that's the rule," growled snengkeld, almost from under the table. "in commercial rooms, as the gentleman must be aware, the rule is as stated by my friend on my right," said mr. gape. "the wine is ordered by the president or chairman, and is paid for in equal proportions by the company or guests," and in his oratory mr. gape laid great stress on the word "or." "the gentleman will easily perceive that such a rule as this is necessary in such a society; and unless--" but mr. gape was apt to make long speeches, and therefore mr. moulder interrupted him. "you had better pay your five shillings, sir, and have no jaw about it. the man is standing idle there." "it's not the value of the money," said dockwrath, "but i must decline to acknowledge that i am amenable to the jurisdiction." "there has clearly been a mistake," said johnson from sheffield, "and we had better settle it among us; anything is better than a row." johnson from sheffield was a man somewhat inclined to dispute the supremacy of moulder from houndsditch. "no, johnson," said the president. "anything is not better than a row. a premeditated infraction of our rules is not better than a row." "did you say premeditated?" said kantwise. "i think not premeditated." "i did say premeditated, and i say it again." "it looks uncommon like it," said snengkeld. "when a gentleman," said gape, "who does not belong to a society--" "it's no good having more talk," said moulder, "and we'll soon bring this to an end. mr.--; i haven't the honour of knowing the gentleman's name." "my name is dockwrath, and i am a solicitor." "oh, a solicitor; are you? and you said last night you was commercial! will you be good enough to tell us, mr. solicitor--for i didn't just catch your name, except that it begins with a dock--and that's where most of your clients are to be found, i suppose--" "order, order, order!" said kantwise, holding up both his hands. "it's the chair as is speaking," said mr. gape, who had a true englishman's notion that the chair itself could not be called to order. "you shouldn't insult the gentleman because he has his own ideas," said johnson. "i don't want to insult no one," continued moulder; "and those who know me best, among whom i can't as yet count mr. johnson, though hopes i shall some day, won't say it of me." "hear--hear--hear!" from both snengkeld and gape; to which kantwise added a little "hear--hear!" of his own, of which mr. moulder did not quite approve. "mr. snengkeld and mr. gape, they're my old friends, and they knows me. and they knows the way of a commercial room--which some gentlemen don't seem as though they do. i don't want to insult no one; but as chairman here at this conwivial meeting, i asks that gentleman who says he is a solicitor whether he means to pay his dinner bill according to the rules of the room, or whether he don't?" "i've paid for what i've had already," said dockwrath, "and i don't mean to pay for what i've not had." "james," exclaimed moulder,--and all the chairman was in his voice as he spoke,--"my compliments to mr. crump, and i will request his attendance for five minutes;" and then james left the room, and there was silence for a while, during which the bottles made their round of the table. "hadn't we better send back the pint of wine which mr. dockwrath hasn't used?" suggested kantwise. "i'm d---- if we do!" replied moulder, with much energy; and the general silence was not again broken till mr. crump made his appearance; but the chairman whispered a private word or two to his friend snengkeld. "i never sent back ordered liquor to the bar yet, unless it was bad; and i'm not going to begin now." and then mr. crump came in. mr. crump was a very clean-looking person, without any beard; and dressed from head to foot in black. he was about fifty, with grizzly gray hair, which stood upright on his head, and his face at the present moment wore on it an innkeeper's smile. but it could also assume an innkeeper's frown, and on occasions did so--when bills were disputed, or unreasonable strangers thought that they knew the distance in posting miles round the neighbourhood of leeds better than did he, mr. crump, who had lived at the bull inn all his life. but mr. crump rarely frowned on commercial gentlemen, from whom was derived the main stay of his business and the main prop of his house. "mr. crump," began moulder, "here has occurred a very unpleasant transaction." "i know all about it, gentlemen," said mr. crump. "the waiter has acquainted me, and i can assure you, gentlemen, that i am extremely sorry that anything should have arisen to disturb the harmony of your dinner-table." "we must now call upon you, mr. crump," began mr. moulder, who was about to demand that dockwrath should be turned bodily out of the room. "if you'll allow me one moment, mr. moulder," continued mr. crump, "and i'll tell you what is my suggestion. the gentleman here, who i understand is a lawyer, does not wish to comply with the rules of the commercial room." "i certainly don't wish or intend to pay for drink that i didn't order and haven't had," said dockwrath. "exactly," said mr. crump. "and therefore, gentlemen, to get out of the difficulty, we'll presume, if you please, that the bill is paid." "the lawyer, as you call him, will have to leave the room," said moulder. "perhaps he will not object to step over to the coffee-room on the other side," suggested the landlord. "i can't think of leaving my seat here under such circumstances," said dockwrath. "you can't," said moulder. "then you must be made, as i take it." "let me see the man that will make me," said dockwrath. mr. crump looked very apologetic and not very comfortable. "there is a difficulty, gentlemen; there is a difficulty, indeed," he said. "the fact is, the gentleman should not have been showed into the room at all;" and he looked very angrily at his own servant, james. "he said he was 'mercial," said james. "so he did. now he says as how he's a lawyer. what's a poor man to do?" "i'm a commercial lawyer," said dockwrath. "he must leave the room, or i shall leave the house," said moulder. "gentlemen, gentlemen!" said crump. "this kind of thing does not happen often, and on this occasion i must try your kind patience. if mr. moulder would allow me to suggest that the commercial gentlemen should take their wine in the large drawing-room up stairs this evening, mrs. c. will do her best to make it comfortable for them in five minutes. there of course they can be private." there was something in the idea of leaving mr. dockwrath alone in his glory which appeased the spirit of the great moulder. he had known crump, moreover, for many years, and was aware that it would be a dangerous, and probably an expensive proceeding to thrust out the attorney by violence. "if the other gentlemen are agreeable, i am," said he. the other gentlemen were agreeable, and, with the exception of kantwise, they all rose from their chairs. "i must say i think you ought to leave the room as you don't choose to abide by the rules," said johnson, addressing himself to dockwrath. "that's your opinion," said dockwrath. "yes, it is," said johnson. "that's my opinion." "my own happens to be different," said dockwrath; and so he kept his chair. "there, mr. crump," said moulder, taking half a crown from his pocket and throwing it on the table. "i sha'n't see you at a loss." "thank you, sir," said mr. crump; and he very humbly took up the money. "i keep a little account for charity at home," said moulder. "it don't run very high, do it?" asked snengkeld, jocosely. "not out of the way, it don't. but now i shall have the pleasure of writing down in it that i paid half a crown for a lawyer who couldn't afford to settle his own dinner bill. sir, we have the pleasure of wishing you a good night." "i hope you'll find the large drawing-room up stairs quite comfortable," said dockwrath. and then they all marched out of the room, each with his own glass, mr. moulder leading the way with stately step. it was pleasant to see them as they all followed their leader across the open passage of the gateway, in by the bar, and so up the chief staircase. mr. moulder walked slowly, bearing the bottle of port and his own glass, and mr. snengkeld and mr. gape followed in line, bearing also their own glasses, and maintaining the dignity of their profession under circumstances of some difficulty. [illustration: and then they all marched out of the room, each with his own glass.] "gentlemen, i really am sorry for this little accident," said mr. crump, as they were passing the bar; "but a lawyer, you know--" "and such a lawyer, eh, crump?" said moulder. "it might be five-and-twenty pound to me to lay a hand on him!" said the landlord. when the time came for mr. kantwise to move, he considered the matter well. the chances, however, as he calculated them, were against any profitable business being done with the attorney, so he also left the room. "good night, sir," he said as he went. "i wish you a very good night." "take care of yourself," said dockwrath; and then the attorney spent the rest of the evening alone. chapter x. mr., mrs., and miss furnival. i will now ask my readers to come with me up to london, in order that i may introduce them to the family of the furnivals. we shall see much of the furnivals before we reach the end of our present undertaking, and it will be well that we should commence our acquaintance with them as early as may be done. mr. furnival was a lawyer--i mean a barrister--belonging to lincoln's inn, and living at the time at which our story is supposed to commence in harley street. but he had not been long a resident in harley street, having left the less fashionable neighbourhood of russell square only two or three years before that period. on his marriage he had located himself in a small house in keppel street, and had there remained till professional success, long waited for, enabled him to move further west, and indulge himself with the comforts of larger rooms and more servants. at the time of which i am now speaking mr. furnival was known, and well known, as a successful man; but he had struggled long and hard before that success had come to him, and during the earliest years of his married life had found the work of keeping the wolf from the door to be almost more than enough for his energies. mr. furnival practised at the common law bar, and early in life had attached himself to the home circuit. i cannot say why he obtained no great success till he was nearer fifty than forty years of age. at that time i fancy that barristers did not come to their prime till a period of life at which other men are supposed to be in their decadence. nevertheless, he had married on nothing, and had kept the wolf from the door. to do this he had been constant at his work in season and out of season, during the long hours of day and the long hours of night. throughout his term times he had toiled in court, and during the vacations he had toiled out of court. he had reported volumes of cases, having been himself his own short-hand writer,--as it is well known to most young lawyers, who as a rule always fill an upper shelf in their law libraries with furnival and staples' seventeen volumes in calf. he had worked for the booksellers, and for the newspapers, and for the attorneys,--always working, however, with reference to the law; and though he had worked for years with the lowest pay, no man had heard him complain. that no woman had heard him do so, i will not say; as it is more than probable that into the sympathising ears of mrs. furnival he did pour forth plaints as to the small wages which the legal world meted out to him in return for his labours. he was a constant, hard, patient man, and at last there came to him the full reward of all his industry. what was the special case by which mr. furnival obtained his great success no man could say. in all probability there was no special case. gradually it began to be understood that he was a safe man, understanding his trade, true to his clients, and very damaging as an opponent. legal gentlemen are, i believe, quite as often bought off as bought up. sir richard and mr. furnival could not both be required on the same side, seeing what a tower of strength each was in himself; but then sir richard would be absolutely neutralized if mr. furnival were employed on the other side. this is a system well understood by attorneys, and has been found to be extremely lucrative by gentlemen leading at the bar. mr. furnival was now fifty-five years of age, and was beginning to show in his face some traces of his hard work. not that he was becoming old, or weak, or worn; but his eye had lost its fire--except the fire peculiar to his profession; and there were wrinkles in his forehead and cheeks; and his upper lip, except when he was speaking, hung heavily over the lower; and the loose skin below his eye was forming into saucers; and his hair had become grizzled; and on his shoulders, except when in court, there was a slight stoop. as seen in his wig and gown he was a man of commanding presence,--and for ten men in london who knew him in this garb, hardly one knew him without it. he was nearly six feet high, and stood forth prominently, with square, broad shoulders and a large body. his head also was large; his forehead was high, and marked strongly by signs of intellect; his nose was long and straight, his eyes were very gray, and capable to an extraordinary degree both of direct severity and of concealed sarcasm. witnesses have been heard to say that they could endure all that mr. furnival could say to them, and continue in some sort to answer all his questions, if only he would refrain from looking at them. but he would never refrain; and therefore it was now well understood how great a thing it was to secure the services of mr. furnival. "sir," an attorney would say to an unfortunate client doubtful as to the expenditure, "your witnesses will not be able to stand in the box if we allow mr. furnival to be engaged on the other side." i am inclined to think that mr. furnival owed to this power of his eyes his almost unequalled perfection in that peculiar branch of his profession. his voice was powerful, and not unpleasant when used within the precincts of a court, though it grated somewhat harshly on the ears in the smaller compass of a private room. his flow of words was free and good, and seemed to come from him without the slightest effort. such at least was always the case with him when standing wigged and gowned before a judge. latterly, however, he had tried his eloquence on another arena, and not altogether with equal success. he was now in parliament, sitting as member for the essex marshes, and he had not as yet carried either the country or the house with him, although he had been frequently on his legs. some men said that with a little practice he would yet become very serviceable as an honourable and learned member; but others expressed a fear that he had come too late in life to these new duties. i have spoken of mr. furnival's great success in that branch of his profession which required from him the examination of evidence, but i would not have it thought that he was great only in this, or even mainly in this. there are gentlemen at the bar, among whom i may perhaps notice my old friend mr. chaffanbrass as the most conspicuous, who have confined their talents to the browbeating of witnesses,--greatly to their own profit, and no doubt to the advantage of society. but i would have it understood that mr. furnival was by no means one of these. he had been no old bailey lawyer, devoting himself to the manumission of murderers, or the security of the swindling world in general. he had been employed on abstruse points of law, had been great in will cases, very learned as to the rights of railways, peculiarly apt in enforcing the dowries of married women, and successful above all things in separating husbands and wives whose lives had not been passed in accordance with the recognised rules of hymen. indeed there is no branch of the common law in which he was not regarded as great and powerful, though perhaps his proficiency in damaging the general characters of his opponents has been recognised as his especial forte. under these circumstances i should grieve to have him confounded with such men as mr. chaffanbrass, who is hardly known by the profession beyond the precincts of his own peculiar court in the city. mr. furnival's reputation has spread itself wherever stuff gowns and horsehair wigs are held in estimation. mr. furnival when clothed in his forensic habiliments certainly possessed a solemn and severe dignity which had its weight even with the judges. those who scrutinised his appearance critically might have said that it was in some respects pretentious; but the ordinary jurymen of this country are not critical scrutinisers of appearance, and by them he was never held in light estimation. when in his addresses to them, appealing to their intelligence, education, and enlightened justice, he would declare that the property of his clients was perfectly safe in their hands, he looked to be such an advocate as a litigant would fain possess when dreading the soundness of his own cause. any cause was sound to him when once he had been feed for its support, and he carried in his countenance his assurance of this soundness,--and the assurance of unsoundness in the cause of his opponent. even he did not always win; but on the occasion of his losing, those of the uninitiated who had heard the pleadings would express their astonishment that he should not have been successful. when he was divested of his wig his appearance was not so perfect. there was then a hard, long straightness about his head and face, giving to his countenance the form of a parallelogram, to which there belonged a certain meanness of expression. he wanted the roundness of forehead, the short lines, and the graceful curves of face which are necessary to unadorned manly comeliness. his whiskers were small, grizzled, and ill grown, and required the ample relief of his wig. in no guise did he look other than a clever man; but in his dress as a simple citizen he would perhaps be taken as a clever man in whose tenderness of heart and cordiality of feeling one would not at first sight place implicit trust. as a poor man mr. furnival had done his duty well by his wife and family,--for as a poor man he had been blessed with four children. three of these had died as they were becoming men and women, and now, as a rich man, he was left with one daughter, an only child. as a poor man mr. furnival had been an excellent husband, going forth in the morning to his work, struggling through the day, and then returning to his meagre dinner and his long evenings of unremitting drudgery. the bodily strength which had supported him through his work in those days must have been immense, for he had allowed himself no holidays. and then success and money had come,--and mrs. furnival sometimes found herself not quite so happy as she had been when watching beside him in the days of their poverty. the equal mind,--as mortal delius was bidden to remember, and as mr. furnival might also have remembered had time been allowed him to cultivate the classics,--the equal mind should be as sedulously maintained when things run well, as well as when they run hardly; and perhaps the maintenance of such equal mind is more difficult in the former than in the latter stage of life. be that as it may, mr. furnival could now be very cross on certain domestic occasions, and could also be very unjust. and there was worse than this,--much worse behind. he, who in the heyday of his youth would spend night after night poring over his books, copying out reports, and never asking to see a female habiliment brighter or more attractive than his wife's sunday gown, he, at the age of fifty-five, was now running after strange goddesses! the member for the essex marshes, in these his latter days, was obtaining for himself among other successes the character of a lothario; and mrs. furnival, sitting at home in her genteel drawing-room near cavendish square, would remember with regret the small dingy parlour in keppel street. mrs. furnival in discussing her grievances would attribute them mainly to port wine. in his early days mr. furnival had been essentially an abstemious man. young men who work fifteen hours a day must be so. but now he had a strong opinion about certain portuguese vintages, was convinced that there was no port wine in london equal to the contents of his own bin, saving always a certain green cork appertaining to his own club, which was to be extracted at the rate of thirty shillings a cork. and mrs. furnival attributed to these latter studies not only a certain purple hue which was suffusing his nose and cheeks, but also that unevenness of character and those supposed domestic improprieties to which allusion has been made. it may, however, be as well to explain that mrs. ball, the old family cook and housekeeper, who had ascended with the furnivals in the world, opined that made-dishes did the mischief. he dined out too often, and was a deal too particular about his dinner when he dined at home. if providence would see fit to visit him with a sharp attack of the gout, it would--so thought mrs. ball--be better for all parties. whether or no it may have been that mrs. furnival at fifty-five--for she and her lord were of the same age--was not herself as attractive in her husband's eyes as she had been at thirty, i will not pretend to say. there can have been no just reason for any such change in feeling, seeing that the two had grown old together. she, poor woman, would have been quite content with the attentions of mr. furnival, though his hair was grizzled and his nose was blue; nor did she ever think of attracting to herself the admiration of any swain whose general comeliness might be more free from all taint of age. why then should he wander afield--at the age of fifty-five? that he did wander afield, poor mrs. furnival felt in her agony convinced; and among those ladies whom on this account she most thoroughly detested was our friend lady mason of orley farm. lady mason and the lawyer had first become acquainted in the days of the trial, now long gone by, on which occasion mr. furnival had been employed as the junior counsel; and that acquaintance had ripened into friendship, and now flourished in full vigour,--to mrs. furnival's great sorrow and disturbance. mrs. furnival herself was a stout, solid woman, sensible on most points, but better adapted, perhaps, to the life in keppel street than that to which she had now been promoted. as kitty blacker she had possessed feminine charms which would have been famous had they been better known. mr. furnival had fetched her from farther east--from the region of great ormond street and the neighbourhood of southampton buildings. her cherry cheeks, and her round eye, and her full bust, and her fresh lip, had conquered the hard-tasked lawyer; and so they had gone forth to fight the world together. her eye was still round, and her cheek red, and her bust full,--there had certainly been no falling off there; nor will i say that her lip had lost its freshness. but the bloom of her charms had passed away, and she was now a solid, stout, motherly woman, not bright in converse, but by no means deficient in mother-wit, recognizing well the duties which she owed to others, but recognizing equally well those which others owed to her. all the charms of her youth--had they not been given to him, and also all her solicitude, all her anxious fighting with the hard world? when they had been poor together, had she not patched and turned and twisted, sitting silently by his side into the long nights, because she would not ask him for the price of a new dress? and yet now, now that they were rich--? mrs. furnival, when she put such questions within her own mind, could hardly answer this latter one with patience. others might be afraid of the great mr. furnival in his wig and gown; others might be struck dumb by his power of eye and mouth; but she, she, the wife of his bosom, she could catch him without his armour. she would so catch him and let him know what she thought of all her wrongs. so she said to herself many a day, and yet the great deed, in all its explosiveness, had never yet been done. small attacks of words there had been many, but hitherto the courage to speak out her griefs openly had been wanting to her. i can now allow myself but a small space to say a few words of sophia furnival, and yet in that small space must be confined all the direct description which can be given of one of the principal personages of this story. at nineteen miss furnival was in all respects a young woman. she was forward in acquirements, in manner, in general intelligence, and in powers of conversation. she was a handsome, tall girl, with expressive gray eyes and dark-brown hair. her mouth, and hair, and a certain motion of her neck and turn of her head, had come to her from her mother, but her eyes were those of her father: they were less sharp perhaps, less eager after their prey; but they were bright as his had been bright, and sometimes had in them more of absolute command than he was ever able to throw into his own. their golden days had come on them at a period of her life which enabled her to make a better use of them than her mother could do. she never felt herself to be struck dumb by rank or fashion, nor did she in the drawing-rooms of the great ever show signs of an eastern origin. she could adapt herself without an effort to the manners of cavendish square;--ay, and if need were, to the ways of more glorious squares even than that. therefore was her father never ashamed to be seen with her on his arm in the houses of his new friends, though on such occasions he was willing enough to go out without disturbing the repose of his wife. no mother could have loved her children with a warmer affection than that which had warmed the heart of poor mrs. furnival; but under such circumstances as these was it singular that she should occasionally become jealous of her own daughter? sophia furnival was, as i have said, a clever, attractive girl, handsome, well-read, able to hold her own with the old as well as with the young, capable of hiding her vanity if she had any, mild and gentle to girls less gifted, animated in conversation, and yet possessing an eye that could fall softly to the ground, as a woman's eye always should fall upon occasions. nevertheless she was not altogether charming. "i don't feel quite sure that she is real," mrs. orme had said of her, when on a certain occasion miss furnival had spent a day and a night at the cleeve. chapter xi. mrs. furnival at home. lucius mason on his road to liverpool had passed through london, and had found a moment to call in harley street. since his return from germany he had met miss furnival both at home at his mother's house--or rather his own--and at the cleeve. miss furnival had been in the neighbourhood, and had spent two days with the great people at the cleeve, and one day with the little people at orley farm. lucius mason had found that she was a sensible girl, capable of discussing great subjects with him; and had possibly found some other charms in her. therefore he had called in harley street. on that occasion he could only call as he passed through london without delay; but he received such encouragement as induced him to spend a night in town on his return, in order that he might accept an invitation to drink tea with the furnivals. "we shall be very happy to see you," mrs. furnival had said, backing the proposition which had come from her daughter without any very great fervour; "but i fear mr. furnival will not be at home. mr. furnival very seldom is at home now." young mason did not much care for fervour on the part of sophia's mother, and therefore had accepted the invitation, though he was obliged by so doing to curtail by some hours his sojourn among the guano stores of liverpool. it was the time of year at which few people are at home in london, being the middle of october; but mrs. furnival was a lady of whom at such periods it was not very easy to dispose. she could have made herself as happy as a queen even at margate, if it could have suited furnival and sophia to be happy at margate with her. but this did not suit furnival or sophia. as regards money, any or almost all other autumnal resorts were open to her, but she could be contented at none of them because mr. furnival always pleaded that business--law business or political business--took him elsewhere. now mrs. furnival was a woman who did not like to be deserted, and who could not, in the absence of those social joys which providence had vouchsafed to her as her own, make herself happy with the society of other women such as herself. furnival was her husband, and she wanted him to carve for her, to sit opposite to her at the breakfast table, to tell her the news of the day, and to walk to church with her on sundays. they had been made one flesh and one bone, for better and worse, thirty years since; and now in her latter days she could not put up with disseveration and dislocation. she had gone down to brighton in august, soon after the house broke up, and there found that very handsome apartments had been taken for her--rooms that would have made glad the heart of many a lawyer's wife. she had, too, the command of a fly, done up to look like a private brougham, a servant in livery, the run of the public assembly-rooms, a sitting in the centre of the most fashionable church in brighton--all that the heart of woman could desire. all but the one thing was there; but, that one thing being absent, she came moodily back to town at the end of september. she would have exchanged them all with a happy heart for very moderate accommodation at margate, could she have seen mr. furnival's blue nose on the other side of the table every morning and evening as she sat over her shrimps and tea. men who had risen in the world as mr. furnival had done do find it sometimes difficult to dispose of their wives. it is not that the ladies are in themselves more unfit for rising than their lords, or that if occasion demanded they would not as readily adapt themselves to new spheres. but they do not rise, and occasion does not demand it. a man elevates his wife to his own rank, and when mr. brown, on becoming solicitor-general, becomes sir jacob, mrs. brown also becomes my lady. but the whole set among whom brown must be more or less thrown do not want her ladyship. on brown's promotion she did not become part of the bargain. brown must henceforth have two existences--a public and a private existence; and it will be well for lady brown, and well also for sir jacob, if the latter be not allowed to dwindle down to a minimum. if lady b. can raise herself also, if she can make her own occasion--if she be handsome and can flirt, if she be impudent and can force her way, if she have a daring mind and can commit great expenditure, if she be clever and can make poetry, if she can in any way create a separate glory for herself, then, indeed, sir jacob with his blue nose may follow his own path, and all will be well. sir jacob's blue nose seated opposite to her will not be her summum bonum. but worthy mrs. furnival--and she was worthy--had created for herself no such separate glory, nor did she dream of creating it; and therefore she had, as it were, no footing left to her. on this occasion she had gone to brighton, and had returned from it sulky and wretched, bringing her daughter back to london at the period of london's greatest desolation. sophia had returned uncomplaining, remembering that good things were in store for her. she had been asked to spend her christmas with the staveleys at noningsby--the family of judge staveley, who lives near alston, at a very pretty country place so called. mr. furnival had been for many years acquainted with judge staveley,--had known the judge when he was a leading counsel; and now that mr. furnival was a rising man, and now that he had a pretty daughter, it was natural that the young staveleys and sophia furnival should know each other. but poor mrs. furnival was too ponderous for this mounting late in life, and she had not been asked to noningsby. she was much too good a mother to repine at her daughter's promised gaiety. sophia was welcome to go; but by all the laws of god and man it would behove her lord and husband to eat his mincepie at home. "mr. furnival was to be back in town this evening," the lady said, as though apologizing to young mason for her husband's absence, when he entered the drawing-room, "but he has not come, and i dare say will not come now." mason did not care a straw for mr. furnival. "oh! won't he?" said he. "i suppose business keeps him." "papa is very busy about politics just at present," said sophia, wishing to make matters smooth in her mother's mind. "he was obliged to be at romford in the beginning of the week, and then he went down to birmingham. there is some congress going on there, is there not?" "all that must take a great deal of time," said lucius. "yes; and it is a terrible bore," said sophia. "i know papa finds it so." "your papa likes it, i believe," said mrs. furnival, who would not hide even her grievances under a bushel. "i don't think he likes being so much from home, mamma. of course he likes excitement, and success. all men do. do they not, mr. mason?" "they all ought to do so, and women also." "ah! but women have no sphere, mr. mason." "they have minds equal to those of men," said lucius, gallantly, "and ought to be able to make for themselves careers as brilliant." "women ought not to have any spheres," said mrs. furnival. "i don't know that i quite agree with you there, mamma." "the world is becoming a great deal too fond of what you call excitement and success. of course it is a good thing for a man to make money by his profession, and a very hard thing when he can't do it," added mrs. furnival, thinking of the olden days. "but if success in life means rampaging about, and never knowing what it is to sit quiet over his own fireside, i for one would as soon manage to do without it." "but, mamma, i don't see why success should always be rampageous." "literary women who have achieved a name bear their honours quietly," said lucius. "i don't know," said mrs. furnival. "i am told that some of them are as fond of gadding as the men. as regards the old maids, i don't care so much about it; people who are not married may do what they like with themselves, and nobody has anything to say to them. but it is very different for married people. they have no business to be enticed away from their homes by any success." "mamma is all for a darby and joan life," said sophia, laughing. "no i am not, my dear; and you should not say so. i don't advocate anything that is absurd. but i do say that life should be lived at home. that is the best part of it. what is the meaning of home if it isn't that?" poor mrs. furnival! she had no idea that she was complaining to a stranger of her husband. had any one told her so she would have declared that she was discussing world-wide topics; but lucius mason, young as he was, knew that the marital shoe was pinching the lady's domestic corn, and he made haste to change the subject. "you know my mother, mrs. furnival?" mrs. furnival said that she had the honour of acquaintance with lady mason; but on this occasion also she exhibited but little fervour. "i shall meet her up in town to-morrow," said lucius. "she is coming up for some shopping." "oh! indeed," said mrs. furnival. "and then we go down home together. i am to meet her at the chymist's at the top of chancery lane." now this was a very unnecessary communication on the part of young mason, and also an unfortunate one. "oh! indeed," said mrs. furnival again, throwing her head a little back. poor woman! she could not conceal what was in her mind, and her daughter knew all about it immediately. the truth was this. mr. furnival had been for some days on the move, at birmingham and elsewhere, and had now sent up sudden notice that he should probably be at home that very night. he should probably be at home that night, but in such case would be compelled to return to his friends at birmingham on the following afternoon. now if it were an ascertained fact that he was coming to london merely with the view of meeting lady mason, the wife of his bosom would not think it necessary to provide for him the warmest welcome. this of course was not an ascertained fact; but were there not terrible grounds of suspicion? mr. furnival's law chambers were in old square, lincoln's inn, close to chancery lane, and lady mason had made her appointment with her son within five minutes' walk of that locality. and was it not in itself a strange coincidence that lady mason, who came to town so seldom, should now do so on the very day of mr. furnival's sudden return? she felt sure that they were to meet on the morrow, but yet she could not declare even to herself that it was an ascertained fact. "oh! indeed," she said; and sophia understood all about it, though lucius did not. then mrs. furnival sank into silence; and we need not follow, word for word, the conversation between the young lady and the young gentleman. mr. mason thought that miss furnival was a very nice girl, and was not at all ill pleased to have an opportunity of passing an evening in her company; and miss furnival thought--. what she thought, or what young ladies may think generally about young gentlemen, is not to be spoken openly; but it seemed as though she also were employed to her own satisfaction, while her mother sat moody in her own arm-chair. in the course of the evening the footman in livery brought in tea, handing it round on a big silver salver, which also added to mrs. furnival's unhappiness. she would have liked to sit behind her tea-tray as she used to do in the good old hard-working days, with a small pile of buttered toast on the slop-bowl, kept warm by hot water below. in those dear old hard-working days, buttered toast had been a much-loved delicacy with furnival; and she, kind woman, had never begrudged her eyes, as she sat making it for him over the parlour fire. nor would she have begrudged them now, neither her eyes nor the work of her hands, nor all the thoughts of her heart, if he would have consented to accept of her handiwork; but in these days mr. furnival had learned a relish for other delicacies. she also had liked buttered toast, always, however, taking the pieces with the upper crust, in order that the more luscious morsels might be left for him; and she had liked to prepare her own tea leisurely, putting in slowly the sugar and cream--skimmed milk it had used to be, dropped for herself with a sparing hand, in order that his large breakfast-cup might be whitened to his liking; but though the milk had been skimmed and scanty, and though the tea itself had been put in with a sparing hand, she had then been mistress of the occasion. she had had her own way, and in stinting herself had found her own reward. but now--the tea had no flavour now that it was made in the kitchen and brought to her, cold and vapid, by a man in livery whom she half feared to keep waiting while she ministered to her own wants. and so she sat moody in her arm-chair, cross and sulky, as her daughter thought. but yet there was a vein of poetry in her heart, as she sat there, little like a sibyl as she looked. dear old days, in which her cares and solicitude were valued; in which she could do something for the joint benefit of the firm into which she had been taken as a partner! how happy she had been in her struggles, how piteously had her heart yearned towards him when she thought that he was struggling too fiercely, how brave and constant he had been; and how she had loved him as he sat steady as a rock at his grinding work! now had come the great success of which they had both dreamed together, of which they had talked as arm in arm they were taking the exercise that was so needful to him, walking quickly round russell square, quickly round bloomsbury square and bedford square, and so back to the grinding work in keppel street. it had come now--all of which they had dreamed, and more than all they had dared to hope. but of what good was it? was he happy? no; he was fretful, bilious, and worn with toil which was hard to him because he ate and drank too much; he was ill at ease in public, only half understanding the political life which he was obliged to assume in his new ambition; and he was sick in his conscience--she was sure that must be so: he could not thus neglect her, his loving, constant wife, without some pangs of remorse. and was she happy? she might have revelled in silks and satins, if silks and satins would have done her old heart good. but they would do her no good. how she had joyed in a new dress when it had been so hard to come by, so slow in coming, and when he would go with her to the choosing of it! but her gowns now were hardly of more interest to her than the joints of meat which the butcher brought to the door with the utmost regularity. it behoved the butcher to send good beef and the milliner to send good silk, and there was an end of it. not but what she could have been ecstatic about a full skirt on a smart body if he would have cared to look at it. in truth she was still soft and young enough within, though stout, and solid, and somewhat aged without. though she looked cross and surly that night, there was soft poetry within her heart. if providence, who had bountifully given, would now by chance mercifully take away those gifts, would she not then forgive everything and toil for him again with the same happiness as before? ah! yes; she could forgive everything, anything, if he would only return and be contented to sit opposite to her once again. "o mortal delius, dearest lord and husband!" she exclaimed within her own breast, in language somewhat differing from that of the roman poet, "why hast thou not remembered to maintain a mind equal in prosperity as it was always equal and well poised in adversity? oh my delius, since prosperity has been too much for thee, may the lord bless thee once more with the adversity which thou canst bear--which thou canst bear, and i with thee!" thus did she sing sadly within her own bosom,--sadly, but with true poetic cadence; while sophia and lucius mason, sitting by, when for a moment they turned their eyes upon her, gave her credit only for the cross solemnity supposed to be incidental to obese and declining years. and then there came a ring at the bell and a knock at the door, and a rush along the nether passages, and the lady knew that he of whom she had been thinking had arrived. in olden days she had ever met him in the narrow passage, and, indifferent to the maid, she had hung about his neck and kissed him in the hall. but now she did not stir from the chair. she could forgive him all and run again at the sound of his footstep, but she must first know that such forgiveness and such running would be welcome. "that's papa," said sophia. "don't forget that i have not met him since i have been home from germany," said lucius. "you must introduce me." in a minute or two mr. furnival opened the door and walked into the room. men when they arrive from their travels now-a-days have no strippings of greatcoats, no deposits to make of thick shawls and double gloves, no absolutely necessary changes of raiment. such had been the case when he had used to come back cold and weary from the circuits; but now he had left birmingham since dinner by the late express, and enjoyed his nap in the train for two hours or so, and walked into his own drawing-room as he might have done had he dined in his own dining-room. "how are you, kitty?" he said to his wife, handing to her the forefinger of his right hand by way of greeting. "well, sophy, my love;" and he kissed his daughter. "oh! lucius mason. i am very glad to see you. i can't say i should have remembered you unless i had been told. you are very welcome in harley street, and i hope you will often be here." [illustration: mr. furnival's welcome home.] "it's not very often he'd find you at home, mr. furnival," said the aggrieved wife. "not so often as i could wish just at present; but things will be more settled, i hope, before very long. how's your mother, lucius?" "she's pretty well, thank you, sir. i've to meet her in town to-morrow, and go down home with her." there was then silence in the room for a few seconds, during which mrs. furnival looked very sharply at her husband. "oh! she's to be in town, is she?" said mr. furnival, after a moment's consideration. he was angry with lady mason at the moment for having put him into this position. why had she told her son that she was to be up in london, thus producing conversation and tittle-tattle which made deceit on his part absolutely necessary? lady mason's business in london was of a nature which would not bear much open talking. she herself, in her earnest letter summoning mr. furnival up from birmingham, had besought him that her visit to his chambers might not be made matter of discussion. new troubles might be coming on her, but also they might not; and she was very anxious that no one should know that she was seeking a lawyer's advice on the matter. to all this mr. furnival had given in his adhesion; and yet she had put it into her son's power to come to his drawing-room and chatter there of her whereabouts. for a moment or two he doubted; but at the expiration of those moments he saw that the deceit was necessary. "she's to be in town, is she?" said he. the reader will of course observe that this deceit was practised, not as between husband and wife with reference to an assignation with a lady, but between the lawyer and the outer world with reference to a private meeting with a client. but then it is sometimes so difficult to make wives look at such matters in the right light. "she's coming up for some shopping," said lucius. "oh! indeed," said mrs. furnival. she would not have spoken if she could have helped it, but she could not help it; and then there was silence in the room for a minute or two, which lucius vainly endeavoured to break by a few indifferent observations to miss furnival. the words, however, which he uttered would not take the guise of indifferent observations, but fell flatly on their ears, and at the same time solemnly, as though spoken with the sole purpose of creating sound. "i hope you have been enjoying yourself at birmingham," said mrs. furnival. "enjoyed myself! i did not exactly go there for enjoyment." "or at romford, where you were before?" "women seem to think that men have no purpose but amusement when they go about their daily work," said mr. furnival; and then he threw himself back in his arm-chair, and took up the last quarterly. lucius mason soon perceived that all the harmony of the evening had in some way been marred by the return of the master of the house, and that he might be in the way if he remained; he therefore took his leave. "i shall want breakfast punctually at half-past eight to-morrow morning," said mr. furnival, as soon as the stranger had withdrawn. "i must be in chambers before ten;" and then he took his candle and withdrew to his own room. sophia rang the bell and gave the servant the order; but mrs. furnival took no trouble in the matter whatever. in the olden days she would have bustled down before she went to bed, and have seen herself that everything was ready, so that the master of the house might not be kept waiting. but all this was nothing to her now. chapter xii. mr. furnival's chambers. mr. furnival's chambers were on the first floor in a very dingy edifice in old square, lincoln's inn. this square was always dingy, even when it was comparatively open and served as the approach from chancery lane to the lord chancellor's court; but now it has been built up with new shops for the vice-chancellor, and to my eyes it seems more dingy than ever. he there occupied three rooms, all of them sufficiently spacious for the purposes required, but which were made oppressive by their general dinginess and by a smell of old leather which pervaded them. in one of them sat at his desk mr. crabwitz, a gentleman who had now been with mr. furnival for the last fifteen years, and who considered that no inconsiderable portion of the barrister's success had been attributable to his own energy and genius. mr. crabwitz was a genteel-looking man, somewhat over forty years of age, very careful as to his gloves, hat, and umbrella, and not a little particular as to his associates. as he was unmarried, fond of ladies' society, and presumed to be a warm man in money matters, he had his social successes, and looked down from a considerable altitude on some men who from their professional rank might have been considered as his superiors. he had a small bachelor's box down at barnes, and not unfrequently went abroad in the vacations. the door opening into the room of mr. crabwitz was in the corner fronting you on the left-hand side as you entered the chambers. immediately on your left was a large waiting-room, in which an additional clerk usually sat at an ordinary table. he was not an authorised part of the establishment, being kept only from week to week; but nevertheless, for the last two or three years he had been always there, and mr. crabwitz intended that he should remain, for he acted as fag to mr. crabwitz. this waiting-room was very dingy, much more so than the clerk's room, and boasted of no furniture but eight old leathern chairs and two old tables. it was surrounded by shelves which were laden with books and dust, which by no chance were ever disturbed. but to my ideas the most dingy of the three rooms was that large one in which the great man himself sat; the door of which directly fronted you as you entered. the furniture was probably better than that in the other chambers, and the place had certainly the appearance of warmth and life which comes from frequent use; but nevertheless, of all the rooms in which i ever sat i think it was the most gloomy. there were heavy curtains to the windows, which had once been ruby but were now brown; and the ceiling was brown, and the thick carpet was brown, and the books which covered every portion of the wall were brown, and the painted wood-work of the doors and windows was of a dark brown. here, on the morning with which we have now to deal, sat mr. furnival over his papers from ten to twelve, at which latter hour lady mason was to come to him. the holidays of mr. crabwitz had this year been cut short in consequence of his patron's attendance at the great congress which was now sitting, and although all london was a desert, as he had piteously complained to a lady of his acquaintance whom he had left at boulogne, he was there in the midst of the desert, and on this morning was sitting in attendance at his usual desk. why mr. furnival should have breakfasted by himself at half-past eight in order that he might be at his chambers at ten, seeing that the engagement for which he had come to town was timed for twelve, i will not pretend to say. he did not ask his wife to join him, and consequently she did not come down till her usual time. mr. furnival breakfasted by himself, and at ten o'clock he was in his chambers. though alone for two hours he was not idle, and exactly at twelve mr. crabwitz opened his door and announced lady mason. when we last parted with her after her interview with sir peregrine orme, she had resolved not to communicate with her friend the lawyer,--at any rate not to do so immediately. thinking on that resolve she had tried to sleep that night; but her mind was altogether disturbed, and she could get no rest. what, if after twenty years of tranquillity all her troubles must now be recommenced? what if the battle were again to be fought,--with such termination as the chances might send to her? why was it that she was so much greater a coward now than she had been then? then she had expected defeat, for her friends had bade her not to be sanguine; but in spite of that she had borne up and gone gallantly through the ordeal. but now she felt that if orley farm were hers to give she would sooner abandon it than renew the contest. then, at that former period of her life, she had prepared her mind to do or die in the cause. she had wrought herself up for the work, and had carried it through. but having done that work, having accomplished her terrible task, she had hoped that rest might be in store for her. as she rose from her bed on the morning after her interview with sir peregrine, she determined that she would seek counsel from him in whose counsel she could trust. sir peregrine's friendship was more valuable to her than that of mr. furnival, but a word of advice from mr. furnival was worth all the spoken wisdom of the baronet, ten times over. therefore she wrote her letter, and proposed an appointment; and mr. furnival, tempted as i have said by some evil spirit to stray after strange goddesses in these his blue-nosed days, had left his learned brethren at their congress in birmingham, and had hurried up to town to assist the widow. he had left that congress, though the wisest rustums of the law from all the civilised countries of europe were there assembled, with boanerges at their head, that great, old, valiant, learned, british rustum, inquiring with energy, solemnity, and caution, with much shaking of ponderous heads and many sarcasms from those which were not ponderous, whether any and what changes might be made in the modes of answering that great question, "guilty or not guilty?" and that other equally great question, "is it meum or is it tuum?" to answer which question justly should be the end and object of every lawyer's work. there were great men there from paris, very capable, the ulpians, tribonians, and papinians of the new empire, armed with the purest sentiments expressed in antithetical and magniloquent phrases, ravishing to the ears, and armed also with a code which, taken in its integrity, would necessarily, as the logical consequence of its clauses, drive all injustice from the face of the earth. and there were great practitioners from germany, men very skilled in the use of questions, who profess that the tongue of man, if adequately skilful, may always prevail on guilt to disclose itself; who believe in the power of their own craft to produce truth, as our forefathers believed in torture; and sometimes with the same result. and of course all that was great on the british bench, and all that was famous at the british bar was there,--men very unlike their german brethren, men who thought that guilt never should be asked to tell of itself,--men who were customarily but unconsciously shocked whenever unwary guilt did tell of itself. men these were, mostly of high and noble feeling, born and bred to live with upright hearts and clean hands, but taught by the peculiar tenets of their profession to think that that which was high and noble in their private intercourse with the world need not also be so esteemed in their legal practice. and there were italians there, good-humoured, joking, easy fellows, who would laugh their clients in and out of their difficulties; and spaniards, very grave and serious, who doubted much in their minds whether justice might not best be bought and sold; and our brethren from the united states were present also, very eager to show that in this country law, and justice also, were clouded and nearly buried beneath their wig and gown. all these and all this did mr. furnival desert for the space of twenty-four hours in order that he might comply with the request of lady mason. had she known what it was that she was calling on him to leave, no doubt she would have borne her troubles for another week,--for another fortnight, till those rustums at birmingham had brought their labours to a close. she would not have robbed the english bar of one of the warmest supporters of its present mode of practice, even for a day, had she known how much that support was needed at the present moment. but she had not known; and mr. furnival, moved by her woman's plea, had not been hard enough in his heart to refuse her. when she entered the room she was dressed very plainly as was her custom, and a thick veil covered her face; but still she was dressed with care. there was nothing of the dowdiness of the lone lorn woman about her, none of that lanky, washed-out appearance which sorrow and trouble so often give to females. had she given way to dowdiness, or suffered herself to be, as it were, washed out, mr. furnival, we may say, would not have been there to meet her;--of which fact lady mason was perhaps aware. "i am so grateful to you for this trouble," she said, as she raised her veil, and while he pressed her hand between both his own. "i can only ask you to believe that i would not have troubled you unless i had been greatly troubled myself." mr. furnival, as he placed her in an arm-chair by the fireside, declared his sorrow that she should be in grief, and then he took the other arm-chair himself, opposite to her, or rather close to her,--much closer to her than he ever now seated himself to mrs. f. "don't speak of my trouble," said he, "it is nothing if i can do anything to relieve you." but though he was so tender, he did not omit to tell her of her folly in having informed her son that she was to be in london. "and have you seen him?" asked lady mason. "he was in harley street with the ladies last night. but it does not matter. it is only for your sake that i speak, as i know that you wish to keep this matter private. and now let us hear what it is. i cannot think that there can be anything which need really cause you trouble." and he again took her hand,--that he might encourage her. lady mason let him keep her hand for a minute or so, as though she did not notice it; and yet as she turned her eyes to him it might appear that his tenderness had encouraged her. sitting there thus, with her hand in his,--with her hand in his during the first portion of the tale,--she told him all that she wished to tell. something more she told now to him than she had done to sir peregrine. "i learned from her," she said, speaking about mrs. dockwrath and her husband, "that he had found out something about dates which the lawyers did not find out before." "something about dates," said mr. furnival, looking with all his eyes into the fire. "you do not know what about dates?" "no; only this; that he said that the lawyers in bedford row--" "round and crook." "yes; he said that they were idiots not to have found it out before; and then he went off to groby park. he came back last night; but of course i have not seen her since." by this time mr. furnival had dropped the hand, and was sitting still, meditating, looking earnestly at the fire while lady mason was looking earnestly at him. she was trying to gather from his face whether he had seen signs of danger, and he was trying to gather from her words whether there might really be cause to apprehend danger. how was he to know what was really inside her mind; what were her actual thoughts and inward reasonings on this subject; what private knowledge she might have which was still kept back from him? in the ordinary intercourse of the world when one man seeks advice from another, he who is consulted demands in the first place that he shall be put in possession of all the circumstances of the case. how else will it be possible that he should give advice? but in matters of law it is different. if i, having committed a crime, were to confess my criminality to the gentleman engaged to defend me, might he not be called on to say: "then, o my friend, confess it also to the judge; and so let justice be done. ruat coelum, and the rest of it?" but who would pay a lawyer for counsel such as that? in this case there was no question of payment. the advice to be given was to a widowed woman from an experienced man of the world; but, nevertheless, he could only make his calculations as to her peculiar case in the way in which he ordinarily calculated. could it be possible that anything had been kept back from him? were there facts unknown to him, but known to her, which would be terrible, fatal, damning to his sweet friend if proved before all the world? he could not bring himself to ask her, but yet it was so material that he should know! twenty years ago, at the time of the trial, he had at one time thought,--it hardly matters to tell what, but those thoughts had not been favourable to her cause. then his mind had altered, and he had learned,--as lawyers do learn,--to believe in his own case. and when the day of triumph had come, he had triumphed loudly, commiserating his dear friend for the unjust suffering to which she had been subjected, and speaking in no low or modified tone as to the grasping, greedy cruelty of that man of groby park. nevertheless, through it all, he had felt that round and crook had not made the most of their case. and now he sat, thinking, not so much whether or no she had been in any way guilty with reference to that will, as whether the counsel he should give her ought in any way to be based on the possibility of her having been thus guilty. nothing might be so damning to her cause as that he should make sure of her innocence, if she were not innocent; and yet he would not ask her the question. if innocent, why was it that she was now so much moved, after twenty years of quiet possession? "it was a pity," he said, at last, "that lucius should have disturbed that fellow in the possession of his fields." "it was; it was!" she said. "but i did not think it possible that miriam's husband should turn against me. would it be wise, do you think, to let him have the land again?" "no, i do not think that. it would be telling him, and telling others also, that you are afraid of him. if he has obtained any information that may be considered of value by joseph mason, he can sell it at a higher price than the holding of these fields is worth." "would it be well--?" she was asking a question and then checked herself. "would what be well?" "i am so harassed that i hardly know what i am saying. would it be wise, do you think, if i were to pay him anything, so as to keep him quiet?" "what; buy him off, you mean?" "well, yes;--if you call it so. give him some sum of money in compensation for his land; and on the understanding, you know--," and then she paused. "that depends on what he may have to sell," said mr. furnival, hardly daring to look at her. "ah; yes," said the widow. and then there was another pause. "i do not think that that would be at all discreet," said mr. furnival. "after all, the chances are that it is all moonshine." "you think so?" "yes; i cannot but think so. what can that man possibly have found among the old attorney's papers that may be injurious to your interests?" "ah! i do not know; i understand so little of these things. at the time they told me,--you told me that the law might possibly go against my boy's rights. it would have been bad then, but it would be ten times more dreadful now." "but there were many questions capable of doubt then, which were definitely settled at the trial. as to your husband's intellect on that day, for instance." "there could be no doubt as to that." "no; so it has been proved; and they will not raise that point again. could he have possibly have made a later will?" "no; i am sure he did not. had he done so it could not have been found among mr. usbech's papers; for, as far as i remember, the poor man never attended to any business after that day." "what day?" "the th of july, the day on which he was with sir joseph." it was singular, thought the barrister, with how much precision she remembered the dates and circumstances. that the circumstances of the trial should be fresh on her memory was not wonderful; but how was it that she knew so accurately things which had occurred before the trial,--when no trial could have been expected? but as to this he said nothing. "and you are sure he went to groby park?" "oh, yes; i have no doubt of it. i am quite sure." "i do not know that we can do anything but wait. have you mentioned this to sir peregrine?" it immediately occurred to lady mason's mind that it would be by no means expedient, even if it were possible, to keep mr. furnival in ignorance of anything that she really did; and therefore explained that she had seen sir peregrine. "i was so troubled at the first moment that i hardly knew where to turn," she said. "you were quite right to go to sir peregrine." "i am so glad you are not angry with me as to that." "and did he say anything--anything particular?" "he promised that he would not desert me, should there be any new difficulty." "that is well. it is always good to have the countenance of such a neighbour as he is." "and the advice of such a friend as you are." and she again put out her hand to him. "well; yes. it is my trade, you know, to give advice," and he smiled as he took it. "how should i live through such troubles without you?" "we lawyers are very much abused now-a-days," said mr. furnival, thinking of what was going on down at birmingham at that very moment; "but i hardly know how the world would get on without us." "ah! but all lawyers are not like you." "some perhaps worse, and a great many much better. but, as i was saying, i do not think i would take any steps at present. the man dockwrath is a vulgar, low-minded, revengeful fellow; and i would endeavour to forget him." "ah, if i could!" "and why not? what can he possibly have learned to your injury?" and then as it seemed to lady mason that mr. furnival expected some reply to this question, she forced herself to give him one. "i suppose that he cannot know anything." "i tell you what i might do," said mr. furnival, who was still musing. "round himself is not a bad fellow, and i am acquainted with him. he was the junior partner in that house at the time of the trial, and i know that he persuaded joseph mason not to appeal to the lords. i will contrive, if possible, to see him. i shall be able to learn from him at any rate whether anything is being done." "and then if i hear that there is not, i shall be comforted." "of course; of course." "but if there is--" "i think there will be nothing of the sort," said mr. furnival, leaving his seat as he spoke. "but if there is--i shall have your aid?" and she slowly rose from her chair as she spoke. mr. furnival gave her a promise of this, as sir peregrine had done before; and then with her handkerchief to her eyes she thanked him. her tears were not false as mr. furnival well saw; and seeing that she wept, and seeing that she was beautiful, and feeling that in her grief and in her beauty she had come to him for aid, his heart was softened towards her, and he put out his arms as though he would take her to his heart--as a daughter. "dearest friend," he said, "trust me that no harm shall come to you." "i will trust you," she said, gently stopping the motion of his arm. "i will trust you, altogether. and when you have seen mr. round, shall i hear from you?" at this moment, as they were standing close together, the door opened, and mr. crabwitz introduced another lady--who indeed had advanced so quickly towards the door of mr. furnival's room, that the clerk had been hardly able to reach it before her. "mrs. furnival, if you please, sir," said mr. crabwitz. chapter xiii. guilty, or not guilty. unfortunately for mr. furnival, the intruder was mrs. furnival--whether he pleased or whether he did not please. there she was in his law chamber, present in the flesh, a sight pleasing neither to her husband nor to her husband's client. she had knocked at the outside door, which, in the absence of the fag, had been opened by mr. crabwitz, and had immediately walked across the passage towards her husband's room, expressing her knowledge that mr. furnival was within. mr. crabwitz had all the will in the world to stop her progress, but he found that he lacked the power to stay it for a moment. the advantages of matrimony are many and great,--so many and so great, that all men, doubtless, ought to marry. but even matrimony may have its drawbacks; among which unconcealed and undeserved jealousy on the part of the wife is perhaps as disagreeable as any. what is a man to do when he is accused before the world,--before any small fraction of the world, of making love to some lady of his acquaintance? what is he to say? what way is he to look? "my love, i didn't. i never did, and wouldn't think of it for worlds. i say it with my hand on my heart. there is mrs. jones herself, and i appeal to her." he is reduced to that! but should any innocent man be so reduced by the wife of his bosom? i am speaking of undeserved jealousy, and it may therefore be thought that my remarks do not apply to mrs. furnival. they do apply to her as much as to any woman. that general idea as to the strange goddesses was on her part no more than a suspicion: and all women who so torment themselves and their husbands may plead as much as she could. and for this peculiar idea as to lady mason she had no ground whatever. lady mason may have had her faults, but a propensity to rob mrs. furnival of her husband's affections had not hitherto been one of them. mr. furnival was a clever lawyer, and she had great need of his assistance; therefore she had come to his chambers, and therefore she had placed her hand in his. that mr. furnival liked his client because she was good looking may be true. i like my horse, my picture, the view from my study window for the same reason. i am inclined to think that there was nothing more in it than that. "my dear!" said mr. furnival, stepping back a little, and letting his hands fall to his sides. lady mason also took a step backwards, and then with considerable presence of mind recovered herself and put out her hand to greet mrs. furnival. "how do you do, lady mason?" said mrs. furnival, without any presence of mind at all. "i hope i have the pleasure of seeing you very well. i did hear that you were to be in town--shopping; but i did not for a moment expect the--gratification of finding you here." and every word that the dear, good, heart-sore woman spoke, told the tale of her jealousy as plainly as though she had flown at lady mason's cap with all the bold demonstrative energy of spitalfields or st. giles. "i came up on purpose to see mr. furnival about some unfortunate law business," said lady mason. "oh, indeed! your son lucius did say--shopping." [illustration: "your son lucius did say--shopping."] "yes; i told him so. when a lady is unfortunate enough to be driven to a lawyer for advice, she does not wish to make it known. i should be very sorry if my dear boy were to guess that i had this new trouble; or, indeed, if any one were to know it. i am sure that i shall be as safe with you, dear mrs. furnival, as i am with your husband." and she stepped up to the angry matron, looking earnestly into her face. to a true tale of woman's sorrow mrs. furnival's heart could be as snow under the noonday sun. had lady mason gone to her and told her all her fears and all her troubles, sought counsel and aid from her, and appealed to her motherly feelings, mrs. furnival would have been urgent night and day in persuading her husband to take up the widow's case. she would have bade him work his very best without fee or reward, and would herself have shown lady mason the way to old square, lincoln's inn. she would have been discreet too, speaking no word of idle gossip to any one. when he, in their happy days, had told his legal secrets to her, she had never gossiped,--had never spoken an idle word concerning them. and she would have been constant to her friend, giving great consolation in the time of trouble, as one woman can console another. the thought that all this might be so did come across her for a moment, for there was innocence written in lady mason's eyes. but then she looked at her husband's face; and as she found no innocence there, her heart was again hardened. the woman's face could lie;--"the faces of such women are all lies," mrs. furnival said to herself;--but in her presence his face had been compelled to speak the truth. "oh dear, no; i shall say nothing of course," she said. "i am quite sorry that i intruded. mr. furnival, as i happened to be in holborn--at mudie's for some books--i thought i would come down and ask whether you intend to dine at home to-day. you said nothing about it either last night or this morning; and nowadays one really does not know how to manage in such matters." "i told you that i should return to birmingham this afternoon; i shall dine there," said mr. furnival, very sulkily. "oh, very well. i certainly knew that you were going out of town. i did not at all expect that you would remain at home; but i thought that you might, perhaps, like to have your dinner before you went. good morning, lady mason; i hope you may be successful in your--lawsuit." and then, curtsying to her husband's client, she prepared to withdraw. "i believe that i have said all that i need say, mr. furnival," said lady mason; "so that if mrs. furnival wishes--," and she also gathered herself up as though she were ready to leave the room. "i hardly know what mrs. furnival wishes," said the husband. "my wishes are nothing," said the wife, "and i really am quite sorry that i came in." and then she did go, leaving her husband and the woman of whom she was jealous once more alone together. upon the whole i think that mr. furnival was right in not going home that day to his dinner. as the door closed somewhat loudly behind the angry lady--mr. crabwitz having rushed out hardly in time to moderate the violence of the slam--lady mason and her imputed lover were left looking at each other. it was certainly hard upon lady mason, and so she felt it. mr. furnival was fifty-five, and endowed with a bluish nose; and she was over forty, and had lived for twenty years as a widow without incurring a breath of scandal. "i hope i have not been to blame," said lady mason in a soft, sad voice; "but perhaps mrs. furnival specially wished to find you alone." "no, no; not at all." "i shall be so unhappy if i think that i have been in the way. if mrs. furnival wished to speak to you on business i am not surprised that she should be angry, for i know that barristers do not usually allow themselves to be troubled by their clients in their own chambers." "nor by their wives," mr. furnival might have added, but he did not. "do not mind it," he said; "it is nothing. she is the best-tempered woman in the world; but at times it is impossible to answer even for the best-tempered." "i will trust you to make my peace with her." "yes, of course; she will not think of it after to-day; nor must you, lady mason." "oh, no; except that i would not for the world be the cause of annoyance to my friends. sometimes i am almost inclined to think that i will never trouble any one again with my sorrows, but let things come and go as they may. were it not for poor lucius i should do so." mr. furnival, looking into her face, perceived that her eyes were full of tears. there could be no doubt as to their reality. her eyes were full of genuine tears, brimming over and running down; and the lawyer's heart was melted. "i do not know why you should say so," he said. "i do not think your friends begrudge any little trouble they may take for you. i am sure at least that i may so say for myself." "you are too kind to me; but i do not on that account the less know how much it is i ask of you." "'the labour we delight in physics pain,'" said mr. furnival gallantly. "but, to tell the truth, lady mason, i cannot understand why you should be so much out of heart. i remember well how brave and constant you were twenty years ago, when there really was cause for trembling." "ah, i was younger then." "so the almanac tells us; but if the almanac did not tell us i should never know. we are all older, of course. twenty years does not go by without leaving its marks, as i can feel myself." "men do not grow old as women do, who live alone and gather rust as they feed on their own thoughts." "i know no one whom time has touched so lightly as yourself, lady mason; but if i may speak to you as a friend--" "if you may not, mr. furnival, who may?" "i should tell you that you are weak to be so despondent, or rather so unhappy." "another lawsuit would kill me, i think. you say that i was brave and constant before, but you cannot understand what i suffered. i nerved myself to bear it, telling myself that it was the first duty that i owed to the babe that was lying on my bosom. and when standing there in the court, with that terrible array around me, with the eyes of all men on me, the eyes of men who thought that i had been guilty of so terrible a crime, for the sake of that child who was so weak i could be brave. but it nearly killed me. mr. furnival, i could not go through that again; no, not even for his sake. if you can save me from that, even though it be by the buying off of that ungrateful man--" "you must not think of that." "must i not? ah me!" "will you tell lucius all this, and let him come to me?" "no; not for worlds. he would defy every one, and glory in the fight; but after all it is i that must bear the brunt. no; he shall not know it;--unless it becomes so public that he must know it." and then, with some further pressing of the hand, and further words of encouragement which were partly tender as from the man, and partly forensic as from the lawyer, mr. furnival permitted her to go, and she found her son at the chemist's shop in holborn as she had appointed. there were no traces of tears or of sorrow in her face as she smiled on lucius while giving him her hand, and then when they were in a cab together she asked him as to his success at liverpool. "i am very glad that i went," said he, "very glad indeed. i saw the merchants there who are the real importers of the article, and i have made arrangements with them." "will it be cheaper so, lucius?" "cheaper! not what women generally call cheaper. if there be anything on earth that i hate, it is a bargain. a man who looks for bargains must be a dupe or a cheat, and is probably both." "both, lucius. then he is doubly unfortunate." "he is a cheat because he wants things for less than their value; and a dupe because, as a matter of course, he does not get what he wants. i made no bargain at liverpool,--at least, no cheap bargain; but i have made arrangements for a sufficient supply of a first-rate unadulterated article at its proper market price, and i do not fear but the results will be remunerative." and then, as they went home in the railway carriage the mother talked to her son about his farming as though she had forgotten her other trouble, and she explained to him how he was to dine with sir peregrine. "i shall be delighted to dine with sir peregrine," said lucius, "and very well pleased to have an opportunity of talking to him about his own way of managing his land; but, mother, i will not promise to be guided by so very old-fashioned a professor." mr. furnival, when he was left alone, sat thinking over the interview that had passed. at first, as was most natural, he bethought himself of his wife; and i regret to say that the love which he bore to her, and the gratitude which he owed to her, and the memory of all that they had suffered and enjoyed together, did not fill his heart with thoughts towards her as tender as they should have done. a black frown came across his brow as he meditated on her late intrusion, and he made some sort of resolve that that kind of thing should be prevented for the future. he did not make up his mind how he would prevent it,--a point which husbands sometimes overlook in their marital resolutions. and then, instead of counting up her virtues, he counted up his own. had he not given her everything; a house such as she had not dreamed of in her younger days? servants, carriages, money, comforts, and luxuries of all sorts? he had begrudged her nothing, had let her have her full share of all his hard-earned gains; and yet she could be ungrateful for all this, and allow her head to be filled with whims and fancies as though she were a young girl,--to his great annoyance and confusion. he would let her know that his chambers, his law chambers, should be private even from her. he would not allow himself to become a laughing-stock to his own clerks and his own brethren through the impertinent folly of a woman who owed to him everything;--and so on! i regret to say that he never once thought of those lonely evenings in harley street, of those long days which the poor woman was doomed to pass without the only companionship which was valuable to her. he never thought of that vow which they had both made at the altar, which she had kept so loyally, and which required of him a cherishing, comforting, enduring love. it never occurred to him that in denying her this he as much broke his promise to her as though he had taken to himself in very truth some strange goddess, leaving his wedded wife with a cold ceremony of alimony or such-like. he had been open-handed to her as regards money, and therefore she ought not to be troublesome! he had done his duty by her, and therefore he would not permit her to be troublesome! such, i regret to say, were his thoughts and resolutions as he sat thinking and resolving about mrs. furnival. and then, by degrees, his mind turned away to that other lady, and they became much more tender. lady mason was certainly both interesting and comely in her grief. her colour could still come and go, her hand was still soft and small, her hair was still brown and smooth. there were no wrinkles in her brow though care had passed over it; her step could still fall lightly, though it had borne a heavy weight of sorrow. i fear that he made a wicked comparison--a comparison that was wicked although it was made unconsciously. but by degrees he ceased to think of the woman and began to think of the client, as he was in duty bound to do. what was the real truth of all this? was it possible that she should be alarmed in that way because a small country attorney had told his wife that he had found some old paper, and because the man had then gone off to yorkshire? nothing could be more natural than her anxiety, supposing her to be aware of some secret which would condemn her if discovered;--but nothing more unnatural if there were no such secret. and she must know! in her bosom, if in no other, must exist the knowledge whether or no that will were just. if that will were just, was it possible that she should now tremble so violently, seeing that its justice had been substantially proved in various courts of law? but if it were not just--if it were a forgery, a forgery made by her, or with her cognizance--and that now this truth was to be made known! how terrible would that be! but terrible is not the word which best describes the idea as it entered mr. furnival's mind. how wonderful would it be; how wonderful would it all have been! by whose hand in such case had those signatures been traced? could it be possible that she, soft, beautiful, graceful as she was now, all but a girl as she had then been, could have done it, unaided,--by herself?--that she could have sat down in the still hour of the night, with that old man on one side and her baby in his cradle on the other, and forged that will, signatures and all, in such a manner as to have carried her point for twenty years,--so skilfully as to have baffled lawyers and jurymen and resisted the eager greed of her cheated kinsman? if so, was it not all wonderful! had not she been a woman worthy of wonder! and then mr. furnival's mind, keen and almost unerring at seizing legal points, went eagerly to work, considering what new evidence might now be forthcoming. he remembered at once the circumstances of those two chief witnesses, the clerk who had been so muddle-headed, and the servant-girl who had been so clear. they had certainly witnessed some deed, and they had done so on that special day. if there had been a fraud, if there had been a forgery, it had been so clever as almost to merit protection! but if there had been such fraud, the nature of the means by which it might be detected became plain to the mind of the barrister,--plainer to him without knowledge of any circumstances than it had done to mr. mason after many of such circumstances had been explained to him. but it was impossible. so said mr. furnival to himself, out loud;--speaking out loud in order that he might convince himself. it was impossible, he said again; but he did not convince himself. should he ask her? no; it was not on the cards that he should do that. and perhaps, if a further trial were forthcoming, it might be better for her sake that he should be ignorant. and then, having declared again that it was impossible, he rang his bell. "crabwitz," said he, without looking at the man, "just step over to bedford row, with my compliments, and learn what is mr. round's present address;--old mr. round, you know." mr. crabwitz stood for a moment or two with the door in his hand, and mr. furnival, going back to his own thoughts, was expecting the man's departure. "well," he said, looking up and seeing that his myrmidon still stood there. mr. crabwitz was not in a very good humour, and had almost made up his mind to let his master know that such was the case. looking at his own general importance in the legal world, and the inestimable services which he had rendered to mr. furnival, he did not think that that gentleman was treating him well. he had been summoned back to his dingy chamber almost without an excuse, and now that he was in london was not permitted to join even for a day the other wise men of the law who were assembled at the great congress. for the last four days his heart had been yearning to go to birmingham, but had yearned in vain; and now his master was sending him about town as though he were an errand-lad. "shall i step across to the lodge and send the porter's boy to round and crook's?" asked mr. crabwitz. "the porter's boy! no; go yourself; you are not busy. why should i send the porter's boy on my business?" the fact probably was, that mr. furnival forgot his clerk's age and standing. crabwitz had been ready to run anywhere when his employer had first known him, and mr. furnival did not perceive the change. "very well, sir; certainly i will go if you wish it;--on this occasion that is. but i hope, sir, you will excuse my saying--" "saying what?" "that i am not exactly a messenger, sir. of course i'll go now, as the other clerk is not in." "oh, you're too great a man to walk across to bedford row, are you? give me my hat, and i'll go." "oh, no, mr. furnival, i did not mean that. i'll step over to bedford row, of course;--only i did think--" "think what?" "that perhaps i was entitled to a little more respect, mr. furnival. it's for your sake as much as my own that i speak, sir; but if the gentlemen in the lane see me sent about like a lad of twenty, sir, they'll think--" "what will they think?" "i hardly know what they'll think, but i know it will be very disagreeable, sir;--very disagreeable to my feelings. i did think, sir, that perhaps--" "i'll tell you what it is, crabwitz, if your situation here does not suit you, you may leave it to-morrow. i shall have no difficulty in finding another man to take your place." "i am sorry to hear you speak in that way, mr. furnival, very sorry--after fifteen years, sir--." "you find yourself too grand to walk to bedford row!" "oh, no. i'll go now, of course, mr. furnival." and then mr. crabwitz did go, meditating as he went many things to himself. he knew his own value, or thought that he knew it; and might it not be possible to find some patron who would appreciate his services more justly than did mr. furnival? chapter xiv. dinner at the cleeve. lady mason on her return from london found a note from mrs. orme asking both her and her son to dine at the cleeve on the following day. as it had been already settled between her and sir peregrine that lucius should dine there in order that he might be talked to respecting his mania for guano, the invitation could not be refused; but, as for lady mason herself, she would much have preferred to remain at home. indeed, her uneasiness on that guano matter had been so outweighed by worse uneasiness from another source, that she had become, if not indifferent, at any rate tranquil on the subject. it might be well that sir peregrine should preach his sermon, and well that lucius should hear it; but for herself it would, she thought, have been more comfortable for her to eat her dinner alone. she felt, however, that she could not do so. any amount of tedium would be better than the danger of offering a slight to sir peregrine, and therefore she wrote a pretty little note to say that both of them would be at the cleeve at seven. "lucius, my dear, i want you to do me a great favour," she said as she sat by her son in the hamworth fly. "a great favour, mother! of course i will do anything for you that i can." "it is that you will bear with sir peregrine to-night." "bear with him! i do not know exactly what you mean. of course i will remember that he is an old man, and not answer him as i would one of my own age." "i am sure of that, lucius, because you are a gentleman. as much forbearance as that a young man, if he be a gentleman, will always show to an old man. but what i ask is something more than that. sir peregrine has been farming all his life." "yes; and see what are the results! he has three or four hundred acres of uncultivated land on his estate, all of which would grow wheat." "i know nothing about that," said lady mason. "ah, but that's the question. my trade is to be that of a farmer, and you are sending me to school. then comes the question, of what sort is the schoolmaster?" "i am not talking about farming now, lucius." "but he will talk of it." "and cannot you listen to him without contradicting him--for my sake? it is of the greatest consequence to me,--of the very greatest, lucius, that i should have the benefit of sir peregrine's friendship." "if he would quarrel with you because i chanced to disagree with him about the management of land, his friendship would not be worth having." "i do not say that he will do so; but i am sure you can understand that an old man may be tender on such points. at any rate i ask it from you as a favour. you cannot guess how important it is to me to be on good terms with such a neighbour." "it is always so in england," said lucius, after pausing for a while. "sir peregrine is a man of family, and a baronet; of course all the world, the world of hamworth that is, should bow down at his feet. and i too must worship the golden image which nebuchadnezzar, the king of fashion, has set up!" "lucius, you are unkind to me." "no, mother, not unkind; but like all men, i would fain act in such matters as my own judgment may direct me." "my friendship with sir peregrine orme has nothing to do with his rank; but it is of importance to me that both you and i should stand well in his sight." there was nothing more said on the matter; and then they got down at the front door, and were ushered through the low wide hall into the drawing-room. the three generations of the family were there,--sir peregrine, his daughter-in-law, and the heir. lucius mason had been at the cleeve two or three times since his return from germany, and on going there had always declared to himself that it was the same to him as though he were going into the house of mrs. arkwright, the doctor's widow at hamworth,--or even into the kitchen of farmer greenwood. he rejoiced to call himself a democrat, and would boast that rank could have no effect on him. but his boast was an untrue boast, and he could not carry himself at the cleeve as he would have done and did in mrs. arkwright's little drawing-room. there was a majesty in the manner of sir peregrine which did awe him; there were tokens of birth and a certain grace of manner about mrs. orme which kept down his assumption; and even with young peregrine he found that though he might be equal he could by no means be more than equal. he had learned more than peregrine orme, had ten times more knowledge in his head, had read books of which peregrine did not even know the names and probably never would know them; but on his side also young orme possessed something which the other wanted. what that something might be lucius mason did not at all understand. mrs. orme got up from her corner on the sofa to greet her friend, and with a soft smile and two or three all but whispered words led her forward to the fire. mrs. orme was not a woman given to much speech or endowed with outward warmth of manners, but she could make her few words go very far; and then the pressure of her hand, when it was given, told more than a whole embrace from some other women. there are ladies who always kiss their female friends, and always call them "dear." in such cases one cannot but pity her who is so bekissed. mrs. orme did not kiss lady mason, nor did she call her dear; but she smiled sweetly as she uttered her greeting, and looked kindness out of her marvellously blue eyes; and lucius mason, looking on over his mother's shoulders, thought that he would like to have her for his friend in spite of her rank. if mrs. orme would give him a lecture on farming it might be possible to listen to it without contradiction; but there was no chance for him in that respect. mrs. orme never gave lectures to any one on any subject. "so, master lucius, you have been to liverpool, i hear," said sir peregrine. "yes, sir--i returned yesterday." "and what is the world doing at liverpool?" "the world is wide awake there, sir." "oh, no doubt; when the world has to make money it is always wide awake. but men sometimes may be wide awake and yet make no money;--may be wide awake, or at any rate think that they are so." "better that, sir peregrine, than wilfully go to sleep when there is so much work to be done." "a man when he's asleep does no harm," said sir peregrine. "what a comfortable doctrine to think of when the servant comes with the hot water at eight o'clock in the morning!" said his grandson. "it is one that you study very constantly, i fear," said the old man, who at this time was on excellent terms with his heir. there had been no apparent hankering after rats since that last compact had been made, and peregrine had been doing great things with the h. h.; winning golden opinions from all sorts of sportsmen, and earning a great reputation for a certain young mare which had been bred by sir peregrine himself. foxes are vermin as well as rats, as perry in his wickedness had remarked; but a young man who can break an old one's heart by a predilection for rat-catching may win it as absolutely and irretrievably by prowess after a fox. sir peregrine had told to four different neighbours how a fox had been run into, in the open, near alston, after twelve desperate miles, and how on that occasion peregrine had been in at the death with the huntsman and only one other. "and the mare, you know, is only four years old and hardly half trained," said sir peregrine, with great exultation. "the young scamp, to have ridden her in that way!" it may be doubted whether he would have been a prouder man or said more about it if his grandson had taken honours. and then the gong sounded, and, sir peregrine led lady mason into the dining-room. lucius, who as we know thought no more of the ormes than of the joneses and smiths, paused in his awe before he gave his arm to mrs. orme; and when he did so he led her away in perfect silence, though he would have given anything to be able to talk to her as he went. but he bethought himself that unfortunately he could find nothing to say. and when he sat down it was not much better. he had not dined at the cleeve before, and i am not sure whether the butler in plain clothes and the two men in livery did not help to create his confusion,--in spite of his well-digested democratic ideas. the conversation during dinner was not very bright. sir peregrine said a few words now and again to lady mason, and she replied with a few others. on subjects which did not absolutely appertain to the dinner, she perhaps was the greatest talker; but even she did not say much. mrs. orme as a rule never spoke unless she were spoken to in any company consisting of more than herself and one other; and young peregrine seemed to imagine that carving at the top of the table, asking people if they would take stewed beef, and eating his own dinner, were occupations quite sufficient for his energies. "have a bit more beef, mason; do. if you will, i will." so far he went in conversation, but no farther while his work was still before him. when the servants were gone it was a little better, but not much. "mason, do you mean to hunt this season?" peregrine asked. "no," said the other. "well, i would if i were you. you will never know the fellows about here unless you do." "in the first place i can't afford the time," said lucius, "and in the next place i can't afford the money." this was plucky on his part, and it was felt to be so by everybody in the room; but perhaps had he spoken all the truth, he would have said also that he was not accustomed to horsemanship. "to a fellow who has a place of his own as you have, it costs nothing," said peregrine. "oh, does it not?" said the baronet; "i used to think differently." "well; not so much, i mean, as if you had everything to buy. besides, i look upon mason as a sort of croesus. what on earth has he got to do with his money? and then as to time;--upon my word i don't understand what a man means when he says he has not got time for hunting." "lucius intends to be a farmer," said his mother. "so do i," said peregrine. "by jove, i should think so. if i had two hundred acres of land in my own hand i should not want anything else in the world, and would never ask any one for a shilling." "if that be so, i might make the best bargain at once that ever a man made," said the baronet. "if i might take you at your word, master perry--." "pray don't talk of it, sir," said mrs. orme. "you may be quite sure of this, my dear--that i shall not do more than talk of it." then sir peregrine asked lady mason if she would take any more wine; after which the ladies withdrew, and the lecture commenced. but we will in the first place accompany the ladies into the drawing-room for a few minutes. it was hinted in one of the first chapters of this story that lady mason might have become more intimate than she had done with mrs. orme, had she so pleased it; and by this it will of course be presumed that she had not so pleased. all this is perfectly true. mrs. orme had now been living at the cleeve the greater portion of her life, and had never while there made one really well-loved friend. she had a sister of her own, and dear old friends of her childhood, who lived far away from her in the northern counties. occasionally she did see them, and was then very happy; but this was not frequent with her. her sister, who was married to a peer, might stay at the cleeve for a fortnight, perhaps once in the year; but mrs. orme herself seldom left her own home. she thought, and certainly not without cause, that sir peregrine was not happy in her absence, and therefore she never left him. then, living there so much alone, was it not natural that her heart should desire a friend? but lady mason had been living much more alone. she had no sister to come to her, even though it were but once a year. she had no intimate female friend, none to whom she could really speak with the full freedom of friendship, and it would have been delightful to have bound to her by ties of love so sweet a creature as mrs. orme, a widow like herself,--and like herself a widow with one only son. but she, warily picking her steps through life, had learned the necessity of being cautious in all things. the countenance of sir peregrine had been invaluable to her, and might it not be possible that she should lose that countenance? a word or two spoken now and then again, a look not intended to be noticed, an altered tone, or perhaps a change in the pressure of the old man's hand, had taught lady mason to think that he might disapprove such intimacy. probably at the moment she was right, for she was quick at reading such small signs. it behoved her to be very careful, and to indulge in no pleasure which might be costly; and therefore she had denied herself in this matter,--as in so many others. but now it had occurred to her that it might be well to change her conduct. either she felt that sir peregrine's friendship for her was too confirmed to be shaken, or perhaps she fancied that she might strengthen it by means of his daughter-in-law. at any rate she resolved to accept the offer which had once been tacitly made to her, if it were still open to her to do so. "how little changed your boy is!" she said, when they were seated near to each other, with their coffee-cups between them. "no; he does not change quickly; and, as you say, he is a boy still in many things. i do not know whether it may not be better that it should be so." "i did not mean to call him a boy in that sense," said lady mason. "but you might; now your son is quite a man." "poor lucius! yes; in his position it is necessary. his little bit of property is already his own; and then he has no one like sir peregrine to look out for him. necessity makes him manly." "he will be marrying soon, i dare say," suggested mrs. orme. "oh, i hope not. do you think that early marriages are good for young men?" "yes, i think so. why not?" said mrs. orme, thinking of her own year of married happiness. "would you not wish to see lucius marry?" "i fancy not. i should be afraid lest i should become as nothing to him. and yet i would not have you think that i am selfish." "i am sure that you are not that. i am sure that you love him better than all the world besides. i can feel what that is myself." "but you are not alone with your boy as i am. if he were to send me from him, there would be nothing left for me in this world." "send you from him! ah, because orley farm belongs to him. but he would not do that; i am sure he would not." "he would do nothing unkind; but how could he help it if his wife wished it? but nevertheless i would not keep him single for that reason;--no, nor for any reason if i knew that he wished to marry. but it would be a blow to me." "i sincerely trust that peregrine may marry early," said mrs. orme, perhaps thinking that babies were preferable either to rats or foxes. "yes, it would be well i am sure, because you have ample means, and the house is large; and you would have his wife to love." "if she were nice it would be so sweet to have her for a daughter. i also am very much alone, though perhaps not so much as you are, lady mason." "i hope not--for i am sometimes very lonely." "i have often thought that." "but i should be wicked beyond everything if i were to complain, seeing that providence has given me so much that i had no right to expect. what should i have done in my loneliness if sir peregrine's hand and door had never been opened to me?" and then for the next half-hour the two ladies held sweet converse together, during which we will go back to the gentlemen over their wine. [illustration: over their wine.] "are you drinking claret?" said sir peregrine, arranging himself and his bottles in the way that was usual to him. he had ever been a moderate man himself, but nevertheless he had a business-like way of going to work after dinner, as though there was a good deal to be done before the drawing-room could be visited. "no more wine for me, sir," said lucius. "no wine!" said sir peregrine the elder. "why, mason, you'll never get on if that's the way with you," said peregrine the younger. "i'll try at any rate," said the other. "water-drinker, moody thinker," and peregrine sang a word or two from an old drinking-song. "i am not quite sure of that. we englishmen i suppose are the moodiest thinkers in all the world, and yet we are not so much given to water-drinking as our lively neighbours across the channel." sir peregrine said nothing more on the subject, but he probably thought that his young friend would not be a very comfortable neighbour. his present task, however, was by no means that of teaching him to drink, and he struck off at once upon the business he had undertaken. "so your mother tells me that you are going to devote all your energies to farming." "hardly that, i hope. there is the land, and i mean to see what i can do with it. it is not much, and i intend to combine some other occupation with it." "you will find that two hundred acres of land will give you a good deal to do;--that is if you mean to make money by it." "i certainly hope to do that,--in the long run." "it seems to me the easiest thing in the world," said peregrine. "you'll find out your mistake some day; but with lucius mason it is very important that he should make no mistake at the commencement. for a country gentleman i know no prettier amusement than experimental farming;--but then a man must give up all idea of making his rent out of the land." "i can't afford that," said lucius. "no; and that is why i take the liberty of speaking to you. i hope that the great friendship which i feel for your mother will be allowed to stand as my excuse." "i am very much obliged by your kindness, sir; i am indeed." "the truth is, i think you are beginning wrong. you have now been to liverpool, to buy guano, i believe." "yes, that and some few other things. there is a man there who has taken out a patent--" "my dear fellow, if you lay out your money in that way, you will never see it back again. have you considered in the first place what your journey to liverpool has cost you?" "exactly nine and sixpence per cent. on the money that i laid out there. now that is not much more than a penny in the pound on the sum expended, and is not for a moment to be taken into consideration in comparison with the advantage of an improved market." there was more in this than sir peregrine had expected to encounter. he did not for a moment doubt the truth of his own experience or the folly and the danger of the young man's proceedings; but he did doubt his own power of proving either the one or the other to one who so accurately computed his expenses by percentages on his outlay. peregrine opened his eyes and sat by, wondering in silence. what on earth did mason mean by an improved market? "i am afraid then," said the baronet, "that you must have laid out a large sum of money." "a man can't do any good, sir peregrine, by hoarding his capital. i don't think very much of capital myself--" "don't you?" "not of the theory of capital;--not so much as some people do; but if a man has got it, of course it should be expended on the trade to which it is to be applied." "but some little knowledge--some experience is perhaps desirable before any great outlay is made." "yes; some little knowledge is necessary,--and some great knowledge would be desirable if it were accessible;--but it is not, as i take it." "long years, perhaps, devoted to such pursuits--" "yes, sir peregrine; i know what you are going to say. experience no doubt will teach something. a man who has walked thirty miles a day for thirty years will probably know what sort of shoes will best suit his feet, and perhaps also the kind of food that will best support him through such exertion; but there is very little chance of his inventing any quicker mode of travelling." "but he will have earned his wages honestly," said sir peregrine, almost angrily. in his heart he was very angry, for he did not love to be interrupted. "oh, yes; and if that were sufficient we might all walk our thirty miles a day. but some of us must earn wages for other people, or the world will make no progress. civilization, as i take it, consists in efforts made not for oneself but for others." "if you won't take any more wine we will join the ladies," said the baronet. "he has not taken any at all," said peregrine, filling his own glass for the last time and emptying it. "that young man is the most conceited puppy it was ever my misfortune to meet," said sir peregrine to mrs. orme, when she came to kiss him and take his blessing as she always did before leaving him for the night. "i am sorry for that," said she, "for i like his mother so much." "i also like her," said sir peregrine; "but i cannot say that i shall ever be very fond of her son." "i'll tell you what, mamma," said young peregrine, the same evening in his mother's dressing-room. "lucius mason was too many for the governor this evening." "i hope he did not tease your grandfather." "he talked him down regularly, and it was plain that the governor did not like it." and then the day was over. chapter xv. a morning call at mount pleasant villa. on the following day lady mason made two visits, using her new vehicle for the first time. she would fain have walked had she dared; but she would have given terrible offence to her son by doing so. he had explained to her, and with some truth, that as their joint income was now a thousand a year, she was quite entitled to such a luxury; and then he went on to say that as he had bought it for her, he should be much hurt if she would not use it. she had put it off from day to day, and now she could put it off no longer. her first visit was by appointment at the cleeve. she had promised mrs. orme that she would come up, some special purpose having been named;--but with the real idea, at any rate on the part of the latter, that they might both be more comfortable together than alone. the walk across from orley farm to the cleeve had always been very dear to lady mason. every step of it was over beautiful ground, and a delight in scenery was one of the few pleasures which her lot in life had permitted her to enjoy. but to-day she could not allow herself the walk. her pleasure and delight must be postponed to her son's wishes! but then she was used to that. she found mrs. orme alone, and sat with her for an hour. i do not know that anything was said between them which deserves to be specially chronicled. mrs. orme, though she told her many things, did not tell her what sir peregrine had said as he was going up to his bedroom on the preceding evening, nor did lady mason say much about her son's farming. she had managed to gather from lucius that he had not been deeply impressed by anything that had fallen from sir peregrine on the subject, and therefore thought it as well to hold her tongue. she soon perceived also, from the fact of mrs. orme saying nothing about lucius, that he had not left behind him any very favourable impression. this was to her cause of additional sorrow, but she knew that it must be borne. nothing that she could say would induce lucius to make himself acceptable to sir peregrine. when the hour was over she went down again to her little carriage, mrs. orme coming with her to look at it, and in the hall they met sir peregrine. "why does not lady mason stop for lunch?" said he. "it is past half-past one. i never knew anything so inhospitable as turning her out at this moment." "i did ask her to stay," said mrs. orme. "but i command her to stay," said sir peregrine, knocking his stick upon the stone floor of the hall. "and let me see who will dare to disobey me. john, let lady mason's carriage and pony stand in the open coach-house till she is ready." so lady mason went back and did remain for lunch. she was painfully anxious to maintain the best possible footing in that house, but still more anxious not to have it thought that she was intruding. she had feared that lucius by his offence might have estranged sir peregrine against herself; but that at any rate was not the case. after lunch she drove herself to hamworth and made her second visit. on this occasion she called on one mrs. arkwright, who was a very old acquaintance, though hardly to be called an intimate friend. the late mr. arkwright,--dr. arkwright as he used to be styled in hamworth,--had been sir joseph's medical attendant for many years, and therefore there had been room for an intimacy. no real friendship, that is no friendship of confidence, had sprung up; but nevertheless the doctor's wife had known enough of lady mason in her younger days to justify her in speaking of things which would not have been mentioned between merely ordinary acquaintance. "i am glad to see you have got promotion," said the old lady, looking out at lady mason's little phaeton on the gravel sweep which divided mrs. arkwright's house from the street. for mrs. arkwright's house was mount pleasant villa, and therefore was entitled to a sweep. "it was a present from lucius," said the other, "and as such must be used. but i shall never feel myself at home in my own carriage." "it is quite proper, my dear lady mason, quite proper. with his income and with yours i do not wonder that he insists upon it. it is quite proper, and just at the present moment peculiarly so." lady mason did not understand this; but she would probably have passed it by without understanding it, had she not thought that there was some expression more than ordinary in mrs. arkwright's face. "why peculiarly so at the present moment?" she said. "because it shows that this foolish report which is going about has no foundation. people won't believe it for a moment when they see you out and about, and happy-like." "what rumour, mrs. arkwright?" and lady mason's heart sunk within her as she asked the question. she felt at once to what it must allude, though she had conceived no idea as yet that there was any rumour on the subject. indeed, during the last forty-eight hours, since she had left the chambers of mr. furnival, she had been more at ease within herself than during the previous days which had elapsed subsequent to the ill-omened visit made to her by miriam dockwrath. it had seemed to her that mr. furnival anticipated no danger, and his manner and words had almost given her confidence. but now,--now that a public rumour was spoken of, her heart was as low again as ever. "sure, haven't you heard?" said mrs. arkwright. "well, i wouldn't be the first to tell you, only that i know that there is no truth in it." "you might as well tell me now, as i shall be apt to believe worse than the truth after what you have said." and then mrs. arkwright told her. "people have been saying that mr. mason is again going to begin those law proceedings about the farm; but i for one don't believe it." "people have said so!" lady mason repeated. she meant nothing; it was nothing to her who the people were. if one said it now, all would soon be saying it. but she uttered the words because she felt herself forced to say something, and the power of thinking what she might best say was almost taken away from her. "i am sure i don't know where it came from," said mrs. arkwright; "but i would not have alluded to it if i had not thought that of course you had heard it. i am very sorry if my saying it has vexed you." "oh, no," said lady mason, trying to smile. "as i said before, we all know that there is nothing in it; and your having the pony chaise just at this time will make everybody see that you are quite comfortable yourself." "thank you, yes; good-bye, mrs. arkwright." and then she made a great effort, feeling aware that she was betraying herself, and that it behoved her to say something which might remove the suspicion which her emotion must have created. "the very name of that lawsuit is so dreadful to me that i can hardly bear it. the memory of it is so terrible to me, that even my enemies would hardly wish that it should commence again." "of course it is merely a report," said mrs. arkwright, almost trembling at what she had done. "that is all--at least i believe so. i had heard myself that some such threat had been made, but i did not think that any tidings of it had got abroad." "it was mrs. whiting told me. she is a great busybody, you know." mrs. whiting was the wife of the present doctor. "dear mrs. arkwright, it does not matter in the least. of course i do not expect that people should hold their tongue on my account. good-bye, mrs. arkwright." and then she got into the little carriage, and did contrive to drive herself home to orley farm. "dear, dear, dear, dear!" said mrs. arkwright to herself when she was left alone. "only to think of that; that she should be knocked in a heap by a few words--in a moment, as we may say." and then she began to consider of the matter. "i wonder what there is in it! there must be something, or she would never have looked so like a ghost. what will they do if orley farm is taken away from them after all!" and then mrs. arkwright hurried out on her daily little toddle through the town, that she might talk about and be talked to on the same subject. she was by no means an ill-natured woman, nor was she at all inclined to direct against lady mason any slight amount of venom which might alloy her disposition. but then the matter was of such importance! the people of hamworth had hardly yet ceased to talk of the last orley farm trial; and would it not be necessary that they should talk much more if a new trial were really pending? looking at the matter in that light, would not such a trial be a godsend to the people of hamworth? therefore i beg that it may not be imputed to mrs. arkwright as a fault that she toddled out and sought eagerly for her gossips. lady mason did manage to drive herself home; but her success in the matter was more owing to the good faith and propriety of her pony, than to any skilful workmanship on her own part. her first desire had been to get away from mrs. arkwright, and having made that effort she was now for a time hardly able to make any other. it was fast coming upon her now. let sir peregrine say what comforting words he might, let mr. furnival assure her that she was safe with ever so much confidence, nevertheless she could not but believe, could not but feel inwardly convinced, that that which she so dreaded was to happen. it was written in the book of her destiny that there should be a new trial. and now, from this very moment, the misery would again begin. people would point at her, and talk of her. her success in obtaining orley farm for her own child would again be canvassed at every house in hamworth; and not only her success, but the means also by which that success had been obtained. the old people would remember and the young people would inquire; and, for her, tranquillity, repose, and that retirement of life which had been so valuable to her, were all gone. there could be no doubt that dockwrath had spread the report immediately on his return from yorkshire; and had she well thought of the matter she might have taken some comfort from this. of course he would tell the story which he did tell. his confidence in being able again to drag the case before the courts would by no means argue that others believed as he believed. in fact the enemies now arraigned against her were only those whom she already knew to be so arraigned. but she had not sufficient command of her thoughts to be able at first to take comfort from such a reflection as this. she felt, as she was being carried home, that the world was going from her, and that it would be well for her, were it possible, that she should die. but she was stronger when she reached her own door than she had been at mrs. arkwright's. there was still within her a great power of self-maintenance, if only time were allowed to her to look about and consider how best she might support herself. many women are in this respect as she was. with forethought and summoned patience they can endure great agonies; but a sudden pang, unexpected, overwhelms them. she got out of the pony carriage with her ordinary placid face, and walked up to her own room without having given any sign that she was uneasy; and then she had to determine how she should bear herself before her son. it had been with her a great object that both sir peregrine and mr. furnival should first hear of the tidings from her, and that they should both promise her their aid when they had heard the story as she would tell it. in this she had been successful; and it now seemed to her that prudence would require her to act in the same way towards lucius. had it been possible to keep this matter from him altogether, she would have given much to do so; but now it would not be possible. it was clear that mr. dockwrath had chosen to make the matter public, acting no doubt with forethought in doing so; and lucius would be sure to hear words which would become common in hamworth. difficult as the task would be to her, it would be best that she should prepare him. so she sat alone till dinner-time planning how she would do this. she had sat alone for hours in the same way planning how she would tell her story to sir peregrine; and again as to her second story for mr. furnival. those whose withers are unwrung can hardly guess how absolutely a sore under the collar will embitter every hour for the poor jade who is so tormented! but she met him at dinner with a smiling face. he loved to see her smile, and often told her so, almost upbraiding her when she would look sad. why should she be sad, seeing that she had everything that a woman could desire? her mind was burdened with no heavy thoughts as to feeding coming multitudes. she had no contests to wage with the desultory chemists of the age. his purpose was to work hard during the hours of the day,--hard also during many hours of the night; and it was becoming that his mother should greet him softly during his few intervals of idleness. he told her so, in some words not badly chosen for such telling; and she, loving mother that she was, strove valiantly to obey him. during dinner she could not speak to him, nor immediately after dinner. the evil moment she put off from half-hour to half-hour, still looking as though all were quiet within her bosom as she sat beside him with her book in her hand. he was again at work before she began her story; he thought at least that he was at work, for he had before him on the table both prichard and latham, and was occupied in making copies from some drawings of skulls which purposed to represent the cerebral development of certain of our more distant asiatic brethren. "is it not singular," said be, "that the jaws of men born and bred in a hunter state should be differently formed from those of the agricultural tribes?" "are they?" said lady mason. "oh yes; the maxillary profile is quite different. you will see this especially with the mongolians, among the tartar tribes. it seems to me to be very much the same difference as that between a man and a sheep, but prichard makes no such remark. look here at this fellow; he must have been intended to eat nothing but flesh; and that raw, and without any knife or fork." "i don't suppose they had many knives or forks." "by close observation i do not doubt that one could tell from a single tooth not only what food the owner of it had been accustomed to eat, but what language he had spoken. i say close observation, you know. it could not be done in a day." "i suppose not." and then the student again bent over his drawing. "you see it would have been impossible for the owner of such a jaw as that to have ground a grain of corn between his teeth, or to have masticated even a cabbage." "lucius," said lady mason, becoming courageous on the spur of the moment, "i want you to leave that for a moment and speak to me." "well," said he, putting down his pencil and turning round. "here i am." "you have heard of the lawsuit which i had with your brother when you were an infant?" "of course i have heard of it; but i wish you would not call that man my brother. he would not own me as such, and i most certainly would not own him. as far as i can learn he is one of the most detestable human beings that ever existed." "you have heard of him from an unfavourable side, lucius; you should remember that. he is a hard man, i believe; but i do not know that he would do anything which he thought to be unjust." "why then did he try to rob me of my property?" "because he thought that it should have been his own. i cannot see into his breast, but i presume that it was so." "i do not presume anything of the kind, and never shall. i was an infant and you were a woman,--a woman at that time without many friends, and he thought that he could rob us under cover of the law. had he been commonly honest it would have been enough for him to know what had been my father's wishes, even if the will had not been rigidly formal. i look upon him as a robber and a thief." "i am sorry for that, lucius, because i differ from you. what i wish to tell you now is this,--that he is thinking of trying the question again." "what!--thinking of another trial now?" and lucius mason pushed his drawings and books from him with a vengeance. "so i am told." "and who told you? i cannot believe it, if he intended anything of the kind i must have been the first person to hear of it. it would be my business now, and you may be sure that he would have taken care to let me know his purpose." and then by degrees she explained to him that the man himself, mr. mason of groby, had as yet declared no such purpose. she had intended to omit all mention of the name of mr. dockwrath, but she was unable to do so without seeming to make a mystery with her son. when she came to explain how the rumour had arisen and why she had thought it necessary to tell him this, she was obliged to say that it had all arisen from the wrath of the attorney. "he has been to groby park," she said, "and now that he has returned he is spreading this report." "i shall go to him to-morrow," said lucius, very sternly. "no, no; you must not do that. you must promise me that you will not do that." "but i shall. you cannot suppose that i shall allow such a man as that to tamper with my name without noticing it! it is my business now." "no, lucius. the attack will be against me rather than you;--that is, if an attack be made. i have told you because i do not like to have a secret from you." "of course you have told me. if you are attacked who should defend you, if i do not?" "the best defence, indeed the only defence till they take some active step, will be silence. most probably they will not do anything, and then we can afford to live down such reports as these. you can understand, lucius, that the matter is grievous enough to me; and i am sure that for my sake you will not make it worse by a personal quarrel with such a man as that." "i shall go to mr. furnival," said he, "and ask his advice." "i have done that already, lucius. i thought it best to do so, when first i heard that mr. dockwrath was moving in the matter. it was for that that i went up to town." "and why did you not tell me?" "i then thought that you might be spared the pain of knowing anything of the matter. i tell you now because i hear to-day in hamworth that people are talking on the subject. you might be annoyed, as i was just now, if the first tidings had reached you from some stranger." he sat silent for a while, turning his pencil in his hand, and looking as though he were going to settle the matter off hand by his own thoughts. "i tell you what it is, mother; i shall not let the burden of this fall on your shoulders. you carried on the battle before, but i must do so now. if i can trace any word of scandal to that fellow dockwrath, i shall indict him for a libel." "oh, lucius!" "i shall, and no mistake!" what would he have said had he known that his mother had absolutely proposed to mr. furnival to buy off mr. dockwrath's animosity, almost at any price? chapter xvi. mr. dockwrath in bedford row. mr. dockwrath, as he left leeds and proceeded to join the bosom of his family, was not discontented with what he had done. it might not improbably have been the case that mr. mason would altogether refuse to see him, and having seen him, mr. mason might altogether have declined his assistance. he might have been forced as a witness to disclose his secret, of which he could make so much better a profit as a legal adviser. as it was, mr. mason had promised to pay him for his services, and would no doubt be induced to go so far as to give him a legal claim for payment. mr. mason had promised to come up to town, and had instructed the hamworth attorney to meet him there; and under such circumstances the hamworth attorney had but little doubt that time would produce a considerable bill of costs in his favour. and then he thought that he saw his way to a great success. i should be painting the devil too black were i to say that revenge was his chief incentive in that which he was doing. all our motives are mixed; and his wicked desire to do evil to lady mason in return for the evil which she had done to him was mingled with professional energy, and an ambition to win a cause that ought to be won--especially a cause which others had failed to win. he said to himself, on finding those names and dates among old mr. usbech's papers, that there was still an opportunity of doing something considerable in this orley farm case, and he had made up his mind to do it. professional energy, revenge, and money considerations would work hand in hand in this matter; and therefore, as he left leeds in the second-class railway carriage for london, he thought over the result of his visit with considerable satisfaction. he had left leeds at ten, and mr. moulder had come down in the same omnibus to the station, and was travelling in the same train in a first-class carriage. mr. moulder was a man who despised the second-class, and was not slow to say so before other commercials who travelled at a cheaper rate than he did. "hubbles and grease," he said, "allowed him respectably, in order that he might go about their business respectable; and he wasn't going to give the firm a bad name by being seen in a second-class carriage, although the difference would go into his own pocket. that wasn't the way he had begun, and that wasn't the way he was going to end." he said nothing to mr. dockwrath in the morning, merely bowing in answer to that gentleman's salutation. "hope you were comfortable last night in the back drawing-room," said mr. dockwrath; but mr. moulder in reply only looked at him. at the mansfield station, mr. kantwise, with his huge wooden boxes, appeared on the platform, and he got into the same carriage with mr. dockwrath. he had come on by a night train, and had been doing a stroke of business that morning. "well, kantwise," moulder holloaed out from his warm, well-padded seat, "doing it cheap and nasty, eh?" "not at all nasty, mr. moulder," said the other. "and i find myself among as respectable a class of society in the second-class as you do in the first; quite so;--and perhaps a little better," mr. kantwise added, as he took his seat immediately opposite to mr. dockwrath. "i hope i have the pleasure of seeing you pretty bobbish this morning, sir." and he shook hands cordially with the attorney. "tidy, thank you," said dockwrath. "my company last night did not do me any harm; you may swear to that." "ha! ha! ha! i was so delighted that you got the better of moulder; a domineering party, isn't he? quite terrible! for myself, i can't put up with him sometimes." "i didn't have to put up with him last night." "no, no; it was very good, wasn't it now? very capital, indeed. all the same i wish you'd heard busby give us 'beautiful venice, city of song!' a charming voice has busby; quite charming." and there was a pause for a minute or so, after which mr. kantwise resumed the conversation. "you'll allow me to put you up one of those drawing-room sets?" he said. "well, i am afraid not. i don't think they are strong enough where there are children." "dear, dear; dear, dear; to hear you say so, mr. dockwrath! why, they are made for strength. they are the very things for children, because they don't break, you know." "but they'd bend terribly." "by no means. they're so elastic that they always recovers themselves. i didn't show you that; but you might turn the backs of them chairs nearly down to the ground, and they will come straight again. you let me send you a set for your wife to look at. if she's not charmed with them i'll--i'll--i'll eat them." "women are charmed with anything," said mr. dockwrath. "a new bonnet does that." "they know what they are about pretty well, as i dare say you have found out. i'll send express to sheffield and have a completely new set put up for you." "for twelve seventeen six, of course?" "oh! dear no, mr. dockwrath. the lowest figure for ready money, delivered free, is fifteen ten." "i couldn't think of paying more than mrs. mason." "ah! but that was a damaged set; it was, indeed. and she merely wanted it as a present for the curate's wife. the table was quite sprung, and the music-stool wouldn't twist." "but you'll send them to me new?" "new from the manufactory; upon my word we will." "a table that you have never acted upon--have never shown off on; standing in the middle, you know?" "yes; upon my honour. you shall have them direct from the workshop, and sent at once; you shall find them in your drawing-room on tuesday next." "we'll say thirteen ten." "i couldn't do it, mr. dockwrath--" and so they went on, bargaining half the way up to town, till at last they came to terms for fourteen eleven. "and a very superior article your lady will find them," mr. kantwise said as he shook hands with his new friend at parting. one day mr. dockwrath remained at home in the bosom of his family, saying all manner of spiteful things against lady mason, and on the next day he went up to town and called on round and crook. that one day he waited in order that mr. mason might have time to write; but mr. mason had written on the very day of the visit to groby park, and mr. round junior was quite ready for mr. dockwrath when that gentleman called. mr. dockwrath when at home had again cautioned his wife to have no intercourse whatever "with that swindler at orley farm," wishing thereby the more thoroughly to imbue poor miriam with a conviction that lady mason had committed some fraud with reference to the will. "you had better say nothing about the matter anywhere; d'you hear? people will talk; all the world will be talking about it before long. but that is nothing to you. if people ask you, say that you believe that i am engaged in the case professionally, but that you know nothing further." as to all which miriam of course promised the most exact obedience. but mr. dockwrath, though he only remained one day in hamworth before he went to london, took care that the curiosity of his neighbours should be sufficiently excited. mr. dockwrath felt some little trepidation at the heart as he walked into the office of messrs. round and crook in bedford row. messrs. round and crook stood high in the profession, and were men who in the ordinary way of business would have had no personal dealings with such a man as mr. dockwrath. had any such intercourse become necessary on commonplace subjects messrs. round and crook's confidential clerk might have seen mr. dockwrath, but even he would have looked down upon the hamworth attorney as from a great moral height. but now, in the matter of the orley farm case, mr. dockwrath had determined that he would transact business only on equal terms with the bedford row people. the secret was his--of his finding; he knew the strength of his own position, and he would use it. but nevertheless he did tremble inwardly as he asked whether mr. round was within;--or if not mr. round, then mr. crook. there were at present three members in the firm, though the old name remained unaltered. the mr. round and the mr. crook of former days were still working partners;--the very round and the very crook who had carried on the battle on the part of mr. mason of groby twenty years ago; but to them had been added another mr. round, a son of old round, who, though his name did not absolutely appear in the nomenclature of the firm, was, as a working man, the most important person in it. old mr. round might now be said to be ornamental and communicative. he was a hale man of nearly seventy, who thought a great deal of his peaches up at isleworth, who came to the office five times a week--not doing very much hard work, and who took the largest share in the profits. mr. round senior had enjoyed the reputation of being a sound, honourable man, but was now considered by some to be not quite sharp enough for the practice of the present day. mr. crook had usually done the dirty work of the firm, having been originally a managing clerk; and he still did the same--in a small way. he had been the man to exact penalties, look after costs, and attend to any criminal business, or business partly criminal in its nature, which might chance find its way to them. but latterly in all great matters mr. round junior, mr. matthew round,--his father was richard,--was the member of the firm on whom the world in general placed the greatest dependence. mr. mason's letter had in the ordinary way of business come to him, although it had been addressed to his father, and he had resolved on acting on it himself. when mr. dockwrath called mr. round senior was at birmingham, mr. crook was taking his annual holiday, and mr. round junior was reigning alone in bedford row. instructions had been given to the clerks that if mr. dockwrath called he was to be shown in, and therefore he found himself seated, with much less trouble than he had expected, in the private room of mr. round junior. he had expected to see an old man, and was therefore somewhat confused, not feeling quite sure that he was in company with one of the principals; but nevertheless, looking at the room, and especially at the arm-chair and carpet, he was aware that the legal gentleman who motioned him to a seat could be no ordinary clerk. the manner of this legal gentleman was not, as mr. dockwrath thought, quite so ceremoniously civil as it might be, considering the important nature of the business to be transacted between them. mr. dockwrath intended to treat on equal terms, and so intending would have been glad to have shaken hands with his new ally at the commencement of their joint operations. but the man before him,--a man younger than himself too,--did not even rise from his chair. "ah! mr. dockwrath," he said, taking up a letter from the table, "will you have the goodness to sit down?" and mr. matthew round wheeled his own arm-chair towards the fire, stretching out his legs comfortably, and pointing to a somewhat distant seat as that intended for the accommodation of his visitor. mr. dockwrath seated himself in the somewhat distant seat, and deposited his hat upon the floor, not being as yet quite at home in his position; but he made up his mind as he did so that he would be at home before he left the room. "i find that you have been down in yorkshire with a client of ours, mr. dockwrath," said mr. matthew round. "yes, i have," said he of hamworth. "ah! well--; you are in the profession yourself, i believe?" "yes; i am an attorney." "would it not have been well to have come to us first?" "no, i think not. i have not the pleasure of knowing your name, sir." "my name is round--matthew round." "i beg your pardon, sir; i did not know," said mr. dockwrath, bowing. it was a satisfaction to him to learn that he was closeted with a mr. round, even if it were not the mr. round. "no, mr. round, i can't say that i should have thought of that. in the first place i didn't know whether mr. mason employed any lawyer, and in the next--" "well, well; it does not matter. it is usual among the profession; but it does not in the least signify. mr. mason has written to us, and he says that you have found out something about that orley farm business." "yes; i have found out something. at least, i rather think so." "well, what is, it, mr. dockwrath?" "ah! that's the question. it's rather a ticklish business, mr. round; a family affair, as i may say." "whose family?" "to a certain extent my family, and to a certain extent mr. mason's family. i don't know how far i should be justified in laying all the facts before you--wonderful facts they are too--in an off-hand way like that. these matters have to be considered a great deal. it is not only the extent of the property. there is much more than that in it, mr. round." "if you don't tell me what there is in it, i don't see what we are to do. i am sure you did not give yourself the trouble of coming up here from hamworth merely with the object of telling us that you are going to hold your tongue." "certainly not, mr. round." "then what did you come to say?" "may i ask you, mr. round, what mr. mason has told you with reference to my interview with him?" "yes; i will read you a part of his letter--'mr. dockwrath is of opinion that the will under which the estate is now enjoyed is absolutely a forgery.' i presume you mean the codicil, mr. dockwrath?" "oh yes! the codicil of course." "'and he has in his possession documents which i have not seen, but which seem to me, as described, to go far to prove that this certainly must have been the case.' and then he goes on with a description of dates, although it is clear that he does not understand the matter himself--indeed he says as much. now of course we must see these documents before we can give our client any advice." a certain small portion of mr. mason's letter mr. round did then read, but he did not read those portions in which mr. mason expressed his firm determination to reopen the case against lady mason, and even to prosecute her for forgery if it were found that he had anything like a fair chance of success in doing so. "i know that you were convinced," he had said, addressing himself personally to mr. round senior, "that lady mason was acting in good faith. i was always convinced of the contrary, and am more sure of it now than ever." this last paragraph, mr. round junior had not thought it necessary to read to mr. dockwrath. "the documents to which i allude are in reference to my confidential family matters; and i certainly shall not produce them without knowing on what ground i am standing." "of course you are aware, mr. dockwrath, that we could compel you." "there, mr. round, i must be allowed to differ." "it won't come to that, of course. if you have anything worth showing, you'll show it; and if we make use of you as a witness, it must be as a willing witness." "i don't think it probable that i shall be a witness in the matter at all." "ah, well; perhaps not. my own impression is that no case will be made out; that there will be nothing to take before a jury." "there again, i must differ from you, mr. round." "oh, of course! i suppose the real fact is, that it is a matter of money. you want to be paid for what information you have got. that is about the long and the short of it; eh, mr. dockwrath?" "i don't know what you call the long and the short of it, mr. round; or what may be your way of doing business. as a professional man, of course i expect to be paid for my work;--and i have no doubt that you expect the same." "no doubt, mr. dockwrath; but--as you have made the comparison, i hope you will excuse me for saying so--we always wait till our clients come to us." mr. dockwrath drew himself up with some intention of becoming angry; but he hardly knew how to carry it out; and then it might be a question whether anger would serve his turn. "do you mean to say, mr. round, if you had found documents such as these, you would have done nothing about them--that you would have passed them by as worthless?" "i can't say that till i know what the documents are. if i found papers concerning the client of another firm, i should go to that firm if i thought that they demanded attention." "i didn't know anything about the firm;--how was i to know?" "well! you know now, mr. dockwrath. as i understand it, our client has referred you to us. if you have anything to say, we are ready to hear it. if you have anything to show, we are ready to look at it. if you have nothing to say, and nothing to show--" "ah, but i have; only--" "only you want us to make it worth your while. we might as well have the truth at once. is not that about it?" "i want to see my way, of course." "exactly. and now, mr. dockwrath, i must make you understand that we don't do business in that way." "then i shall see mr. mason again myself." "that you can do. he will be in town next week, and, as i believe, wishes to see you. as regards your expenses, if you can show us that you have any communication to make that is worth our client's attention, we will see that you are paid what you are out of pocket, and some fair remuneration for the time you may have lost;--not as an attorney, remember, for in that light we cannot regard you." "i am every bit as much an attorney as you are." "no doubt; but you are not mr. mason's attorney; and as long as it suits him to honour us with his custom, you cannot be so regarded." "that's as he pleases." "no; it is not, mr. dockwrath. it is as he pleases whether he employs you or us; but it is not as he pleases whether he employs both on business of the same class. he may give us his confidence, or he may withdraw it." "looking at the way the matter was managed before, perhaps the latter may be the better for him." "excuse me, mr. dockwrath, for saying that that is a question i shall not discuss with you." upon this mr. dockwrath jumped from his chair, and took up his hat. "good morning to you, sir," said mr. round, without moving from his chair; "i will tell mr. mason that you have declined making any communication to us. he will probably know your address--if he should want it." mr. dockwrath paused. was he not about to sacrifice substantial advantage to momentary anger? would it not be better that he should carry this impudent young london lawyer with him if it were possible? "sir," said he, "i am quite willing to tell you all that i know of this matter at present, if you will have the patience to hear it." "patience, mr. dockwrath! why i am made of patience. sit down again, mr. dockwrath, and think of it." mr. dockwrath did sit down again, and did think of it; and it ended in his telling to mr. round all that he had told to mr. mason. as he did so, he looked closely at mr. round's face, but there he could read nothing. "exactly," said mr. round. "the fourteenth of july is the date of both. i have taken a memorandum of that. a final deed for closing partnership, was it? i have got that down. john kenneby and bridget bolster. i remember the names,--witnesses to both deeds, were they? i understand; nothing about this other deed was brought up at the trial? i see the point--such as it is. john kenneby and bridget bolster;--both believed to be living. oh, you can give their address, can you? decline to do so now? very well; it does not matter. i think i understand it all now, mr. dockwrath; and when we want you again, you shall hear from us. samuel dockwrath, is it? thank you. good morning. if mr. mason wishes to see you, he will write, of course. good day, mr. dockwrath." and so mr. dockwrath went home, not quite contented with his day's work. chapter xvii. von bauhr. it will be remembered that mr. crabwitz was sent across from lincoln's inn to bedford row to ascertain the present address of old mr. round. "mr. round is at birmingham," he said, coming back. "every one connected with the profession is at birmingham, except--" "the more fools they," said mr. furnival. "i am thinking of going down myself this evening," said mr. crabwitz. "as you will be out of town, sir, i suppose i can be spared?" "you too!" "and why not me, mr. furnival? when all the profession is meeting together, why should not i be there as well as another? i hope you do not deny me my right to feel an interest in the great subjects which are being discussed." "not in the least, mr. crabwitz. i do not deny you your right to be lord chief justice, if you can accomplish it. but you cannot be lord chief justice and my clerk at the same time. nor can you be in my chambers if you are at birmingham. i rather think i must trouble you to remain here, as i cannot tell at what moment i may be in town again." "then, sir, i'm afraid--" mr. crabwitz began his speech and then faltered. he was going to tell mr. furnival that he must suit himself with another clerk, when he remembered his fees, and paused. it would be very pleasant to him to quit mr. furnival, but where could he get such another place? he knew that he himself was invaluable, but then he was invaluable only to mr. furnival. mr. furnival would be mad to part with him, mr. crabwitz thought; but then would he not be almost more mad to part with mr. furnival? "eh; well?" said mr. furnival. "oh! of course; if you desire it, mr. furnival, i will remain. but i must say i think it is rather hard." "look here, mr. crabwitz; if you think my service is too hard upon you, you had better leave it. but if you take upon yourself to tell me so again, you must leave it. remember that." mr. furnival possessed the master mind of the two; and mr. crabwitz felt this as he slunk back to his own room. so mr. round also was at birmingham, and could be seen there. this was so far well; and mr. furnival, having again with ruthless malice sent mr. crabwitz for a cab, at once started for the euston square station. he could master mr. crabwitz, and felt a certain pleasure in having done so; but could he master mrs. f.? that lady had on one or two late occasions shown her anger at the existing state of her domestic affairs, and had once previously gone so far as to make her lord understand that she was jealous of his proceedings with reference to other goddesses. but she had never before done this in the presence of other people;--she had never allowed any special goddess to see that she was the special object of such jealousy. now she had not only committed herself in this way, but had also committed him, making him feel himself to be ridiculous; and it was highly necessary that some steps should be taken;--if he only knew what step! all which kept his mind active as he journeyed in the cab. at the station he found three or four other lawyers, all bound for birmingham. indeed, during this fortnight the whole line had been alive with learned gentlemen going to and fro, discussing weighty points as they rattled along the iron road, and shaking their ponderous heads at the new ideas which were being ventilated. mr. furnival, with many others--indeed, with most of those who were so far advanced in the world as to be making bread by their profession--was of opinion that all this palaver that was going on in the various tongues of babel would end as it began--in words. "vox et præterea nihil." to practical englishmen most of these international congresses seem to arrive at nothing else. men will not be talked out of the convictions of their lives. no living orator would convince a grocer that coffee should be sold without chicory; and no amount of eloquence will make an english lawyer think that loyalty to truth should come before loyalty to his client. and therefore our own pundits, though on this occasion they went to birmingham, summoned by the greatness of the occasion, by the dignity of foreign names, by interest in the question, and by the influence of such men as lord boanerges, went there without any doubt on their minds as to the rectitude of their own practice, and fortified with strong resolves to resist all idea of change. and indeed one cannot understand how the bent of any man's mind should be altered by the sayings and doings of such a congress. "well, johnson, what have you all been doing to-day?" asked mr. furnival of a special friend whom he chanced to meet at the club which had been extemporized at birmingham. "we have had a paper read by von bauhr. it lasted three hours." "three hours! heavens! von bauhr is, i think, from berlin." "yes; he and dr. slotacher. slotacher is to read his paper the day after to-morrow." "then i think i shall go to london again. but what did von bauhr say to you during those three hours?" "of course it was all in german, and i don't suppose that any one understood him,--unless it was boanerges. but i believe it was the old story, going to show that the same man might be judge, advocate, and jury." "no doubt;--if men were machines, and if you could find such machines perfect at all points in their machinery." "and if the machines had no hearts?" "machines don't have hearts," said mr. furnival; "especially those in germany. and what did boanerges say? his answer did not take three hours more, i hope." "about twenty minutes; but what he did say was lost on von bauhr, who understands as much english as i do german. he said that the practice of the prussian courts had always been to him a subject of intense interest, and that the general justice of their verdicts could not be impugned." "nor ought it, seeing that a single trial for murder will occupy a court for three weeks. he should have asked von bauhr how much work he usually got through in the course of a sessions. i don't seem to have lost much by being away. by-the-by, do you happen to know whether round is here?" "what, old round? i saw him in the hall to-day yawning as though he would burst." and then mr. furnival strolled off to look for the attorney among the various purlieus frequented by the learned strangers. "furnival," said another barrister, accosting him,--an elderly man, small, with sharp eyes and bushy eyebrows, dirty in his attire and poor in his general appearance, "have you seen judge staveley?" this was mr. chaffanbrass, great at the old bailey, a man well able to hold his own in spite of the meanness of his appearance. at such a meeting as this the english bar generally could have had no better representative than mr. chaffanbrass. "no; is he here?" "he must be here. he is the only man they could find who knows enough italian to understand what that fat fellow from florence will say to-morrow." "we're to have the italian to-morrow, are we?" "yes; and staveley afterwards. it's as good as a play; only, like all plays, it's three times too long. i wonder whether anybody here believes in it?" "yes, felix graham does." "he believes everything--unless it is the bible. he is one of those young men who look for an instant millennium, and who regard themselves not only as the prophets who foretell it, but as the preachers who will produce it. for myself, i am too old for a new gospel, with felix graham as an apostle." "they say that boanerges thinks a great deal of him." "that can't be true, for boanerges never thought much of any one but himself. well, i'm off to bed, for i find a day here ten times more fatiguing than the old bailey in july." on the whole the meeting was rather dull, as such meetings usually are. it must not be supposed that any lawyer could get up at will, as the spirit moved him, and utter his own ideas; or that all members of the congress could speak if only they could catch the speaker's eye. had this been so, a man might have been supported by the hope of having some finger in the pie, sooner or later. but in such case the congress would have lasted for ever. as it was, the names of those who were invited to address the meeting were arranged, and of course men from each country were selected who were best known in their own special walks of their profession. but then these best-known men took an unfair advantage of their position, and were ruthless in the lengthy cruelty of their addresses. von bauhr at berlin was no doubt a great lawyer, but he should not have felt so confident that the legal proceedings of england and of the civilised world in general could be reformed by his reading that book of his from the rostrum in the hall at birmingham! the civilised world in general, as there represented, had been disgusted, and it was surmised that poor dr. slotacher would find but a meagre audience when his turn came. at last mr. furnival succeeded in hunting up mr. round, and found him recruiting outraged nature with a glass of brandy and water and a cigar. "looking for me, have you? well, here i am; that is to say, what is left of me. were you in the hall to-day?" "no; i was up in town." "ah! that accounts for your being so fresh. i wish i had been there. do you ever do anything in this way?" and mr. round touched the outside of his glass of toddy with his spoon. mr. furnival said that he never did do anything in that way, which was true. port wine was his way, and it may be doubted whether on the whole it is not the more dangerous way of the two. but mr. furnival, though he would not drink brandy and water or smoke cigars, sat down opposite to mr. round, and had soon broached the subject which was on his mind. "yes," said the attorney, "it is quite true that i had a letter on the subject from mr. mason. the lady is not wrong in supposing that some one is moving in the matter." "and your client wishes you to take up the case again?" "no doubt he does. he was not a man that i ever greatly liked, mr. furnival, though i believe he means well. he thinks that he has been ill used; and perhaps he was ill used--by his father." "but that can be no possible reason for badgering the life out of his father's widow twenty years after his father's death!" "of course he thinks that he has some new evidence. i can't say i looked into the matter much myself. i did read the letter; but that was all, and then i handed it to my son. as far as i remember, mr. mason said that some attorney at hamworth had been to him." "exactly; a low fellow whom you would be ashamed to see in your office! he fancies that young mason has injured him; and though he has received numberless benefits from lady mason, this is the way in which he chooses to be revenged on her son." "we should have nothing to do with such a matter as that, you know. it's not our line." "no, of course it is not; i am well aware of that. and i am equally well aware that nothing mr. mason can do can shake lady mason's title, or rather her son's title, to the property. but, mr. round, if he be encouraged to gratify his malice--" "if who be encouraged?" "your client, mr. mason of groby;--there can be no doubt that he might harass this unfortunate lady till he brought her nearly to the grave." "that would be a pity, for i believe she's still an uncommon pretty woman." and the attorney indulged in a little fat inward chuckle; for in these days mr. furnival's taste with reference to strange goddesses was beginning to be understood by the profession. "she is a very old friend of mine," said mr. furnival, gravely, "a very old friend indeed; and if i were to desert her now, she would have no one to whom she could look." "oh, ah, yes; i'm sure you're very kind;" and mr. round altered his face and tone, so that they might be in conformity with those of his companion. "anything i can do, of course i shall be very happy. i should be slow, myself, to advise my client to try the matter again, but to tell the truth anything of this kind would go to my son now. i did read mr. mason's letter, but i immediately handed it to matthew." "i will tell you how you can oblige me, mr. round." "do tell me; i am sure i shall be very happy." "look into this matter yourself, and talk it over with mr. mason before you allow anything to be done. it is not that i doubt your son's discretion. indeed we all know what an exceedingly good man of business he is." "matthew is sharp enough," said the prosperous father. "but then young men are apt to be too sharp. i don't know whether you remember the case about that orley farm, mr. round." "as well as if it were yesterday," said the attorney. "then you must recollect how thoroughly you were convinced that your client had not a leg to stand upon." "it was i that insisted that he should not carry it before the chancellor. crook had the general management of those cases then, and would have gone on; but i said, no. i would not see my client's money wasted in such a wild-goose chase. in the first place the property was not worth it; and in the next place there was nothing to impugn the will. if i remember right it all turned on whether an old man who had signed as witness was well enough to write his name." "that was the point." "and i think it was shown that he had himself signed a receipt on that very day--or the day after, or the day before. it was something of that kind." "exactly; those were the facts. as regards the result of a new trial, no sane man, i fancy, could have any doubt. you know as well as any one living how great is the strength of twenty years of possession--" "it would be very strong on her side, certainly." "he would not have a chance; of course not. but, mr. round, he might make that poor woman so wretched that death would be a relief to her. now it may be possible that something looking like fresh evidence may have been discovered; something of this kind probably has been found, or this man would not be moving; he would not have gone to the expense of a journey to yorkshire had he not got hold of some new story." "he has something in his head; you may be sure of that." "don't let your son be run away with by this, or advise your client to incur the terrible expense of a new trial, without knowing what you are about. i tell you fairly that i do dread such a trial on this poor lady's account. reflect what it would be, mr. round, to any lady of your own family." "i don't think mrs. round would mind it much; that is, if she were sure of her case." "she is a strong-minded woman; but poor lady mason--." "she was strong-minded enough too, if i remember right, at the last trial. i shall never forget how composed she was when old bennett tried to shake her evidence. do you remember how bothered he was?" "he was an excellent lawyer,--was bennett. there are few better men at the bar now-a-days." "you wouldn't have found him down here, mr. furnival, listening to a german lecture three hours long. i don't know how it is, but i think we all used to work harder in those days than the young men do now." and then these eulogists of past days went back to the memories of their youths, declaring how in the old glorious years, now gone, no congress such as this would have had a chance of success. men had men's work to do then, and were not wont to play the fool, first at one provincial town and then at another, but stuck to their oars and made their fortunes. "it seems to me, mr. furnival," said mr. round, "that this is all child's play, and to tell the truth i am half ashamed of myself for being here." "and you'll look into that matter yourself, mr. round?" "yes, i will, certainly." "i shall take it as a great favour. of course you will advise your client in accordance with any new facts which may be brought before you; but as i feel certain that no case against young mason can have any merits, i do hope that you will be able to suggest to mr. mason of groby that the matter should be allowed to rest." and then mr. furnival took his leave, still thinking how far it might be possible that the enemy's side of the question might be supported by real merits. mr. round was a good-natured old fellow, and if the case could be inveigled out of his son's hands and into his own, it might be possible that even real merits should avail nothing. "i confess i am getting rather tired of it," said felix graham that evening to his friend young staveley, as he stood outside his bedroom door at the top of a narrow flight of stairs in the back part of a large hotel at birmingham. "tired of it! i should think you are too." "but nevertheless i am as sure as ever that good will come from it. i am inclined to think that the same kind of thing must be endured before any improvement is made in anything." "that all reformers have to undergo von bauhr?" "yes, all of them that do any good. von bauhr's words were very dry, no doubt." "you don't mean to say that you understood them?" "not many of them. a few here and there, for the first half-hour, came trembling home to my dull comprehension, and then--" "you went to sleep." "the sounds became too difficult for my ears; but dry and dull and hard as they were, they will not absolutely fall to the ground. he had a meaning in them, and that meaning will reproduce itself in some shape." "heaven forbid that it should ever do so in my presence! all the iniquities of which the english bar may be guilty cannot be so intolerable to humanity as von bauhr." "well, good-night, old fellow; your governor is to give us his ideas to-morrow, and perhaps he will be as bad to the germans as your von bauhr was to us." "then i can only say that my governor will be very cruel to the germans." and so they two went to their dreams. in the mean time von bauhr was sitting alone looking back on the past hours with ideas and views very different from those of the many english lawyers who were at that time discussing his demerits. to him the day had been one long triumph, for his voice had sounded sweet in his own ears as, period after period, he had poured forth in full flowing language the gathered wisdom and experience of his life. public men in england have so much to do that they cannot give time to the preparation of speeches for such meetings as these, but von bauhr had been at work on his pamphlet for months. nay, taking it in the whole, had he not been at work on it for years? and now a kind providence had given him the opportunity of pouring it forth before the assembled pundits gathered from all the nations of the civilised world. as he sat there, solitary in his bedroom, his hands dropped down by his side, his pipe hung from his mouth on to his breast, and his eyes, turned up to the ceiling, were lighted almost with inspiration. men there at the congress, mr. chaffanbrass, young staveley, felix graham, and others, had regarded him as an impersonation of dullness; but through his mind and brain, as he sat there wrapped in his old dressing-gown, there ran thoughts which seemed to lift him lightly from the earth into an elysium of justice and mercy. and at the end of this elysium, which was not wild in its beauty, but trim and orderly in its gracefulness,--as might be a beer-garden at munich,--there stood among flowers and vases a pedestal, grand above all other pedestals in that garden; and on this there was a bust with an inscription:--"to von bauhr, who reformed the laws of nations." it was a grand thought; and though there was in it much of human conceit, there was in it also much of human philanthropy. if a reign of justice could be restored through his efforts--through those efforts in which on this hallowed day he had been enabled to make so great a progress--how beautiful would it be! and then as he sat there, while the smoke still curled from his unconscious nostrils, he felt that he loved all germans, all englishmen, even all frenchmen, in his very heart of hearts, and especially those who had travelled wearily to this english town that they might listen to the results of his wisdom. he said to himself, and said truly, that he loved the world, and that he would willingly spend himself in these great endeavours for the amelioration of its laws and the perfection of its judicial proceedings. and then he betook himself to bed in a frame of mind that was not unenviable. [illustration: von bauhr's dream.] i am inclined, myself, to agree with felix graham that such efforts are seldom absolutely wasted. a man who strives honestly to do good will generally do good, though seldom perhaps as much as he has himself anticipated. let von bauhr have his pedestal among the flowers, even though it be small and humble! chapter xviii. the english von bauhr. on the following morning, before breakfast, felix graham and augustus staveley prepared themselves for the labours of the coming day by a walk into the country; for even at birmingham, by perseverance, a walk into the country may be attained,--and very pretty country it is when reached. these congress meetings did not begin before eleven, so that for those who were active time for matutinal exercise was allowed. augustus staveley was the only son of the judge who on that day was to defend the laws of england from such attacks as might be made on them by a very fat advocate from florence. of judge staveley himself much need not be said now, except that he lived at noningsby near alston, distant from the cleeve about nine miles, and that at his house sophia furnival had been invited to pass the coming christmas. his son was a handsome clever fellow, who had nearly succeeded in getting the newdegate, and was now a member of the middle temple. he was destined to follow the steps of his father, and become a light at the common law bar; but hitherto he had not made much essential progress. the world had been too pleasant to him to allow of his giving many of his hours to work. his father was one of the best men in the world, revered on the bench, and loved by all men; but he had not sufficient parental sternness to admit of his driving his son well into harness. he himself had begun the world with little or nothing, and had therefore succeeded; but his son was already possessed of almost everything that he could want, and therefore his success seemed doubtful. his chambers were luxuriously furnished, he had his horse in piccadilly, his father's house at noningsby was always open to him, and the society of london spread out for him all its allurements. under such circumstances how could it be expected that he should work? nevertheless he did talk of working, and had some idea in his head of the manner in which he would do so. to a certain extent he had worked, and he could talk fluently of the little that he knew. the idea of a _far niente_ life would have been intolerable to him; but there were many among his friends who began to think that such a life would nevertheless be his ultimate destiny. nor did it much matter, they said, for the judge was known to have made money. but his friend felix graham was rowing in a very different boat; and of him also many prophesied that he would hardly be able to push his craft up against the strength of the stream. not that he was an idle man, but that he would not work at his oars in the only approved method of making progress for his boat. he also had been at oxford; but he had done little there except talk at a debating society, and make himself notorious by certain ideas on religious subjects which were not popular at the university. he had left without taking a degree, in consequence, as it was believed, of some such notions, and had now been called to the bar with a fixed resolve to open the oyster with such weapons, offensive and defensive, as nature had given to him. but here, as at oxford, he would not labour on the same terms with other men, or make himself subject to the same conventional rules; and therefore it seemed only too probable that he might win no prize. he had ideas of his own that men should pursue their labours without special conventional regulations, but should be guided in their work by the general great rules of the world,--such for instance as those given in the commandments:--thou shalt not bear false witness; thou shalt not steal; and others. his notions no doubt were great, and perhaps were good; but hitherto they had not led him to much pecuniary success in his profession. a sort of a name he had obtained, but it was not a name sweet in the ears of practising attorneys. and yet it behoved felix graham to make money, for none was coming to him ready made from any father. father or mother he had none, nor uncles and aunts likely to be of service to him. he had begun the world with some small sum, which had grown smaller and smaller, till now there was left to him hardly enough to create an infinitesimal dividend. but he was not a man to become downhearted on that account. a living of some kind he could pick up, and did now procure for himself, from the press of the day. he wrote poetry for the periodicals, and politics for the penny papers with considerable success and sufficient pecuniary results. he would sooner do this, he often boasted, than abandon his great ideas or descend into the arena with other weapons than those which he regarded as fitting for an honest man's hand. augustus staveley, who could be very prudent for his friend, declared that marriage would set him right. if felix would marry he would quietly slip his neck into the collar and work along with the team, as useful a horse as ever was put at the wheel of a coach. but felix did not seem inclined to marry. he had notions about that also, and was believed by one or two who knew him intimately to cherish an insane affection for some unknown damsel, whose parentage, education, and future were not likely to assist his views in the outer world. some said that he was educating this damsel for his wife,--moulding her, so that she might be made fit to suit his taste; but augustus, though he knew the secret of all this, was of opinion that it would come right at last. "he'll meet some girl in the world with a hatful of money, a pretty face, and a sharp tongue; then he'll bestow his moulded bride on a neighbouring baker with two hundred pounds for her fortune;--and everybody will be happy." felix graham was by no means a handsome man. he was tall and thin, and his face had been slightly marked with the small-pox. he stooped in his gait as he walked, and was often awkward with his hands and legs. but he was full of enthusiasm, indomitable, as far as pluck would make him so, in contests of all kinds, and when he talked on subjects which were near his heart there was a radiance about him which certainly might win the love of the pretty girl with the sharp tongue and the hatful of money. staveley, who really loved him, had already selected the prize, and she was no other than our friend, sophia furnival. the sharp tongue and the pretty face and the hatful of money would all be there; but then sophia furnival was a girl who might perhaps expect in return for these things more than an ugly face which could occasionally become radiant with enthusiasm. the two men had got away from the thickness of the birmingham smoke, and were seated on the top rung of a gate leading into a stubble field. so far they had gone with mutual consent, but further than this staveley refused to go. he was seated with a cigar in his mouth. graham also was smoking, but he was accommodated with a short pipe. [illustration: the english von bauhr and his pupil.] "a walk before breakfast is all very well," said staveley, "but i am not going on a pilgrimage. we are four miles from the inn this minute." "and for your energies that is a good deal. only think that you should have been doing anything for two hours before you begin to feed." "i wonder why matutinal labour should always be considered as so meritorious. merely, i take it, because it is disagreeable." "it proves that the man can make an effort." "every prig who wishes to have it believed that he does more than his neighbours either burns the midnight lamp or gets up at four in the morning. good wholesome work between breakfast and dinner never seems to count for anything." "have you ever tried?" "yes; i am trying now, here at birmingham." "not you." "that's so like you, graham. you don't believe that anybody is attending to what is going on except yourself. i mean to-day to take in the whole theory of italian jurisprudence." "i have no doubt that you may do so with advantage. i do not suppose that it is very good, but it must at any rate be better than our own. come, let us go back to the town; my pipe is finished." "fill another, there's a good fellow. i can't afford to throw away my cigar, and i hate walking and smoking. you mean to assert that our whole system is bad, and rotten, and unjust?" "i mean to say that i think so." "and yet we consider ourselves the greatest people in the world,--or at any rate the honestest." "i think we are; but laws and their management have nothing to do with making people honest. good laws won't make people honest, nor bad laws dishonest." "but a people who are dishonest in one trade will probably be dishonest in others. now, you go so far as to say that all english lawyers are rogues." "i have never said so. i believe your father to be as honest a man as ever breathed." "thank you, sir," and staveley lifted his hat. "and i would fain hope that i am an honest man myself." "ah, but you don't make money by it." "what i do mean is this, that from our love of precedent and ceremony and old usages, we have retained a system which contains many of the barbarities of the feudal times, and also many of its lies. we try our culprit as we did in the old days of the ordeal. if luck will carry him through the hot ploughshares, we let him escape though we know him to be guilty. we give him the advantage of every technicality, and teach him to lie in his own defence, if nature has not sufficiently so taught him already." "you mean as to his plea of not guilty." "no, i don't; that is little or nothing. we ask him whether or no he confesses his guilt in a foolish way, tending to induce him to deny it; but that is not much. guilt seldom will confess as long as a chance remains. but we teach him to lie, or rather we lie for him during the whole ceremony of his trial. we think it merciful to give him chances of escape, and hunt him as we do a fox, in obedience to certain laws framed for his protection." "and should he have no protection?" "none certainly, as a guilty man; none which may tend towards the concealing of his guilt. till that be ascertained, proclaimed, and made apparent, every man's hand should be against him." "but if he is innocent?" "therefore let him be tried with every possible care. i know you understand what i mean, though you look as though you did not. for the protection of his innocence let astute and good men work their best, but for the concealing of his guilt let no astute or good man work at all." "and you would leave the poor victim in the dock without defence?" "by no means. let the poor victim, as you call him,--who in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred is a rat who has been preying in our granaries,--let him, i say, have his defender,--the defender of his possible innocence, not the protector of his probable guilt. it, all resolves itself into this. let every lawyer go into court with a mind resolved to make conspicuous to the light of day that which seems to him to be the truth. a lawyer who does not do that--who does the reverse of that, has in my mind undertaken work which is unfit for a gentleman and impossible for an honest man." "what a pity it is that you should not have an opportunity of rivalling von bauhr at the congress!" "i have no doubt that von bauhr said a great deal of the same nature; and what von bauhr said will not wholly be wasted, though it may not yet have reached our sublime understandings." "perhaps he will vouchsafe to us a translation." "it would be useless at present, seeing that we cannot bring ourselves to believe it possible that a foreigner should in any respect be wiser than ourselves. if any such point out to us our follies, we at once claim those follies as the special evidences of our wisdom. we are so self-satisfied with our own customs, that we hold up our hands with surprise at the fatuity of men who presume to point out to us their defects. those practices in which we most widely depart from the broad and recognised morality of all civilised ages and countries are to us the palladiums of our jurisprudence. modes of proceeding which, if now first proposed to us, would be thought to come direct from the devil, have been made so sacred by time that they have lost all the horror of their falseness in the holiness of their age. we cannot understand that other nations look upon such doings as we regard the human sacrifices of the brahmins; but the fact is that we drive a juggernaut's car through every assize town in the country, three times a year, and allow it to be dragged ruthlessly through the streets of the metropolis at all times and seasons. now come back to breakfast, for i won't wait here any longer." seeing that these were the ideas of felix graham, it is hardly a matter of wonder that such men as mr. furnival and mr. round should have regarded his success at the bar as doubtful. "uncommon bad mutton chops these are," said staveley, as they sat at their meal in the coffee-room of the imperial hotel. "are they?" said graham. "they seem to me much the same as other mutton chops." "they are uneatable. and look at this for coffee! waiter, take this away, and have some made fresh." "yes, sir," said the waiter, striving to escape without further comment. "and waiter--" "yes, sir;" and the poor overdriven functionary returned. "ask them from me whether they know how to make coffee. it does not consist of an unlimited supply of lukewarm water poured over an infinitesimal proportion of chicory. that process, time-honoured in the hotel line, will not produce the beverage called coffee. will you have the goodness to explain that in the bar as coming from me?" "yes, sir," said the waiter; and then he was allowed to disappear. "how can you give yourself so much trouble with no possible hope of an advantageous result?" said felix graham. "that's what you weak men always say. perseverance in such a course will produce results. it is because we put up with bad things that hotel-keepers continue to give them to us. three or four frenchmen were dining with my father yesterday at the king's head, and i had to sit at the bottom of the table. i declare to you that i literally blushed for my country; i did indeed. it was useless to say anything then, but it was quite clear that there was nothing that one of them could eat. at any hotel in france you'll get a good dinner; but we're so proud that we are ashamed to take lessons." and thus augustus staveley was quite as loud against his own country, and as laudatory with regard to others, as felix graham had been before breakfast. and so the congress went on at birmingham. the fat italian from tuscany read his paper; but as he, though judge in his own country and reformer here in england, was somewhat given to comedy, this morning was not so dull as that which had been devoted to von bauhr. after him judge staveley made a very elegant, and some said, a very eloquent speech; and so that day was done. many other days also wore themselves away in this process; numerous addresses were read, and answers made to them, and the newspapers for the time were full of law. the defence of our own system, which was supposed to be the most remarkable for its pertinacity, if not for its justice, came from mr. furnival, who roused himself to a divine wrath for the occasion. and then the famous congress at birmingham was brought to a close, and all the foreigners returned to their own countries. chapter xix. the staveley family. the next two months passed by without any events which deserve our special notice, unless it be that mr. joseph mason and mr. dockwrath had a meeting in the room of mr. matthew round, in bedford row. mr. dockwrath struggled hard to effect this without the presence of the london attorney; but he struggled in vain. mr. round was not the man to allow any stranger to tamper with his client, and mr. dockwrath was forced to lower his flag before him. the result was that the document or documents which had been discovered at hamworth were brought up to bedford row; and dockwrath at last made up his mind that as he could not supplant matthew round, he would consent to fight under him as his lieutenant--or even as his sergeant or corporal, if no higher position might be allowed to him. "there is something in it, certainly, mr. mason," said young round; "but i cannot undertake to say as yet that we are in a position to prove the point." "it will be proved," said mr. dockwrath. "i confess it seems to me very clear," said mr. mason, who by this time had been made to understand the bearings of the question. "it is evident that she chose that day for her date because those two persons had then been called upon to act as witnesses to that other deed." "that of course is our allegation. i only say that we may have some difficulty in proving it." "the crafty, thieving swindler!" exclaimed mr. mason. "she has been sharp enough if it is as we think," said round, laughing; and then there was nothing more done in the matter for some time, to the great disgust both of mr. dockwrath and mr. mason. old mr. round had kept his promise to mr. furnival; or, at least, had done something towards keeping it. he had not himself taken the matter into his own hands, but he had begged his son to be cautious. "it's not the sort of business that we care for, mat," said he; "and as for that fellow down in yorkshire, i never liked him." to this mat had answered that neither did he like mr. mason; but as the case had about it some very remarkable points, it was necessary to look into it; and then the matter was allowed to stand over till after christmas. we will now change the scene to noningsby, the judge's country seat, near alston, at which a party was assembled for the christmas holidays. the judge was there of course,--without his wig; in which guise i am inclined to think that judges spend the more comfortable hours of their existence; and there also was lady staveley, her presence at home being altogether a matter of course, inasmuch as she had no other home than noningsby. for many years past, ever since the happy day on which noningsby had been acquired, she had repudiated london; and the poor judge, when called upon by his duties to reside there, was compelled to live like a bachelor, in lodgings. lady staveley was a good, motherly, warm-hearted woman, who thought a great deal about her flowers and fruit, believing that no one else had them so excellent,--much also about her butter and eggs, which in other houses were, in her opinion, generally unfit to be eaten; she thought also a great deal about her children, who were all swans,--though, as she often observed with a happy sigh, those of her neighbours were so uncommonly like geese. but she thought most of all of her husband, who in her eyes was the perfection of all manly virtues. she had made up her mind that the position of a puisne judge in england was the highest which could fall to the lot of any mere mortal. to become a lord chancellor, or a lord chief justice, or a chief baron, a man must dabble with parliament, politics, and dirt; but the bench-fellows of these politicians were selected for their wisdom, high conduct, knowledge, and discretion. of all such selections, that made by the late king when he chose her husband, was the one which had done most honour to england, and had been in all its results most beneficial to englishmen. such was her creed with reference to domestic matters. the staveley young people at present were only two in number, augustus, namely, and his sister madeline. the eldest daughter was married, and therefore, though she spent these christmas holidays at noningsby, must not be regarded as one of the noningsby family. of augustus we have said enough; but as i intend that madeline staveley shall, to many of my readers, be the most interesting personage in this story, i must pause to say something of her. i must say something of her; and as, with all women, the outward and visible signs of grace and beauty are those which are thought of the most, or at any rate spoken of the oftenest, i will begin with her exterior attributes. and that the muses may assist me in my endeavour, teaching my rough hands to draw with some accuracy the delicate lines of female beauty, i now make to them my humble but earnest prayer. madeline staveley was at this time about nineteen years of age. that she was perfect in her beauty i cannot ask the muses to say, but that she will some day become so, i think the goddesses may be requested to prophesy. at present she was very slight, and appeared to be almost too tall for her form. she was indeed above the average height of women, and from her brother encountered some ridicule on this head; but not the less were all her movements soft, graceful, and fawnlike as should be those of a young girl. she was still at this time a child in heart and spirit, and could have played as a child had not the instinct of a woman taught to her the expediency of a staid demeanour. there is nothing among the wonders of womanhood more wonderful than this, that the young mind and young heart,--hearts and minds young as youth can make them, and in their natures as gay,--can assume the gravity and discretion of threescore years and maintain it successfully before all comers. and this is done, not as a lesson that has been taught, but as the result of an instinct implanted from the birth. let us remember the mirth of our sisters in our homes, and their altered demeanours when those homes were opened to strangers; and remember also that this change had come from the inward working of their own feminine natures! but i am altogether departing from madeline staveley's external graces. it was a pity almost that she should ever have become grave, because with her it was her smile that was so lovely. she smiled with her whole face. there was at such moments a peculiar laughing light in her gray eyes, which inspired one with an earnest desire to be in her confidence; she smiled with her soft cheek, the light tints of which would become a shade more pink from the excitement, as they softly rippled into dimples; she smiled with her forehead which would catch the light from her eyes and arch itself in its glory; but above all she smiled with her mouth, just showing, but hardly showing, the beauty of the pearls within. i never saw the face of a woman whose mouth was equal in pure beauty, in beauty that was expressive of feeling, to that of madeline staveley. many have i seen with a richer lip, with a more luxurious curve, much more tempting as baits to the villainy and rudeness of man; but never one that told so much by its own mute eloquence of a woman's happy heart and a woman's happy beauty. it was lovely as i have said in its mirth, but if possible it was still more lovely in its woe; for then the lips would separate, and the breath would come, and in the emotion of her suffering the life of her beauty would be unrestrained. her face was oval, and some might say that it was almost too thin; they might say so till they knew it well, but would never say so when they did so know it. her complexion was not clear, though it would be wrong to call her a brunette. her face and forehead were never brown, but yet she could not boast the pure pink and the pearly white which go to the formation of a clear complexion. for myself i am not sure that i love a clear complexion. pink and white alone will not give that hue which seems best to denote light and life, and to tell of a mind that thinks and of a heart that feels. i can name no colour in describing the soft changing tints of madeline staveley's face, but i will make bold to say that no man ever found it insipid or inexpressive. and now what remains for me to tell? her nose was grecian, but perhaps a little too wide at the nostril to be considered perfect in its chiselling. her hair was soft and brown,--that dark brown which by some lights is almost black; but she was not a girl whose loveliness depended much upon her hair. with some women it is their great charm,--neæras who love to sit half sleeping in the shade,--but it is a charm that possesses no powerful eloquence. all beauty of a high order should speak, and madeline's beauty was ever speaking. and now that i have said that, i believe that i have told all that may be necessary to place her outward form before the inward eyes of my readers. in commencing this description i said that i would begin with her exterior; but it seems to me now that in speaking of these i have sufficiently noted also that which was within. of her actual thoughts and deeds up to this period it is not necessary for our purposes that anything should be told; but of that which she might probably think or might possibly do, a fair guess may, i hope, be made from that which has been already written. such was the staveley family. those of their guests whom it is necessary that i should now name, have been already introduced to us. miss furnival was there, as was also her father. he had not intended to make any prolonged stay at noningsby,--at least so he had said in his own drawing-room; but nevertheless he had now been there for a week, and it seemed probable that he might stay over christmas-day. and felix graham was there. he had been asked with a special purpose by his friend augustus, as we already have heard; in order, namely, that he might fall in love with sophia furnival, and by the aid of her supposed hatful of money avoid the evils which would otherwise so probably be the consequence of his highly impracticable turn of mind. the judge was not averse to felix graham; but as he himself was a man essentially practical in all his views, it often occurred that, in his mild kindly way, he ridiculed the young barrister. and sir peregrine orme was there, being absent from home as on a very rare occasion; and with him of course were mrs. orme and his grandson. young perry was making, or was prepared to make, somewhat of a prolonged stay at noningsby. he had a horse there with him for the hunting, which was changed now and again; his groom going backwards and forwards between that place and the cleeve. sir peregrine, however, intended to return before christmas, and mrs. orme would go with him. he had come for four days, which for him had been a long absence from home, and at the end of the four days he would be gone. they were all sitting in the dining-room round the luncheon-table on a hopelessly wet morning, listening to a lecture from the judge on the abomination of eating meat in the middle of the day, when a servant came behind young orme's chair and told him that mr. mason was in the breakfast-parlour and wished to see him. "who wishes to see you?" said the baronet in a tone of surprise. he had caught the name, and thought at the moment that it was the owner of groby park. "lucius mason," said peregrine, getting up. "i wonder what he can want me for?" "oh, lucius mason," said the grandfather. since the discourse about agriculture he was not personally much attached even to lucius; but for his mother's sake he could be forgiven. "pray ask him into lunch," said lady staveley. something had been said about lady mason since the ormes had been at noningsby, and the staveley family were prepared to regard her with sympathy, and if necessary with the right hand of fellowship. "he is the great agriculturist, is he not?" said augustus. "bring him in by all means; there is no knowing how much we may not learn before dinner on such a day as this." "he is an ally of mine; and you must not laugh at him," said miss furnival, who was sitting next to augustus. but lucius mason did not come in. young orme remained with him for about a quarter of an hour, and then returned to the room, declaring with rather a serious face, that he must ride to hamworth and back before dinner. "are you going with young mason?" asked his grandfather. "yes, sir; he wishes me to do something for him at hamworth, and i cannot well refuse him." "you are not going to fight a duel!" said lady staveley, holding up her hands in horror as the idea came across her brain. "a duel!" screamed mrs. orme. "oh, peregrine!" "there can be nothing of the sort," said the judge. "i should think that young mason is not so foolish; and i am sure that peregrine orme is not." "i have not heard of anything of the kind," said peregrine, laughing. "promise me, peregrine," said his mother. "say that you promise me." "my dearest mother, i have no more thought of it than you have;--indeed i may say not so much." "you will be back to dinner?" said lady staveley. "oh yes, certainly." "and tell mr. mason," said the judge, "that if he will return with you we shall be delighted to see him." the errand which took peregrine orme off to hamworth will be explained in the next chapter, but his going led to a discussion among the gentlemen after dinner as to the position in which lady mason was now placed. there was no longer any possibility of keeping the matter secret, seeing that mr. dockwrath had taken great care that every one in hamworth should hear of it. he had openly declared that evidence would now be adduced to prove that sir joseph mason's widow had herself forged the will, and had said to many people that mr. mason of groby had determined to indict her for forgery. this had gone so far that lucius had declared as openly that he would prosecute the attorney for a libel, and dockwrath had sent him word that he was quite welcome to do so if he pleased. "it is a scandalous state of things," said sir peregrine, speaking with much enthusiasm, and no little temper, on the subject. "here is a question which was settled twenty years ago to the satisfaction of every one who knew anything of the case, and now it is brought up again that two men may wreak their vengeance on a poor widow. they are not men; they are brutes." "but why does she not bring an action against this attorney?" said young staveley. "such actions do not easily lie," said his father. "it may be quite true that dockwrath may have said all manner of evil things against this lady, and yet it may be very difficult to obtain evidence of a libel. it seems to me from what i have heard that the man himself wishes such an action to be brought." "and think of the state of poor lady mason!" said mr. furnival. "conceive the misery which it would occasion her if she were dragged forward to give evidence on such a matter!" "i believe it would kill her," said sir peregrine. "the best means of assisting her would be to give her some countenance," said the judge; "and from all that i can hear of her, she deserves it." "she does deserve it," said sir peregrine, "and she shall have it. the people at hamworth shall see at any rate that my daughter regards her as a fit associate. i am happy to say that she is coming to the cleeve on my return home, and that she will remain there till after christmas." "it is a very singular case," said felix graham, who had been thinking over the position of the lady hitherto in silence. "indeed it is," said the judge; "and it shows how careful men should be in all matters relating to their wills. the will and the codicil, as it appears, are both in the handwriting of the widow, who acted as an amanuensis not only for her husband but for the attorney. that fact does not in my mind produce suspicion; but i do not doubt that it has produced all this suspicion in the mind of the claimant. the attorney who advised sir joseph should have known better." "it is one of those cases," continued graham, "in which the sufferer should be protected by the very fact of her own innocence. no lawyer should consent to take up the cudgels against her." "i am afraid that she will not escape persecution from any such professional chivalry," said the judge. "all that is moonshine," said mr. furnival. "and moonshine is a very pretty thing if you were not too much afraid of the night air to go and look at it. if the matter be as you all say, i do think that any gentleman would disgrace himself by lending a hand against her." "upon my word, sir, i fully agree with you," said sir peregrine, bowing to felix graham over his glass. "i will take permission to think, sir peregrine," said mr. furnival, "that you would not agree with mr. graham if you had given to the matter much deep consideration." "i have not had the advantage of a professional education," said sir peregrine, again bowing, and on this occasion addressing himself to the lawyer; "but i cannot see how any amount of learning should alter my views on such a subject." "truth and honour cannot be altered by any professional arrangements," said graham; and then the conversation turned away from lady mason, and directed itself to those great corrections of legal reform which had been debated during the past autumn. the orley farm case, though in other forms and different language, was being discussed also in the drawing-room. "i have not seen much of her," said sophia furnival, who by some art had usurped the most prominent part in the conversation, "but what i did see i liked much. she was at the cleeve when i was staying there, if you remember, mrs. orme." mrs. orme said that she did remember. "and we went over to orley farm. poor lady! i think everybody ought to notice her under such circumstances. papa, i know, would move heaven and earth for her if he could." "i cannot move the heaven or the earth either," said lady staveley; "but if i thought that my calling on her would be any satisfaction to her--" "it would, lady staveley," said mrs. orme. "it would be a great satisfaction to her. i cannot tell you how warmly i regard her, nor how perfectly sir peregrine esteems her." "we will drive over there next week, madeline." "do, mamma. everybody says that she is very nice." "it will be so kind of you, lady staveley," said sophia furnival. "next week she will be staying with us," said mrs. orme. "and that would save you three miles, you know, and we should be so glad to see you." lady staveley declared that she would do both. she would call at the cleeve, and again at orley farm after lady mason's return home. she well understood, though she could not herself then say so, that the greater part of the advantage to be received from her kindness would be derived from its being known at hamworth that the staveley carriage had been driven up to lady mason's door. "her son is very clever, is he not?" said madeline, addressing herself to miss furnival. sophia shrugged her shoulders and put her head on one side with a pretty grace. "yes, i believe so. people say so. but who is to tell whether a young man be clever or no?" "but some are so much more clever than others. don't you think so?" "oh yes, as some girls are so much prettier than others. but if mr. mason were to talk greek to you, you would not think him clever." "i should not understand him, you know." "of course not; but you would understand that he was a blockhead to show off his learning in that way. you don't want him to be clever, you see; you only want him to be agreeable." "i don't know that i want either the one or the other." "do you not? i know i do. i think that young men in society are bound to be agreeable, and that they should not be there if they do not know how to talk pleasantly, and to give something in return for all the trouble we take for them." "i don't take any trouble for them," said madeline laughing. "surely you must, if you only think of it. all ladies do, and so they ought. but if in return for that a man merely talks greek to me, i, for my part, do not think that the bargain is fairly carried out." "i declare you will make me quite afraid of mr. mason." "oh, he never talks greek;--at least he never has to me. i rather like him. but what i mean is this, that i do not think a man a bit more likely to be agreeable because he has the reputation of being very clever. for my part i rather think that i like stupid young men." "oh, do you? then now i shall know what you think of augustus. we think he is very clever; but i do not know any man who makes himself more popular with young ladies." "ah, then he is a gay deceiver." "he is gay enough, but i am sure he is no deceiver. a man may make himself nice to young ladies without deceiving any of them; may he not?" "you must not take me 'au pied de la lettre,' miss staveley, or i shall be lost. of course he may. but when young gentlemen are so very nice, young ladies are so apt to--" "to what?" "not to fall in love with them exactly, but to be ready to be fallen in love with, and then if a man does do it he is a deceiver. i declare it seems to me that we don't allow them a chance of going right." "i think that augustus manages to steer through such difficulties very cleverly." "he sails about in the open sea, touching at all the most lovely capes and promontories, and is never driven on shore by stress of weather! what a happy sailor he must be!" "i think he is happy, and that he makes others so." "he ought to be made an admiral at once but we shall hear some day of his coming to a terrible shipwreck." "oh, i hope not!" "he will return home in desperate plight, with only two planks left together, with all his glory and beauty broken and crumpled to pieces against some rock that he has despised in his pride." "why do you prophesy such terrible things for him?" "i mean that he will get married." "get married! of course he will. that's just what we all want. you don't call that a shipwreck; do you?" "it's the sort of shipwreck that these very gallant barks have to encounter." "you don't mean that he'll marry a disagreeable wife!" "oh, no; not in the least. i only mean to say that like other sons of adam, he will have to strike his colours. i dare say, if the truth were known, he has done so already." "i am sure he has not." "i don't at all ask to know his secrets, and i should look upon you as a very bad sister if you told them." "but i am sure he has not got any,--of that kind." "would he tell you if he had?" "oh, i hope so; any serious secret. i am sure he ought, for i am always thinking about him." "and would you tell him your secrets?" "i have none." "but when you have, will you do so?" "will i? well, yes; i think so. but a girl has no such secret," she continued to say, after pausing for a moment. "none, generally, at least, which she tells, even to herself, till the time comes in which she tells it to all whom she really loves." and then there was another pause for a moment. "i am not quite so sure of that," said miss furnival. after which the gentlemen came into the drawing-room. augustus staveley had gone to work in a manner which he conceived to be quite systematic, having before him the praiseworthy object of making a match between felix graham and sophia furnival. "by george, graham," he had said, "the finest girl in london is coming down to noningsby; upon my word i think she is." "and brought there expressly for your delectation, i suppose." "oh no, not at all; indeed, she is not exactly in my style; she is too,--too,--too--in point of fact, too much of a girl for me. she has lots of money, and is very clever, and all that kind of thing." "i never knew you so humble before." "i am not joking at all. she is a daughter of old furnival's, whom by-the-by i hate as i do poison. why my governor has him down at noningsby i can't guess. but i tell you what, old fellow, he can give his daughter five-and-twenty thousand pounds. think of that, master brook." but felix graham was a man who could not bring himself to think much of such things on the spur of the moment, and when he was introduced to sophia, he did not seem to be taken with her in any wonderful way. augustus had asked his mother to help him, but she had laughed at him. "it would be a splendid arrangement," he had said with energy. "nonsense, gus," she had answered. "you should always let those things take their chance. all i will ask of you is that you don't fall in love with her yourself; i don't think her family would be nice enough for you." but felix graham certainly was ungrateful for the friendship spent upon him, and so his friend felt it. augustus had contrived to whisper into the lady's ear that mr. graham was the cleverest young man now rising at the bar, and as far as she was concerned, some amount of intimacy might at any rate have been produced; but he, graham himself, would not put himself forward. "i will pique him into it," said augustus to himself, and therefore when on this occasion they came into the drawing-room, staveley immediately took a vacant seat beside miss furnival, with the very friendly object which he had proposed to himself. there was great danger in this, for miss furnival was certainly handsome, and augustus staveley was very susceptible. but what will not a man go through for his friend? "i hope we are to have the honour of your company as far as monkton grange the day we meet there," he said. the hounds were to meet at monkton grange, some seven miles from noningsby, and all the sportsmen from the house were to be there. "i shall be delighted," said sophia, "that is to say if a seat in the carriage can be spared for me." "but we'll mount you. i know that you are a horsewoman." in answer to which miss furnival confessed that she was a horsewoman, and owned also to having brought a habit and hat with her. "that will be delightful. madeline will ride also, and you will meet the miss tristrams. they are the famous horsewomen of this part of the country." "you don't mean that they go after the dogs, across the hedges." "indeed they do." "and does miss staveley do that?" "oh, no--madeline is not good at a five-barred gate, and would make but a very bad hand at a double ditch. if you are inclined to remain among the tame people, she will be true to your side." "i shall certainly be one of the tame people, mr. staveley." "i rather think i shall be with you myself; i have only one horse that will jump well, and graham will ride him. by-the-by, miss furnival, what do you think of my friend graham?" "think of him! am i bound to have thought anything about him by this time?" "of course you are;--or at any rate of course you have. i have no doubt that you have composed in your own mind an essay on the character of everybody here. people who think at all always do." "do they? my essay upon him then is a very short one." "but perhaps not the less correct on that account. you must allow me to read it." "like all my other essays of that kind, mr. staveley, it has been composed solely for my own use, and will be kept quite private." "i am so sorry for that, for i intended to propose a bargain to you. if you would have shown me some of your essays, i would have been equally liberal with some of mine." and in this way, before the evening was over, augustus staveley and miss furnival became very good friends. "upon my word she is a very clever girl," he said afterwards, as young orme and graham were sitting with him in an outside room which had been fitted up for smoking. "and uncommonly handsome," said peregrine. "and they say she'll have lots of money," said graham. "after all, staveley, perhaps you could not do better." "she's not my style at all," said he. "but of course a man is obliged to be civil to girls in his own house." and then they all went to bed. chapter xx. mr. dockwrath in his own office. in the conversation which had taken place after dinner at noningsby with regard to the masons peregrine orme took no part, but his silence had not arisen from any want of interest on the subject. he had been over to hamworth that day on a very special mission regarding it, and as he was not inclined to speak of what he had then seen and done, he held his tongue altogether. "i want you to do me a great favour," lucius had said to him, when the two were together in the breakfast-parlour at noningsby; "but i am afraid it will give you some trouble." "i sha'n't mind that," said peregrine, "if that's all." "you have heard of this row about joseph mason and my mother? it has been so talked of that i fear you must have heard it." "about the lawsuit? oh yes. it has certainly been spoken of at the cleeve." "of course it has. all the world is talking of it. now there is a man named dockwrath in hamworth--;" and then he went on to explain how it had reached him from various quarters that mr. dockwrath was accusing his mother of the crime of forgery; how he had endeavoured to persuade his mother to indict the man for libel; how his mother had pleaded to him with tears in her eyes that she found it impossible to go through such an ordeal; and how he, therefore, had resolved to go himself to mr. dockwrath. "but," said he, "i must have some one with me, some gentleman whom i can trust, and therefore i have ridden over to ask you to accompany me as far as hamworth." "i suppose he is not a man that you can kick," said peregrine. "i am afraid not," said lucius; "he's over forty years old, and has dozens of children." "and then he is such a low beast," said peregrine. "i have no idea of kicking him, but i think it would be wrong to allow him to go on saying these frightful things of my mother, without showing him that we are not afraid of him." upon this the two young men got on horseback, and riding into hamworth, put their horses up at the inn. "and now i suppose we might as well go at once," said peregrine, with a very serious face. "yes," said the other; "there's nothing to delay us. i cannot tell you how much obliged i am to you for coming with me." "oh, don't say anything about that; of course i'm only too happy." but all the same he felt that his heart was beating, and that he was a little nervous. had he been called upon to go in and thrash somebody, he would have been quite at home; but he did not feel at his ease in making an inimical visit to an attorney's office. it would have been wise, perhaps, if in this matter lucius had submitted himself to lady mason's wishes. on the previous evening they had talked the matter over with much serious energy. lucius had been told in the streets of hamworth by an intermeddling little busybody of an apothecary that it behoved him to do something, as mr. dockwrath was making grievous accusations against his mother. lucius had replied haughtily, that he and his mother would know how to protect themselves, and the apothecary had retreated, resolving to spread the report everywhere. lucius on his return home had declared to the unfortunate lady that she had now no alternative left to her. she must bring an action against the man, or at any rate put the matter into the hands of a lawyer with a view of ascertaining whether she could do so with any chance of success. if she could not, she must then make known her reason for remaining quiet. in answer to this, lady mason had begun by praying her son to allow the matter to pass by. "but it will not pass by," lucius had said. "yes, dearest, if we leave it, it will,--in a month or two. we can do nothing by interference. remember the old saying, you cannot touch pitch without being defiled." but lucius had replied, almost with anger, that the pitch had already touched him, and that he was defiled. "i cannot consent to hold the property," he had said, "unless something be done." and then his mother had bowed her head as she sat, and had covered her face with her hands. "i shall go to the man myself," lucius had declared with energy. "as your mother, lucius, i implore you not to do so," she had said to him through her tears. "i must either do that or leave the country. it is impossible that i should live here, hearing such things said of you, and doing nothing to clear your name." to this she had made no actual reply, and now he was standing at the attorney's door about to do that which he had threatened. they found mr. dockwrath sitting at his desk at the other side of which was seated his clerk. he had not yet promoted himself to the dignity of a private office, but generally used his parlour as such when he was desirous of seeing his clients without disturbance. on this occasion, however, when he saw young mason enter, he made no offer to withdraw. his hat was on his head as he sat on his stool, and he did not even take it off as he returned the stiff salutation of his visitor. "keep your hat on your head, mr. orme," he said, as peregrine was about to take his off. "well, gentlemen, what can i do for you?" lucius looked at the clerk, and felt that there would be great difficulty in talking about his mother before such a witness. "we wish to see you in private, mr. dockwrath, for a few minutes--if it be convenient." "is not this private enough?" said dockwrath. "there is no one here but my confidential clerk." "if you could make it convenient--" began lucius. "well, then, mr. mason, i cannot make it convenient, and there is the long and the short of it. you have brought mr. orme with you to hear what you've got to say, and i choose that my clerk shall remain by to hear it also. seeing the position in which you stand there is no knowing what may come of such an interview as this." "in what position do i stand, sir?" "if you don't know, mr. mason, i am not going to tell you. i feel for you, i do upon my word. i feel for you, and i pity you." mr. dockwrath as he thus expressed his commiseration was sitting with his high chair tilted back, with his knees against the edge of his desk, with his hat almost down upon his nose as he looked at his visitors from under it, and he amused himself by cutting up a quill pen into small pieces with his penknife. it was not pleasant to be pitied by such a man as that, and so peregrine orme conceived. "sir, that is nonsense," said lucius. "i require no pity from you or from any man." "i don't suppose there is one in all hamworth that does not feel for you," said dockwrath. "he means to be impudent," said peregrine. "you had better come to the point with him at once." "no, i don't mean to be impudent, young gentleman. a man may speak his own mind in his own house i suppose without any impudence. you wouldn't stand cap in hand to me if i were to go down to you at the cleeve." "i have come here to ask of you," said lucius, "whether it be true that you are spreading these reports about the town with reference to lady mason. if you are a man you will tell me the truth." "well; i rather think i am a man." "it is necessary that lady mason should be protected from such infamous falsehoods, and it may be necessary to bring the matter into a court of law--" "you may be quite easy about that, mr. mason. it will be necessary." "as it may be necessary, i wish to know whether you will acknowledge that these reports have come from you?" "you want me to give evidence against myself. well, for once in a way i don't mind if i do. the reports have come from me. now, is that manly?" and mr. dockwrath, as he spoke, pushed his hat somewhat off his nose, and looked steadily across into the face of his opponent. lucius mason was too young for the task which he had undertaken, and allowed himself to be disconcerted. he had expected that the lawyer would deny the charge, and was prepared for what he would say and do in such a case; but now he was not prepared. "how on earth could you bring yourself to be guilty of such villainy?" said young orme. "highty-tighty! what are you talking about, young man? the fact is, you do not know what you are talking about. but as i have a respect for your grandfather and for your mother i will give you and them a piece of advice, gratis. don't let them be too thick with lady mason till they see how this matter goes." "mr. dockwrath," said lucius, "you are a mean, low, vile scoundrel." "very well, sir. adams, just take a note of that. don't mind what mr. orme said. i can easily excuse him. he'll know the truth before long, and then he'll beg my pardon." "i'll take my oath i look upon you as the greatest miscreant that ever i met," said peregrine, who was of course bound to support his friend. "you'll change your mind, mr. orme, before long, and then you'll find that you have met a worse miscreant than i am. did you put down those words, adams?" "them as mr. mason spoke? yes; i've got them down." "read them," said the master. and the clerk read them, "mr. dockwrath, you are a mean, low, vile scoundrel." "and now, young gentlemen, if you have got nothing else to observe, as i am rather busy, perhaps you will allow me to wish you good morning." "very well, mr. dockwrath," said mason; "you may be sure that you will hear further from me." "we shall be sure to hear of each other. there is no doubt in the world about that," said the attorney. and then the two young men withdrew with an unexpressed feeling in the mind of each of them, that they had not so completely got the better of their antagonist as the justice of their case demanded. they then remounted their horses, and orme accompanied his friend as far as orley farm, from whence he got into the alston road through the cleeve grounds. "and what do you intend to do now?" said peregrine as soon as they were mounted. "i shall employ a lawyer," said he, "on my own footing; not my mother's lawyer, but some one else. then i suppose i shall be guided by his advice." had he done this before he made his visit to mr. dockwrath, perhaps it might have been better. all this sat very heavily on poor peregrine's mind; and therefore as the company were talking about lady mason after dinner, he remained silent, listening, but not joining in the conversation. the whole of that evening lucius and his mother sat together, saying nothing. there was not absolutely any quarrel between them, but on this terrible subject there was an utter want of accordance, and almost of sympathy. it was not that lucius had ever for a moment suspected his mother of aught that was wrong. had he done so he might perhaps have been more gentle towards her in his thoughts and words. he not only fully trusted her, but he was quite fixed in his confidence that nothing could shake either her or him in their rights. but under these circumstances he could not understand how she could consent to endure without resistance the indignities which were put upon her. "she should combat them for my sake, if not for her own," he said to himself over and over again. and he had said so also to her, but his words had had no effect. she, on the other hand, felt that he was cruel to her. she was weighed down almost to the ground by these sufferings which had fallen on her, and yet he would not be gentle and soft to her. she could have borne it all, she thought, if he would have borne with her. she still hoped that if she remained quiet no further trial would take place. at any rate this might be so. that it would be so she had the assurance of mr. furnival. and yet all this evil which she dreaded worse than death was to be precipitated on her by her son! so they sat through the long evening, speechless; each seated with the pretence of reading, but neither of them capable of the attention which a book requires. he did not tell her then that he had been with mr. dockwrath, but she knew by his manner that he had taken some terrible step. she waited patiently the whole evening, hoping that he would tell her, but when the hour came for her to go up to her room he had told her nothing. if he now were to turn against her, that would be worse than all! she went up to her room and sat herself down to think. all that passed through her brain on that night i may not now tell; but the grief which pressed on her at this moment with peculiar weight was the self-will and obstinacy of her boy. she said to herself that she would be willing now to die,--to give back her life at once, if such might be god's pleasure; but that her son should bring down her hairs with shame and sorrow to the grave--! in that thought there was a bitterness of agony which she knew not how to endure! the next morning at breakfast he still remained silent, and his brow was still black. "lucius," she said, "did you do anything in that matter yesterday?" "yes, mother; i saw mr. dockwrath." "well?" "i took peregrine orme with me that i might have a witness, and i then asked him whether he had spread these reports. he acknowledged that he had done so, and i told him that he was a villain." upon hearing this she uttered a long, low sigh, but she said nothing. what use could there now be in her saying aught? her look of agony went to the young man's heart, but he still thought that he had been right. "mother," he continued to say, "i am very sorry to grieve you in this way;--very sorry. but i could not hold up my head in hamworth,--i could not hold up my head anywhere, if i heard these things said of you and did not resent it." "ah, lucius, if you knew the weakness of a woman!" "and therefore you should let me bear it all. there is nothing i would not suffer; no cost i would not undergo rather than you should endure all this. if you would only say that you would leave it to me!" "but it cannot be left to you. i have gone to a lawyer, to mr. furnival. why will you not permit that i should act in it as he thinks best? can you not believe that that will be the best for both of us?" "if you wish it, i will see mr. furnival." lady mason did not wish that, but she was obliged so far to yield as to say that he might do so if he would. her wish was that he should bear it all and say nothing. it was not that she was indifferent to good repute among her neighbours, or that she was careless as to what the apothecaries and attorneys said of her; but it was easier for her to bear the evil than to combat it. the ormes and the furnivals would support her. they and such-like persons would acknowledge her weakness, and would know that from her would not be expected such loud outbursting indignation as might be expected from a man. she had calculated the strength of her own weakness, and thought that she might still be supported by that,--if only her son would so permit. it was two days after this that lucius was allowed the honour of a conference by appointment with the great lawyer; and at the expiration of an hour's delay he was shown into the room by mr. crabwitz. "and, crabwitz," said the barrister, before he addressed himself to his young friend, "just run your eye over those papers, and let mr. bideawhile have them to-morrow morning; and, crabwitz--." "yes, sir." "that opinion of sir richard's in the ahatualpaca mining company--i have not seen it, have i?" "it's all ready, mr. furnival." "i will look at it in five minutes. and now, my young friend, what can i do for you?" it was quite clear from mr. furnival's tone and manner that he did not mean to devote much time to lucius mason, and that he was not generally anxious to hold any conversation with him on the subject in question. such, indeed, was the case. mr. furnival was determined to pull lady mason out of the sea of trouble into which she had fallen, let the effort cost him what it might, but he did not wish to do so by the instrumentality, or even with the aid, of her son. "mr. furnival," began mason, "i want to ask your advice about these dreadful reports which are being spread on every side in hamworth about my mother." "if you will allow me then to say so, i think that the course which you should pursue is very simple. indeed there is, i think, only one course which you can pursue with proper deference to your mother's feelings." "and what is that, mr. furnival?" "do nothing, and say nothing. i fear from what i have heard that you have already done and said much more than was prudent." "but how am i to hear such things as these spoken of my own mother?" "that depends on the people by whom the things are spoken. in this world, if we meet a chimney-sweep in the path we do not hustle with him for the right of way. your mother is going next week to the cleeve. it was only yesterday that i heard that the noningsby people are going to call on her. you can hardly, i suppose, desire for your mother better friends than such as these. and can you not understand why such people gather to her at this moment? if you can understand it you will not trouble yourself to interfere much more with mr. dockwrath." there was a rebuke in this which lucius mason was forced to endure; but nevertheless as he retreated disconcerted from the barrister's chambers, he could not bring himself to think it right that such calumny should be borne without resistance. he knew but little as yet of the ordinary life of gentlemen in england; but he did know,--so at least he thought,--that it was the duty of a son to shield his mother from insult and libel. chapter xxi. christmas in harley street. it seems singular to me myself, considering the idea which i have in my own mind of the character of lady staveley, that i should be driven to declare that about this time she committed an unpardonable offence, not only against good nature, but also against the domestic proprieties. but i am driven so to say, although she herself was of all women the most good-natured and most domestic; for she asked mr. furnival to pass his christmas-day at noningsby, and i find it impossible to forgive her that offence against the poor wife whom in that case he must leave alone by her desolate hearth. she knew that he was a married man as well as i do. sophia, who had a proper regard for the domestic peace of her parents, and who could have been happy at noningsby without a father's care, not unfrequently spoke of her, so that her existence in harley street might not be forgotten by the staveleys--explaining, however, as she did so, that her dear mother never left her own fireside in winter, so that no suspicion might be entertained that an invitation was desired for her also; nevertheless, in spite of all this, on two separate occasions did lady staveley say to mr. furnival that he might as well prolong his visit over christmas. and yet lady staveley was not attached to mr. furnival with any peculiar warmth of friendship; but she was one of those women whose foolish hearts will not allow themselves to be controlled in the exercise of their hospitality. her nature demanded of her that she should ask a guest to stay. she would not have allowed a dog to depart from her house at this season of the year, without suggesting to him that he had better take his christmas bone in her yard. it was for mr. furnival to adjust all matters between himself and his wife. he was not bound to accept the invitation because she gave it; but she, finding him there, already present in the house, did feel herself bound to give it;--for which offence, as i have said before, i cannot bring myself to forgive her. at his sin in staying away from home, or rather--as far as the story has yet carried us--in thinking that he would do so, i am by no means so much surprised. an angry ill-pleased wife is no pleasant companion for a gentleman on a long evening. for those who have managed that things shall run smoothly over the domestic rug there is no happier time of life than these long candlelight hours of home and silence. no spoken content or uttered satisfaction is necessary. the fact that is felt is enough for peace. but when the fact is not felt; when the fact is by no means there; when the thoughts are running in a direction altogether different; when bitter grievances from one to the other fill the heart, rather than memories of mutual kindness; then, i say, those long candlelight hours of home and silence are not easy of endurance. mr. furnival was a man who chose to be the master of his own destiny, so at least to himself he boasted; and therefore when he found himself encountered by black looks and occasionally by sullen words, he declared to himself that he was ill-used and that he would not bear it. since the domestic rose would no longer yield him honey, he would seek his sweets from the stray honeysuckle on which there grew no thorns. mr. furnival was no coward. he was not one of those men who wrong their wives by their absence, and then prolong their absence because they are afraid to meet their wives. his resolve was to be free himself, and to be free without complaint from her. he would have it so, that he might remain out of his own house for a month at the time and then return to it for a week--at any rate without outward bickerings. i have known other men who have dreamed of such a state of things, but at this moment i can remember none who have brought their dream to bear. mr. furnival had written to his wife,--not from noningsby, but from some provincial town, probably situated among the essex marshes,--saying various things, and among others that he should not, as he thought, be at home at christmas-day. mrs. furnival had remarked about a fortnight since that christmas-day was nothing to her now; and the base man, for it was base, had hung upon this poor, sore-hearted word an excuse for remaining away from home. "there are lawyers of repute staying at noningsby," he had said, "with whom it is very expedient that i should remain at this present crisis."--when yet has there been no crisis present to a man who has wanted an excuse?--"and therefore i may probably stay,"--and so on. who does not know the false mixture of excuse and defiance which such a letter is sure to maintain; the crafty words which may be taken as adequate reason if the receiver be timid enough so to receive them, or as a noisy gauntlet thrown to the ground if there be spirit there for the picking of it up? such letter from his little borough in the essex marshes did mr. furnival write to the partner of his cares, and there was still sufficient spirit left for the picking up of the gauntlet. "i shall be home to-morrow," the letter had gone on to say, "but i will not keep you waiting for dinner, as my hours are always so uncertain. i shall be at my chambers till late, and will be with you before tea. i will then return to alston on the following morning." there was at any rate good courage in this on the part of mr. furnival;--great courage; but with it coldness of heart, dishonesty of purpose, and black ingratitude. had she not given everything to him? mrs. furnival when she got the letter was not alone. "there," said she; throwing it over to a lady who sat on the other side of the fireplace handling a loose sprawling mass of not very clean crochet-work. "i knew he would stay away on christmas-day. i told you so." "i didn't think it possible," said miss biggs, rolling up the big ball of soiled cotton, that she might read mr. furnival's letter at her leisure. "i didn't really think it possible--on christmas-day! surely, mrs. furnival, he can't mean christmas-day? dear, dear, dear! and then to throw it in your face in that way that you said you didn't care about it." "of course i said so," answered mrs. furnival. "i was not going to ask him to come home as a favour." "not to make a favour of it, of course not." this was miss biggs from ----. i am afraid if i tell the truth i must say that she came from red lion square! and yet nothing could be more respectable than miss biggs. her father had been a partner with an uncle of mrs. furnival's; and when kitty blacker had given herself and her young prettinesses to the hardworking lawyer, martha biggs had stood at the altar with her, then just seventeen years of age, and had promised to her all manner of success for her coming life. martha biggs had never, not even then, been pretty; but she had been very faithful. she had not been a favourite with mr. furnival, having neither wit nor grace to recommend her, and therefore in the old happy days of keppel street she had been kept in the background; but now, in this present time of her adversity, mrs. furnival found the benefit of having a trusty friend. "if he likes better to be with these people down at alston, i am sure it is the same to me," said the injured wife. "but there's nobody special at alston, is there?" asked miss biggs, whose soul sighed for a tale more piquant than one of mere general neglect. she knew that her friend had dreadful suspicions, but mrs. furnival had never as yet committed herself by uttering the name of any woman as her rival. miss biggs thought that a time had now come in which the strength of their mutual confidence demanded that such name should be uttered. it could not be expected that she should sympathise with generalities for ever. she longed to hate, to reprobate, and to shudder at the actual name of the wretch who had robbed her friend of a husband's heart. and therefore she asked the question, "there's nobody special at alston, is there?" now mrs. furnival knew to a furlong the distance from noningsby to orley farm, and knew also that the station at hamworth was only twenty-five minutes from that at alston. she gave no immediate answer, but threw up her head and shook her nostrils, as though she were preparing for war; and then miss martha biggs knew that there was somebody special at alston. between such old friends why should not the name be mentioned? on the following day the two ladies dined at six, and then waited tea patiently till ten. had the thirst of a desert been raging within that drawing-room, and had tea been within immediate call, those ladies would have died ere they would have asked for it before his return. he had said he would be home to tea, and they would have waited for him, had it been till four o'clock in the morning! let the female married victim ever make the most of such positive wrongs as providence may vouchsafe to her. had mrs. furnival ordered tea on this evening before her husband's return, she would have been a woman blind to the advantages of her own position. at ten the wheels of mr. furnival's cab were heard, and the faces of both the ladies prepared themselves for the encounter. "well, kitty, how are you?" said mr. furnival, entering the room with his arms prepared for a premeditated embrace. "what, miss biggs with you? i did not know. how do you do, miss biggs?" and mr. furnival extended his hand to the lady. they both looked at him, and they could tell from the brightness of his eye and from the colour of his nose that he had been dining at his club, and that the bin with the precious cork had been visited on his behalf. "yes, my dear, it's rather lonely being here in this big room all by oneself so long; so i asked martha biggs to come over to me. i suppose there's no harm in that." "oh, if i'm in the way," began miss biggs, "or if mr. furnival is going to stay at home for long--" "you are not in the way, and i am not going to stay at home for long," said mr. furnival, speaking with a voice that was perhaps a little thick,--only a very little thick. no wife on good terms with her husband would have deigned to notice, even in her own mind, an amount of thickness of voice which was so very inconsiderable. but mrs. furnival at the present moment did notice it. "oh, i did not know," said miss biggs. "you know now," said mr. furnival, whose ear at once appreciated the hostility of tone which had been assumed. "you need not be rude to my friend after she has been waiting tea for you till near eleven o'clock," said mrs. furnival. "it is nothing to me, but you should remember that she is not used to it." "i wasn't rude to your friend, and who asked you to wait tea till near eleven o'clock? it is only just ten now, if that signifies." "you expressly desired me to wait tea, mr. furnival. i have got your letter, and will show it you if you wish it." "nonsense; i just said i should be home--" "of course you just said you would be home, and so we waited; and it's not nonsense; and i declare--! never mind, martha, don't mind me, there's a good creature. i shall get over it soon;" and then fat, solid, good-humoured mrs. furnival burst out into an hysterical fit of sobbing. there was a welcome for a man on his return to his home after a day's labour! miss biggs immediately got up and came round behind the drawing-room table to her friend's head. "be calm, mrs. furnival," she said; "do be calm, and then you will be better soon. here is the hartshorn." "it doesn't matter, martha: never mind: leave me alone," sobbed the poor woman. "may i be excused for asking what is really the matter?" said mr. furnival, "for i'll be whipped if i know." miss biggs looked at him as if she thought that he ought to be whipped. "i wonder you ever come near the place at all, i do," said mrs. furnival. "what place?" asked mr. furnival. "this house in which i am obliged to live by myself, without a soul to speak to, unless when martha biggs comes here." "which would be much more frequent, only that i know i am not welcome by everybody." "i know that you hate it. how can i help knowing it?--and you hate me too; i know you do;--and i believe you would be glad if you need never come back here at all; i do. don't, martha; leave me alone. i don't want all that fuss. there; i can bear it now, whatever it is. do you choose to have your tea, mr. furnival? or do you wish to keep the servants waiting out of their beds all night?" "d---- the servants," said mr. furnival. "oh laws!" exclaimed miss biggs, jumping up out of her chair with her hands and fingers outstretched, as though never, never in her life before, had her ears been wounded by such wicked words as those. "mr. furnival, i am ashamed of you," said his wife with gathered calmness of stern reproach. mr. furnival was very wrong to swear; doubly wrong to swear before his wife; trebly wrong to swear before a lady visitor; but it must be confessed that there was provocation. that he was at this present period of his life behaving badly to his wife must be allowed, but on this special evening he had intended to behave well. the woman had sought a ground of quarrel against him, and had driven him on till he had forgotten himself in his present after-dinner humour. when a man is maintaining a whole household on his own shoulders, and working hard to maintain it well, it is not right that he should be brought to book because he keeps the servants up half an hour later than usual to wash the tea-things. it is very proper that the idle members of the establishment should conform to hours, but these hours must give way to his requirements. in those old days of which we have spoken so often he might have had his tea at twelve, one, two, or three without a murmur. though their staff of servants then was scanty enough, there was never a difficulty then in supplying any such want for him. if no other pair of hands could boil the kettle, there was one pair of hands there which no amount of such work on his behalf could tire. but now, because he had come in for his tea at ten o'clock, he was asked if he intended to keep the servants out of their beds all night! "oh laws!" said miss biggs, jumping up from her chair as though she had been electrified. mr. furnival did not think it consistent with his dignity to keep up any dispute in the presence of miss biggs, and therefore sat himself down in his accustomed chair without further speech. "would you wish to have tea now, mr. furnival?" asked his wife again, putting considerable stress upon the word now. "i don't care about it," said he. "and i am sure i don't at this late hour," said miss biggs. "but so tired as you are, dear--" "never mind me, martha; as for myself, i shall take nothing now." and then they all sat without a word for the space of some five minutes. "if you like to go, martha," said mrs. furnival, "don't mind waiting for me." "oh, very well," and then miss biggs took her bedcandle and left the room. was it not hard upon her that she should be forced to absent herself at this moment, when the excitement of the battle was about to begin in earnest? her footsteps lingered as she slowly retreated from the drawing-room door, and for one instant she absolutely paused, standing still with eager ears. it was but for an instant, and then she went on up stairs, out of hearing, and sitting herself down by her bedside allowed the battle to rage in her imagination. mr. furnival would have sat there silent till his wife had gone also, and so the matter would have terminated for that evening,--had she so willed it. but she had been thinking of her miseries; and, having come to some sort of resolution to speak of them openly, what time could she find more appropriate for doing so than the present? "tom," she said,--and as she spoke there was still a twinkle of the old love in her eye, "we are not going on together as well as we should do,--not lately. would it not be well to make a change before it is too late?" "what change?" he asked; not exactly in an ill humour, but with a husky, thick voice. he would have preferred now that she should have followed her friend to bed. "i do not want to dictate to you, tom, but--! oh tom, if you knew how wretched i am!" "what makes you wretched?" "because you leave me all alone; because you care more for other people than you do for me; because you never like to be at home, never if you can possibly help it. you know you don't. you are always away now upon some excuse or other; you know you are. i don't have you home to dinner not one day in the week through the year. that can't be right, and you know it is not. oh tom! you are breaking my heart, and deceiving me,--you are. why did i go down and find that woman in your chamber with you, when you were ashamed to own to me that she was coming to see you? if it had been in the proper way of law business, you wouldn't have been ashamed. oh, tom!" the poor woman had begun her plaint in a manner that was not altogether devoid of a discreet eloquence. if only she could have maintained that tone, if she could have confined her words to the tale of her own grievances, and have been contented to declare that she was unhappy, only because he was not with her, it might have been well. she might have touched his heart, or at any rate his conscience, and there might have been some enduring result for good. but her feelings had been too many for her, and as her wrongs came to her mind, and the words heaped themselves upon her tongue, she could not keep herself from the one subject which she should have left untouched. mr. furnival was not the man to bear any interference such as this, or to permit the privacy of lincoln's inn to be invaded even by his wife. his brow grew very black, and his eyes became almost bloodshot. the port wine which might have worked him to softness, now worked him to anger, and he thus burst forth with words of marital vigour: "let me tell you once for ever, kitty, that i will admit of no interference with what i do, or the people whom i may choose to see in my chambers in lincoln's inn. if you are such an infatuated simpleton as to believe--" "yes; of course i am a simpleton; of course i am a fool; women always are." "listen to me, will you?" "listen, yes; it's my business to listen. would you like that i should give this house up for her, and go into lodgings somewhere? i shall have very little objection as matters are going now. oh dear, oh dear, that things should ever have come to this!" "come to what?" "tom, i could put up with a great deal,--more i think than most women; i could slave for you like a drudge, and think nothing about it. and now that you have got among grand people, i could see you go out by yourself without thinking much about that either. i am very lonely sometimes,--very; but i could bear that. nobody has longed to see you rise in the world half so anxious as i have done. but, tom, when i know what your goings on are with a nasty, sly, false woman like that, i won't bear it; and there's an end." in saying which final words mrs. furnival rose from her seat, and thrice struck her hand by no means lightly on the loo table in the middle of the room. "i did not think it possible that you should be so silly. i did not indeed." "oh, yes, silly! very well. women always are silly when they mind that kind of thing. have you got anything else to say, sir?" "yes, i have; i have this to say, that i will not endure this sort of usage." "nor i won't," said mrs. furnival; "so you may as well understand it at once. as long as there was nothing absolutely wrong, i would put up with it for the sake of appearances, and because of sophia. for myself i don't mind what loneliness i may have to bear. if you had been called on to go out to the east indies or even to china, i could have put up with it. but this sort of thing i won't put up with;--nor i won't be blind to what i can't help seeing. so now, mr. furnival, you may know that i have made up my mind." and then, without waiting further parley, having wisked herself in her energy near to the door, she stalked out, and went up with hurried steps to her own room. occurrences of a nature such as this are in all respects unpleasant in a household. let the master be ever so much master, what is he to do? say that his wife is wrong from the beginning to the end of the quarrel,--that in no way improves the matter. his anxiety is that the world abroad shall not know he has ought amiss at home; but she, with her hot sense of injury, and her loud revolt against supposed wrongs, cares not who hears it. "hold your tongue, madam," the husband says. but the wife, bound though she be by an oath of obedience, will not obey him, but only screams the louder. all which, as mr. furnival sat there thinking of it, disturbed his mind much. that martha biggs would spread the tale through all bloomsbury and st. pancras of course he was aware. "if she drives me to it, it must be so," he said to himself at last. and then he also betook himself to his rest. and so it was that preparations for christmas were made in harley street. chapter xxii. christmas at noningsby. the house at noningsby on christmas-day was quite full, and yet it was by no means a small house. mrs. arbuthnot, the judge's married daughter, was there, with her three children; and mr. furnival was there, having got over those domestic difficulties in which we lately saw him as best he might; and lucius mason was there, having been especially asked by lady staveley when she heard that his mother was to be at the cleeve. there could be no more comfortable country-house than noningsby; and it was, in its own way, pretty, though essentially different in all respects from the cleeve. it was a new house from the cellar to the ceiling, and as a house was no doubt the better for being so. all the rooms were of the proper proportion, and all the newest appliances for comfort had been attached to it. but nevertheless it lacked that something, in appearance rather than in fact, which age alone can give to the residence of a gentleman in the country. the gardens also were new, and the grounds around them trim, and square, and orderly. noningsby was a delightful house; no one with money and taste at command could have created for himself one more delightful; but then there are delights which cannot be created even by money and taste. it was a pleasant sight to see, the long, broad, well-filled breakfast table, with all that company round it. there were some eighteen or twenty gathered now at the table, among whom the judge sat pre-eminent, looming large in an arm-chair and having a double space allotted to him;--some eighteen or twenty, children included. at the bottom of the table sat lady staveley, who still chose to preside among her own tea cups as a lady should do; and close to her, assisting in the toils of that presidency, sat her daughter madeline. nearest to them were gathered the children, and the rest had formed themselves into little parties, each of which already well knew its own place at the board. in how very short a time will come upon one that pleasant custom of sitting in an accustomed place! but here, at these noningsby breakfasts, among other customs already established, there was one by which augustus staveley was always privileged to sit by the side of sophia furnival. no doubt his original object was still unchanged. a match between that lady and his friend graham was still desirable, and by perseverance he might pique felix graham to arouse himself. but hitherto felix graham had not aroused himself in that direction, and one or two people among the party were inclined to mistake young staveley's intentions. "gus," his sister had said to him the night before, "i declare i think you are going to make love to sophia furnival." "do you?" he had replied. "as a rule i do not think there is any one in the world for whose discernment i have so much respect as i have for yours. but in this respect even you are wrong." "ah, of course you say so." "if you won't believe me, ask her. what more can i say?" "i certainly sha'n't ask her, for i don't know her well enough." "she's a very clever girl; let me tell you that, whoever falls in love with her." "i'm sure she is, and she is handsome too, very; but for all that she is not good enough for our gus." "of course she is not, and therefore i am not thinking of her. and now go to bed and dream that you have got the queen of the fortunate islands for your sister-in-law." but although staveley was himself perfectly indifferent to all the charms of miss furnival, nevertheless he could hardly restrain his dislike to lucius mason, who, as he thought, was disposed to admire the lady in question. in talking of lucius to his own family and to his special friend graham, he had called him conceited, pedantic, uncouth, unenglish, and detestable. his own family, that is, his mother and sister, rarely contradicted him in anything; but graham was by no means so cautious, and usually contradicted him in everything. indeed, there was no sign of sterling worth so plainly marked in staveley's character as the full conviction which he entertained of the superiority of his friend felix. "you are quite wrong about him," felix had said. "he has not been at an english school, or english university, and therefore is not like other young men that you know; but he is, i think, well educated and clever. as for conceit, what man will do any good who is not conceited? nobody holds a good opinion of a man who has a low opinion of himself." "all the same, my dear fellow, i do not like lucius mason." "and some one else, if you remember, did not like dr. fell." "and now, good people, what are you all going to do about church?" said staveley, while they were still engaged with their rolls and eggs. "i shall walk," said the judge. "and i shall go in the carriage," said the judge's wife. "that disposes of two; and now it will take half an hour to settle for the rest. miss. furnival, you no doubt will accompany my mother. as i shall be among the walkers you will see how much i sacrifice by the suggestion." it was a mile to the church, and miss furnival knew the advantage of appearing in her seat unfatigued and without subjection to wind, mud, or rain. "i must confess," she said, "that under all the circumstances, i shall prefer your mother's company to yours;" whereupon staveley, in the completion of his arrangements, assigned the other places in the carriage to the married ladies of the company. "but i have taken your sister madeline's seat in the carriage," protested sophia with great dismay. "my sister madeline generally walks." "then of course i shall walk with her;" but when the time came miss furnival did go in the carriage whereas miss staveley went on foot. it so fell out, as they started, that graham found himself walking at miss staveley's side, to the great disgust, no doubt, of half a dozen other aspirants for that honour. "i cannot help thinking," he said, as they stepped briskly over the crisp white frost, "that this christmas-day of ours is a great mistake." "oh, mr. graham!" she exclaimed "you need not regard me with horror,--at least not with any special horror on this occasion." "but what you say is very horrid." "that, i flatter myself, seems so only because i have not yet said it. that part of our christmas-day which is made to be in any degree sacred is by no means a mistake." "i am glad you think that." "or rather, it is not a mistake in as far as it is in any degree made sacred. but the peculiar conviviality of the day is so ponderous! its roast-beefiness oppresses one so thoroughly from the first moment of one's waking, to the last ineffectual effort at a bit of fried pudding for supper!" "but you need not eat fried pudding for supper. indeed, here, i am afraid, you will not have any supper offered you at all." "no; not to me individually, under that name. i might also manage to guard my own self under any such offers. but there is always the flavour of the sweetmeat, in the air,--of all the sweetmeats edible and non-edible." "you begrudge the children their snap-dragon. that's what it all means, mr. graham." "no; i deny it; unpremeditated snap-dragon is dear to my soul; and i could expend myself in blindman's buff." "you shall then, after dinner; for of course you know that we all dine early." "but blindman's buff at three, with snap-dragon at a quarter to four--charades at five, with wine and sweet cake at half-past six, is ponderous. and that's our mistake. the big turkey would be very good;--capital fun to see a turkey twice as big as it ought to be! but the big turkey, and the mountain of beef, and the pudding weighing a hundredweight, oppress one's spirits by their combined gravity. and then they impart a memory of indigestion, a halo as it were of apoplexy, even to the church services." "i do not agree with you the least in the world." "i ask you to answer me fairly. is not additional eating an ordinary englishman's ordinary idea of christmas-day?" "i am only an ordinary englishwoman and therefore cannot say. it is not my idea." "i believe that the ceremony, as kept by us, is perpetuated by the butchers and beersellers, with a helping hand from the grocers. it is essentially a material festival; and i would not object to it even on that account if it were not so grievously overdone. how the sun is moistening the frost on the ground. as we come back the road will be quite wet." "we shall be going home then and it will not signify. remember, mr. graham, i shall expect you to come forward in great strength for blindman's buff." as he gave her the required promise, he thought that even the sports of christmas-day would be bearable, if she also were to make one of the sportsmen; and then they entered the church. [illustration: christmas at noningsby--morning.] i do not know of anything more pleasant to the eye than a pretty country church, decorated for christmas-day. the effect in a city is altogether different. i will not say that churches there should not be decorated, but comparatively it is a matter of indifference. no one knows who does it. the peculiar munificence of the squire who has sacrificed his holly bushes is not appreciated. the work of the fingers that have been employed is not recognised. the efforts made for hanging the pendent wreaths to each capital have been of no special interest to any large number of the worshippers. it has been done by contract, probably, and even if well done has none of the grace of association. but here at noningsby church, the winter flowers had been cut by madeline and the gardener, and the red berries had been grouped by her own hands. she and the vicar's wife had stood together with perilous audacity on the top of the clerk's desk while they fixed the branches beneath the cushion of the old-fashioned turret, from which the sermons were preached. and all this had of course been talked about at the house; and some of the party had gone over to see, including sophia furnival, who had declared that nothing could be so delightful, though she had omitted to endanger her fingers by any participation in the work. and the children had regarded the operation as a triumph of all that was wonderful in decoration; and thus many of them had been made happy. on their return from church, miss furnival insisted on walking, in order, as she said, that miss staveley might not have all the fatigue; but miss staveley would walk also, and the carriage, after a certain amount of expostulation and delay, went off with its load incomplete. "and now for the plum-pudding part of the arrangement," said felix graham. "yes, mr. graham," said madeline, "now for the plum-pudding--and the blindman's buff." "did you ever see anything more perfect than the church, mr. mason?" said sophia. "anything more perfect? no; in that sort of way, perhaps, never. i have seen the choir of cologne." "come, come; that's not fair," said graham. "don't import cologne in order to crush us here down in our little english villages. you never saw the choir of cologne bright with holly berries." "no; but i have with cardinal's stockings, and bishop's robes." "i think i should prefer the holly," said miss furnival. "and why should not our churches always look like that, only changing the flowers and the foliage with the season? it would make the service so attractive." "it would hardly do at lent," said madeline, in a serious tone. "no, perhaps not at lent exactly." peregrine and augustus staveley were walking on in front, not perhaps as well satisfied with the day as the rest of the party. augustus, on leaving the church, had made a little effort to assume his place as usual by miss furnival's side, but by some accident of war, mason was there before him. he had not cared to make one of a party of three, and therefore had gone on in advance with young orme. nor was peregrine himself much more happy. he did not know why, but he felt within his breast a growing aversion to felix graham. graham was a puppy, he thought, and a fellow that talked too much; and then he was such a confoundedly ugly dog, and--and--and--peregrine orme did not like him. he was not a man to analyze his own feelings in such matters. he did not ask himself why he should have been rejoiced to hear that instant business had taken felix graham off to hong kong; but he knew that he would have rejoiced. he knew also that madeline staveley was--. no; he did not know what she was; but when he was alone, he carried on with her all manner of imaginary conversations, though when he was in her company he had hardly a word to say to her. under these circumstances he fraternized with her brother; but even in that he could not receive much satisfaction, seeing that he could not abuse graham to graham's special friend, nor could he breathe a sigh as to madeline's perfections into the ear of madeline's brother. the children,--and there were three or four assembled there besides those belonging to mrs. arbuthnot, were by no means inclined to agree with mr. graham's strictures as to the amusements of christmas-day. to them it appeared that they could not hurry fast enough into the vortex of its dissipations. the dinner was a serious consideration, especially with reference to certain illuminated mince-pies which were the crowning glory of that banquet; but time for these was almost begrudged in order that the fast handkerchief might be tied over the eyes of the first blindman. "and now we'll go into the schoolroom," said marian arbuthnot, jumping up and leading the way. "come along, mr. felix," and felix graham followed her. madeline had declared that felix graham should be blinded first, and such was his doom. "now mind you catch me, mr. felix; pray do," said marian, when she had got him seated in a corner of the room. she was a beautiful fair little thing, with long, soft curls, and lips red as a rose, and large, bright blue eyes, all soft and happy and laughing, loving the friends of her childhood with passionate love, and fully expecting an equal devotion from them. it is of such children that our wives and sweethearts should be made. "but how am i to find you when my eyes are blinded?" "oh, you can feel, you know. you can put your hand on the top of my head. i mustn't speak, you know; but i'm sure i shall laugh; and then you must guess that it's marian." that was her idea of playing blindman's buff according to the strict rigour of the game. "and you'll give me a big kiss?" said felix. "yes, when we've done playing," she promised with great seriousness. and then a huge white silk handkerchief, as big as a small sail, was brought down from grandpapa's dressing-room, so that nobody should see the least bit "in the world," as marian had observed with great energy; and the work of blinding was commenced. "i ain't big enough to reach round," said marian, who had made an effort, but in vain. "you do it, aunt mad," and she tendered the handkerchief to miss staveley, who, however, did not appear very eager to undertake the task. "i'll be the executioner," said grandmamma, "the more especially as i shall not take any other share in the ceremony. this shall be the chair of doom. come here, mr. graham, and submit yourself to me." and so the first victim was blinded. "mind you remember," said marian, whispering into his ear as he was led away. "green spirits and white; blue spirits and gray--," and then he was twirled round in the room and left to commence his search as best he might. marian arbuthnot was not the only soft little laughing darling that wished to be caught, and blinded, so that there was great pulling at the blindman's tails, and much grasping at his outstretched arms before the desired object was attained. and he wandered round the room skilfully, as though a thought were in his mind false to his treaty with marian,--as though he imagined for a moment that some other prize might be caught. but if so, the other prize evaded him carefully, and in due progress of play, marian's soft curls were within his grasp. "i'm sure i didn't speak, or say a word," said she, as she ran up to her grandmother to have the handkerchief put over her eyes. "did i, grandmamma?" "there are more ways of speaking than one," said lady staveley. "you and mr. graham understand each other, i think." "oh, i was caught quite fairly," said marian--"and now lead me round and round." to her at any rate the festivities of christmas-day were not too ponderous for real enjoyment. and then, at last, somebody caught the judge. i rather think it was madeline; but his time in truth was come, and he had no chance of escape. the whole room was set upon his capture, and though he barricaded himself with chairs and children, he was duly apprehended and named. "that's papa; i know by his watch-chain, for i made it." "nonsense, my dears," said the judge. "i will do no such thing. i should never catch anybody, and should remain blind for ever." "but grandpapa must," said marian. "it's the game that he should be blinded when he's caught." "suppose the game was that we should be whipped when we are caught, and i was to catch you," said augustus. "but i would not play that game," said marian. "oh, papa, you must," said madeline. "do--and you shall catch mr. furnival." "that would be a temptation," said the judge. "i've never been able to do that yet, though i've been trying it for some years." "justice is blind," said graham. "why should a judge be ashamed to follow the example of his own goddess?" and so at last the owner of the ermine submitted, and the stern magistrate of the bench was led round with the due incantation of the spirits, and dismissed into chaos to seek for a new victim. [illustration: christmas at noningsby--evening.] one of the rules of blindman's buff at noningsby was this, that it should not be played by candlelight,--a rule that is in every way judicious, as thereby an end is secured for that which might otherwise be unending. and therefore when it became so dark in the schoolroom that there was not much difference between the blind man and the others, the handkerchief was smuggled away, and the game was at an end. "and now for snap-dragon," said marian. "exactly as you predicted, mr. graham," said madeline: "blindman's buff at a quarter past three, and snap-dragon at five." "i revoke every word that i uttered, for i was never more amused in my life." "and you will be prepared to endure the wine and sweet cake when they come." "prepared to endure anything, and go through everything. we shall be allowed candles now, i suppose." "oh, no, by no means. snap-dragon by candlelight! who ever heard of such a thing? it would wash all the dragon out of it, and leave nothing but the snap. it is a necessity of the game that it should be played in the dark,--or rather by its own lurid light." "oh, there is a lurid light; is there?" "you shall see;" and then she turned away to make her preparations. to the game of snap-dragon, as played at noningsby, a ghost was always necessary, and aunt madeline had played the ghost ever since she had been an aunt, and there had been any necessity for such a part. but in previous years the spectators had been fewer in number and more closely connected with the family. "i think we must drop the ghost on this occasion," she said, coming up to her brother. "you'll disgust them all dreadfully if you do," said he. "the young sebrights have come specially to see the ghost." "well, you can do ghost for them." "i! no; i can't act a ghost. miss furnival, you'd make a lovely ghost." "i shall be most happy to be useful," said sophia. "oh, aunt mad, you must be ghost," said marian, following her. "you foolish little thing, you; we are going to have a beautiful ghost--a divine ghost," said uncle gus. "but we want madeline to be the ghost," said a big miss sebright, ten or eleven years old. "she's always ghost," said marian. "to be sure; it will be much better," said miss furnival. "i only offered my poor services hoping to be useful. no banquo that ever lived could leave a worse ghost behind him than i should prove." it ended in there being two ghosts. it had become quite impossible to rob miss furnival of her promised part, and madeline could not refuse to solve the difficulty in this way without making more of the matter than it deserved. the idea of two ghosts was delightful to the children, more especially as it entailed two large dishes full of raisins, and two blue fires blazing up from burnt brandy. so the girls went out, not without proffered assistance from the gentlemen, and after a painfully long interval of some fifteen or twenty minutes,--for miss furnival's back hair would not come down and adjust itself into ghostlike lengths with as much readiness as that of her friend,--they returned bearing the dishes before them on large trays. in each of them the spirit was lighted as they entered the schoolroom door, and thus, as they walked in, they were illuminated by the dark-blue flames which they carried. "oh, is it not grand?" said marian, appealing to felix graham. "uncommonly grand," he replied. "and which ghost do you think is the grandest? i'll tell you which ghost i like the best,--in a secret, you know; i like aunt mad the best, and i think she's the grandest too." "and i'll tell you in a secret that i think the same. to my mind she is the grandest ghost i ever saw in my life." "is she indeed?" asked marian, solemnly, thinking probably that her new friend's experience in ghosts must be extensive. however that might be, he thought that as far as his experience in women went, he had never seen anything more lovely than madeline staveley dressed in a long white sheet, with a long bit of white cambric pinned round her face. and it may be presumed that the dress altogether is not unbecoming when accompanied by blue flames, for augustus staveley and lucius mason thought the same thing of miss furnival, whereas peregrine orme did not know whether he was standing on his head or his feet as he looked at miss staveley. miss furnival may possibly have had some inkling of this when she offered to undertake the task, but i protest that such was not the case with madeline. there was no second thought in her mind when she first declined the ghosting, and afterwards undertook the part. no wish to look beautiful in the eyes of felix graham had come to her--at any rate as yet; and as to peregrine orme, she had hardly thought of his existence. "by heavens!" said peregrine to himself, "she is the most beautiful creature that i ever saw;" and then he began to speculate within his own mind how the idea might be received at the cleeve. but there was no such realised idea with felix graham. he saw that madeline staveley was very beautiful, and he felt in an unconscious manner that her character was very sweet. he may have thought that he might have loved such a girl, had such love been a thing permitted to him. but this was far from being the case. felix graham's lot in this life, as regarded that share which his heart might have in it, was already marked out for him;--marked out for himself and by himself. the future wife of his bosom had already been selected, and was now in course of preparation for the duties of her future life. he was one of those few wise men who have determined not to take a partner in life at hazard, but to mould a young mind and character to those pursuits and modes of thought which may best fit a woman for the duties she will have to perform. what little it may be necessary to know of the earlier years of mary snow shall be told hereafter. here it will be only necessary to say that she was an orphan, that as yet she was little more than a child, and that she owed her maintenance and the advantage of her education to the charity and love of her destined husband. therefore, as i have said, it was manifest that felix graham could not think of falling in love with miss staveley, even had not his very low position, in reference to worldly affairs, made any such passion on his part quite hopeless. but with peregrine orme the matter was different. there could be no possible reason why peregrine orme should not win and wear the beautiful girl whom he so much admired. but the ghosts are kept standing over their flames, the spirit is becoming exhausted, and the raisins will be burnt. at snap-dragon, too, the ghosts here had something to do. the law of the game is this--a law on which marian would have insisted had not the flames been so very hot--that the raisins shall become the prey of those audacious marauders only who dare to face the presence of the ghost, and to plunge their hands into the burning dish. as a rule the boys do this, clawing out the raisins, while the girls pick them up and eat them. but here at noningsby the boys were too little to act thus as pioneers in the face of the enemy, and the raisins might have remained till the flames were burnt out, had not the beneficent ghost scattered abroad the richness of her own treasures. "now, marian," said felix graham, bringing her up in his arms. "but it will burn, mr. felix. look there; see; there are a great many at that end. you do it." "i must have another kiss then." "very well, yes; if you get five." and then felix dashed his hand in among the flames and brought forth a fistful of fruit, which imparted to his fingers and wristband a smell of brandy for the rest of the evening. "if you take so many at a time i shall rap your knuckles with the spoon," said the ghost, as she stirred up the flames to keep them alive. "but the ghost shouldn't speak," said marian, who was evidently unacquainted with the best ghosts of tragedy. "but the ghost must speak when such large hands invade the caldron;" and then another raid was effected, and the threatened blow was given. had any one told her in the morning that she would that day have rapped mr. graham's knuckles with a kitchen spoon, she would not have believed that person; but it is thus that hearts are lost and won. and peregrine orme looked on from a distance, thinking of it all. that he should have been stricken dumb by the beauty of any girl was surprising even to himself; for though young and almost boyish in his manners, he had never yet feared to speak out in any presence. the tutor at his college had thought him insolent beyond parallel; and his grandfather, though he loved him for his open face and plain outspoken words, found them sometimes almost too much for him. but now he stood there looking and longing, and could not summon courage to go up and address a few words to this young girl even in the midst of their sports. twice or thrice during the last few days he had essayed to speak to her, but his words had been dull and vapid, and to himself they had appeared childish. he was quite conscious of his own weakness. more than once, during that period of the snap-dragon, did he say to himself that he would descend into the lists and break a lance in that tourney; but still he did not descend, and his lance remained inglorious in its rest. at the other end of the long table the ghost also had two attendant knights, and neither of them refrained from the battle. augustus staveley, if he thought it worth his while to keep the lists at all, would not be allowed to ride through them unopposed from any backwardness on the part of his rival. lucius mason was not likely to become a timid, silent, longing lover. to him it was not possible that he should fear the girl whom he loved. he could not worship that which he wished to obtain for himself. it may be doubted whether he had much faculty of worshipping anything in the truest meaning of that word. one worships that which one feels, through the inner and unexpressed conviction of the mind, to be greater, better, higher than oneself; but it was not probable that lucius mason should so think of any woman that he might meet. nor, to give him his due, was it probable that he should be in any way afraid of any man that he might encounter. he would fear neither the talent, nor the rank, nor the money influence, nor the dexterity of any such rival. in any attempt that he might make on a woman's heart he would regard his own chance as good against that of any other possible he. augustus staveley was master here at noningsby, and was a clever, dashing, handsome, fashionable young fellow; but lucius mason never dreamed of retreating before such forces as those. he had words with which to speak as fair as those of any man, and flattered himself that he as well knew how to use them. it was pretty to see with what admirable tact and judicious management of her smiles sophia received the homage of the two young men, answering the compliments of both with ease, and so conducting herself that neither could fairly accuse her of undue favour to the other. but unfairly, in his own mind, augustus did so accuse her. and why should he have been so venomous, seeing that he entertained no regard for the lady himself? his object was still plain enough,--that, namely, of making a match between his needy friend and the heiress. his needy friend in the mean time played on through the long evening in thoughtless happiness; and peregrine orme, looking at the game from a distance, saw that rap given to the favoured knuckles with a bitterness of heart and an inner groaning of the spirit that will not be incomprehensible to many. "i do so love that mr. felix!" said marian, as her aunt madeline kissed her in her little bed on wishing her good night. "don't you, aunt mad--?" and so it was that christmas-day was passed at noningsby. chapter xxiii. christmas at groby park. christmas-day was always a time of very great trial to mrs. mason of groby park. it behoved her, as the wife of an old english country gentleman, to spread her board plenteously at that season, and in some sort to make an open house of it. but she could not bring herself to spread any board with plenty, and the idea of an open house would almost break her heart. unlimited eating! there was something in the very sounds of such words which was appalling to the inner woman. and on this christmas-day she was doomed to go through an ordeal of very peculiar severity. it so happened that the cure of souls in the parish of groby had been intrusted for the last two or three years to a young, energetic, but not very opulent curate. why the rector of groby should be altogether absent, leaving the work in the hands of a curate, whom he paid by the lease of a cottage and garden and fifty-five pounds a year,--thereby behaving as he imagined with extensive liberality,--it is unnecessary here to inquire. such was the case, and the rev. adolphus green, with mrs. a. green and the four children, managed to live with some difficulty on the produce of the garden and the allotted stipend; but could not probably have lived at all in that position had not mrs. adolphus green been blessed with some small fortune. it had so happened that mrs. adolphus green had been instrumental in imparting some knowledge of singing to two of the miss masons, and had continued her instructions over the last three years. this had not been done in any preconcerted way, but the lessons had grown by chance. mrs. mason the while had looked on with a satisfied eye at an arrangement that was so much to her taste. "there are no regular lessons you know," she had said to her husband, when he suggested that some reward for so much work would be expedient. "mrs. green finds it convenient to have the use of my drawing-room, and would never see an instrument from year's end to year's end if she were not allowed to come up here. depend upon it she gets a great deal more than she gives." but after two years of tuition mr. mason had spoken a second time. "my dear," he said, "i cannot allow the girls to accept so great a favour from mrs. green without making her some compensation." "i don't see that it is at all necessary," mrs. mason had answered; "but if you think so, we could send her down a hamper of apples,--that is, a basketful." now it happened that apples were very plentiful that year, and that the curate and his wife were blessed with as many as they could judiciously consume. "apples! nonsense!" said mr. mason. "if you mean money, my dear, i couldn't do it. i wouldn't so offend a lady for all the world." "you could buy them something handsome, in the way of furniture. that little room of theirs that they call the drawing-room has nothing in it at all. get jones from leeds to send them some things that will do for them." and hence, after many inner misgivings, had arisen that purchase of a drawing-room set from mr. kantwise,--that set of metallic "louey catorse furniture," containing three tables, eight chairs, &c., &c., as to which it may be remembered that mrs. mason made such an undoubted bargain, getting them for less than cost price. that they had been "strained," as mr. kantwise himself admitted in discoursing on the subject to mr. dockwrath, was not matter of much moment. they would do extremely well for a curate's wife. and now on this christmas-day the present was to be made over to the happy lady. mr. and mrs. green were to dine at groby park,--leaving their more fortunate children to the fuller festivities of the cottage; and the intention was that before dinner the whole drawing-room set should be made over. it was with grievous pangs of heart that mrs. mason looked forward to such an operation. her own house was plenteously furnished from the kitchens to the attics, but still she would have loved to keep that metallic set of painted trumpery. she knew that the table would not screw on; she knew that the pivot of the music stool was bent; she knew that there was no place in the house in which they could stand; she must have known that in no possible way could they be of use to her or hers,--and yet she could not part with them without an agony. her husband was infatuated in this matter of compensation for the use of mrs. green's idle hours; no compensation could be necessary;--and then she paid another visit to the metallic furniture. she knew in her heart of hearts that they could never be of use to anybody, and yet she made up her mind to keep back two out of the eight chairs. six chairs would be quite enough for mrs. green's small room. as there was to be feasting at five, real roast beef, plum-pudding and mince-pies;--"mince-pies and plum-pudding together are vulgar, my dear," mrs. mason had said to her husband; but in spite of the vulgarity he had insisted;--the breakfast was of course scanty. mr. mason liked a slice of cold meat in the morning, or the leg of a fowl, or a couple of fresh eggs as well as any man; but the matter was not worth a continual fight. "as we are to dine an hour earlier to-day i did not think you would eat meat," his wife said to him. "then there would be less expense in putting it on the table," he had answered; and after that there was nothing more said about it. he always put off till some future day that great contest which he intended to wage and to win, and by which he hoped to bring it about that plenty should henceforward be the law of the land at groby park. and then they all went to church. mrs. mason would not on any account have missed church on christmas-day or a sunday. it was a cheap duty, and therefore rigidly performed. as she walked from her carriage up to the church-door she encountered mrs. green, and smiled sweetly as she wished that lady all the compliments of the season. "we shall see you immediately after church," said mrs. mason. "oh yes, certainly," said mrs. green. "and mr. green with you?" "he intends to do himself the pleasure," said the curate's wife. "mind he comes, because we have a little ceremony to go through before we sit down to dinner," and mrs. mason smiled again ever so graciously. did she think, or did she not think, that she was going to do a kindness to her neighbour? most women would have sunk into their shoes as the hour grew nigh at which they were to show themselves guilty of so much meanness. she stayed for the sacrament, and it may here be remarked that on that afternoon she rated both the footman and housemaid because they omitted to do so. she thought, we must presume, that she was doing her duty, and must imagine her to have been ignorant that she was cheating her husband and cheating her friend. she took the sacrament with admirable propriety of demeanour, and then, on her return home, withdrew another chair from the set. there would still be six, including the rocking chair, and six would be quite enough for that little hole of a room. there was a large chamber up stairs at groby park which had been used for the children's lessons, but which now was generally deserted. there was in it an old worn-out pianoforte,--and though mrs. mason had talked somewhat grandly of the use of her drawing-room, it was here that the singing had been taught. into this room the metallic furniture had been brought, and up to that christmas morning it had remained here packed in its original boxes. hither immediately after breakfast mrs. mason had taken herself, and had spent an hour in her efforts to set the things forth to view. two of the chairs she then put aside into a cupboard, and a third she added to her private store on her return to her work after church. but, alas, alas! let her do what she would, she could not get the top on to the table. "it's all smashed, ma'am," said the girl whom she at last summoned to her aid. "nonsense, you simpleton; how can it be smashed when it's new," said the mistress. and then she tried again, and again, declaring as she did do, that she would have the law of the rogue who had sold her a damaged article. nevertheless she had known that it was damaged, and had bought it cheap on that account, insisting in very urgent language that the table was in fact worth nothing because of its injuries. at about four mr. and mrs. green walked up to the house and were shown into the drawing-room. here was mrs. mason supported by penelope and creusa. as diana was not musical, and therefore under no compliment to mrs. green, she kept out of the way. mr. mason also was absent. he knew that something very mean was about to be done, and would not show his face till it was over. he ought to have taken the matter in hand himself, and would have done so had not his mind been full of other things. he himself was a man terribly wronged and wickedly injured, and could not therefore in these present months interfere much in the active doing of kindnesses. his hours were spent in thinking how he might best obtain justice,--how he might secure his pound of flesh. he only wanted his own, but that he would have;--his own, with due punishment on those who had for so many years robbed him of it. he therefore did not attend at the presentation of the furniture. "and now we'll go up stairs, if you please," said mrs. mason, with that gracious smile for which she was so famous. "mr. green, you must come too. dear mrs. green has been so very kind to my two girls; and now i have got a few articles,--they are of the very newest fashion, and i do hope that mrs. green will like them." and so they all went up into the schoolroom. "there's a new fashion come up lately," said mrs. mason as she walked along the corridor, "quite new:--of metallic furniture. i don't know whether you have seen any." mrs. green said she had not seen any as yet. "the patent steel furniture company makes it, and it has got very greatly into vogue for small rooms. i thought that perhaps you would allow me to present you with a set for your drawing-room." "i'm sure it is very kind of you to think of it," said mrs. green. "uncommonly so," said mr. green. but both mr. green and mrs. green knew the lady, and their hopes did not run high. and then the door was opened and there stood the furniture to view. there stood the furniture, except the three subtracted chairs, and the loo table. the claw and leg of the table indeed were standing there, but the top was folded up and lying on the floor beside it. "i hope you'll like the pattern," began mrs. mason. "i'm told that it is the prettiest that has yet been brought out. there has been some little accident about the screw of the table, but the smith in the village will put that to rights in five minutes. he lives so close to you that i didn't think it worth while to have him up here." "it's very nice," said mrs. green, looking round her almost in dismay. "very nice indeed," said mr. green, wondering in his mind for what purpose such utter trash could have been manufactured, and endeavouring to make up his mind as to what they might possibly do with it. mr. green knew what chairs and tables should be, and was well aware that the things before him were absolutely useless for any of the ordinary purposes of furniture. "and they are the most convenient things in the world," said mrs. mason, "for when you are going to change house you pack them all up again in those boxes. wooden furniture takes up so much room, and is so lumbersome." "yes, it is," said mrs. green. "i'll have them all put up again and sent down in the cart to-morrow." "thank you; that will be very kind," said mr. green, and then the ceremony of the presentation was over. on the following day the boxes were sent down, and mrs. mason might have abstracted even another chair without detection, for the cases lay unheeded from month to month in the curate's still unfurnished room. "the fact is they cannot afford a carpet," mrs. mason afterwards said to one of her daughters, "and with such things as those they are quite right to keep them up till they can be used with advantage. i always gave mrs. green credit for a good deal of prudence." and then, when the show was over, they descended again into the drawing-room,--mr. green and mrs. mason went first, and creusa followed. penelope was thus so far behind as to be able to speak to her friend without being heard by the others. "you know mamma," she said, with a shrug of her shoulders and a look of scorn in her eye. "the things are very nice." "no, they are not, and you know they are not. they are worthless; perfectly worthless." "but we don't want anything." "no; and if there had been no pretence of a gift it would all have been very well. what will mr. green think?" "i rather think he likes iron chairs;" and then they were in the drawing-room. mr. mason did not appear till dinner-time, and came in only just in time to give his arm to mrs. green. he had had letters to write,--a letter to messrs. round and crook, very determined in its tone; and a letter also to mr. dockwrath, for the little attorney had so crept on in the affair that he was now corresponding with the principal. "i'll teach those fellows in bedford row to know who i am," he had said to himself more than once, sitting on his high stool at hamworth. and then came the groby park christmas dinner. to speak the truth mr. mason had himself gone to the neighbouring butcher, and ordered the surloin of beef, knowing that it would be useless to trust to orders conveyed through his wife. he had seen the piece of meat put on one side for him, and had afterwards traced it on to the kitchen dresser. but nevertheless when it appeared at table it had been sadly mutilated. a steak had been cut off the full breadth of it--a monstrous cantle from out its fair proportions. the lady had seen the jovial, thick, ample size of the goodly joint, and her heart had been unable to spare it. she had made an effort and turned away, saying to herself that the responsibility was all with him. but it was of no use. there was that within her which could not do it. "your master will never be able to carve such a mountain of meat as that," she had said, turning back to the cook. "deed, an' it's he that will, ma'am," said the irish mistress of the spit; for irish cooks are cheaper than those bred and born in england. but nevertheless the thing was done, and it was by her own fair hands that the envious knife was used. "i couldn't do it, ma'am," the cook had said; "i couldn't railly." mr. mason's face became very black when he saw the raid that had been effected, and when he looked up across the table his wife's eye was on him. she knew what she had to expect, and she knew also that it would not come now. her eye steadily looked at his, quivering with fear; for mr. mason could be savage enough in his anger. and what had she gained? one may as well ask what does the miser gain who hides away his gold in an old pot, or what does that other madman gain who is locked up for long long years because he fancies himself the grandmother of the queen of england? but there was still enough beef on the table for all of them to eat, and as mrs. mason was not intrusted with the carving of it, their plates were filled. as far as a sufficiency of beef can make a good dinner mr. and mrs. green did have a good dinner on that christmas-day. beyond that their comfort was limited, for no one was in a humour for happy conversation. and over and beyond the beef there was a plum-pudding and three mince-pies. four mince-pies had originally graced the dish, but before dinner one had been conveyed away to some up stairs receptacle for such spoils. the pudding also was small, nor was it black and rich, and laden with good things as a christmas pudding should be laden. let us hope that what the guests so lost was made up to them on the following day, by an absence of those ill effects which sometimes attend upon the consumption of rich viands. "and now, my dear, we'll have a bit of bread and cheese and a glass of beer," mr. green said when he arrived at his own cottage. and so it was that christmas-day was passed at groby park. chapter xxiv. christmas in great st. helens. we will now look in for a moment at the christmas doings of our fat friend, mr. moulder. mr. moulder was a married man living in lodgings over a wine-merchant's vaults in great st. helens. he was blessed--or troubled, with no children, and prided himself greatly on the material comfort with which his humble home was surrounded. "his wife," he often boasted, "never wanted for plenty of the best of eating; and for linen and silks and such-like, she could show her drawers and her wardrobes with many a great lady from russell square, and not be ashamed, neither!" and then, as for drink,--"tipple," as mr. moulder sportively was accustomed to name it among his friends, he opined that he was not altogether behind the mark in that respect. "he had got some brandy--he didn't care what anybody might say about cognac and eau de vie; but the brandy which he had got from betts' private establishment seventeen years ago, for richness of flavour and fullness of strength, would beat any french article that anybody in the city could show. that at least was his idea. if anybody didn't like it, they needn't take it. there was whisky that would make your hair stand on end." so said mr. moulder, and i can believe him; for it has made my hair stand on end merely to see other people drinking it. and if comforts of apparel, comforts of eating and drinking, and comforts of the feather-bed and easy-chair kind can make a woman happy, mrs. moulder was no doubt a happy woman. she had quite fallen in to the mode of life laid out for her. she had a little bit of hot kidney for breakfast at about ten; she dined at three, having seen herself to the accurate cooking of her roast fowl, or her bit of sweetbread, and always had her pint of scotch ale. she turned over all her clothes almost every day. in the evening she read reynolds's miscellany, had her tea and buttered muffins, took a thimbleful of brandy and water at nine, and then went to bed. the work of her life consisted in sewing buttons on to moulder's shirts, and seeing that his things were properly got up when he was at home. no doubt she would have done better as to the duties of the world, had the world's duties come to her. as it was, very few such had come in her direction. her husband was away from home three-fourths of the year, and she had no children that required attention. as for society, some four or five times a year she would drink tea with mrs. hubbles at clapham. mrs. hubbles was the wife of the senior partner in the firm, and on such occasions mrs. moulder dressed herself in her best, and having travelled to clapham in an omnibus, spent the evening in dull propriety on one corner of mrs. hubbles's sofa. when i have added to this that moulder every year took her to broadstairs for a fortnight, i think that i have described with sufficient accuracy the course of mrs. moulder's life. on the occasion of this present christmas-day mr. moulder entertained a small party. and he delighted in such occasional entertainments, taking extraordinary pains that the eatables should be of the very best; and he would maintain an hospitable good humour to the last,--unless anything went wrong in the cookery, in which case he could make himself extremely unpleasant to mrs. m. indeed, proper cooking for mr. m. and the proper starching of the bands of his shirts were almost the only trials that mrs. moulder was doomed to suffer. "what the d---- are you for?" he would say, almost throwing the displeasing viands at her head across the table, or tearing the rough linen from off his throat. "it ain't much i ask of you in return for your keep;" and then he would scowl at her with bloodshot eyes till she shook in her shoes. but this did not happen often, as experiences had made her careful. but on this present christmas festival all went swimmingly to the end. "now, bear a hand, old girl," was the harshest word he said to her; and he enjoyed himself like duncan, shut up in measureless content. he had three guests with him on this auspicious day. there was his old friend snengkeld, who had dined with him on every christmas since his marriage; there was his wife's brother, of whom we will say a word or two just now;--and there was our old friend, mr. kantwise. mr. kantwise was not exactly the man whom moulder would have chosen as his guest, for they were opposed to each other in all their modes of thought and action; but he had come across the travelling agent of the patent metallic steel furniture company on the previous day, and finding that he was to be alone in london on this general holiday, he had asked him out of sheer good nature. moulder could be very good natured, and full of pity when the sorrow to be pitied arose from some such source as the want of a christmas dinner. so mr. kantwise had been asked, and precisely at four o'clock he made his appearance at great st. helens. but now, as to this brother-in-law. he was no other than that john kenneby whom miriam usbech did not marry,--whom miriam usbech might, perhaps, have done well to marry. john kenneby, after one or two attempts in other spheres of life, had at last got into the house of hubbles and grease, and had risen to be their book-keeper. he had once been tried by them as a traveller, but in that line he had failed. he did not possess that rough, ready, self-confident tone of mind which is almost necessary for a man who is destined to move about quickly from one circle of persons to another. after a six months' trial he had given that up, but during the time, mr. moulder, the senior traveller of the house, had married his sister. john kenneby was a good, honest, painstaking fellow, and was believed by his friends to have put a few pounds together in spite of the timidity of his character. when snengkeld and kenneby were shown up into the room, they found nobody there but kantwise. that mrs. moulder should be down stairs looking after the roast turkey was no more than natural; but why should not moulder himself be there to receive his guests? he soon appeared, however, coming up without his coat. "well, snengkeld, how are you, old fellow; many happy returns, and all that; the same to you, john. i'll tell you what, my lads; it's a prime 'un. i never saw such a bird in all my days." "what, the turkey?" said snengkeld. "you didn't think it'd be a ostrich, did you?" "ha, ha, ha!" laughed snengkeld. "no, i didn't expect nothing but a turkey here on christmas-day." "and nothing but a turkey you'll have, my boys. can you eat turkey, kantwise?" mr. kantwise declared that his only passion in the way of eating was for a turkey. "as for john, i'm sure of him. i've seen him at the work before." whereupon john grinned but said nothing. "i never see such a bird in my life, certainly." "from norfolk, i suppose," said snengkeld, with a great appearance of interest. "oh, you may swear to that. it weighed twenty-four pounds, for i put it into the scales myself, and old gibbetts let me have it for a guinea. the price marked on it was five-and-twenty, for i saw it. he's had it hanging for a fortnight, and i've been to see it wiped down with vinegar regular every morning. and now, my boys, it's done to a turn. i've been in the kitchen most of the time myself; and either i or mrs. m. has never left it for a single moment." "how did you manage about divine service?" said kantwise; and then, when he had spoken, closed his eyes and sucked his lips. mr. moulder looked at him for a minute, and then said, "gammon." "ha, ha, ha!" laughed snengkeld. and then mrs. moulder appeared, bringing the turkey with her; for she would trust it to no hands less careful than her own. "by george, it is a bird," said snengkeld, standing over it and eyeing it minutely. "uncommon nice it looks," said kantwise. "all the same, i wouldn't eat none, if i were you," said moulder, "seeing what sinners have been a basting it." and then they all sat down to dinner, moulder having first resumed his coat. for the next three or four minutes moulder did not speak a word. the turkey was on his mind, with the stuffing, the gravy, the liver, the breast, the wings, and the legs. he stood up to carve it, and while he was at the work he looked at it as though his two eyes were hardly sufficient. he did not help first one person and then another, so ending by himself; but he cut up artistically as much as might probably be consumed, and located the fragments in small heaps or shares in the hot gravy; and then, having made a partition of the spoils, he served it out with unerring impartiality. to have robbed any one of his or her fair slice of the breast would, in his mind, have been gross dishonesty. in his heart he did not love kantwise, but he dealt by him with the utmost justice in the great affair of the turkey's breast. when he had done all this, and his own plate was laden, he gave a long sigh. "i shall never cut up such another bird as that, the longest day that i have to live," he said; and then he took out his large red silk handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his brow. "deary me, m.; don't think of that now," said the wife. "what's the use?" said snengkeld. "care killed a cat." "and perhaps you may," said john kenneby, trying to comfort him; "who knows?" "it's all in the hands of providence," said kantwise, "and we should look to him." "and how does it taste?" asked moulder, shaking the gloomy thoughts from his mind. "uncommon," said snengkeld, with his mouth quite full. "i never eat such a turkey in all my life." "like melted diamonds," said mrs. moulder, who was not without a touch of poetry. "ah, there's nothing like hanging of 'em long enough, and watching of 'em well. it's that vinegar as done it;" and then they went seriously to work, and there was nothing more said of any importance until the eating was nearly over. and now mrs. m. had taken away the cloth, and they were sitting cozily over their port wine. the very apple of the eye of the evening had not arrived even yet. that would not come till the pipes were brought out, and the brandy was put on the table, and the whisky was there that made the people's hair stand on end. it was then that the floodgates of convivial eloquence would be unloosed. in the mean time it was necessary to sacrifice something to gentility, and therefore they sat over their port wine. "did you bring that letter with you, john?" said his sister. john replied that he had done so, and that he had also received another letter that morning from another party on the same subject. "do show it to moulder, and ask him," said mrs. m. "i've got 'em both on purpose," said john; and then he brought forth two letters, and handed one of them to his brother-in-law. it contained a request, very civilly worded, from messrs. round and crook, begging him to call at their office in bedford row on the earliest possible day, in order that they might have some conversation with him regarding the will of the late sir joseph mason, who died in --. "why, this is law business," said moulder, who liked no business of that description. "don't you go near them, john, if you ain't obliged." and then kenneby gave his explanation on the matter, telling how in former years,--many years ago, he had been a witness in a lawsuit. and then as he told it he sighed, remembering miriam usbech, for whose sake he had remained unmarried even to this day. and he went on to narrate how he had been bullied in the court, though he had valiantly striven to tell the truth with exactness; and as he spoke, an opinion of his became manifest that old usbech had not signed the document in his presence. "the girl signed it certainly," said he, "for i handed her the pen. i recollect it, as though it were yesterday." "they are the very people we were talking of at leeds," said moulder, turning to kantwise. "mason and martock; don't you remember how you went out to groby park to sell some of them iron gimcracks? that was old mason's son. they are the same people." "ah, i shouldn't wonder," said kantwise, who was listening all the while. he never allowed intelligence of this kind to pass by him idly. "and who's the other letter from?" asked moulder. "but, dash my wigs, it's past six o'clock. come, old girl, why don't you give us the tobacco and stuff?" "it ain't far to fetch," said mrs. moulder. and then she put the tobacco and "stuff" upon the table. "the other letter is from an enemy of mine," said john kenneby, speaking very solemnly; "an enemy of mine, named dockwrath, who lives at hamworth. he's an attorney too." "dockwrath!" said moulder. mr. kantwise said nothing, but he looked round over his shoulder at kenneby, and then shut his eyes. "that was the name of the man whom we left in the commercial room at the bull," said snengkeld. "he went out to mason's at groby park that same day," said moulder. "then it's the same man," said kenneby; and there was as much solemnity in the tone of his voice as though the unravelment of all the mysteries of the iron mask was now about to take place. mr. kantwise still said nothing, but he also perceived that it was the same man. "let me tell you, john kenneby," said moulder, with the air of one who understood well the subject that he was discussing, "if they two be the same man, then the man who wrote that letter to you is as big a blackguard as there is from this to hisself." and mr. moulder in the excitement of the moment puffed hard at his pipe, took a long pull at his drink, and dragged open his waistcoat. "i don't know whether kantwise has anything to say upon that subject," added moulder. "not a word at present," said kantwise. mr. kantwise was a very careful man, and usually calculated with accuracy the value which he might extract from any circumstances with reference to his own main chance. mr. dockwrath had not as yet paid him for the set of metallic furniture, and therefore he also might well have joined in that sweeping accusation; but it might be that by a judicious use of what he now heard he might obtain the payment of that little bill,--and perhaps other collateral advantages. and then the letter from dockwrath to kenneby was brought forth and read. "my dear john," it began,--for the two had known each other when they were lads together,--and it went on to request kenneby's attendance at hamworth for the short space of a few hours,--"i want to have a little conversation with you about a matter of considerable interest to both of us; and as i cannot expect you to undertake expense i enclose a money order for thirty shillings." "he's in earnest at any rate," said mr. moulder. "no mistake about that," said snengkeld. but mr. kantwise spoke never a word. it was at last decided that john kenneby should go both to hamworth and to bedford row, but that he should go to hamworth first. moulder would have counselled him to have gone to neither, but snengkeld remarked that there were too many at work to let the matter sleep, and john himself observed that "anyways he hadn't done anything to be ashamed of." "then go," said moulder at last, "only don't say more than you are obliged to." "i does not like these business talkings on christmas night," said mrs. moulder, when the matter was arranged. "what can one do?" asked moulder. "it's a tempting of providence in my mind," said kantwise, as he replenished his glass, and turned his eyes up to the ceiling. "now that's gammon," said moulder. and then there arose among them a long and animated discussion on matters theological. "i'll tell you what my idea of death is," said moulder, after a while. "i ain't a bit afeard of it. my father was an honest man as did his duty by his employers, and he died with a bottom of brandy before him and a pipe in his mouth. i sha'n't live long myself--" "gracious, moulder, don't!" said mrs. m. "no, more i sha'n't, 'cause i'm fat as he was; and i hope i may die as he did. i've been honest to hubbles and grease. they've made thousands of pounds along of me, and have never lost none. who can say more than that? when i took to the old girl there, i insured my life, so that she shouldn't want her wittles and drink--" "oh, m., don't!" "and i ain't afeard to die. snengkeld, my old pal, hand us the brandy." such is the modern philosophy of the moulders, pigs out of the sty of epicurus. and so it was they passed christmas-day in great st. helens. chapter xxv. mr. furnival again at his chambers. the christmas doings at the cleeve were not very gay. there was no visitor there, except lady mason, and it was known that she was in trouble. it must not, however, be supposed that she constantly bewailed herself while there, or made her friends miserable by a succession of hysterical tears. by no means. she made an effort to be serene, and the effort was successful--as such efforts usually are. on the morning of christmas-day they duly attended church, and lady mason was seen by all hamworth sitting in the cleeve pew. in no way could the baronet's friendship have been shown more plainly than in this, nor could a more significant mark of intimacy have been given;--all which sir peregrine well understood. the people of hamworth had chosen to talk scandal about lady mason, but he at any rate would show how little attention he paid to the falsehoods that there were circulated. so he stood by her at the pew door as she entered, with as much deference as though she had been a duchess; and the people of hamworth, looking on, wondered which would be right, mr. dockwrath or sir peregrine. after dinner sir peregrine gave a toast. "lady mason, we will drink the health of the absent boys. god bless them! i hope they are enjoying themselves." "god bless them!" said mrs. orme, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. "god bless them both!" said lady mason, also putting her handkerchief to her eyes. then the ladies left the room, and that was the extent of their special festivity. "robert," said sir peregrine immediately afterwards to his butler, "let them have what port wine they want in the servants' hall--within measure." "yes, sir peregrine." "and robert, i shall not want you again." "thank you, sir peregrine." from all which it may be imagined that the christmas doings at the cleeve were chiefly maintained below stairs. "i do hope they are happy," said mrs. orme, when the two ladies were together in the drawing-room. "they have a very nice party at noningsby." "your boy will be happy, i'm sure," said lady mason. "and why not lucius also?" it was sweet in lady mason's ear to hear her son called by his christian name. all these increasing signs of interest and intimacy were sweet, but especially any which signified some favour shown to her son. "this trouble weighs heavy on him," she replied. "it is only natural that he should feel it." "papa does not seem to think much of it," said mrs. orme. "if i were you, i would strive to forget it." "i do strive," said the other; and then she took the hand which mrs. orme had stretched out to her, and that lady got up and kissed her. "dearest friend," said mrs. orme, "if we can comfort you we will." and then they sobbed in each other's arms. in the mean time sir peregrine was sitting alone, thinking. he sat thinking, with his glass of claret untouched by his side, and with the biscuit which he had taken lying untouched upon the table. as he sat he had raised one leg upon the other, placing his foot on his knee, and he held it there with his hand upon his instep. and so he sat without moving for some quarter of an hour, trying to use all his mind on the subject which occupied it. at last he roused himself, almost with a start, and leaving his chair, walked three or four times the length of the room. "why should i not?" at last he said to himself, stopping suddenly and placing his hand upon the table. "why should i not, if it pleases me? it shall not injure him--nor her." and then he walked again. "but i will ask edith," he said, still speaking to himself. "if she says that she disapproves of it, i will not do it." and then he left the room, while the wine still remained untasted on the table. [illustration: "why should i not?"] on the day following christmas mr. furnival went up to town, and mr. round junior,--mat round, as he was called in the profession,--came to him at his chambers. a promise had been made to the barrister by round and crook that no active steps should be taken against lady mason on the part of joseph mason of groby, without notice being given to mr. furnival. and this visit by appointment was made in consequence of that promise. "you see," said matthew round, when that visit was nearly brought to a close, "that we are pressed very hard to go on with this, and if we do not, somebody else will." "nevertheless, if i were you, i should decline," said mr. furnival. "you're looking to your client, not to ours, sir," said the attorney. "the fact is that the whole case is very queer. it was proved on the last trial that bolster and kenneby were witnesses to a deed on the th of july, and that was all that was proved. now we can prove that they were on that day witnesses to another deed. were they witnesses to two?" "why should they not be?" "that is for us to see. we have written to them both to come up to us, and in order that we might be quite on the square i thought it right to tell you." "thank you; yes; i cannot complain of you. and what form do you think that your proceedings will take?" "joseph mason talks of indicting her for--forgery," said the attorney, pausing a moment before he dared to pronounce the dread word. "indict her for forgery!" said furnival, with a start. and yet the idea was one which had been for some days present to his mind's eye. "i do not say so," said round. "i have as yet seen none of the witnesses myself. if they are prepared to prove that they did sign two separate documents on that day, the thing must pass off." it was clear to mr. furnival that even mr. round junior would be glad that it should pass off. and then he also sat thinking. might it not be probable that, with a little judicious exercise of their memory, those two witnesses would remember that they had signed two documents; or at any rate, looking to the lapse of the time, that they might be induced to forget altogether whether they had signed one, two, or three? or even if they could be mystified so that nothing could be proved, it would still be well with his client. indeed no magistrate would commit such a person as lady mason, especially after so long an interval, and no grand jury would find a bill against her, except upon evidence that was clear, well defined, and almost indubitable. if any point of doubt could be shown, she might be brought off without a trial, if only she would be true to herself. at the former trial there was the existing codicil, and the fact also that the two surviving reputed witnesses would not deny their signatures. these signatures--if they were genuine signatures--had been attached with all proper formality, and the form used went to state that the testator had signed the instrument in the presence of them all, they all being present together at the same time. the survivors had both asserted that when they did affix their names the three were then present, as was also sir joseph; but there had been a terrible doubt even then as to the identity of the document; and a doubt also as to there having been any signature made by one of the reputed witnesses--by that one, namely, who at the time of that trial was dead. now another document was forthcoming, purporting to have been witnessed, on the same day, by these two surviving witnesses! if that document were genuine, and if these two survivors should be clear that they had written their names but once on that th of july, in such case could it be possible to quash further public inquiry? the criminal prosecution might not be possible as a first proceeding, but if the estate were recovered at common law, would not the criminal prosecution follow as a matter of course? and then mr. furnival thought it all over again and again. if this document were genuine,--this new document which the man dockwrath stated that he had found,--this deed of separation of partnership which purported to have been executed on that th of july! that was now the one important question. if it were genuine! and why should there not be as strong a question of the honesty of that document as of the other? mr. furnival well knew that no fraudulent deed would be forged and produced without a motive; and that if he impugned this deed he must show the motive. motive enough there was, no doubt. mason might have had it forged in order to get the property, or dockwrath to gratify his revenge. but in such case it would be a forgery of the present day. there could have been no motive for such a forgery twenty years ago. the paper, the writing, the attested signature of martock, the other party to it, would prove that it had not been got up and manufactured now. dockwrath would not dare to bring forward such a forgery as that. there was no hope of any such result. but might not he, furnival, if the matter were pushed before a jury, make them think that the two documents stood balanced against each other? and that lady mason's respectability, her long possession, together with the vile malignity of her antagonists, gave the greater probability of honesty to the disputed codicil? mr. furnival did think that he might induce a jury to acquit her; but he terribly feared that he might not be able to induce the world to acquit her also. as he thought of all the case, he seemed to put himself apart from the world at large. he did not question himself as to his own belief, but seemed to feel that it would suffice for him if he could so bring it about that her other friends should think her innocent. it would by no means suffice for him to secure for her son the property, and for her a simple acquittal. it was not that he dreaded the idea of thinking her guilty himself; perhaps he did so think her now--he half thought her so, at any rate; but he greatly dreaded the idea of others thinking so. it might be well to buy up dockwrath, if it were possible. if it were possible! but then it was not possible that he himself could have a hand in such a matter. could crabwitz do it? no; he thought not. and then, at this moment, he was not certain that he could depend on crabwitz. and why should he trouble himself in this way? mr. furnival was a man loyal to his friends at heart. had lady mason been a man, and had he pulled that man through great difficulties in early life, he would have been loyally desirous of carrying him through the same or similar difficulties at any after period. in that cause which he had once battled he was always ready to do battle, without reference to any professional consideration of triumph or profit. it was to this feeling of loyalty that he had owed much of his success in life. and in such a case as this it may be supposed that that feeling would be strong. but then such a feeling presumed a case in which he could sympathise--in which he could believe. would it be well that he should allow himself to feel the same interest in this case, to maintain respecting it the same personal anxiety, if he ceased to believe in it? he did ask himself the question, and he finally answered it in the affirmative. he had beaten joseph mason once in a good stand-up fight; and having done so, having thus made the matter his own, it was necessary to his comfort that he should beat him again, if another fight were to be fought. lady mason was his client, and all the associations of his life taught him to be true to her as such. and as we are thus searching into his innermost heart we must say more than this. mrs. furnival perhaps had no sufficient grounds for those terrible fears of hers; but nevertheless the mistress of orley farm was very comely in the eyes of the lawyer. her eyes, when full of tears, were very bright, and her hand, as it lay in his, was very soft. he laid out for himself no scheme of wickedness with reference to her; he purposely entertained no thoughts which he knew to be wrong; but, nevertheless, he did feel that he liked to have her by him, that he liked to be her adviser and friend, that he liked to wipe the tears from those eyes--not by a material handkerchief from his pocket, but by immaterial manly sympathy from his bosom; and that he liked also to feel the pressure of that hand. mrs. furnival had become solid, and heavy, and red; and though he himself was solid, and heavy, and red also--more so, indeed, in proportion than his poor wife, for his redness, as i have said before, had almost reached a purple hue; nevertheless his eye loved to look upon the beauty of a lovely woman, his ear loved to hear the tone of her voice, and his hand loved to meet the soft ripeness of her touch. it was very wrong that it should have been so, but the case is not without a parallel. and therefore he made up his mind that he would not desert lady mason. he would not desert her; but how would he set about the fighting that would be necessary in her behalf? he was well aware of this, that if he fought at all, he must fight now. it would not do to let the matter go on till she should be summoned to defend herself. steps which might now be available would be altogether unavailable in two or three months' time--would be so, perhaps, if he allowed two or three weeks to pass idly by him. mr. round, luckily, was not disposed to hurry his proceedings; nor, as far as he was concerned, was there any bitterness of antagonism. but with both mason and dockwrath there would be hot haste, and hotter malice. from those who were really her enemies she could expect no quarter. he was to return on that evening to noningsby, and on the following day he would go over to the cleeve. he knew that lady mason was staying there; but his object in making that visit would not be merely that he might see her, but also that he might speak to sir peregrine, and learn how far the baronet was inclined to support his neighbour in her coming tribulation. he would soon be able to ascertain what sir peregrine really thought--whether he suspected the possibility of any guilt; and he would ascertain also what was the general feeling in the neighbourhood of hamworth. it would be a great thing if he could spread abroad a conviction that she was an injured woman. it would be a great thing even if he could make it known that the great people of the neighbourhood so thought. the jurymen of alston would be mortal men; and it might be possible that they should be imbued with a favourable bias on the subject before they assembled in their box for its consideration. he wished that he knew the truth in the matter; or rather he wished he could know whether or no she were innocent, without knowing whether or no she were guilty. the fight in his hands would be conducted on terms so much more glorious if he could feel sure of her innocence. but then if he attempted that, and she were not innocent, all might be sacrificed by the audacity of his proceedings. he could not venture that, unless he were sure of his ground. for a moment or two he thought that he would ask her the question. he said to himself that he could forgive the fault. that it had been repented ere this he did not doubt, and it would be sweet to say to her that it was very grievous, but that yet it might be forgiven. it would be sweet to feel that she was in his hands, and that he would treat her with mercy and kindness. but then a hundred other thoughts forbade him to think more of this. if she had been, guilty,--if she declared her guilt to him,--would not restitution be necessary? in that case her son must know it, and all the world must know it. such a confession would be incompatible with that innocence before the world which it was necessary that she should maintain. moreover, he must be able to proclaim aloud his belief in her innocence; and how could he do that, knowing her to be guilty--knowing that she also knew that he had such knowledge? it was impossible that he should ask any such question, or admit of any such confidence. it would be necessary, if the case did come to a trial, that she should employ some attorney. the matter must come into the barrister's hands in the usual way, through a solicitor's house, and it would be well that the person employed should have a firm faith in his client. what could he say--he, as a barrister--if the attorney suggested to him that the lady might possibly be guilty? as he thought of all these things he almost dreaded the difficulties before him. he rang the bell for crabwitz,--the peculiar bell which crabwitz was bound to answer,--having first of all gone through a little ceremony with his cheque-book. crabwitz entered, still sulky in his demeanour, for as yet the old anger had not been appeased, and it was still a doubtful matter in the clerk's mind whether or no it might not be better for him to seek a master who would better appreciate his services. a more lucrative position it might be difficult for him to find; but money is not everything, as crabwitz said to himself more than once. "crabwitz," said mr. furnival, looking with a pleasant face at his clerk, "i am leaving town this evening, and i shall be absent for the next ten days. if you like you can go away for a holiday." "it's rather late in the season now, sir," said crabwitz, gloomily, as though he were determined not to be pleased. "it is a little late, as you say; but i really could not manage it earlier. come, crabwitz, you and i should not quarrel. your work has been a little hard, but then so has mine also." "i fancy you like it, sir." "ha! ha! like it, indeed! but so do you like it--in its way. come, crabwitz, you have been an excellent servant to me; and i don't think that, on the whole, i have been a bad master to you." "i am making no complaint, sir." "but you're cross because i've kept you in town a little too long. come, crabwitz, you must forget all that. you have worked very hard this year past. here is a cheque for fifty pounds. get out of town for a fortnight or so, and amuse yourself." "i'm sure i'm very much obliged, sir," said crabwitz, putting out his hand and taking the cheque. he felt that his master had got the better of him, and he was still a little melancholy on that account. he would have valued his grievance at that moment almost more than the fifty pounds, especially as by the acceptance of it he surrendered all right to complain for some considerable time to come. "by-the-by, crabwitz," said mr. furnival, as the clerk was about to leave the room. "yes, sir," said crabwitz. "you have never chanced to hear of an attorney named dockwrath, i suppose?" "what! in london, mr. furnival?" "no; i fancy he has no place of business in town. he lives i know at hamworth." "it's he you mean, sir, that is meddling in this affair of lady mason's." "what! you have heard of that; have you?" "oh! yes, sir. it's being a good deal talked about in the profession. messrs. round and crook's leading young man was up here with me the other day, and he did say a good deal about it. he's a very decent young man, considering his position, is smart." "and he knows dockwrath, does he?" "well, sir, i can't say that he knows much of the man; but dockwrath has been at their place of business pretty constant of late, and he and mr. matthew seem thick enough together." "oh! they do; do they?" "so smart tells me. i don't know how it is myself, sir. i don't suppose this dockwrath is a very--" "no, no; exactly. i dare say not. you've never seen him yourself, crabwitz?" "who, sir? i, sir? no, sir, i've never set eyes on the man, sir. from all i hear it's not very likely he should come here; and i'm sure it is not at all likely that i should go to him." mr. furnival sat thinking awhile, and the clerk stood waiting opposite to him, leaning with both his hands upon the table. "you don't know any one in the neighbourhood of hamworth, i suppose?" mr. furnival said at last. "who, sir? i, sir? not a soul, sir. i never was there in my life." "i'll tell you why i ask. i strongly suspect that that man dockwrath is at some very foul play." and then he told to his clerk so much of the whole story of lady mason and her affairs as he chose that he should know. "it is plain enough that he may give lady mason a great deal of annoyance," he ended by saying. "there's no doubting that, sir," said crabwitz. "and, to tell the truth, i believe his mind is made up to do it." "you don't think that anything could be done by seeing him? of course lady mason has got nothing to compromise. her son's estate is as safe as my hat; but--" "the people at round's think it isn't quite so safe, sir." "then the people at round's know nothing about it. but lady mason is so averse to legal proceedings that it would be worth her while to have matters settled. you understand?" "yes, sir; i understand. would not an attorney be the best person, sir?" "not just at present, crabwitz. lady mason is a very dear friend of mine--" "yes, sir; we know that," said crabwitz. "if you could make any pretence for running down to hamworth--change of air, you know, for a week or so. it's a beautiful country; just the place you like. and you might find out whether anything could be done, eh?" mr. crabwitz was well aware, from the first, that he did not get fifty pounds for nothing. chapter xxvi. why should i not? a day or two after his conversation with crabwitz, as described in the last chapter, mr. furnival was driven up to the door of sir peregrine orme's house in a hamworth fly. he had come over by train from alston on purpose to see the baronet, whom he found seated in his library. at that very moment he was again asking himself those questions which he had before asked as he was walking up and down his own dining-room. "why should i not?" he said to himself,--"unless, indeed, it will make her unhappy." and then the barrister was shown into his room, muffled up to his eyes in his winter clothing. sir peregrine and mr. furnival were well known to each other, and had always met as friends. they had been interested on the same side in the first orley farm case, and possessed a topic of sympathy in their mutual dislike to joseph mason of groby park. sir peregrine therefore was courteous, and when he learned the subject on which he was to be consulted he became almost more than courteous. "oh! yes; she's staying here, mr. furnival. would you like to see her?" "before i leave i shall be glad to see her, sir peregrine; but if i am justified in regarding you as specially her friend, it may perhaps be well that i should first have some conversation with you." sir peregrine in answer to this declared that mr. furnival certainly would be so justified; that he did regard himself as lady mason's special friend, and that he was ready to hear anything that the barrister might have to say to him. many of the points of this case have already been named so often, and will, i fear, be necessarily named so often again that i will spare the repetition when it is possible. mr. furnival on this occasion told sir peregrine--not all that he had heard, but all that he thought it necessary to tell, and soon became fully aware that in the baronet's mind there was not the slightest shadow of suspicion that lady mason could have been in any way to blame. he, the baronet, was thoroughly convinced that mr. mason was the great sinner in this matter, and that he was prepared to harass an innocent and excellent lady from motives of disappointed cupidity and long-sustained malice, which made him seem in sir peregrine's eyes a being almost too vile for humanity. and of dockwrath he thought almost as badly--only that dockwrath was below the level of his thinking. of lady mason he spoke as an excellent and beautiful woman driven to misery by unworthy persecution; and so spoke with an enthusiasm that was surprising to mr. furnival. it was very manifest that she would not want for friendly countenance, if friendly countenance could carry her through her difficulties. there was no suspicion against lady mason in the mind of sir peregrine, and mr. furnival was careful not to arouse any such feeling. when he found that the baronet spoke of her as being altogether pure and good, he also spoke of her in the same tone; but in doing so his game was very difficult. "let him do his worst, mr. furnival," said sir peregrine; "and let her remain tranquil; that is my advice to lady mason. it is not possible that he can really injure her." "it is possible that he can do nothing--very probable that he can do nothing; but nevertheless, sir peregrine--" "i would have no dealing with him or his. i would utterly disregard them. if he, or they, or any of them choose to take steps to annoy her, let her attorney manage that in the usual way. i am no lawyer myself, mr. furnival, but that i think is the manner in which things of this kind should be arranged. i do not know whether they have still the power of disputing the will, but if so, let them do it." gradually, by very slow degrees, mr. furnival made sir peregrine understand that the legal doings now threatened were not of that nature;--that mr. mason did not now talk of proceeding at law for the recovery of the property, but for the punishment of his father's widow as a criminal; and at last the dreadful word "forgery" dropped from his lips. "who dares to make such a charge as that?" demanded the baronet, while fire literally flashed from his eyes in his anger. and when he was told that mr. mason did make such a charge he called him "a mean, unmanly dastard." "i do not believe that he would dare to make it against a man," said sir peregrine. but there was the fact of the charge--the fact that it had been placed in the hands of respectable attorneys, with instructions to them to press it on--and the fact also that the evidence by which that charge was to be supported possessed at any rate a _primâ facie_ appearance of strength. all that it was necessary to explain to sir peregrine, as it would also be necessary to explain it to lady mason. "am i to understand, then, that you also think--?" began sir peregrine. "you are not to understand that i think anything injurious to the lady; but i do fear that she is in a position of much jeopardy, and that great care will be necessary." "good heavens! do you mean to say that an innocent person can under such circumstances be in danger in this country?" "an innocent person, sir peregrine, may be in danger of very great annoyance, and also of very great delay in proving that innocence. innocent people have died under the weight of such charges. we must remember that she is a woman, and therefore weaker than you or i." "yes, yes; but still--. you do not say that you think she can be in any real danger?" it seemed, from the tone of the old man's voice, as though he were almost angry with mr. furnival for supposing that such could be the case. "and you intend to tell her all this?" he asked. "i fear that, as her friend, neither you nor i will be warranted in keeping her altogether in the dark. think what her feelings would be if she were summoned before a magistrate without any preparation!" "no magistrate would listen to such a charge," said sir peregrine. "in that he must be guided by the evidence." "i would sooner throw up my commission than lend myself in any way to a proceeding so iniquitous." this was all very well, and the existence of such a feeling showed great generosity, and perhaps also poetic chivalry on the part of sir peregrine orme; but it was not the way of the world, and so mr. furnival was obliged to explain. magistrates would listen to the charge--would be forced to listen to the charge,--if the evidence were apparently sound. a refusal on the part of a magistrate to do so would not be an act of friendship to lady mason, as mr. furnival endeavoured to explain. "and you wish to see her?" sir peregrine asked at last. "i think she should be told; but as she is in your house, i will, of course, do nothing in which you do not concur." upon which sir peregrine rang the bell and desired the servant to take his compliments to lady mason and beg her attendance in the library if it were quite convenient. "tell her," said sir peregrine, "that mr. furnival is here." when the message was given to her she was seated with mrs. orme, and at the moment she summoned strength to say that she would obey the invitation, without displaying any special emotion while the servant was in the room; but when the door was shut, her friend looked at her and saw that she was as pale as death. she was pale and her limbs quivered, and that look of agony, which now so often marked her face, was settled on her brow. mrs. orme had never yet seen her with such manifest signs of suffering as she wore at this instant. "i suppose i must go to them," she said, slowly rising from her seat; and it seemed to mrs. orme that she was forced to hold by the table to support herself. "mr. furnival is a friend, is he not?" "oh, yes! a kind friend, but--" "they shall come in here if you like it better, dear." "oh, no! i will go to them. it would not do that i should seem so weak. what must you think of me to see me so?" "i do not wonder at it, dear," said mrs. orme, coming round to her; "such cruelty would kill me. i wonder at your strength rather than your weakness." and then she kissed her. what was there about the woman that had made all those fond of her that came near her? mrs. orme walked with her across the hall, and left her only at the library door. there she pressed her hand and again kissed her, and then lady mason turned the handle of the door and entered the room. mr. furnival, when he looked at her, was startled by the pallor of her face, but nevertheless he thought that she had never looked so beautiful. "dear lady mason," said he, "i hope you are well." sir peregrine advanced to her and handed her over to his own arm-chair. had she been a queen in distress she could not have been treated with more gentle deference. but she never seemed to count upon this, or in any way to assume it as her right. i should accuse her of what i regard as a sin against all good taste were i to say that she was humble in her demeanour; but there was a soft meekness about her, an air of feminine dependence, a proneness to lean and almost to cling as she leaned, which might have been felt as irresistible by any man. she was a woman to know in her deep sorrow rather than in her joy and happiness; one with whom one would love to weep rather than to rejoice. and, indeed, the present was a time with her for weeping, not for rejoicing. sir peregrine looked as though he were her father as he took her hand, and the barrister immediately comforted himself with the remembrance of the baronet's great age. it was natural, too, that lady mason should hang on him in his own house. so mr. furnival contented himself at the first moment with touching her hand and hoping that she was well. she answered hardly a word to either of them, but she attempted to smile as she sat down, and murmured something about the trouble she was giving them. "mr. furnival thinks it best that you should be made aware of the steps which are being taken by mr. mason of groby park," began sir peregrine. "i am no lawyer myself, and therefore of course i cannot put my advice against his." "i am sure that both of you will tell me for the best," she said. "in such a matter as this it is right that you should be guided by him. that he is as firmly your friend as i am there can be no doubt." "i believe lady mason trusts me in that," said the lawyer. "indeed i do; i would trust you both in anything," she said. "and there can be no doubt that he must be able to direct you for the best. i say so much at the first, because i myself so thoroughly despise that man in yorkshire,--i am so convinced that anything which his malice may prompt him to do must be futile, that i could not myself have thought it needful to pain you by what must now be said." this was a dreadful commencement, but she bore it, and even was relieved by it. indeed, no tale that mr. furnival could have to tell after such an exordium would be so bad as that which she had feared as the possible result of his visit. he might have come there to let her know that she was at once to be carried away--immediately to be taken to her trial--perhaps to be locked up in gaol. in her ignorance of the law she could only imagine what might or might not happen to her at any moment, and therefore the words which sir peregrine had spoken relieved her rather than added to her fears. and then mr. furnival began his tale, and gradually put before her the facts of the matter. this he did with a choice of language and a delicacy of phraseology which were admirable, for he made her clearly understand the nature of the accusation which was brought against her without using any word which was in itself harsh in its bearing. he said nothing about fraud, or forgery, or false evidence, but he made it manifest to her that joseph mason had now instructed his lawyer to institute a criminal proceeding against her for having forged a codicil to her husband's will. "i must bear it as best i may," she said. "may the lord give me strength to bear it!" "it is terrible to think of," said sir peregrine; "but nobody can doubt how it will end. you are not to suppose that mr. furnival intends to express any doubt as to your ultimate triumph. what we fear for you is the pain you must endure before this triumph comes." ah, if that were all! as the baronet finished speaking she looked furtively into the lawyer's face to see how far the meaning of these smooth words would be supported by what she might read there. would he also think that a final triumph did certainly await her? sir peregrine's real opinion was easily to be learned, either from his countenance or from his words; but it was not so with mr. furnival. in mr. furnival's face, and from mr. furnival's words, could be learned only that which mr. furnival wished to declare. he saw that glance, and fully understood it; and he knew instinctively, on the spur of the moment, that he must now either assure her by a lie, or break down all her hopes by the truth. that final triumph was not certain to her--was very far from certain! should he now be honest to his friend, or dishonest? one great object with him was to secure the support which sir peregrine could give by his weight in the county; and therefore, as sir peregrine was present, it was needful that he should be dishonest. arguing thus he looked the lie, and lady mason derived more comfort from that look than from all sir peregrine's words. and then those various details were explained to her which mr. furnival understood that mr. dockwrath had picked up. they went into that matter of the partnership deed, and questions were asked as to the man kenneby and the woman bolster. they might both, lady mason said, have been witnesses to half a dozen deeds on that same day, for aught she knew to the contrary. she had been present with sir joseph, as far as she could now remember, during the whole of that morning, "in and out, sir peregrine, as you can understand." sir peregrine said that he did understand perfectly. she did know that mr. usbech had been there for many hours that day, probably from ten to two or three, and no doubt therefore much business was transacted. she herself remembered nothing but the affair of the will; but then that was natural, seeing that there was no other affair in which she had specially interested herself. "no doubt these people did witness both the deeds," said sir peregrine. "for myself, i cannot conceive how that wretched man can be so silly as to spend his money on such a case as this." "he would do anything for revenge," said mr. furnival. and then lady mason was allowed to go back to the drawing-room, and what remained to be said was said between the two gentlemen alone. sir peregrine was very anxious that his own attorneys should be employed, and he named messrs. slow and bideawhile, than whom there were no more respectable men in the whole profession. but then mr. furnival feared that they were too respectable. they might look at the matter in so straightforward a light as to fancy their client really guilty; and what might happen then? old slow would not conceal the truth for all the baronets in england--no, nor for all the pretty women. the touch of lady mason's hand and the tear in her eye would be nothing to old slow. mr. furnival, therefore, was obliged to explain that slow and bideawhile did not undertake that sort of business. "but i should wish it to be taken up through them. there must be some expenditure, mr. furnival, and i should prefer that they should arrange about that." mr. furnival made no further immediate objection, and consented at last to having an interview with one of the firm on the subject, provided, of course, that that member of the firm came to him at his chambers. and then he took his leave. nothing positive had been done, or even settled to be done, on this morning; but the persons most interested in the matter had been made to understand that the affair was taking an absolute palpable substance, and that steps must be taken--indeed would be taken almost immediately. mr. furnival, as he left the house, resolved to employ the attorneys whom he might think best adapted for the purpose. he would settle that matter with slow and bideawhile afterwards. and then, as he returned to noningsby, he wondered at his persistence in the matter. he believed that his client had been guilty; he believed that this codicil was no real instrument made by sir joseph mason. and so believing, would it not be better for him to wash his hands of the whole affair? others did not think so, and would it not be better that such others should be her advisers? was he not taking up for himself endless trouble and annoyance that could have no useful purpose? so he argued with himself, and yet by the time that he had reached noningsby he had determined that he would stand by lady mason to the last. he hated that man mason, as he declared to himself when providing himself with reasons for his resolve, and regarded his bitter, malicious justice as more criminal than any crime of which lady mason might have been guilty. and then as he leaned back in the railway carriage he still saw her pale face before him, still heard the soft tone of her voice, and was still melted by the tear in her eye. young man, young friend of mine, who art now filled to the overflowing of thy brain with poetry, with chivalry, and love, thou seest seated opposite to thee there that grim old man, with long snuffy nose, with sharp piercing eyes, with scanty frizzled hairs. he is rich and cross, has been three times married, and has often quarrelled with his children. he is fond of his wine, and snores dreadfully after dinner. to thy seeming he is a dry, withered stick, from which all the sap of sentiment has been squeezed by the rubbing and friction of years. poetry, the feeling if not the words of poetry,--is he not dead to it, even as the pavement is dead over which his wheels trundle? oh, my young friend! thou art ignorant in this--as in most other things. he may not twitter of sentiment, as thou doest; nor may i trundle my hoop along the high road as do the little boys. the fitness of things forbids it. but that old man's heart is as soft as thine, if thou couldst but read it. the body dries up and withers away, and the bones grow old; the brain, too, becomes decrepit, as do the sight, the hearing, and the soul. but the heart that is tender once remains tender to the last. lady mason, when she left the library, walked across the hall towards the drawing-room, and then she paused. she would fain remain alone for a while if it were possible, and therefore she turned aside into a small breakfast parlour, which was used every morning, but which was rarely visited afterwards during the day. here she sat, leaving the door slightly open, so that she might know when mr. furnival left the baronet. here she sat for a full hour, waiting--waiting--waiting. there was no sofa or lounging-chair in the room, reclining in which she could remain there half sleeping, sitting comfortably at her ease; but she placed herself near the table, and leaning there with her face upon her hand, she waited patiently till mr. furnival had gone. that her mind was full of thoughts i need hardly say, but yet the hour seemed very long to her. at last she heard the library door open, she heard sir peregrine's voice as he stood in the hall and shook hands with his departing visitor, she heard the sound of the wheels as the fly moved upon the gravel, and then she heard sir peregrine again shut the library door behind him. she did not immediately get up from her chair; she still waited awhile, perhaps for another period of ten minutes, and then she noiselessly left the room, and moving quickly and silently across the hall she knocked at sir peregrine's door. this she did so gently that at first no answer was made to her. then she knocked again, hardly louder but with a repeated rap, and sir peregrine summoned her to come in. "may i trouble you once more--for one moment?" she said. "certainly, certainly; it is no trouble. i am glad that you are here in the house at this time, that you may see me at any moment that you may wish." "i do not know why you should be so good to me." "because you are in great grief, in undeserved grief, because--. lady mason, my services are at your command. i will act for you as i would for a--daughter." "you hear now of what it is that they accuse me." "yes, he said; i do hear;" and as he spoke he came round so that he was standing near to her, but with his back to the fireplace. "i do hear, and i blush to think that there is a man in england, holding the position of a county magistrate, who can so forget all that is due to honesty, to humanity, and to self-respect." "you do not then think that i have been guilty of this thing?" "guilty--i think you guilty! no, nor does he think so. it is impossible that he should think so. i am no more sure of my own innocence than of yours;" and as he spoke he took both her hands and looked into her face, and his eyes also were full of tears. "you may be sure of this, that neither i nor edith will ever think you guilty." "dearest edith," she said; she had never before called sir peregrine's daughter-in-law by her christian name, and as she now did so she almost felt that she had sinned. but sir peregrine took it in good part. "she is dearest," he said; "and be sure of this, that she will be true to you through it all." and so they stood for a while without further speech. he still held both her hands, and the tears still stood in his eyes. her eyes were turned to the ground, and from them the tears were running fast. at first they ran silently, without audible sobbing, and sir peregrine, with his own old eyes full of salt water, hardly knew that she was weeping. but gradually the drops fell upon his hand, one by one at first, and then faster and faster; and soon there came a low sob, a sob all but suppressed, but which at last forced itself forth, and then her head fell upon his shoulder. "my dear," he said, himself hardly able to speak; "my poor dear, my ill-used dear!" and as she withdrew one hand from his, that she might press a handkerchief to her face, his vacant arm passed itself round her waist. "my poor, ill-used dear!" he said again, as he pressed her to his old heart, and leaning over her he kissed her lips. so she stood for some few seconds, feeling that she was pressed close by the feeble pressure of his arm, and then she gradually sank through from his embrace, and fell upon her knees at his feet. she knelt at his feet, supporting herself with one arm upon the table, and with the other hand she still held his hand over which her head was bowed. "my friend," she said, still sobbing, and sobbing loudly now; "my friend, that god has sent me in my trouble." and then, with words that were wholly inaudible, she murmured some prayer on his behalf. "i am better now," she said, raising herself quickly to her feet when a few seconds had passed. "i am better now," and she stood erect before him. "by god's mercy i will endure it; i think i can endure it now." "if i can lighten the load--" "you have lightened it--of half its weight; but, sir peregrine, i will leave this--" "leave this! go away from the cleeve!" "yes; i will not destroy the comfort of your home by the wretchedness of my position. i will not--" "lady mason, my house is altogether at your service. if you will be led by me in this matter, you will not leave it till this cloud shall have passed by you. you will be better to be alone now;" and then before she could answer him further, he led her to the door. she felt that it was better for her to be alone, and she hastened up the stairs to her own chamber. "and why should i not?" said sir peregrine to himself, as he again walked the length of the library. chapter xxvii. commerce. lucius mason was still staying at noningsby when mr. furnival made his visit to sir peregrine, and on that afternoon he received a note from his mother. indeed, there were three notes passed between them on that afternoon, for he wrote an answer to his mother, and then received a reply to that answer. lady mason told him that she did not intend to return home to the farm quite immediately, and explained that her reason for not doing so was the necessity that she should have assistance and advice at this period of her trouble. she did not say that she misdoubted the wisdom of her son's counsels; but it appeared to him that she intended to signify to him that she did so, and he answered her in words that were sore and almost bitter. "i am sorry," he said, "that you and i cannot agree about a matter that is of such vital concern to both of us; but as it is so, we can only act as each thinks best, you for yourself and i for myself. i am sure, however, that you will believe that my only object is your happiness and your fair name, which is dearer to me than anything else in the world." in answer to this, she had written again immediately, filling her letter with sweet words of motherly love, telling him that she was sure, quite sure, of his affection and kind spirit, and excusing herself for not putting the matter altogether in his hands by saying that she was forced to lean on those who had supported her from the beginning--through that former trial which had taken place when he, lucius, was yet a baby. "and, dearest lucius, you must not be angry with me," she went on to say; "i am suffering much under this cruel persecution, but my sufferings would be more than doubled if my own boy quarrelled with me." lucius, when he received this, flung up his head. "quarrel with her," he said to himself; "nothing on earth would make me quarrel with her; but i cannot say that that is right which i think to be wrong." his feelings were good and honest, and kindly too in their way; but tenderness of heart was not his weakness. i should wrong him if i were to say that he was hard-hearted, but he flattered himself that he was just-hearted, which sometimes is nearly the same--as had been the case with his father before him, and was now the case with his half-brother joseph. the day after this was his last at noningsby. he had told lady staveley that he intended to go, and though she had pressed his further stay, remarking that none of the young people intended to move till after twelfth-night, nevertheless he persisted. with the young people of the house themselves he had not much advanced himself; and altogether he did not find himself thoroughly happy in the judge's house. they were more thoughtless than he--as he thought; they did not understand him, and therefore he would leave them. besides, there was a great day of hunting coming on, at which everybody was to take a part, and as he did not hunt that gave him another reason for going. "they have nothing to do but amuse themselves," he said to himself; "but i have a man's work before me, and a man's misfortunes. i will go home and face both." in all this there was much of conceit, much of pride, much of deficient education,--deficiency in that special branch of education which england has imparted to the best of her sons, but which is now becoming out of fashion. he had never learned to measure himself against others,--i do not mean his knowledge or his book-acquirements, but the every-day conduct of his life,--and to perceive that that which is insignificant in others must be insignificant in himself also. to those around him at noningsby his extensive reading respecting the iapetidæ recommended him not at all, nor did his agricultural ambitions;--not even to felix graham, as a companion, though felix graham could see further into his character than did the others. he was not such as they were. he had not the unpretentious, self-controlling humour, perfectly free from all conceit, which was common to them. life did not come easy to him, and the effort which he was ever making was always visible. all men should ever be making efforts, no doubt; but those efforts should not be conspicuous. but yet lucius mason was not a bad fellow, and young staveley showed much want of discernment when he called him empty-headed and selfish. those epithets were by no means applicable to him. that he was not empty-headed is certain; and he was moreover capable of a great self-sacrifice. that his talents and good qualities were appreciated by one person in the house, seemed evident to lady staveley and the other married ladies of the party. miss furnival, as they all thought, had not found him empty-headed. and, indeed, it may be doubted whether lady staveley would have pressed his stay at noningsby, had miss furnival been less gracious. dear lady staveley was always living in a fever lest her only son, the light of her eyes, should fall irrevocably in love with some lady that was by no means good enough for him. revocably in love he was daily falling; but some day he would go too deep, and the waters would close over his well-loved head. now in her dear old favouring eyes sophia furnival was by no means good enough, and it had been quite clear that augustus had become thoroughly lost in his attempts to bring about a match between felix graham and the barrister's daughter. in preparing the bath for his friend he had himself fallen bodily into the water. he was always at miss furnival's side as long as miss furnival would permit it. but it seemed to lady staveley that miss furnival, luckily, was quite as fond of having lucius mason at her side;--that of the two she perhaps preferred lucius mason. that her taste and judgment should be so bad was wonderful to lady staveley; but this depravity though wonderful was useful; and therefore lucius mason might have been welcome to remain at noningsby. it may, however, be possible that miss furnival knew what she was doing quite as well as lady staveley could know for her. in the first place she may possibly have thought it indiscreet to admit mr. staveley's attentions with too much freedom. she may have doubted their sincerity; or feared to give offence to the family, or mr. mason may in her sight have been the preferable suitor. that his gifts of intellect were at any rate equal to those of the other there can be no doubt. then, his gifts of fortune were already his own, and for ought that miss furnival knew, might be equal to any that would ever appertain to the other gentleman. that lady staveley should think her swan better looking than lady mason's goose was very natural; but then lady mason would no doubt have regarded the two birds in an exactly opposite light. it is only fair to conceive that miss furnival was a better judge than either of them. on the evening before his departure the whole party had been playing commerce; for the rule of the house during these holidays was this, that all the amusements brought into vogue were to be adapted to the children. if the grown-up people could adapt themselves to them, so much the better for them; if not, so much the worse; they must in such case provide for themselves. on the whole, the grown-up people seemed to live nearly as jovial a life as did the children. whether the judge himself was specially fond of commerce i cannot say; but he persisted in putting in the whole pool, and played through the entire game, rigidly fighting for the same pool on behalf of a very small grandchild, who sat during the whole time on his knee. there are those who call cards the devil's books, but we will presume that the judge was of a different way of thinking. on this special evening sophia had been sitting next to augustus,--a young man can always arrange these matters in his own house,--but had nevertheless lost all her lives early in the game. "i will not have any cheating to-night," she had said to her neighbour; "i will take my chance, and if i die, i die. one can die but once." and so she had died, three times indeed instead of once only, and had left the table. lucius mason also had died. he generally did die the first, having no aptitude for a collection of kings or aces, and so they two came together over the fire in the second drawing-room, far away from the card-players. there was nothing at all remarkable in this, as mr. furnival and one or two others who did not play commerce were also there; but nevertheless they were separated from those of the party who were most inclined to criticise their conduct. "so you are leaving to-morrow, mr. mason," said sophia. "yes. i go home to-morrow after breakfast; to my own house, where for some weeks to come i shall be absolutely alone." "your mother is staying at the cleeve, i think." "yes,--and intends remaining there as she tells me. i wish with all my heart she were at orley farm." "papa saw her yesterday. he went over to the cleeve on purpose to see her; and this morning he has been talking to me about her. i cannot tell you how i grieve for her." "it is very sad; very sad. but i wish she were in her own house. under the circumstances as they now are, i think it would be better for her to be there than elsewhere. her name has been disgraced--" "no, mr. mason; not disgraced." "yes; disgraced. mark you; i do not say that she has been disgraced; and pray do not suppose it possible that i should think so. but a great opprobrium has been thrown on her name, and it would be better, i think, that she should remain at home till she has cast it off from her. even for myself, i feel it almost wrong to be here; nor would i have come had i known when i did come as much as i do know now." "but no one can for a moment think that your mother has done anything that she should not have done." "then why do so many people talk of her as though she had committed a great crime? miss furnival, i know that she is innocent. i know it as surely as i know the fact of my own existence--" "and we all feel the same thing." "but if you were in my place,--if it were your father whose name was so bandied about in people's mouths, you would think that it behoved him to do nothing, to go nowhere, till he had forced the world to confess his innocence. and this is ten times stronger with regard to a woman. i have given my mother my counsel, and i regret to say that she differs from me." "why do you not speak to papa?" "i did once. i went to him at his chambers, and he rebuked me." "rebuked you, mr. mason! he did not do that intentionally i am sure. i have heard him say that you are an excellent son." "but nevertheless he did rebuke me. he considered that i was travelling beyond my own concerns, in wishing to interfere for the protection of my mother's name. he said that i should leave it to such people as the staveleys and the ormes to guard her from ignominy and disgrace." "oh, he did not mean that!" "but to me it seems that it should be a son's first duty. they are talking of trouble and of cost. i would give every hour i have in the day, and every shilling i own in the world to save her from one week of such suffering as she now endures; but it cuts me to the heart when she tells me that because she is suffering, therefore she must separate herself from me. i think it would be better for her, miss furnival, to be staying at home with me, than to be at the cleeve." "the kindness of mrs. orme must be a great support to her." "and why should not my kindness be a support to her,--or rather my affection? we know from whom all these scandals come. my desire is to meet that man in a court of law and thrust these falsehoods down his throat." "ah! but you are a man." "and therefore i would take the burden from her shoulders. but no; she will not trust to me. the truth, miss furnival, is this, that she has not yet learned to think of me as a man. to her i am still the boy for whom she is bound to provide, not the son who should bear for her all her cares. as it is i feel that i do not dare again to trouble her with my advice." "grandmamma is dead," shouted out a shrill small voice from the card-table. "oh, grandmamma, do have one of my lives. look! i've got three," said another. "thank you, my dears; but the natural term of my existence has come, and i will not rebel against fate." "oh, grandmamma,--we'll let you have another grace." "by no means, charley. indeed i am not clear that i am entitled to christian burial, as it is." "a case of felo de se, i rather think," said her son. "about this time of the night suicide does become common among the elders. unfortunately for me, the pistol that i have been snapping at my own head for the last half-hour always hangs fire." there was not much of love-making in the conversation which had taken place between young mason and sophia; not much at least up to this point; but a confidence had been established, and before he left her he did say a word or two that was more tender in its nature. "you must not be in dudgeon with me," he said, "for speaking to you of all this. hitherto i have kept it all to myself, and perhaps i should still have done so." "oh no; do not say that." "i am in great grief. it is dreadful to me to hear these things said, and as yet i have found no sympathy." "i can assure you, mr. mason, that i do sympathise with you most sincerely. i only wish my sympathy could be of more value." "it will be invaluable," he said, not looking at her, but fixing his eyes upon the fire, "if it be given with constancy from the first to the last of this sad affair." "it shall be so given," said miss furnival, also looking at the fire. "it will be tolerably long, and men will say cruel things of us. i can foresee this, that it will be very hard to prove to the world with certainty that there is no foundation whatever for these charges. if those who are now most friendly to us turn away from us--" "i will never turn away from you, mr. mason." "then give me your hand on that, and remember that such a promise in my ears means much." he in his excitement had forgotten that there were others in the room who might be looking at them, and that there was a vista open upon them direct from all the eyes at the card-table; but she did not forget it. miss furnival could be very enthusiastic, but she was one of those who in her enthusiasm rarely forgot anything. nevertheless, after a moment's pause, she gave him her hand. "there it is," she said; "and you may be sure of this, that with me also such a promise does mean something. and now i will say good night." and so, having received the pressure of her hand, she left him. "i will get you your candle," he said, and so he did. "good night, papa," she said, kissing her father. and then, with a slight muttered word to lady staveley, she withdrew, having sacrificed the remainder of that evening for the sake of acceding to mr. mason's request respecting her pledge. it could not be accounted strange that she should give her hand to the gentleman with whom she was immediately talking as she bade him good night. "and now grandpapa is dead too," said marian, "and there's nobody left but us three." "and we'll divide," said fanny sebright; and so the game of commerce was brought to an end. chapter xxviii. monkton grange. during these days peregrine orme--though he was in love up to his very chin, seriously in love, acknowledging this matter to himself openly, pulling his hair in the retirement of his bedroom, and resolving that he would do that which he had hitherto in life always been successful in doing--ask, namely, boldly for that he wanted sorely--peregrine orme, i say, though he was in this condition, did not in these days neglect his hunting. a proper attendance upon the proceedings of the h. h. was the only duty which he had hitherto undertaken in return for all that his grandfather had done for him, and i have no doubt that he conceived that he was doing a duty in going hither and thither about the county to their most distant meets. at this period of the present season it happened that noningsby was more central to the proceedings of the hunt than the cleeve, and therefore he was enabled to think that he was remaining away from home chiefly on business. on one point, however, he had stoutly come to a resolution. that question should be asked of madeline staveley before he returned to his grandfather's house. and now had arrived a special hunting morning,--special, because the meet was in some degree a show meet, appropriate for ladies, at a comfortable distance from noningsby, and affording a chance of amusement to those who sat in carriages as well as to those on horseback. monkton grange was the well-known name of the place, a name perhaps dearer to the ladies than to the gentlemen of the country, seeing that show meets do not always give the best sport. monkton grange is an old farm-house, now hardly used as such, having been left, as regards the habitation, in the hands of a head labourer; but it still possesses the marks of ancient respectability and even of grandeur. it is approached from the high road by a long double avenue of elms, which still stand in all their glory. the road itself has become narrow, and the space between the side row of trees is covered by soft turf, up which those coming to the meet love to gallop, trying the fresh metal of their horses. and the old house itself is surrounded by a moat, dry indeed now for the most part, but nevertheless an evident moat, deep and well preserved, with a bridge over it which fancy tells us must once have been a drawbridge. it is here, in front of the bridge, that the old hounds sit upon their haunches, resting quietly round the horses of the huntsmen, while the young dogs move about, and would wander if the whips allowed them--one of the fairest sights to my eyes that this fair country of ours can show. and here the sportsmen and ladies congregate by degrees, men from a distance in dog-carts generally arriving first, as being less able to calculate the time with accuracy. there is room here too in the open space for carriages, and there is one spot on which always stands old lord alston's chariot with the four posters; an ancient sportsman he, who still comes to some few favourite meets; and though alston court is but eight miles from the grange, the post-horses always look as though they had been made to do their best, for his lordship likes to move fast even in his old age. he is a tall thin man, bent much with age, and apparently too weak for much walking; he is dressed from head to foot in a sportsman's garb, with a broad stiffly starched coloured handkerchief tied rigidly round his neck. one would say that old as he is he has sacrificed in no way to comfort. it is with difficulty that he gets into his saddle, his servant holding his rein and stirrup and giving him perhaps some other slight assistance; but when he is there, there he will remain all day, and when his old blood warms he will gallop along the road with as much hot fervour as his grandson. an old friend he of sir peregrine's. "and why is not your grandfather here to-day?" he said on this occasion to young orme. "tell him from me that if he fails us in this way, i shall think he is getting old." lord alston was in truth five years older than sir peregrine, but sir peregrine at this time was thinking of other things. [illustration: monkton grange.] and then a very tidy little modern carriage bustled up the road, a brougham made for a pair of horses which was well known to all hunting men in these parts. it was very unpretending in its colour and harness; but no vehicle more appropriate to its purpose ever carried two thorough-going sportsmen day after day about the country. in this as it pulled up under the head tree of the avenue were seated the two miss tristrams. the two miss tristrams were well known to the hamworth hunt--i will not merely say as fearless riders,--of most girls who hunt as much can be said as that; but they were judicious horsewomen; they knew when to ride hard, and when hard riding, as regarded any necessary for the hunt, would be absolutely thrown away. they might be seen for half the day moving about the roads as leisurely, or standing as quietly at the covert's side as might the seniors of the fields. but when the time for riding did come, when the hounds were really running--when other young ladies had begun to go home--then the miss tristrams were always there;--there or thereabouts, as their admirers would warmly boast. nor did they commence their day's work as did other girls who came out on hunting mornings. with most such it is clear to see that the object is pretty much the same here as in the ballroom. "spectatum veniunt; veniunt spectentur ut ipsæ," as it is proper, natural, and desirable that they should do. by that word "spectatum" i would wish to signify something more than the mere use of the eyes. perhaps an occasional word dropped here and there into the ears of a cavalier may be included in it; and the "spectentur" also may include a word so received. but the miss tristrams came for hunting. perhaps there might be a slight shade of affectation in the manner by which they would appear to come for that and that only. they would talk of nothing else, at any rate during the earlier portion of the day, when many listeners were by. they were also well instructed as to the country to be drawn, and usually had a word of import to say to the huntsman. they were good-looking, fair-haired girls, short in size, with bright gray eyes, and a short decisive mode of speaking. it must not be imagined that they were altogether indifferent to such matters as are dear to the hearts of other girls. they were not careless as to admiration, and if report spoke truth of them were willing enough to establish themselves in the world; but all their doings of that kind had a reference to their favourite amusement, and they would as soon have thought of flirting with men who did not hunt as some other girls would with men who did not dance. i do not know that this kind of life had been altogether successful with them, or that their father had been right to permit it. he himself had formerly been a hunting man, but he had become fat and lazy, and the thing had dropped away from him. occasionally he did come out with them, but when he did not do so some other senior of the field would have them nominally under charge; but practically they were as independent when going across the country as the young men who accompanied them. i have expressed a doubt whether this life was successful with them, and indeed such doubt was expressed by many of their neighbours. it had been said of each of them for the last three years that she was engaged, now to this man, and then to that other; but neither this man nor that other had yet made good the assertion, and now people were beginning to say that no man was engaged to either of them. hunting young ladies are very popular in the hunting-field; i know no place in which girls receive more worship and attention; but i am not sure but they may carry their enthusiasm too far for their own interests, let their horsemanship be as perfect as it may be. the two girls on this occasion sat in their carriage till the groom brought up their horses, and then it was wonderful to see with what ease they placed themselves in their saddles. on such occasions they admitted no aid from the gentlemen around them, but each stepping for an instant on a servant's hand, settled herself in a moment on horseback. nothing could be more perfect than the whole thing, but the wonder was that mr. tristram should have allowed it. the party from noningsby consisted of six or seven on horseback, besides those in the carriage. among the former there were the two young ladies, miss furnival and miss staveley, and our friends felix graham, augustus staveley, and peregrine orme. felix graham was not by custom a hunting man, as he possessed neither time nor money for such a pursuit; but to-day he was mounted on his friend staveley's second horse, having expressed his determination to ride him as long as they two, the man and the horse, could remain together. "i give you fair warning," felix had said, "if i do not spare my own neck, you cannot expect me to spare your horse's legs." "you may do your worst," staveley had answered. "if you give him his head, and let him have his own way, he won't come to grief, whatever you may do." on their road to monkton grange, which was but three miles from noningsby, peregrine orme had ridden by the side of miss staveley, thinking more of her than of the affairs of the hunt, prominent as they were generally in his thoughts. how should he do it, and when, and in what way should he commence the deed? he had an idea that it might be better for him if he could engender some closer intimacy between himself and madeline before he absolutely asked the fatal question; but the closer intimacy did not seem to produce itself readily. he had, in truth, known madeline staveley for many years, almost since they were children together; but lately, during these christmas holidays especially, there had not been between them that close conversational alliance which so often facilitates such an overture as that which peregrine was now desirous of making. and, worse again, he had seen that there was such close conversational alliance between madeline and felix graham. he did not on that account dislike the young barrister, or call him, even within his own breast, a snob or an ass. he knew well that he was neither the one nor the other; but he knew as well that he could be no fit match for miss staveley, and, to tell the truth, he did not suspect that either graham or miss staveley would think of such a thing. it was not jealousy that tormented him, so much as a diffidence in his own resources. he made small attempts which did not succeed, and therefore he determined that he would at once make a grand attempt. he would create himself an opportunity before he left noningsby, and would do it even to-day on horseback, if he could find sufficient opportunity. in taking a determined step like that, he knew that he would not lack the courage. "do you mean to ride to-day," he said to madeline, as they were approaching the bottom of the grange avenue. for the last half-mile he had been thinking what he would say to her, and thinking in vain; and now, at the last moment, he could summon no words to his assistance more potent for his purpose than these. "if you mean by riding, mr. orme, going across the fields with you and the miss tristrams, certainly not. i should come to grief, as you call it, at the first ditch." "and that is just what i shall do," said felix graham, who was at her other side. "then, if you take my advice, you'll remain with us in the wood, and act as squire of dames. what on earth would marian do if aught but good was to befall you?" "dear marian! she gave me a special commission to bring her the fox's tail. foxes' tails are just like ladies." "thank you, mr. graham. i've heard you make some pretty compliments, and that is about the prettiest." "a faint heart will never win either the one or the other, miss staveley." "oh, ah, yes. that will do very well. under these circumstances i will accept the comparison." all of which very innocent conversation was overheard by peregrine orme, riding on the other side of miss staveley's horse. and why not? neither graham nor miss staveley had any objection. but how was it that he could not join in and take his share in it? he had made one little attempt at conversation, and that having failed he remained perfectly silent till they reached the large circle at the head of the avenue. "it's no use, this sort of thing," he said to himself. "i must do it at a blow, if i do it at all;" and then he rode away to the master of the hounds. as our party arrived at the open space the miss tristrams were stepping out of their carriage, and they came up to shake hands with miss staveley. "i am so glad to see you," said the eldest; "it is so nice to have some ladies out besides ourselves." "do keep up with us," said the second. "it's a very open country about here, and anybody can ride it." and then miss furnival was introduced to them. "does your horse jump, miss furnival?" "i really do not know," said sophia; "but i sincerely trust that if he does, he will refrain to-day." "don't say so," said the eldest sportswoman. "if you'll only begin it will come as easy to you as going along the road;" and then, not being able to spare more of these idle moments, they both went off to their horses, walking as though their habits were no impediments to them, and in half a minute they were seated. "what is harriet on to-day?" asked staveley of a constant member of the hunt. now harriet was the eldest miss tristram. "a little brown mare she got last week. that was a terrible brush we had on friday. you weren't out, i think. we killed in the open, just at the edge of rotherham common. harriet was one of the few that was up, and i don't think the chestnut horse will be the better of it this season." "that was the horse she got from griggs?" "yes; she gave a hundred and fifty for him; and i'm told he was as nearly done on friday as any animal you ever put your eyes on. they say harriet cried when she got home." now the gentleman who was talking about harriet on this occasion was one with whom she would no more have sat down to table than with her own groom. but though harriet may have cried when she got home on that fatal friday evening, she was full of the triumph of the hunt on this morning. it is not often that the hounds run into a fox and absolutely surround and kill him on the open ground, and when this is done after a severe run, there are seldom many there to see it. if a man can fairly take a fox's brush on such an occasion as that, let him do it; otherwise let him leave it to the huntsman. on the occasion in question it seems that harriet tristram might have done so, and some one coming second to her had been gallant enough to do it for her. "oh, my lord, you should have been out on friday," she said to lord alston. "we had the prettiest thing i ever saw." "a great deal too pretty for me, my dear." "oh, you who know the roads so well would certainly have been up. i suppose it was thirteen miles from cobbleton's bushes to rotherham common." "not much less, indeed," said his lordship, unwilling to diminish the lady's triumph. had a gentleman made the boast his lordship would have demonstrated that it was hardly more than eleven. "i timed it accurately from the moment he went away," said the lady, "and it was exactly fifty-seven minutes. the first part of it was awfully fast. then we had a little check at moseley bottom. but for that, nobody could have lived through it. i never shall forget how deep it was coming up from there to cringleton. i saw two men get off to ease their horses up the deep bit of plough; and i would have done so too, only my horse would not have stood for me to get up." "i hope he was none the worse for it," said the sporting character who had been telling staveley just now how she had cried when she got home that night. "to tell the truth, i fear it has done him no good. he would not feed, you know, that night at all." "and broke out into cold sweats," said the gentleman. "exactly," said the lady, not quite liking it, but still enduring with patience. "rather groggy on his pins the next morning?" suggested her friend. "very groggy," said harriet, regarding the word as one belonging to fair sporting phraseology. "and inclined to go very much on the points of his toes. i know all about it, miss tristam, as well as though i'd seen him." "there's nothing but rest for it, i suppose." "rest and regular exercise--that's the chief thing; and i should give him a mash as often as three times a week. he'll be all right again in three or four weeks,--that is if he's sound, you know." "oh, as sound as a bell," said miss tristram. "he'll never be the same horse on a road though," said the sporting gentlemen, shaking his head and whispering to staveley. and now the time had come at which they were to move. they always met at eleven; and at ten minutes past, to the moment, jacob the huntsman would summons the old hounds from off their haunches. "i believe we may be moving, jacob," said mr. williams, the master. "the time be up," said jacob, looking at a ponderous timekeeper that might with truth be called a hunting-watch; and then they all moved slowly away back from the grange, down a farm-road which led to monkton wood, distant from the old house perhaps a quarter of a mile. "may we go as far as the wood?" said miss furnival to augustus. "without being made to ride over hedges, i mean." "oh, dear, yes; and ride about the wood half the day. it will be an hour and a half before a fox will break--even if he ever breaks." "dear me! how tired you will be of us. now do say something pretty, mr. staveley." "it's not my _métier_. we shall be tired, not of you, but of the thing. galloping up and down the same cuts in the wood for an hour and a half is not exciting; nor does it improve the matter much if we stand still, as one should do by rights." "that would be very slow." "you need not be afraid. they never do here. everybody will be rushing about as though the very world depended on their galloping." "i'm so glad; that's just what i like." "everybody except lord alston, miss tristram, and, the other old stagers. they will husband their horses, and come out as fresh at two o'clock as though they were only just out. there is nothing so valuable as experience in hunting." "do you think it nice seeing a young lady with so much hunting knowledge?" "now you want me to talk slander, but i won't do it. i admire the miss tristrams exceedingly, and especially julia." "and which is julia?" "the youngest; that one riding by herself." "and why don't you go and express your admiration?" "ah, me! why don't we all express the admiration that we feel, and pour sweet praises into the ears of the lady that excites it? because we are cowards, miss furnival, and are afraid even of such a weak thing as a woman." "dear me! i should hardly have thought that you would suffer from such terror as that." "because you don't quite know me, miss furnival." "and miss julia tristram is the lady that has excited it?" "if it be not she, it is some other fair votary of diana at present riding into monkton wood." "ah, now you are giving me a riddle to guess, and i never guess riddles. i won't even try at it. but they all seem to be stopping." "yes, they are putting the hounds into covert. now if you want to show yourself a good sportsman, look at your watch. you see that julia tristram has got hers in her hand." "what's that for?" "to time the hounds; to see how long they'll be before they find. it's very pretty work in a small gorse, but in a great wood like this i don't care much for being so accurate. but for heaven's sake don't tell julia tristram; i should not have a chance if she thought i was so slack." and now the hounds were scattering themselves in the wood, and the party rode up the centre roadway towards a great circular opening in the middle of it. here it was the recognised practice of the horsemen to stand, and those who properly did their duty would stand there; but very many lingered at the gate, knowing that there was but one other exit from the wood, without overcoming the difficulty of a very intricate and dangerous fence. "there be a gap, bain't there?" said one farmer to another, as they were entering. "yes, there be a gap, and young grubbles broke his 'orse's back a getting over of it last year," said the second farmer. "did he though?" said the first; and so they both remained at the gate. and others, a numerous body, including most of the ladies, galloped up and down the cross ways, because the master of the hounds and the huntsman did so. "d---- those fellows riding up and down after me wherever i go," said the master. "i believe they think i'm to be hunted." this seemed to be said more especially to miss tristram, who was always in the master's confidence; and i fear that the fellows alluded to included miss furnival and miss staveley. and then there came the sharp, eager sound of a hound's voice; a single, sharp, happy opening bark, and harriet tristram was the first to declare that the game was found. "just five minutes and twenty seconds, my lord," said julia tristram to lord alston. "that's not bad in a large wood like this." "uncommonly good," said his lordship. "and when are we to get out of it?" "they'll be here for the next hour, i'm afraid," said the lady, not moving her horse from the place where she stood, though many of the more impetuous of the men were already rushing away to the gates. "i have seen a fox go away from here without resting a minute; but that was later in the season, at the end of february. foxes are away from home then." all which observations showed a wonderfully acute sporting observation on the part of miss tristram. and then the music of the dogs became fast and frequent, as they drove the brute across and along from one part of the large wood to another. sure there is no sound like it for filling a man's heart with an eager desire to be at work. what may be the trumpet in battle i do not know, but i can imagine that it has the same effect. and now a few of them were standing on that wide circular piece of grass, when a sound the most exciting of them all reached their ears. "he's away!" shouted a whip from a corner of the wood. the good-natured beast, though as yet it was hardly past christmas-time, had consented to bless at once so many anxious sportsmen, and had left the back of the covert with the full pack at his heels. "there is no gate that way, miss tristram," said a gentleman. "there's a double ditch and bank that will do as well," said she, and away she went directly after the hounds, regardless altogether of the gates. peregrine orme and felix graham, who were with her, followed close upon her track. chapter xxix. breaking covert. "there's a double ditch and bank that will do as well," miss tristram had said when she was informed that there was no gate out of the wood at the side on which the fox had broken. the gentleman who had tendered the information might as well have held his tongue, for miss tristram knew the wood intimately, was acquainted with the locality of all its gates, and was acquainted also with the points at which it might be left, without the assistance of any gate at all, by those who were well mounted and could ride their horses. therefore she had thus replied, "there's a double ditch and bank that will do as well." and for the double ditch and bank at the end of one of the grassy roadways miss tristram at once prepared herself. "that's the gap where grubbles broke his horse's back," said a man in a red coat to peregrine orme, and so saying he made up his wavering mind and galloped away as fast as his nag could carry him. but peregrine orme would not avoid a fence at which a lady was not afraid to ride; and felix graham, knowing little but fearing nothing, followed peregrine orme. at the end of the roadway, in the middle of the track, there was the gap. for a footman it was doubtless the easiest way over the fence, for the ditch on that side was half filled up, and there was space enough left of the half-broken bank for a man's scrambling feet; but miss tristram at once knew that it was a bad place for a horse. the second or further ditch was the really difficult obstacle, and there was no footing in the gap from which a horse could take his leap. to the right of this the fence was large and required a good horse, but miss tristram knew her animal and was accustomed to large fences. the trained beast went well across on to the bank, poised himself there for a moment, and taking a second spring carried his mistress across into the further field apparently with ease. in that field the dogs were now running, altogether, so that a sheet might have covered them; and miss tristram, exulting within her heart and holding in her horse, knew that she had got away uncommonly well. peregrine orme followed,--a little to the right of the lady's passage, so that he might have room for himself, and do no mischief in the event of miss tristram or her horse making any mistake at the leap. he also got well over. but, alas! in spite of such early success he was destined to see nothing of the hunt that day! felix graham, thinking that he would obey instructions by letting his horse do as he pleased, permitted the beast to come close upon orme's track and to make his jump before orme's horse had taken his second spring. "have a care," said peregrine, feeling that the two were together on the bank, "or you'll shove me into the ditch." he however got well over. felix, attempting to "have a care" just when his doing so could be of no avail, gave his horse a pull with the curb as he was preparing for his second spring. the outside ditch was broad and deep and well banked up, and required that an animal should have all his power. it was at such a moment as this that he should have been left to do his work without injudicious impediment from his rider. but poor graham was thinking only of orme's caution, and attempted to stop the beast when any positive and absolute stop was out of the question. the horse made his jump, and, crippled as he was, jumped short. he came with his knees against the further bank, threw his rider, and then in his struggle to right himself rolled over him. felix felt at once that he was much hurt--that he had indeed come to grief; but still he was not stunned nor did he lose his presence of mind. the horse succeeded in gaining his feet, and then felix also jumped up and even walked a step or two towards the head of the animal with the object of taking the reins. but he found that he could not raise his arm, and he found also that he could hardly breathe. both peregrine and miss tristram looked back. "there's nothing wrong i hope," said the lady; and then she rode on. and let it be understood that in hunting those who are in advance generally do ride on. the lame and the halt and the wounded, if they cannot pick themselves up, have to be picked up by those who come after them. but peregrine saw that there was no one else coming that way. the memory of young grubbles' fate had placed an interdict on that pass out of the wood, which nothing short of the pluck and science of miss tristram was able to disregard. two cavaliers she had carried with her. one she had led on to instant slaughter, and the other remained to look after his fallen brother-in-arms. miss tristram in the mean time was in the next field and had settled well down to her work. "are you hurt, old fellow?" said peregrine, turning back his horse, but still not dismounting. "not much, i think," said graham, smiling. "there's something wrong about my arm,--but don't you wait." and then he found that he spoke with difficulty. "can you mount again?" "i don't think i'll mind that. perhaps i'd better sit down." then peregrine orme knew that graham was hurt, and jumping off his own horse he gave up all hope of the hunt. "here, you fellow, come and hold these horses." so invoked, a boy who in following the sport had got as far as this ditch did as he was bid, and scrambled over. "sit down, graham: there; i'm afraid you are hurt. did he roll on you?" but felix merely looked up into his face,--still smiling. he was now very pale, and for the moment could not speak. peregrine came close to him, and gently attempted to raise the wounded limb; whereupon graham shuddered, and shook his head. "i fear it is broken," said peregrine. graham nodded his head, and raised his left hand to his breast; and peregrine then knew that something else was amiss also. i don't know any feeling more disagreeable than that produced by being left alone in a field, when out hunting, with a man who has been very much hurt and who is incapable of riding or walking. the hurt man himself has the privilege of his infirmities and may remain quiescent; but you, as his only attendant, must do something. you must for the moment do all, and if you do wrong the whole responsibility lies on your shoulders. if you leave a wounded man on the damp ground, in the middle of winter, while you run away, five miles perhaps, to the next doctor, he may not improbably--as you then think--be dead before you come back. you don't know the way; you are heavy yourself, and your boots are very heavy. you must stay therefore; but as you are no doctor you don't in the least know what is the amount of the injury. in your great trouble you begin to roar for assistance; but the woods re-echo your words, and the distant sound of the huntsman's horn, as he summons his hounds at a check, only mocks your agony. but peregrine had a boy with him. "get upon that horse," he said at last; "ride round to farmer griggs, and tell them to send somebody here with a spring cart. he has got a spring cart i know;--and a mattress in it." "but i hain't no gude at roiding like," said the boy, looking with dismay at orme's big horse. "then run; that will be better, for you can go through the wood. you know where farmer griggs lives. the first farm the other side of the grange." "ay, ay, i knows where farmer griggs lives well enough." "run, then; and if the cart is here in half an hour i'll give you a sovereign." inspirited by the hopes of such wealth, golden wealth, wealth for a lifetime, the boy was quickly back over the fence, and peregrine was left alone with felix graham. he was now sitting down, with his feet hanging into the ditch, and peregrine was kneeling behind him. "i am sorry i can do nothing more," said he; "but i fear we must remain here till the cart comes." "i am--so--vexed--about your hunt," said felix, gasping as he spoke. he had in fact broken his right arm which had been twisted under him as the horse rolled, and two of his ribs had been staved in by the pommel of his saddle. many men have been worse hurt and have hunted again before the end of the season, but the fracture of three bones does make a man uncomfortable for the time. "now the cart--is--sent for, couldn't you--go on?" but it was not likely that peregrine orme would do that. "never mind me," he said. "when a fellow is hurt he has always to do as he's told. you'd better have a drop of sherry. look here: i've got a flask at my saddle. there; you can support yourself with that arm a moment. did you ever see horses stand so quiet. i've got hold of yours, and now i'll fasten them together. i say, whitefoot, you don't kick, do you?" and then he contrived to picket the horses to two branches, and having got out his case of sherry, poured a small modicum into the silver mug which was attached to the apparatus and again supported graham while he drank. "you'll be as right as a trivet by-and-by; only you'll have to make noningsby your headquarters for the next six weeks." and then the same idea passed through the mind of each of them;--how little a man need be pitied for such a misfortune if madeline staveley would consent to be his nurse. [illustration: felix graham in trouble.] no man could have less surgical knowledge than peregrine orme, but nevertheless he was such a man as one would like to have with him if one came to grief in such a way. he was cheery and up-hearted, but at the same time gentle and even thoughtful. his voice was pleasant and his touch could be soft. for many years afterwards felix remembered how that sherry had been held to his lips, and how the young heir of the cleeve had knelt behind him in his red coat, supporting him as he became weary with waiting, and saying pleasant words to him through the whole. felix graham was a man who would remember such things. in running through the wood the boy first encountered three horsemen. they were the judge, with his daughter madeline and miss furnival. "there be a mon there who be a'most dead," said the boy, hardly able to speak from want of breath. "i be agoing for farmer griggs' cart." and then they stopped him a moment to ask for some description, but the boy could tell them nothing to indicate that the wounded man was one of their friends. it might however be augustus, and so the three rode on quickly towards the fence, knowing nothing of the circumstances of the ditches which would make it out of their power to get to the fallen sportsman. but peregrine heard the sound of the horses and the voices of the horsemen. "by jove, there's a lot of them coming down here," said he. "it's the judge and two of the girls. oh, miss staveley, i'm so glad you've come. graham has had a bad fall and hurt himself. you haven't a shawl, have you? the ground is so wet under him." "it doesn't signify at all," said felix, looking round and seeing the faces of his friends on the other side of the bank. madeline staveley gave a slight shriek which her father did not notice, but which miss furnival heard very plainly. "oh papa," she said, "cannot you get over to him?" and then she began to bethink herself whether it were possible that she should give up something of her dress to protect the man who was hurt from the damp muddy ground on which he lay. "can you hold my horse, dear," said the judge, slowly dismounting; for the judge, though he rode every day on sanitary considerations, had not a sportsman's celerity in leaving and recovering his saddle. but he did get down, and burdened as he was with a great-coat, he did succeed in crossing that accursed fence. accursed it was from henceforward in the annals of the h. h., and none would ride it but dare-devils who professed themselves willing to go at anything. miss tristram, however, always declared that there was nothing in it--though she avoided it herself, whispering to her friends that she had led others to grief there, and might possibly do so again if she persevered. "could you hold the horse?" said madeline to miss furnival; "and i will go for a shawl to the carriage." miss furnival declared that to the best of her belief she could not, but nevertheless the animal was left with her, and madeline turned round and galloped back towards the carriage. she made her horse do his best though her eyes were nearly blinded with tears, and went straight on for the carriage, though she would have given much for a moment to hide those tears before she reached it. "oh, mamma! give me a thick shawl; mr. graham has hurt himself in the field, and is lying on the grass." and then in some incoherent and quick manner she had to explain what she knew of the accident before she could get a carriage-cloak out of the carriage. this, however, she did succeed in doing, and in some manner, very unintelligible to herself afterwards, she did gallop back with her burden. she passed the cloak over to peregrine, who clambered up the bank to get it, while the judge remained on the ground, supporting the young barrister. felix graham, though he was weak, was not stunned or senseless, and he knew well who it was that had procured for him that comfort. and then the carriage followed madeline, and there was quite a concourse of servants and horses and ladies on the inside of the fence. but the wounded man was still unfortunately on the other side. no cart from farmer griggs made its appearance, though it was now more than half an hour since the boy had gone. carts, when they are wanted in such sudden haste, do not make their appearance. it was two miles through the wood to mr. griggs's farm-yard, and more than three miles back by any route which the cart could take. and then it might be more than probable that in farmer griggs's establishment there was not always a horse ready in harness, or a groom at hand prepared to yoke him. peregrine had become very impatient, and had more than once invoked a silent anathema on the farmer's head; but nevertheless there was no appearance of the cart. "we must get him across the ditches into the carriage," said the judge. "if lady staveley will let us do that," said peregrine. "the difficulty is not with lady staveley but with these nasty ditches," said the judge, for he had been up to his knees in one of them, and the water had penetrated his boots. but the task was at last done. mrs. arbuthnot stood up on the back seat of the carriage so that she might hold the horses, and the coachman and footman got across into the field. "it would be better to let me lie here all day," said felix, as three of them struggled back with their burden, the judge bringing up the rear with two hunting-whips and peregrine's cap. "how on earth any one would think of riding over such a place as that!" said the judge. but then, when he had been a young man it had not been the custom for barristers to go out hunting. madeline, as she saw the wounded man carefully laid on the back seat of the carriage, almost wished that she could have her mother's place that she might support him. would they be careful enough with him? would they remember how terrible must be the pain of that motion to one so hurt as he was? and then she looked into his face as he was made to lean back, and she saw that he still smiled. felix graham was by no means a handsome man; i should hardly sin against the truth if i were to say that he was ugly. but madeline, as she looked at him now lying there utterly without colour but always with that smile on his countenance, thought that no face to her liking had ever been more gracious. she still rode close to him as they went down the grassy road, saying never a word. and miss furnival rode there also, somewhat in the rear, condoling with the judge as to his wet feet. "miss furnival," he said, "when a judge forgets himself and goes out hunting he has no right to expect anything better. what would your father have said had he seen me clambering up the bank with young orme's hunting-cap between my teeth? i positively did." "he would have rushed to assist you," said miss furnival, with a little burst of enthusiasm which was hardly needed on the occasion. and then peregrine came after them leading graham's horse. he had been compelled to return to the field and ride both the horses back into the wood; one after the other, while the footman held them. that riding back over fences in cold blood is the work that really tries a man's nerve. and a man has to do it too when no one is looking on. how he does crane and falter and look about for an easy place at such a moment as that! but when the blood is cold, no places are easy. the procession got back to noningsby without adventure, and graham as a matter of course was taken up to his bed. one of the servants had been despatched to alston for a surgeon, and in an hour or two the extent of the misfortune was known. the right arm was broken--"very favourably," as the doctor observed. but two ribs were broken--"rather unfavourably." there was some talk of hæmorrhage and inward wounds, and sir jacob from saville row was suggested by lady staveley. but the judge, knowing the extent of graham's means, made some further preliminary inquiries, and it was considered that sir jacob would not be needed--at any rate not as yet. "why don't they send for him?" said madeline to her mother with rather more than her wonted energy. "your papa does not think it necessary, my dear. it would be very expensive, you know." "but, mamma, would you let a man die because it would cost a few pounds to cure him?" "my dear, we all hope that mr. graham won't die--at any rate not at present. if there be any danger you may be sure that your papa will send for the best advice." but madeline was by no means satisfied. she could not understand economy in a matter of life and death. if sir jacob's coming would have cost fifty pounds, or a hundred, what would that have signified, weighed in such a balance? such a sum would be nothing to her father. had augustus fallen and broken his arm all the sir jacobs in london would not have been considered too costly could their joint coming have mitigated any danger. she did not however dare to speak to her mother again, so she said a word or two to peregrine orme, who was constant in his attendance on felix. peregrine had been very kind, and she had seen it, and her heart therefore warmed towards him. "don't you think he ought to have more advice, mr. orme?" "well, no; i don't know. he's very jolly, you know; only he can't talk. one of the bones ran into him, but i believe he's all right." "oh, but that is so frightful!" and the tears were again in her eyes. "if i were him i should think one doctor enough. but it's easy enough having a fellow down from london, you know, if you like it." "if he should get worse, mr. orme--." and then peregrine made her a sort of promise, but in doing so an idea shot through his poor heart of what the truth might really be. he went back and looked at felix who was sleeping. "if it is so i must bear it," he said to himself; "but i'll fight it on;" and a quick thought ran through his brain of his own deficiencies. he knew that he was not clever and bright in talk like felix graham. he could not say the right thing at the right moment without forethought. how he wished that he could! but still he would fight it on, as he would have done any losing match,--to the last. and then he sat down by felix's head, and resolved that he would be loyal to his new friend all the same--loyal in all things needful. but still he would fight it on. chapter xxx. another fall. felix graham had plenty of nurses, but madeline was not one of them. augustus staveley came home while the alston doctor was still busy at the broken bones, and of course he would not leave his friend. he was one of those who had succeeded in the hunt, and consequently had heard nothing of the accident till the end of it. miss tristram had been the first to tell him that mr. graham had fallen in leaving the covert, but having seen him rise to his legs she had not thought he was seriously hurt. "i do not know much about your friend," she had said; "but i think i may comfort you by an assurance that your horse is none the worse. i could see as much as that." "poor felix!" said, staveley. "he has lost a magnificent run. i suppose we are nine or ten miles from monkton grange now?" "eleven if we are a yard," said the lady. "it was an ugly country, but the pace was nothing wonderful." and then others dropped in, and at last came tidings about graham. at first there was a whisper that he was dead. he had ridden over orme, it was said; had nearly killed him, and had quite killed himself. then the report became less fatal. both horses were dead, but graham was still living though with most of his bones broken. "don't believe it," said miss tristram. "in what condition mr. graham may be i won't say; but that your horse was safe and sound after he got over the fence, of that you may take my word." and thus, in a state of uncertainty, obtaining fresh rumours from every person he passed, staveley hurried home. "right arm and two ribs," peregrine said to him, as he met him in the hall. "is that all?" said augustus. it was clear therefore that he did not think so much about it as his sister. "if you'd let her have her head she'd never have come down like that," augustus said, as he sat that evening by his friend's bedside. "but he pulled off, i fancy, to avoid riding over me," said peregrine. "then he must have come too quick at his leap," said augustus. "you should have steadied him as he came to it." from all which graham perceived that a man cannot learn how to ride any particular horse by two or three words of precept. "if you talk any more about the horse, or the hunt, or the accident, neither of you shall stay in the room," said lady staveley, who came in at that moment. but they both did stay in the room, and said a great deal more about the hunt, and the horse, and the accident before they left it; and even became so far reconciled to the circumstance that they had a hot glass of brandy and water each, sitting by graham's fire. "but, augustus, do tell me how he is," madeline said to her brother, as she caught him going to his room. she had become ashamed of asking any more questions of her mother. "he's all right; only he'll be as fretful as a porcupine, shut up there. at least i should be. are there lots of novels in the house? mind you send for a batch to-morrow. novels are the only chance a man has when he's laid up like that." before breakfast on the following morning madeline had sent off to the alston circulating library a list of all the best new novels of which she could remember the names. no definite day had hitherto been fixed for peregrine's return to the cleeve, and under the present circumstances he still remained at noningsby assisting to amuse felix graham. for two days after the accident such seemed to be his sole occupation; but in truth he was looking for an opportunity to say a word or two to miss staveley, and paving his way as best he might for that great speech which he was fully resolved that he would make before he left the house. once or twice he bethought himself whether he would not endeavour to secure for himself some confidant in the family, and obtain the sanction and special friendship either of madeline's mother, or her sister, or her brother. but what if after that she should reject him? would it not be worse for him then that any one should have known of his defeat? he could, as he thought, endure to suffer alone; but on such a matter as that pity would be unendurable. so as he sat there by graham's fireside, pretending to read one of poor madeline's novels for the sake of companionship, he determined that he would tell no one of his intention;--no one till he could make the opportunity for telling her. and when he did meet her, and find, now and again, some moment for saying a word alone to her, she was very gracious to him. he had been so kind and gentle with felix, there was so much in him that was sweet and good and honest, so much that such an event as this brought forth and made manifest, that madeline, and indeed the whole family, could not but be gracious to him. augustus would declare that he was the greatest brick he had ever known, repeating all graham's words as to the patience with which the embryo baronet had knelt behind him on the cold muddy ground, supporting him for an hour, till the carriage had come up. under such circumstances how could madeline refrain from being gracious to him? "but it is all from favour to graham!" peregrine would say to himself with bitterness; and yet though he said so he did not quite believe it. poor fellow! it was all from favour to graham. and could he have thoroughly believed the truth of those words which he repeated to himself so often, he might have spared himself much pain. he might have spared himself much pain, and possibly some injury; for if aught could now tend to mature in madeline's heart an affection which was but as yet nascent, it would be the offer of some other lover. but such reasoning on the matter was much too deep for peregrine orme. "it may be," he said to himself, "that she only pities him because he is hurt. if so, is not this time better for me than any other? if it be that she loves him, let me know it, and be out of my pain." it did not then occur to him that circumstances such as those in question could not readily be made explicit;--that madeline might refuse his love, and yet leave him no wiser than he now was as to her reasons for so refusing;--perhaps, indeed, leave him less wise, with increased cause for doubt and hopeless hope, and the green melancholy of a rejected lover. madeline during these two days said no more about the london doctor; but it was plain to all who watched her that her anxiety as to the patient was much more keen than that of the other ladies of the house. "she always thinks everybody is going to die," lady staveley said to miss furnival, intending, not with any consummate prudence, to account to that acute young lady for her daughter's solicitude. "we had a cook here, three months since, who was very ill, and madeline would never be easy till the doctor assured her that the poor woman's danger was altogether past." "she is so very warm-hearted," said miss furnival in reply. "it is quite delightful to see her. and she will have such pleasure when she sees him come down from his room." lady staveley on this immediate occasion said nothing to her daughter, but mrs. arbuthnot considered that a sisterly word might perhaps be spoken in due season. "the doctor says he is doing quite well now," mrs. arbuthnot said to her, as they were sitting alone. "but does he indeed? did you hear him?" said madeline, who was suspicious. "he did so, indeed. i heard him myself. but he says also that he ought to remain here, at any rate for the next fortnight,--if mamma can permit it without inconvenience." "of course she can permit it. no one would turn any person out of their house in such a condition as that!" "papa and mamma both will be very happy that he should stay here;--of course they would not do what you call turning him out. but, mad, my darling,"--and then she came up close and put her arm round her sister's waist. "i think mamma would be more comfortable in his remaining here if your charity towards him were--what shall i say?--less demonstrative." "what do you mean, isabella?" "dearest, dearest; you must not be angry with me. nobody has hinted to me a word on the subject, nor do i mean to hint anything that can possibly be hurtful to you." "but what do you mean?" "don't you know, darling? he is a young man--and--and--people see with such unkind eyes, and hear with such scandal-loving ears. there is that miss furnival--" "if miss furnival can think such things, i for one do not care what she thinks." "no, nor do i;--not as regards any important result. but may it not be well to be careful? you know what i mean, dearest?" "yes--i know. at least i suppose so. and it makes me know also how very cold and shallow and heartless people are! i won't ask any more questions, isabella; but i can't know that a fellow-creature is suffering in the house,--and a person like him too, so clever, whom we all regard as a friend,--the most intimate friend in the world that augustus has,--and the best too, as i heard papa himself say--without caring whether he is going to live or die." "there is no danger now, you know." "very well; i am glad to hear it. though i know very well that there must be danger after such a terrible accident as that." "the doctor says there is none." "at any rate i will not--" and then instead of finishing her sentence she turned away her head and put up her handkerchief to wipe away a tear. "you are not angry with me, dear?" said mrs. arbuthnot. "oh, no," said madeline; and then they parted. for some days after that madeline asked no question whatever about felix graham, but it may be doubted whether this did not make the matter worse. even sophia furnival would ask how he was at any rate twice a day, and lady staveley continued to pay him regular visits at stated intervals. as he got better she would sit with him, and brought back reports as to his sayings. but madeline never discussed any of these; and refrained alike from the conversation, whether his broken bones or his unbroken wit were to be the subject of it. and then mrs. arbuthnot, knowing that she would still be anxious, gave her private bulletins as to the state of the sick man's progress;--all which gave an air of secrecy to the matter, and caused even madeline to ask herself why this should be so. on the whole i think that mrs. arbuthnot was wrong. mrs. arbuthnot and the whole staveley family would have regarded a mutual attachment between mr. graham and madeline as a great family misfortune. the judge was a considerate father to his children, holding that a father's control should never be brought to bear unnecessarily. in looking forward to the future prospects of his sons and daughters it was his theory that they should be free to choose their life's companions for themselves. but nevertheless it could not be agreeable to him that his daughter should fall in love with a man who had nothing, and whose future success at his own profession seemed to be so very doubtful. on the whole i think that mrs. arbuthnot was wrong, and that the feeling that did exist in madeline's bosom might more possibly have died away, had no word been said about it--even by a sister. and then another event happened which forced her to look into her own heart. peregrine orme did make his proposal. he waited patiently during those two or three days in which the doctor's visits were frequent, feeling that he could not talk about himself while any sense of danger pervaded the house. but then at last a morning came on which the surgeon declared that he need not call again till the morrow; and felix himself, when the medical back was turned, suggested that it might as well be to-morrow week. he began also to scold his friends, and look bright about the eyes, and drink his glass of sherry in a pleasant dinner-table fashion, not as if he were swallowing his physic. and peregrine, when he saw all this, resolved that the moment had come for the doing of his deed of danger. the time would soon come at which he must leave noningsby, and he would not leave noningsby till he had learned his fate. lady staveley, who with a mother's eye had seen her daughter's solicitude for felix graham's recovery,--had seen it, and animadverted on it to herself,--had seen also, or at any rate had suspected, that peregrine orme looked on her daughter with favouring eyes. now peregrine orme would have satisfied lady staveley as a son-in-law. she liked his ways and manners of thought--in spite of those rumours as to the rat-catching which had reached her ears. she regarded him as quite clever enough to be a good husband, and no doubt appreciated the fact that he was to inherit his title and the cleeve from an old grandfather instead of a middle-aged father. she therefore had no objection to leave peregrine alone with her one ewe-lamb, and therefore the opportunity which he sought was at last found. "i shall be leaving noningsby to-morrow, miss staveley," he said one day, having secured an interview in the back drawing-room--in that happy half-hour which occurs in winter before the world betakes itself to dress. now i here profess my belief, that out of every ten set offers made by ten young lovers, nine of such offers are commenced with an intimation that the lover is going away. there is a dash of melancholy in such tidings well suited to the occasion. if there be any spark of love on the other side it will be elicited by the idea of a separation. and then, also, it is so frequently the actual fact. this making of an offer is in itself a hard piece of business,--a job to be postponed from day to day. it is so postponed, and thus that dash of melancholy, and that idea of separation are brought in at the important moment with so much appropriate truth. "i shall be leaving noningsby to-morrow, miss staveley," peregrine said. "oh dear! we shall be so sorry. but why are you going? what will mr. graham and augustus do without you? you ought to stay at least till mr. graham can leave his room." "poor graham!--not that i think he is much to be pitied either; but he won't be about for some weeks to come yet." "you do not think he is worse; do you?" "oh, dear, no; not at all." and peregrine was unconsciously irritated against his friend by the regard which her tone evinced. "he is quite well; only they will not let him be moved. but, miss staveley, it was not of mr. graham that i was going to speak." "no--only i thought he would miss you so much." and then she blushed, though the blush in the dark of the evening was lost upon him. she remembered that she was not to speak about felix graham's health, and it almost seemed as though mr. orme had rebuked her for doing so in saying that he had not come there to speak of him. "lady staveley's house has been turned up side down since this affair, and it is time now that some part of the trouble should cease." "oh! mamma does not mind it at all." "i know how good she is; but nevertheless, miss staveley, i must go to-morrow." and then he paused a moment before he spoke again. "it will depend entirely upon you," he said, "whether i may have the happiness of returning soon to noningsby." "on me, mr. orme!" "yes, on you. i do not know how to speak properly that which i have to say; but i believe i may as well say it out at once. i have come here now to tell you that i love you and to ask you to be my wife." and then he stopped as though there were nothing more for him to say upon the matter. it would be hardly extravagant to declare that madeline's breath was taken away by the very sudden manner in which young orme had made his proposition. it had never entered her head that she had an admirer in him. previously to graham's accident she had thought nothing about him. since that event she had thought about him a good deal; but altogether as of a friend of graham's. he had been good and kind to graham, and therefore she had liked him and had talked to him. he had never said a word to her that had taught her to regard him as a possible lover; and now that he was an actual lover, a declared lover standing before her, waiting for an answer, she was so astonished that she did not know how to speak. all her ideas too, as to love,--such ideas as she had ever formed, were confounded by his abruptness. she would have thought, had she brought herself absolutely to think upon it, that all speech of love should be very delicate; that love should grow slowly, and then be whispered softly, doubtingly, and with infinite care. even had she loved him, or had she been in the way towards loving him, such violence as this would have frightened her and scared her love away. poor peregrine! his intentions had been so good and honest! he was so true and hearty, and free from all conceit in the matter! it was a pity that he should have marred his cause by such ill judgment. but there he stood waiting an answer,--and expecting it to be as open, definite, and plain as though he had asked her to take a walk with him. "madeline," he said, stretching out his hand when he perceived that she did not speak to him at once. "there is my hand. if it be possible give me yours." "oh, mr. orme!" "i know that i have not said what i had to say very--very gracefully. but you will not regard that i think. you are too good, and too true." she had now seated herself, and he was standing before her. she had retreated to a sofa in order to avoid the hand which he had offered her; but he followed her, and even yet did not know that he had no chance of success. "mr. orme," she said at last, speaking hardly above her breath, "what has made you do this?" "what has made me do it? what has made me tell you that i love you?" "you cannot be in earnest!" "not in earnest! by heavens, miss staveley, no man who has said the same words was ever more in earnest. do you doubt me when i tell you that i love you?" "oh, i am so sorry!" and then she hid her face upon the arm of the sofa and burst into tears. peregrine stood there, like a prisoner on his trial, waiting for a verdict. he did not know how to plead his cause with any further language; and indeed no further language could have been of any avail. the judge and jury were clear against him, and he should have known the sentence without waiting to have it pronounced in set terms. but in plain words he had made his offer, and in plain words he required that an answer should be given to him. "well," he said, "will you not speak to me? will you not tell me whether it shall be so?" "no,--no,--no," she said. "you mean that you cannot love me." and as he said this the agony of his tone struck her ear and made her feel that he was suffering. hitherto she had thought only of herself, and had hardly recognised it as a fact that he could be thoroughly in earnest. "mr. orme, i am very sorry. do not speak as though you were angry with me. but--" "but you cannot love me?" and then he stood again silent, for there was no reply. "is it that, miss staveley, that you mean to answer? if you say that with positive assurance, i will trouble you no longer." poor peregrine! he was but an unskilled lover! "no!" she sobbed forth through her tears; but he had so framed his question that he hardly knew what no meant. "do you mean that you cannot love me, or may i hope that a day will come--? may i speak to you again--?" "oh, no, no! i can answer you now. it grieves me to the heart. i know you are so good. but, mr. orme--" "well--" "it can never, never be." "and i must take that as answer?" "i can make no other." he still stood before her,--with gloomy and almost angry brow, could she have seen him; and then he thought he would ask her whether there was any other love which had brought about her scorn for him. it did not occur to him, at the first moment, that in doing so he would insult and injure her. "at any rate i am not flattered by a reply which is at once so decided," he began by saying. "oh! mr. orme, do not make me more unhappy--" "but perhaps i am too late. perhaps--" then he remembered himself and paused. "never mind," he said, speaking to himself rather than to her. "good-bye, miss staveley. you will at any rate say good-bye to me. i shall go at once now." "go at once! go away, mr. orme?" "yes; why should i stay here? do you think that i could sit down to table with you all after that? i will ask your brother to explain my going; i shall find him in his room. good-bye." she took his hand mechanically, and then he left her. when she came down to dinner she looked furtively round to his place and saw that it was vacant. chapter xxxi. footsteps in the corridor. "upon my word i am very sorry," said the judge. "but what made him go off so suddenly? i hope there's nobody ill at the cleeve!" and then the judge took his first spoonful of soup. "no, no; there is nothing of that sort," said augustus. "his grandfather wants him, and orme thought he might as well start at once. he was always a sudden harum-scarum fellow like that." "he's a very pleasant, nice young man," said lady staveley; "and never gives himself any airs. i like him exceedingly." poor madeline did not dare to look either at her mother or her brother, but she would have given much to know whether either of them were aware of the cause which had sent peregrine orme so suddenly away from the house. at first she thought that augustus surely did know, and she was wretched as she thought that he might probably speak to her on the subject. but he went on talking about orme and his abrupt departure till she became convinced that he knew nothing and suspected nothing of what had occurred. but her mother said never a word after that eulogium which she had uttered, and madeline read that eulogium altogether aright. it said to her ears that if ever young orme should again come forward with his suit, her mother would be prepared to receive him as a suitor; and it said, moreover, that if that suitor had been already sent away by any harsh answer, she would not sympathise with that harshness. the dinner went on much as usual, but madeline could not bring herself to say a word. she sat between her brother-in-law, mr. arbuthnot, on one side, and an old friend of her father's, of thirty years' standing, on the other. the old friend talked exclusively to lady staveley, and mr. arbuthnot, though he now and then uttered a word or two, was chiefly occupied with his dinner. during the last three or four days she had sat at dinner next to peregrine orme, and it seemed to her now that she always had been able to talk to him. she had liked him so much too! was it not a pity that he should have been so mistaken! and then as she sat after dinner, eating five or six grapes, she felt that she was unable to recall her spirits and look and speak as she was wont to do: a thing had happened which had knocked the ground from under her--had thrown her from her equipoise, and now she lacked the strength to recover herself and hide her dismay. after dinner, while the gentlemen were still in the dining-room, she got a book, and nobody disturbed her as she sat alone pretending to read it. there never had been any intimate friendship between her and miss furnival, and that young lady was now employed in taking the chief part in a general conversation about wools. lady staveley got through a good deal of wool in the course of the year, as also did the wife of the old thirty-years' friend; but miss furnival, short as her experience had been, was able to give a few hints to them both, and did not throw away the occasion. there was another lady there, rather deaf, to whom mrs. arbuthnot devoted herself, and therefore madeline was allowed to be alone. then the men came in, and she was obliged to come forward and officiate at the tea-table. the judge insisted on having the teapot and urn brought into the drawing-room, and liked to have his cup brought to him by one of his own daughters. so she went to work and made the tea; but still she felt that she scarcely knew how to go through her task. what had happened to her that she should be thus beside herself, and hardly capable of refraining from open tears? she knew that her mother was looking at her, and that now and again little things were done to give her ease if any ease were possible. "is anything the matter with my madeline?" said her father, looking up into her face, and holding the hand from which he had taken his cup. "no, papa; only i have got a headache." "a headache, dear; that's not usual with you." "i have seen that she has not been well all the evening," said lady staveley; "but i thought that perhaps she might shake it off. you had better go, my dear, if you are suffering. isabella, i'm sure, will pour out the tea for us." and so she got away, and skulked slowly up stairs to her own room. she felt that it was skulking. why should she have been so weak as to have fled in that way? she had no headache--nor was it heartache that had now upset her. but a man had spoken to her openly of love, and no man had ever so spoken to her before. she did not go direct to her own chamber, but passed along the corridor towards her mother's dressing-room. it was always her custom to remain there some half-hour before she went to bed, doing little things for her mother, and chatting with any other girl who might be intimate enough to be admitted there. now she might remain there for an hour alone without danger of being disturbed; and she thought to herself that she would remain there till her mother came, and then unburthen herself of the whole story. as she went along the corridor she would have to pass the room which had been given up to felix graham. she saw that the door was ajar, and as she came close up to it, she found the nurse in the act of coming out from the room. mrs. baker had been a very old servant in the judge's family, and had known madeline from the day of her birth. her chief occupation for some years had been nursing when there was anybody to nurse, and taking a general care and surveillance of the family's health when there was no special invalid to whom she could devote herself. since graham's accident she had been fully employed, and had greatly enjoyed the opportunities it had given her. mrs. baker was in the doorway as madeline attempted to pass by on tiptoe. "oh, he's a deal better now, miss madeline, so that you needn't be afeard of disturbing;--ain't you, mr. graham?" so she was thus brought into absolute contact with her friend, for the first time since he had hurt himself. [illustration: footsteps in the corridor.] "indeed i am," said felix; "i only wish they'd let me get up and go down stairs. is that miss staveley, mrs. baker?" "yes, sure. come, my dear, he's got his dressing-gown on, and you may just come to the door and ask him how he does." "i am very glad to hear that you are so much better, mr. graham," said madeline, standing in the doorway with averted eyes, and speaking with a voice so low that it only just reached his ears. "thank you, miss staveley; i shall never know how to express what i feel for you all." "and there's none of 'em have been more anxious about you than she, i can tell you; and none of 'em ain't kinder-hearteder," said mrs. baker. "i hope you will be up soon and be able to come down to the drawing-room," said madeline. and then she did glance round, and for a moment saw the light of his eye as he sat upright in the bed. he was still pale and thin, or at least she fancied so, and her heart trembled within her as she thought of the danger he had passed. "i do so long to be able to talk to you again; all the others come and visit me, but i have only heard the sounds of your footsteps as you pass by." "and yet she always walks like a mouse," said mrs. baker. "but i have always heard them," he said. "i hope marian thanked you for the books. she told me how you had gotten them for me." "she should not have said anything about them; it was augustus who thought of them," said madeline. "marian comes to me four or five times a day," he continued; "i do not know what i should do without her." "i hope she is not noisy," said madeline. "laws, miss, he don't care for noise now, only he ain't good at moving yet, and won't be for some while." "pray take care of yourself, mr. graham," she said; "i need not tell you how anxious we all are for your recovery. good night, mr. graham." and then she passed on to her mother's dressing-room, and sitting herself down in an arm-chair opposite to the fire began to think--to think, or else to try to think. and what was to be the subject of her thoughts? regarding peregrine orme there was very little room for thinking. he had made her an offer, and she had rejected it as a matter of course, seeing that she did not love him. she had no doubt on that head, and was well aware that she could never accept such an offer. on what subject then was it necessary that she should think? how odd it was that mr. graham's room door should have been open on this especial evening, and that nurse should have been standing there, ready to give occasion for that conversation! that was the idea that first took possession of her brain. and then she recounted all those few words which had been spoken as though they had had some special value--as though each word had been laden with interest. she felt half ashamed of what she had done in standing there and speaking at his bedroom door, and yet she would not have lost the chance for worlds. there had been nothing in what had passed between her and the invalid. the very words, spoken elsewhere, or in the presence of her mother and sister, would have been insipid and valueless; and yet she sat there feeding on them as though they were of flavour so rich that she could not let the sweetness of them pass from her. she had been stunned at the idea of poor peregrine's love, and yet she never asked herself what was this new feeling. she did not inquire--not yet at least--whether there might be danger in such feelings. she remained there, with eyes fixed on the burning coals, till her mother came up. "what, madeline," said lady staveley, "are you here still? i was in hopes you would have been in bed before this." "my headache is gone now, mamma; and i waited because--" "well, dear; because what?" and her mother came and stood over her and smoothed her hair. "i know very well that something has been the matter. there has been something; eh, madeline?" "yes, mamma." "and you have remained up that we may talk about it. is that it, dearest?" "i did not quite mean that, but perhaps it will be best. i can't be doing wrong, mamma, in telling you." "well; you shall judge of that yourself;" and lady staveley sat down on the sofa so that she was close to the chair which madeline still occupied. "as a general rule i suppose you could not be doing wrong; but you must decide. if you have any doubt, wait till to-morrow." "no, mamma; i will tell you now. mr. orme--" "well, dearest. did mr. orme say anything specially to you before he went away?" "he--he--" "come to me, madeline, and sit here. we shall talk better then." and the mother made room beside her on the sofa for her daughter, and madeline, running over, leaned with her head upon her mother's shoulder. "well, darling; what did he say? did he tell you that he loved you?" "yes, mamma." "and you answered him--" "i could only tell him--" "yes, i know. poor fellow! but, madeline, is he not an excellent young man;--one, at any rate, that is lovable? of course in such a matter the heart must answer for itself. but i, looking at the offer as a mother--i could have been well pleased--" "but, mamma, i could not--" "well, love, there shall be an end of it; at least for the present. when i heard that he had gone suddenly away i thought that something had happened." "i am so sorry that he should be unhappy, for i know that he is good." "yes, he is good; and your father likes him, and augustus. in such a matter as this, madeline, i would never say a word to persuade you. i should think it wrong to do so. but it may be, dearest, that he has flurried you by the suddenness of his offer; and that you have not yet thought much about it." "but, mamma, i know that i do not love him." "of course. that is natural. it would have been a great misfortune if you had loved him before you had reason to know that he loved you;--a great misfortune. but now,--now that you cannot but think of him, now that you know what his wishes are, perhaps you may learn--" "but i have refused him, and he has gone away." "young gentlemen under such circumstances sometimes come back again." "he won't come back, mamma, because--because i told him so plainly--i am sure he understands that it is all to be at an end." "but if he should, and if you should then think differently towards him--" "oh, no!" "but if you should, it may be well that you should know how all your friends esteem him. in a worldly view the marriage would be in all respects prudent; and as to disposition and temper, which i admit are much more important, i confess i think that he has all the qualities best adapted to make a wife happy. but, as i said before, the heart must speak for itself." "yes; of course. and i know that i shall never love him;--not in that way." "you may be sure, dearest, that there will be no constraint put upon you. it might be possible that i or your papa should forbid a daughter's marriage, if she had proposed to herself an imprudent match; but neither he nor i would ever use our influence with a child to bring about a marriage because we think it prudent in a worldly point of view." and then lady staveley kissed her daughter. "dear mamma, i know how good you are to me." and she answered her mother's embrace by the pressure of her arm. but nevertheless she did not feel herself to be quite comfortable. there was something in the words which her mother had spoken which grated against her most cherished feelings;--something, though she by no means knew what. why had her mother cautioned her in that way, that there might be a case in which she would refuse her sanction to a proposed marriage? isabella's marriage had been concluded with the full agreement of the whole family; and she, madeline, had certainly never as yet given cause either to father or mother to suppose that she would be headstrong and imprudent. might not the caution have been omitted?--or was it intended to apply in any way to circumstances as they now existed? "you had better go now, dearest," said lady staveley, "and for the present we will not think any more about this gallant young knight." and then madeline, having said good night, went off rather crestfallen to her own room. in doing so she again had to pass graham's door, and as she went by it, walking not quite on tiptoe, she could not help asking herself whether or no he would really recognise the sound of her footsteps. it is hardly necessary to say that lady staveley had conceived to herself a recognised purpose in uttering that little caution to her daughter; and she would have been quite as well pleased had circumstances taken felix graham out of her house instead of peregrine orme. but felix graham must necessarily remain for the next fortnight, and there could be no possible benefit in orme's return, at any rate till graham should have gone. chapter xxxii. what bridget bolster had to say. it has been said in the earlier pages of this story that there was no prettier scenery to be found within thirty miles of london than that by which the little town of hamworth was surrounded. this was so truly the case that hamworth was full of lodgings which in the autumn season were always full of lodgers. the middle of winter was certainly not the time for seeing the hamworth hills to advantage; nevertheless it was soon after christmas that two rooms were taken there by a single gentleman who had come down for a week, apparently with no other view than that of enjoying himself. he did say something about london confinement and change of air; but he was manifestly in good health, had an excellent appetite, said a great deal about fresh eggs,--which at that time of the year was hardly reasonable, and brought with him his own pale brandy. this gentleman was mr. crabwitz. the house at which he was to lodge had been selected with considerable judgment. it was kept by a tidy old widow known as mrs. trump; but those who knew anything of hamworth affairs were well aware that mrs. trump had been left without a shilling, and could not have taken that snug little house in paradise row and furnished it completely, out of her own means. no. mrs. trump's lodging-house was one of the irons which samuel dockwrath ever kept heating in the fire, for the behoof of those fourteen children. he had taken a lease of the house in paradise row, having made a bargain and advanced a few pounds while it was yet being built; and he then had furnished it and put in mrs. trump. mrs. trump received from him wages and a percentage; but to him were paid over the quota of shillings per week in consideration for which the lodgers were accommodated. all of which mr. crabwitz had ascertained before he located himself in paradise row. and when he had so located himself he soon began to talk to mrs. trump about mr. dockwrath. he himself, as he told her in confidence, was in the profession of the law; he had heard of mr. dockwrath, and should be very glad if that gentleman would come over and take a glass of brandy and water with him some evening. "and a very clever sharp gentleman he is," said mrs. trump. "with a tolerably good business, i suppose?" asked crabwitz. "pretty fair for that, sir. but he do be turning his hand to everything. he's a mortal long family of his own, and he has need of it all, if it's ever so much. but he'll never be poor for the want of looking after it." but mr. dockwrath did not come near his lodger on the first evening, and mr. crabwitz made acquaintance with mrs. dockwrath before he saw her husband. the care of the fourteen children was not supposed to be so onerous but that she could find a moment now and then to see whether mrs. trump kept the furniture properly dusted, and did not infringe any of the dockwrathian rules. these were very strict; and whenever they were broken it was on the head of mrs. dockwrath that the anger of the ruler mainly fell. "i hope you find everything comfortable, sir," said poor miriam, having knocked at the sitting-room door when crabwitz had just finished his dinner. "yes, thank you; very nice. is that mrs. dockwrath?" "yes, sir. i'm mrs. dockwrath. as it's we who own the room i looked in to see if anything's wanting." "you are very kind. no; nothing is wanting. but i should be delighted to make your acquaintance if you would stay for a moment. might i ask you to take a chair?" and mr. crabwitz handed her one. "thank you; no, sir i won't intrude." "not at all, mrs. dockwrath. but the fact is, i'm a lawyer myself, and i should be so glad to become known to your husband. i have heard a great deal of his name lately as to a rather famous case in which he is employed." "not the orley farm case?" said mrs. dockwrath immediately. "yes, yes; exactly." "and is he going on with that, sir?" asked mrs. dockwrath with great interest. "is he not? i know nothing about it myself, but i always supposed that such was the case. if i had such a wife as you, mrs. dockwrath, i should not leave her in doubt as to what i was doing in my own profession." "i know nothing about it, mr. cooke;"--for it was as mr. cooke that he now sojourned at hamworth. not that it should be supposed he had received instructions from mr. furnival to come down to that place under a false name. from mr. furnival he had received no further instructions on that matter than those conveyed at the end of a previous chapter. "i know nothing about it, mr. cooke; and don't want to know generally. but i am anxious about this orley farm case. i do hope that he's going to drop it." and then mr. crabwitz elicited her view of the case with great ease. on that evening, about nine, mr. dockwrath did go over to paradise row, and did allow himself to be persuaded to mix a glass of brandy and water and light a cigar. "my missus tells me, sir, that you belong to the profession as well as myself." "oh yes; i'm a lawyer, mr. dockwrath." "practising in town as an attorney, sir?" "not as an attorney on my own hook exactly. i chiefly employ my time in getting up cases for barristers. there's a good deal done in that way." "oh, indeed," said mr. dockwrath, beginning to feel himself the bigger man of the two; and from that moment he patronised his companion instead of allowing himself to be patronised. this went against the grain with mr. crabwitz, but, having an object to gain, he bore it. "we hear a great deal up in london just at present about this orley farm case, and i always hear your name as connected with it. i had no idea when i was taking these lodgings that i was coming into a house belonging to that mr. dockwrath." "the same party, sir," said mr. dockwrath, blowing the smoke out of his mouth as he looked up to the ceiling. and then by degrees mr. crabwitz drew him into conversation. dockwrath was by nature quite as clever a man as crabwitz, and in such a matter as this was not one to be outwitted easily; but in truth he had no objection to talk about the orley farm case. "i have taken it up on public motives, mr. cooke," he said, "and i mean to go through with it." "oh, of course; in such a case as that you will no doubt go through with it?" "that's my intention, i assure you. and i tell you what; young mason,--that's the son of the widow of the old man who made the will--" "or rather who did not make it, as you say." "yes, yes; he made the will; but he did not make the codicil--and that young mason has no more right to the property than you have." "hasn't he now?" "no; and i can prove it too." "well; the general opinion in the profession is that lady mason will stand her ground and hold her own. i don't know what the points are myself, but i have heard it discussed, and that is certainly what people think." "then people will find that they are very much mistaken." "i was talking to one of round's young men about it, and i fancy they are not very sanguine." "i do not care a fig for round or his young men. it would be quite as well for joseph mason if round and crook gave up the matter altogether. it lies in a nutshell, and the truth must come out whatever round and crook may choose to say. and i'll tell you more--old furnival, big a man as he thinks himself, cannot save her." "has he anything to do with it?" asked mr. cooke. "yes; the sly old fox. my belief is that only for him she'd give up the battle, and be down on her marrow-bones asking for mercy." "she'd have little chance of mercy, from what i hear of joseph mason." "she'd have to give up the property of course. and even then i don't know whether he'd let her off. by heavens! he couldn't let her off unless i chose." and then by degrees he told mr. cooke some of the circumstances of the case. but it was not till the fourth evening that mr. dockwrath spent with his lodger that the intimacy had so far progressed as to enable mr. crabwitz to proceed with his little scheme. on that day mr. dockwrath had received a notice that at noon on the following morning mr. joseph mason and bridget bolster would both be at the house of messrs. round and crook in bedford row, and that he could attend at that hour if it so pleased him. it certainly would so please him, he said to himself when he got that letter; and in the evening he mentioned to his new friend the business which was taking him to london. "if i might advise you in the matter, mr. dockwrath," said crabwitz, "i should stay away altogether." "and why so?" "because that's not your market. this poor devil of a woman--for she is a poor devil of a woman--" "she'll be poor enough before long." "it can't be any gratification to you running her down." "ah, but the justice of the thing." "bother. you're talking now to a man of the world. who can say what is the justice or the injustice of anything after twenty years of possession? i have no doubt the codicil did express the old man's wish,--even from your own story. but of course you are looking for your market. now it seems to me that there's a thousand pounds in your way as clear as daylight." "i don't see it myself, mr. cooke." "no; but i do. the sort of thing is done every day. you have your father-in-law's office journal?" "safe enough." "burn it;--or leave it about in these rooms like;--so that somebody else may burn it." "i'd like to see the thousand pounds first." "of course you'd do nothing till you knew about that;--nothing except keeping away from round and crook to-morrow. the money would be forthcoming if the trial were notoriously dropped by next assizes." dockwrath sat thinking for a minute or two, and every moment of thought made him feel more strongly that he could not now succeed in the manner pointed out by mr. cooke. "but where would be the market you are talking of?" said he. "i could manage that," said crabwitz. "and go shares in the business?" "no, no; nothing of the sort." and then he added, remembering that he must show that he had some personal object, "if i got a trifle in the matter it would not come out of your allowance." the attorney again sat silent for a while, and now he remained so for full five minutes, during which mr. crabwitz puffed the smoke from between his lips with a look of supreme satisfaction. "may i ask," at last mr. dockwrath said, "whether you have any personal interest in this matter?" "none in the least;--that is to say, none as yet." "you did not come down here with any view--" "oh dear no; nothing of the sort. but i see at a glance that it is one of those cases in which a compromise would be the most judicious solution of difficulties. i am well used to this kind of thing, mr. dockwrath." "it would not do, sir," said mr. dockwrath, after some further slight period of consideration. "it wouldn't do. round and crook have all the dates, and so has mason too. and the original of that partnership deed is forthcoming; and they know what witnesses to depend on. no, sir; i've begun this on public grounds, and i mean to carry it on. i am in a manner bound to do so as the representative of the attorney of the late sir joseph mason;--and by heavens, mr. cooke, i'll do my duty." "i dare say you're right," said mr. crabwitz, mixing a quarter of a glass more brandy and water. "i know i'm right, sir," said dockwrath. "and when a man knows he's right, he has a deal of inward satisfaction in the feeling." after that mr. crabwitz was aware that he could be of no use at hamworth, but he stayed out his week in order to avoid suspicion. on the following day mr. dockwrath did proceed to bedford row, determined to carry out his original plan, and armed with that inward satisfaction to which he had alluded. he dressed himself in his best, and endeavoured as far as was in his power to look as though he were equal to the messrs. round. old crook he had seen once, and him he already despised. he had endeavoured to obtain a private interview with mrs. bolster before she could be seen by matthew round; but in this he had not succeeded. mrs. bolster was a prudent woman, and, acting doubtless under advice, had written to him, saying that she had been summoned to the office of messrs. round and crook, and would there declare all that she knew about the matter. at the same time she returned to him a money order which he had sent to her. punctually at twelve he was in bedford row, and there he saw a respectable-looking female sitting at the fire in the inner part of the outer office. this was bridget bolster, but he would by no means have recognised her. bridget had risen in the world and was now head chambermaid at a large hotel in the west of england. in that capacity she had laid aside whatever diffidence may have afflicted her earlier years, and was now able to speak out her mind before any judge or jury in the land. indeed she had never been much afflicted by such diffidence, and had spoken out her evidence on that former occasion, now twenty years since, very plainly. but as she now explained to the head clerk, she had at that time been only a poor ignorant slip of a girl, with no more than eight pounds a year wages. dockwrath bowed to the head clerk, and passed on to mat round's private room. "mr. matthew is inside, i suppose," said he, and hardly waiting for permission he knocked at the door, and then entered. there he saw mr. matthew round, sitting in his comfortable arm-chair, and opposite to him sat mr. mason of groby park. mr. mason got up and shook hands with the hamworth attorney, but round junior made his greeting without rising, and merely motioned his visitor to a chair. "mr. mason and the young ladies are quite well, i hope?" said mr. dockwrath, with a smile. "quite well, i thank you," said the county magistrate. "this matter has progressed since i last had the pleasure of seeing them. you begin to think i was right; eh, mr. mason?" "don't let us triumph till we are out of the wood," said mr. round. "it is a deal easier to spend money in such an affair as this than it is to make money by it. however we shall hear to-day more about it." "i do not know about making money," said mr. mason, very solemnly. "but that i have been robbed by that woman out of my just rights in that estate for the last twenty years,--that i may say i do know." "quite true, mr. mason; quite true," said mr. dockwrath with considerable energy. "and whether i make money or whether i lose money i intend to proceed in this matter. it is dreadful to think that in this free and enlightened country so abject an offender should have been able to hold her head up so long without punishment and without disgrace." "that is exactly what i feel," said dockwrath. "the very stones and trees of hamworth cry out against her." "gentlemen," said mr. round, "we have first to see whether there has been any injustice or not. if you will allow me i will explain to you what i now propose to do." "proceed, sir," said mr. mason, who was by no means satisfied with his young attorney. "bridget bolster is now in the next room, and as far as i can understand the case at present, she would be the witness on whom your case, mr. mason, would most depend. the man kenneby i have not yet seen; but from what i understand he is less likely to prove a willing witness than mrs. bolster." "i cannot go along with you there, mr. round," said dockwrath. "excuse me, sir, but i am only stating my opinion. if i should find that this woman is unable to say that she did not sign two separate documents on that day--that is, to say so with a positive and point blank assurance, i shall recommend you, as my client, to drop the prosecution." "i will never drop it," said mr. mason. "you will do as you please," continued round; "i can only say what under such circumstances will be the advice given to you by this firm. i have talked the matter over very carefully with my father and with our other partner, and we shall not think well of going on with it unless i shall now find that your view is strongly substantiated by this woman." then outspoke mr. dockwrath, "under these circumstances, mr. mason, if i were you, i should withdraw from the house at once. i certainly would not have my case blown upon." "mr. mason, sir, will do as he pleases about that. as long as the business with which he honours us is straight-forward, we will do it for him, as for an old client, although it is not exactly in our own line. but we can only do it in accordance with our own judgment. i will proceed to explain what i now propose to do. the woman bolster is in the next room, and i, with the assistance of my head clerk, will take down the headings of what evidence she can give." "in our presence, sir," said mr. dockwrath; "or if mr. mason should decline, at any rate in mine." "by no means, mr. dockwrath," said round. "i think mr. dockwrath should hear her story," said mr. mason. "he certainly will not do so in this house or in conjunction with me. in what capacity should he be present, mr. mason?" "as one of mr. mason's legal advisers," said dockwrath. "if you are to be one of them, messrs. round and crook cannot be the others. i think i explained that to you before. it now remains for mr. mason to say whether he wishes to employ our firm in this matter or not. and i can tell him fairly," mr. round added this after a slight pause, "that we shall be rather pleased than otherwise if he will put the case into other hands." "of course i wish you to conduct it," said mr. mason, who, with all his bitterness against the present holders of orley farm, was afraid of throwing himself into the hands of dockwrath. he was not an ignorant man, and he knew that the firm of round and crook bore a high reputation before the world. "then," said round, "i must do my business in accordance with my own views of what is right. i have reason to believe that no one has yet tampered with this woman," and as he spoke he looked hard at dockwrath, "though probably attempts may have been made." "i don't know who should tamper with her," said dockwrath, "unless it be lady mason--whom i must say you seem very anxious to protect." "another word like that, sir, and i shall be compelled to ask you to leave the house. i believe that this woman has been tampered with by no one. i will now learn from her what is her remembrance of the circumstances as they occurred twenty years since, and i will then read to you her deposition. i shall be sorry, gentlemen, to keep you here, perhaps for an hour or so, but you will find the morning papers on the table." and then mr. round, gathering up certain documents, passed into the outer office, and mr. mason and mr. dockwrath were left alone. "he is determined to get that woman off," said mr. dockwrath, in a whisper. "i believe him to be an honest man," said mr. mason, with some sternness. "honesty, sir! it is hard to say what is honesty and what is dishonesty. would you believe it, mr. mason, only last night i had a thousand pounds offered me to hold my tongue about this affair?" mr. mason at the moment did not believe this, but he merely looked hard into his companion's face, and said nothing. "by the heavens above us what i tell you is true! a thousand pounds, mr. mason! only think how they are going it to get this thing stifled. and where should the offer come from but from those who know i have the power?" "do you mean to say that the offer came from this firm?" "hush-sh, mr. mason. the very walls hear and talk in such a place as this. i'm not to know who made the offer, and i don't know. but a man can give a very good guess sometimes. the party who was speaking to me is up to the whole transaction, and knows exactly what is going on here--here, in this house. he let it all out, using pretty nigh the same words as round used just now. he was full about the doubt that round and crook felt--that they'd never pull it through. i'll tell you what it is, mr. mason, they don't mean to pull it through." "what answer did you make to the man?" "what answer! why i just put my thumb this way over my shoulder. no, mr. mason, if i can't carry on without bribery and corruption, i won't carry on at all. he'd called at the wrong house with that dodge, and so he soon found." "and you think he was an emissary from messrs. round and crook?" "hush-sh-sh. for heaven's sake, mr. mason, do be a little lower. you can put two and two together as well as i can, mr. mason. i find they make four. i don't know whether your calculation will be the same. my belief is, that these people are determined to save that woman. don't you see it in that young fellow's eye--that his heart is all on the other side. now he's got hold of that woman bolster, and he'll teach her to give such evidence as will upset us. but i'll be even with him yet, mr. mason. if you'll only trust me, we'll both be even with him yet." mr. mason at the present moment said nothing further, and when dockwrath pressed him to continue the conversation in whispers, he distinctly said that he would rather say no more upon the subject just then. he would wait for mr. round's return. "am i at liberty," he asked, "to mention that offer of the thousand pounds?" "what--to mat round?" said dockwrath. "certainly not, mr. mason. it wouldn't be our game at all." "very well, sir." and then mr. mason took up a newspaper, and no further words were spoken till the door opened and mr. round re-entered the room. this he did with slow, deliberate step, and stopping on the hearth-rug, he stood leaning with his back against the mantelpiece. it was clear from his face to see that he had much to tell, and clear also that he was not pleased at the turn which affairs were taking. "well, gentlemen, i have examined the woman," he said, "and here is her deposition." "and what does she say?" asked mr. mason. "come, out with it, sir," said dockwrath. "did she, or did she not sign two documents on that day?" "mr. mason," said round, turning to that gentleman, and altogether ignoring dockwrath and his question; "i have to tell you that her statement, as far as it goes, fully corroborates your view of the case. as far as it goes, mind you." "oh, it does; does it?" said dockwrath. "and she is the only important witness?" said mr. mason with great exultation. "i have never said that; what i did say was this--that your case must break down unless her evidence supported it. it does support it--strongly; but you will want more than that." "and now if you please, mr. round, what is it that she has deposed?" asked dockwrath. "she remembers it all then?" said mason. "she is a remarkably clear-headed woman, and apparently does remember a great deal. but her remembrance chiefly and most strongly goes to this--that she witnessed only one deed." "she can prove that, can she?" said mason, and the tone of his voice was loudly triumphant. "she declares that she never signed but one deed in the whole of her life--either on that day or on any other; and over and beyond this she says now--now that i have explained to her what that other deed might have been--that old mr. usbech told her that it was about a partnership." "he did, did he?" said dockwrath, rising from his chair and clapping his hands. "very well. i don't think we shall want more than that, mr. mason." there was a tone of triumph in the man's voice, and a look of gratified malice in his countenance which disgusted mr. round and irritated him almost beyond his power of endurance. it was quite true that he would much have preferred to find that the woman's evidence was in favour of lady mason. he would have been glad to learn that she actually had witnessed the two deeds on the same day. his tone would have been triumphant, and his face gratified, had he returned to the room with such tidings. his feelings were all on that side, though his duty lay on the other. he had almost expected that it would be so. as it was, he was prepared to go on with his duty, but he was not prepared to endure the insolence of mr. dockwrath. there was a look of joy also about mr. mason which added to his annoyance. it might be just and necessary to prosecute that unfortunate woman at orley farm, but he could not gloat over such work. "mr. dockwrath," he said, "i will not put up with such conduct here. if you wish to rejoice about this, you must go elsewhere." "and what are we to do now?" said mr. mason. "i presume there need be no further delay." "i must consult with my partner. if you can make it convenient to call this day week--" "but she will escape." "no, she will not escape. i shall not be ready to say anything before that. if you are not in town, then i can write to you." and so the meeting was broken up, and mr. mason and mr. dockwrath left the lawyer's office together. mr. mason and mr. dockwrath left the office in bedford row together, and thus it was almost a necessity that they should walk together for some distance through the streets. mr. mason was going to his hotel in soho square, and mr. dockwrath turned with him through the passage leading into red lion square, linking his own arm in that of his companion. the yorkshire county magistrate did not quite like this, but what was he to do? "did you ever see anything like that, sir?" said mr. dockwrath; "for by heavens i never did." "like what?" said mr. mason. "like that fellow there;--that round. it is my opinion that he deserves to have his name struck from the rolls. is it not clear that he is doing all in his power to bring that wretched woman off? and i'll tell you what, mr. mason, if you let him play his own game in that way, he will bring her off." "but he expressly admitted that this woman bolster's evidence is conclusive." "yes; he was so driven into a corner that he could not help admitting that. the woman had been too many for him, and he found that he couldn't cushion her. but do you mind my words, mr. mason. he intends that you shall be beaten. it's as plain as the nose on your face. you can read it in the very look of him, and in every tone of his voice. at any rate i can. i'll tell you what it is"--and then he squeezed very close to mr. mason--"he and old furnival understand each other in this matter like two brothers. of course round will have his bill against you. win or lose, he'll get his costs out of your pocket. but he can make a deuced pretty thing out of the other side as well. let me tell you, mr. mason, that when notes for a thousand pounds are flying here and there, it isn't every lawyer that will see them pass by him without opening his hand." "i do not think that mr. round would take a bribe," said mr. mason very stiffly. "wouldn't he? just as a hound would a pat of butter. it's your own look-out, you know, mr. mason. i haven't got an estate of twelve hundred a year depending on it. but remember this;--if she escapes now, orley farm is gone for ever." all this was extremely disagreeable to mr. mason. in the first place he did not at all like the tone of equality which the hamworth attorney had adopted; he did not like to acknowledge that his affairs were in any degree dependent on a man of whom he thought so badly as he did of mr. dockwrath; he did not like to be told that round and crook were rogues,--round and crook whom he had known all his life; but least of all did he like the feeling of suspicion with which, in spite of himself, this man had imbued him, or the fear that his victim might at last escape him. excellent, therefore, as had been the evidence with which bridget bolster had declared herself ready to give in his favour, mr. mason was not a contented man when he sat down to his solitary beefsteak in soho square. chapter xxxiii. the angel of light. in speaking of the character and antecedents of felix graham i have said that he was moulding a wife for himself. the idea of a wife thus moulded to fit a man's own grooves, and educated to suit matrimonial purposes according to the exact views of the future husband was by no means original with him. other men have moulded their wives, but i do not know that as a rule the practice has been found to answer. it is open, in the first place, to this objection,--that the moulder does not generally conceive such idea very early in life, and the idea when conceived must necessarily be carried out on a young subject. such a plan is the result of much deliberate thought, and has generally arisen from long observation, on the part of the thinker, of the unhappiness arising from marriages in which there has been no moulding. such a frame of mind comes upon a bachelor, perhaps about his thirty-fifth year, and then he goes to work with a girl of fourteen. the operation takes some ten years, at the end of which the moulded bride regards her lord as an old man. on the whole i think that the ordinary plan is the better, and even the safer. dance with a girl three times, and if you like the light of her eye and the tone of voice with which she, breathless, answers your little questions about horseflesh and music--about affairs masculine and feminine,--then take the leap in the dark. there is danger, no doubt; but the moulded wife is, i think, more dangerous. with felix graham the matter was somewhat different, seeing that he was not yet thirty, and that the lady destined to be the mistress of his family had already passed through three or four years of her noviciate. he had begun to be prudent early in life; or had become prudent rather by force of sentiment than by force of thought. mary snow was the name of his bride-elect; and it is probable that, had not circumstances thrown mary snow in his way, he would not have gone out of his way to seek a subject for his experiment. mary snow was the daughter of an engraver,--not of an artist who receives four or five thousand pounds for engraving the chef-d'oeuvre of a modern painter,--but of a man who executed flourishes on ornamental cards for tradespeople, and assisted in the illustration of circus playbills. with this man graham had become acquainted through certain transactions of his with the press, and had found him to be a widower, drunken, dissolute, and generally drowned in poverty. one child the man had, and that child was mary snow. how it came to pass that the young barrister first took upon himself the charge of maintaining and educating this poor child need not now be told. his motives had been thoroughly good, and in the matter he had endeavoured to act the part of a kind samaritan. he had found her pretty, half starved, dirty, ignorant, and modest; and so finding her had made himself responsible for feeding, cleaning, and teaching her,--and ultimately for marrying her. one would have said that in undertaking a task of such undoubted charity as that comprised in the three first charges, he would have encountered no difficulty from the drunken, dissolute, impoverished engraver. but the man from the beginning was cunning; and before graham had succeeded in obtaining the custody of the child, the father had obtained a written undertaking from him that he would marry her at a certain age if her conduct up to that age had been becoming. as to this latter stipulation no doubt had arisen; and indeed graham had so acted by her that had she fallen away the fault would have been all her own. there wanted now but one year to the coming of that day on which he was bound to make himself a happy man, and hitherto he himself had never doubted as to the accomplishment of his undertaking. he had told his friends,--those with whom he was really intimate, augustus staveley and one or two others,--what was to be his matrimonial lot in life; and they had ridiculed him for his quixotic chivalry. staveley especially had been strong in his conviction that no such marriage would ever take place, and had already gone so far as to plan another match for his friend. "you know you do not love her," he had said, since felix had been staying on this occasion at noningsby. "i know no such thing," felix had answered, almost in anger. "on the contrary i know that i do love her." "yes, as i love my niece marian, or old aunt bessy, who always supplied me with sugar-candy when i was a boy." "it is i that have supplied mary with her sugar-candy, and the love thus engendered is the stronger." "nevertheless you are not in love with her, and never will be, and if you marry her you will commit a great sin." "how moral you have grown!" "no, i'm not. i'm not a bit moral. but i know very well when a man is in love with a girl, and i know very well that you're not in love with mary snow. and i tell you what, my friend, if you do marry her you are done for life. there will absolutely be an end of you." "you mean to say that your royal highness will drop me." "i mean to say nothing about myself. my dropping you or not dropping you won't alter your lot in life. i know very well what a poor man wants to give him a start; and a fellow like you who has such quaint ideas on so many things requires all the assistance he can get. you should look out for money and connection." "sophia furnival, for instance." "no; she would not suit you. i perceive that now." "so i supposed. well, my dear fellow, we shall not come to loggerheads about that. she is a very fine girl, and you are welcome to the hatful of money--if you can get it." "that's nonsense. i'm not thinking of sophia furnival any more than you are. but if i did it would be a proper marriage. now--" and then he went on with some further very sage remarks about miss snow. all this was said as felix graham was lying with his broken bones in the comfortable room at noningsby; and to tell the truth, when it was so said his heart was not quite at ease about mary snow. up to this time, having long since made up his mind that mary should be his wife, he had never allowed his thoughts to be diverted from that purpose. nor did he so allow them now,--as long as he could prevent them from wandering. but, lying there at noningsby, thinking of those sweet christmas evenings, how was it possible that they should not wander? his friend had told him that he did not love mary snow; and then, when alone, he asked himself whether in truth he did love her. he had pledged himself to marry her, and he must carry out that pledge. but nevertheless did he love her? and if not her, did he love any other? mary snow knew very well what was to be her destiny, and indeed had known it for the last two years. she was now nineteen years old,--and madeline staveley was also nineteen; she was nineteen, and at twenty she was to become a wife, as by agreement between felix graham and mr. snow, the drunken engraver. they knew their destiny,--the future husband and the future wife,--and each relied with perfect faith on the good faith and affection of the other. graham, while he was thus being lectured by staveley, had under his pillow a letter from mary. he wrote to her regularly--on every sunday, and on every tuesday she answered him. nothing could be more becoming than the way she obeyed all his behests on such matters; and it really did seem that in his case the moulded wife would turn out to have been well moulded. when staveley left him he again read mary's letter. her letters were always of the same length, filling completely the four sides of a sheet of note paper. they were excellently well written; and as no one word in them was ever altered or erased, it was manifest enough to felix that the original composition was made on a rough draft. as he again read through the four sides of the little sheet of paper, he could not refrain from conjecturing what sort of a letter madeline staveley might write. mary snow's letter ran as follows:-- bloomfield terrace, peckham, tuesday, january, --. my dearest felix, --she had so called him for the last twelvemonth by common consent between graham and the very discreet lady under whose charge she at present lived. previously to that she had written to him as, my dear mr. graham. my dearest felix, i am very glad to hear that your arm and your two ribs are getting so much better. i received your letter yesterday, and was glad to hear that you are so comfortable in the house of the very kind people with whom you are staying. if i knew them i would send them my respectful remembrances, but as i do not know them i suppose it would not be proper. but i remember them in my prayers.-- this last assurance was inserted under the express instruction of mrs. thomas, who however did not read mary's letters, but occasionally, on some subjects, gave her hints as to what she ought to say. nor was there hypocrisy in this, for under the instruction of her excellent mentor she had prayed for the kind people.-- i hope you will be well enough to come and pay me a visit before long, but pray do not come before you are well enough to do so without giving yourself any pain. i am glad to hear that you do not mean to go hunting any more, for it seems to me to be a dangerous amusement. and then the first paragraph came to an end. my papa called here yesterday. he said he was very badly off indeed, and so he looked. i did not know what to say at first, but he asked me so much to give him some money, that i did give him at last all that i had. it was nineteen shillings and sixpence. mrs. thomas was angry, and told me i had no right to give away your money, and that i should not have given more than half a crown. i hope you will not be angry with me. i do not want any more at present. but indeed he was very bad, especially about his shoes. i do not know that i have any more to say except that i put back thirty lines of télémaque into french every morning before breakfast. it never comes near right, but nevertheless m. grigaud says it is well done. he says that if it came quite right i should compose french as well as m. fénelon, which of course i cannot expect. i will now say good-bye, and i am yours most affectionately, mary snow. there was nothing in this letter to give any offence to felix graham, and so he acknowledged to himself. he made himself so acknowledge, because on the first reading of it he had felt that he was half angry with the writer. it was clear that there was nothing in the letter which would justify censure;--nothing which did not, almost, demand praise. he would have been angry with her had she limited her filial donation to the half-crown which mrs. thomas had thought appropriate. he was obliged to her for that attention to her french which he had specially enjoined. nothing could be more proper than her allusion to the staveleys;--and altogether the letter was just what it ought to be. nevertheless it made him unhappy and irritated him. was it well that he should marry a girl whose father was "indeed very bad, but especially about his shoes?" staveley had told him that connection would be necessary for him, and what sort of a connection would this be? and was there one word in the whole letter that showed a spark of true love? did not the footfall of madeline staveley's step as she passed along the passage go nearer to his heart than all the outspoken assurance of mary snow's letter? nevertheless he had undertaken to do this thing, and he would do it,--let the footfall of madeline staveley's step be ever so sweet in his ear. and then, lying back in his bed, he began to think whether it would have been as well that he should have broken his neck instead of his ribs in getting out of monkton grange covert. mrs. thomas was a lady who kept a school consisting of three little girls and mary snow. she had in fact not been altogether successful in the line of life she had chosen for herself, and had hardly been able to keep her modest door-plate on her door, till graham, in search of some home for his bride, then in the first noviciate of her moulding, had come across her. her means were now far from plentiful; but as an average number of three children still clung to her, and as mary snow's seventy pounds per annum--to include clothes--were punctually paid, the small house at peckham was maintained. under these circumstances mary snow was somebody in the eyes of mrs. thomas, and felix graham was a very great person indeed. graham had received his letter on a wednesday, and on the following monday mary, as usual, received one from him. these letters always came to her in the evening, as she was sitting over her tea with mrs. thomas, the three children having been duly put to bed. graham's letters were very short, as a man with a broken right arm and two broken ribs is not fluent with his pen. but still a word or two did come to her. "dearest mary, i am doing better and better, and i hope i shall see you in about a fortnight. quite right in giving the money. stick to the french. your own f. g." but as he signed himself her own, his mind misgave him that he was lying. "it is very good of him to write to you while he is in such a state," said mrs. thomas. "indeed it is," said mary--"very good indeed." and then she went on with the history of "rasselas" in his happy valley, by which study mrs. thomas intended to initiate her into that course of novel-reading which has become necessary for a british lady. but mrs. thomas had a mind to improve the present occasion. it was her duty to inculcate in her pupil love and gratitude towards the beneficent man who was doing so much for her. gratitude for favours past and love for favours to come; and now, while that scrap of a letter was lying on the table, the occasion for doing so was opportune. "mary, i do hope you love mr. graham with all your heart and all your strength." she would have thought it wicked to say more; but so far she thought she might go, considering the sacred tie which was to exist between her pupil and the gentleman in question. "oh, yes, indeed i do;" and then mary's eyes fell wishfully on the cover of the book which lay in her lap while her finger kept the place. rasselas is not very exciting, but it was more so than mrs. thomas. "you would be very wicked if you did not. and i hope you think sometimes of the very responsible duties which a wife owes to her husband. and this will be more especially so with you than with any other woman--almost that i ever heard of." there was something in this that was almost depressing to poor mary's spirit, but nevertheless she endeavoured to bear up against it and do her duty. "i shall do all i can to please him, mrs. thomas;--and indeed i do try about the french. and he says i was right to give papa that money." "but there will be many more things than that when you've stood at the altar with him and become his wife;--bone of his bone, mary." and she spoke these last words in a very solemn tone, shaking her head, and the solemn tone almost ossified poor mary's heart as she heard it. "yes; i know there will. but i shall endeavour to find out what he likes." "i don't think he is so particular about his eating and drinking as some other gentlemen; though no doubt he will like his things nice." "i know he is fond of strong tea, and i sha'n't forget that." "and about dress. he is not very rich you know, mary; but it will make him unhappy if you are not always tidy. and his own shirts--i fancy he has no one to look after them now, for i so often see the buttons off. you should never let one of them go into his drawers without feeling them all to see that they're on tight." "i'll remember that," said mary, and then she made another little furtive attempt to open the book. "and about your own stockings, mary. nothing is so useful to a young woman in your position as a habit of darning neat. i'm sometimes almost afraid that you don't like darning." "oh yes i do." that was a fib; but what could she do, poor girl, when so pressed? "because i thought you would look at jane robinson's and julia wright's which are lying there in the basket. i did rebecca's myself before tea, till my old eyes were sore." "oh, i didn't know," said mary, with some slight offence in her tone. "why didn't you ask me to do them downright if you wanted?" "it's only for the practice it will give you." "practice! i'm always practising something." but nevertheless she laid down the book, and dragged the basket of work up on to the table. "why, mrs. thomas, it's impossible to mend these; they're all darn." "give them to me," said mrs. thomas. and then there was silence between them for a quarter of an hour during which mary's thoughts wandered away to the events of her future life. would his stockings be so troublesome as these? but mrs. thomas was at heart an honest woman, and as a rule was honest also in practice. her conscience told her that mr. graham might probably not approve of this sort of practice for conjugal duties, and in spite of her failing eyes she resolved to do her duty. "never mind them, mary," said she. "i remember now that you were doing your own before dinner." "of course i was," said mary sulkily. "and as for practice, i don't suppose he'll want me to do more of that than anything else." "well, dear, put them by." and miss snow did put them by, resuming rasselas as she did so. who darned the stockings of rasselas and felt that the buttons were tight on his shirts? what a happy valley must it have been if a bride expectant were free from all such cares as these! "i suppose, mary, it will be some time in the spring of next year." mrs. thomas was not reading, and therefore a little conversation from time to time was to her a solace. "what will be, mrs. thomas?" "why, the marriage." "i suppose it will. he told father it should be early in --, and i shall be past twenty then." "i wonder where you'll go to live." "i don't know. he has never said anything about that." "i suppose not; but i'm sure it will be a long way away from peckham." in answer to this mary said nothing, but could not help wishing that it might be so. peckham to her had not been a place bright with happiness, although she had become in so marked a way a child of good fortune. and then, moreover, she had a deep care on her mind with which the streets and houses and pathways of peckham were closely connected. it would be very expedient that she should go far, far away from peckham when she had become, in actual fact, the very wife of felix graham. "miss mary," whispered the red-armed maid of all work, creeping up to mary's bedroom door, when they had all retired for the night, and whispering through the chink. "miss mary. i've somethink to say." and mary opened the door. "i've got a letter from him;" and the maid of all work absolutely produced a little note enclosed in a green envelope. "sarah, i told you not," said mary, looking very stern and hesitating with her finger whether or no she would take the letter. "but he did so beg and pray. besides, miss, as he says hisself he must have his answer. any gen'leman, he says, 'as a right to a answer. and if you'd a seed him yourself i'm sure you'd have took it. he did look so nice with a blue and gold hankercher round his neck. he was a-going to the the-a-tre he said." "and who was going with him, sarah?" "oh, no one. only his mamma and sister, and them sort. he's all right--he is." and then mary snow did take the letter. "and i'll come for the answer when you're settling the room after breakfast to-morrow?" said the girl. "no; i don't know. i sha'n't send any answer at all. but, sarah, for heaven's sake, do not say a word about it!" "who, i? laws love you, miss. i wouldn't;--not for worlds of gold." and then mary was left alone to read a second letter from a second suitor. "angel of light!" it began, "but cold as your own fair name." poor mary thought it was very nice and very sweet, and though she was so much afraid of it that she almost wished it away, yet she read it a score of times. stolen pleasures always are sweet. she had not cared to read those two lines from her own betrothed lord above once, or at the most twice; and yet they had been written by a good man,--a man superlatively good to her, and written too with considerable pain. [illustration: the angel of light.] she sat down all trembling to think of what she was doing; and then, as she thought, she read the letter again. "angel of light! but cold as your own fair name." alas, alas! it was very sweet to her! chapter xxxiv. mr. furnival looks for assistance. "and you think that nothing can be done down there?" said mr. furnival to his clerk, immediately after the return of mr. crabwitz from hamworth to london. "nothing at all, sir," said mr. crabwitz, with laconic significance. "well; i dare say not. if the matter could have been arranged at a reasonable cost, without annoyance to my friend lady mason, i should have been glad; but, on the whole, it will perhaps be better that the law should take its course. she will suffer a good deal, but she will be the safer for it afterwards." "mr. furnival, i went so far as to offer a thousand pounds!" "a thousand pounds! then they'll think we're afraid of them." "not a bit more than they did before. though i offered the money, he doesn't know the least that the offer came from our side. but i'll tell you what it is, mr. furnival--. i suppose i may speak my mind." "oh, yes! but remember this, crabwitz; lady mason is no more in danger of losing the property than you are. it is a most vexatious thing, but there can be no doubt as to what the result will be." "well, mr. furnival,--i don't know." "in such matters, i am tolerably well able to form an opinion." "oh, certainly!" "and that's my opinion. now i shall be very glad to hear yours." "my opinion is this, mr. furnival, that sir joseph never made that codicil." "and what makes you think so?" "the whole course of the evidence. it's quite clear there was another deed executed that day, and witnessed by bolster and kenneby. had there been two documents for them to witness, they would have remembered it so soon after the occurrence." "well, crabwitz, i differ from you,--differ from you in toto. but keep your opinion to yourself, that's all. i've no doubt you did the best for us you could down at hamworth, and i'm much obliged to you. you'll find we've got our hands quite full again,--almost too full." then he turned round to his table, and to the papers upon it; whereupon, crabwitz took the hint, and left the room. but when he had gone, mr. furnival again raised his eyes from the papers on the table, and leaning back in his chair, gave himself up to further consideration of the orley farm case. crabwitz he knew was a sharp, clever man, and now the opinion formed by crabwitz, after having seen this hamworth attorney, tallied with his own opinion. yes; it was his own opinion. he had never said as much, even to himself, with those inward words which a man uses when he assures himself of the result of his own thoughts; but he was aware that it was his own opinion. in his heart of hearts, he did believe that that codicil had been fraudulently manufactured by his friend and client, lady mason. under these circumstances, what should he do? he had the handle of his pen between his teeth, as was his habit when he was thinking, and tried to bring himself to some permanent resolution. how beautiful had she looked while she stood in sir peregrine's library, leaning on the old man's arm--how beautiful and how innocent! that was the form which his thoughts chiefly took. and then she had given him her hand, and he still felt the soft silken touch of her cool fingers. he would not be a man if he could desert a woman in such a strait. and such a woman! if even guilty, had she not expiated her guilt by deep sorrow? and then he thought of mr. mason of groby park; and he thought of sir peregrine's strong conviction, and of judge staveley's belief; and he thought also of the strong hold which public opinion and twenty years of possession would still give to the cause he favoured. he would still bring her through! yes; in spite of her guilt, if she were guilty; on the strength of her innocency, if she were innocent; but on account of her beauty, and soft hand, and deep liquid eye. so at least he would have owned, could he have been honest enough to tell himself the whole truth. but he must prepare himself for the battle in earnest. it was not as though he had been briefed in this case, and had merely to perform the duty for which he had been hired. he was to undertake the whole legal management of the affair. he must settle what attorney should have the matter in hand, and instruct that attorney how to reinstruct him, and how to reinstruct those other barristers who must necessarily be employed on the defence, in a case of such magnitude. he did not yet know under what form the attack would be made; but he was nearly certain that it would be done in the shape of a criminal charge. he hoped that it might take the direct form of an accusation of forgery. the stronger and more venomous the charge made, the stronger also would be public opinion in favour of the accused, and the greater the chance of an acquittal. but if she were to be found guilty on any charge, it would matter little on what. any such verdict of guilty would be utter ruin and obliteration of her existence. he must consult with some one, and at last he made up his mind to go to his very old friend, mr. chaffanbrass. mr. chaffanbrass was safe, and he might speak out his mind to him without fear of damaging the cause. not that he could bring himself to speak out his real mind, even to mr. chaffanbrass. he would so speak that mr. chaffanbrass should clearly understand him; but still, not even to his ears, would he say that he really believed lady mason to have been guilty. how would it be possible that he should feign before a jury his assured, nay, his indignant conviction of his client's innocence, if he had ever whispered to any one his conviction of her guilt? on that same afternoon he sent to make an appointment with mr. chaffanbrass, and immediately after breakfast, on the following morning, had himself taken to that gentleman's chambers. the chambers of this great guardian of the innocence--or rather not-guiltiness of the public--were not in any so-named inn, but consisted of two gloomy, dark, panelled rooms in ely place. the course of our story, however, will not cause us to make many visits to ely place, and any closer description of them may be spared. i have said that mr. chaffanbrass and mr. furnival were very old friends. so they were. they had known each other for more than thirty years, and each knew the whole history of the other's rise and progress in the profession; but any results of their friendship at present were but scanty. they might meet each other in the streets, perhaps, once in the year; and occasionally--but very seldom--might be brought together on subjects connected with their profession; as was the case when they travelled together down to birmingham. as to meeting in each other's houses, or coming together for the sake of the friendship which existed,--the idea of doing so never entered the head of either of them. all the world knows mr. chaffanbrass--either by sight or by reputation. those who have been happy enough to see the face and gait of the man as, in years now gone, he used to lord it at the old bailey, may not have thought much of the privilege which was theirs. but to those who have only read of him, and know of his deeds simply by their triumphs, he was a man very famous and worthy to be seen. "look; that's chaffanbrass. it was he who cross-examined ---- at the old bailey, and sent him howling out of london, banished for ever into the wilderness." "where, where? is that chaffanbrass? what a dirty little man!" to this dirty little man in ely place, mr. furnival now went in his difficulty. mr. furnival might feel himself sufficient to secure the acquittal of an innocent person, or even of a guilty person, under ordinary circumstances; but if any man in england could secure the acquittal of a guilty person under extraordinary circumstances, it would be mr. chaffanbrass. this had been his special line of work for the last thirty years. mr. chaffanbrass was a dirty little man; and when seen without his gown and wig, might at a first glance be thought insignificant. but he knew well how to hold his own in the world, and could maintain his opinion, unshaken, against all the judges in the land. "well, furnival, and what can i do for you?" he said, as soon as the member for the essex marshes was seated opposite to him. "it isn't often that the light of your countenance shines so far east as this. somebody must be in trouble, i suppose?" "somebody is in trouble," said mr. furnival; and then he began to tell his story. mr. chaffanbrass listened almost in silence throughout. now and then he asked a question by a word or two, expressing no opinion whatever as he did so; but he was satisfied to leave the talking altogether in the hands of his visitor till the whole tale was told. "ah," he said then, "a clever woman!" "an uncommonly sweet creature too," said mr. furnival. "i dare say," said mr. chaffanbrass; and then there was a pause. "and what can i do for you?" said mr. chaffanbrass. "in the first place i should be very glad to have your advice; and then--. of course i must lead in defending her,--unless it were well that i should put the case altogether in your hands." "oh no! don't think of that. i couldn't give the time to it. my heart is not in it, as yours is. where will it be?" "at alston, i suppose." "at the spring assizes. that will be--. let me see; about the th of march." "i should think we might get it postponed till the summer. round is not at all hot about it." "should we gain anything by that? if a prisoner be innocent why torment him by delay. he is tolerably sure of escape. if he be guilty, extension of time only brings out the facts the clearer. as far as my experience goes, the sooner a man is tried the better,--always." "and you would consent to hold a brief?" "under you? well; yes. i don't mind it at alston. anything to oblige an old friend. i never was proud, you know." "and what do you think about it, chaffanbrass?" "ah! that's the question." "she must be pulled through. twenty years of possession! think of that." "that's what mason, the man down in yorkshire, is thinking of. there's no doubt of course about that partnership deed?" "i fear not. round would not go on with it if that were not all true." "it depends on those two witnesses, furnival. i remember the case of old, though it was twenty years ago, and i had nothing to do with it. i remember thinking that lady mason was a very clever woman, and that round and crook were rather slow." "he's a brute; is that fellow, mason of groby park." "a brute; is he? we'll get him into the box and make him say as much for himself. she's uncommonly pretty, isn't she?" "she is a pretty woman." "and interesting? it will all tell, you know. a widow with one son, isn't she?" "yes, and she has done her duty admirably since her husband's death. you will find too that she has the sympathies of all the best people in her neighbourhood. she is staying now at the house of sir peregrine orme, who would do anything for her." "anything, would he?" "and the staveleys know her. the judge is convinced of her innocence." "is he? he'll probably have the home circuit in the summer. his conviction expressed from the bench would be more useful to her. you can make staveley believe everything in a drawing-room or over a glass of wine; but i'll be hanged if i can ever get him to believe anything when he's on the bench." "but, chaffanbrass, the countenance of such people will be of great use to her down there. everybody will know that she's been staying with sir peregrine." "i've no doubt she's a clever woman." "but this new trouble has half killed her." "i don't wonder at that either. these sort of troubles do vex people. a pretty woman like that should have everything smooth; shouldn't she? well, we'll do the best we can. you'll see that i'm properly instructed. by-the-by, who is her attorney? in such a case as that you couldn't have a better man than old solomon aram. but solomon aram is too far east from you, i suppose?" "isn't he a jew?" "upon my word i don't know. he's an attorney, and that's enough for me." and then the matter was again discussed between them, and it was agreed that a third counsel would be wanting. "felix graham is very much interested in the case," said mr. furnival, "and is as firmly convinced of her innocence as--as i am." and he managed to look his ally in the face and to keep his countenance firmly. "ah," said mr. chaffanbrass. "but what if he should happen to change his opinion about his own client?" "we could prevent that, i think." "i'm not so sure. and then he'd throw her over as sure as your name's furnival." "i hardly think he'd do that." "i believe he'd do anything." and mr. chaffanbrass was quite moved to enthusiasm. "i've heard that man talk more nonsense about the profession in one hour, than i ever heard before since i first put a cotton gown on my back. he does not understand the nature of the duty which a professional man owes to his client." "but he'd work well if he had a case at heart himself. i don't like him, but he is clever." "you can do as you like, of course. i shall be out of my ground down at alston, and of course i don't care who takes the fag of the work. but i tell you this fairly;--if he does go into the case and then turns against us or drops it,--i shall turn against him and drop into him." "heaven help him in such a case as that!" and then these two great luminaries of the law shook hands and parted. one thing was quite clear to mr. furnival as he had himself carried in a cab from ely place to his own chambers in lincoln's inn. mr. chaffanbrass was fully convinced of lady mason's guilt. he had not actually said so, but he had not even troubled himself to go through the little ceremony of expressing a belief in her innocence. mr. furnival was well aware that mr. chaffanbrass would not on this account be less likely to come out strongly with such assurances before a jury, or to be less severe in his cross-examination of a witness whose evidence went to prove that guilt; but nevertheless the conviction was disheartening. mr. chaffanbrass would know, almost by instinct, whether an accused person was or was not guilty; and he had already perceived, by instinct, that lady mason was guilty. mr. furnival sighed as he stepped out of his cab, and again wished that he could wash his hands of the whole affair. he wished it very much;--but he knew that his wish could not be gratified. "solomon aram!" he said to himself, as he again sat down in his arm-chair. "it will sound badly to those people down at alston. at the old bailey they don't mind that kind of thing." and then he made up his mind that solomon aram would not do. it would be a disgrace to him to take a case out of solomon aram's hands. mr. chaffanbrass did not understand all this. mr. chaffanbrass had been dealing with solomon arams all his life. mr. chaffanbrass could not see the effect which such an alliance would have on the character of a barrister holding mr. furnival's position. solomon aram was a good man in his way no doubt;--perhaps the best man going. in taking every dodge to prevent a conviction no man could be better than solomon aram. all this mr. furnival felt;--but he felt also that he could not afford it. "it would be tantamount to a confession of guilt to take such a man as that down into the country," he said to himself, trying to excuse himself. and then he also made up his mind that he would sound felix graham. if felix graham could be induced to take up the case thoroughly believing in the innocence of his client, no man would be more useful as a junior. felix graham went the home circuit on which alston was one of the assize towns. chapter xxxv. love was still the lord of all. why should i not? such had been the question which sir peregrine orme had asked himself over and over again, in these latter days, since lady mason had been staying at his house; and the purport of the question was this:--why should he not make lady mason his wife? i and my readers can probably see very many reasons why he should not do so; but then we are not in love with lady mason. her charms and her sorrows,--her soft, sad smile and her more lovely tears have not operated upon us. we are not chivalrous old gentlemen, past seventy years of age, but still alive, keenly alive, to a strong feeling of romance. that visit will perhaps be remembered which mr. furnival made at the cleeve, and the subsequent interview between lady mason and the baronet. on that day he merely asked himself the question, and took no further step. on the subsequent day and the day after, it was the same. he still asked himself the question, sitting alone in his library; but he did not ask it as yet of any one else. when he met lady mason in these days his manner to her was full of the deference due to a lady and of the affection due to a dear friend; but that was all. mrs. orme, seeing this, and cordially concurring in this love for her guest, followed the lead which her father-in-law gave, and threw herself into lady mason's arms. they two were fast and bosom friends. and what did lady mason think of all this? in truth there was much in it that was sweet to her, but there was something also that increased that idea of danger which now seemed to envelop her whole existence. why had sir peregrine so treated her in the library, behaving towards her with such tokens of close affection? he had put his arm round her waist and kissed her lips and pressed her to his old bosom. why had this been so? he had assured her that he would be to her as a father, but her woman's instinct had told her that the pressure of his hand had been warmer than that which a father accords to his adopted daughter. no idea of anger had come upon her for a moment; but she had thought about it much, and had thought about it almost in dismay. what if the old man did mean more than a father's love? it seemed to her as though it must be a dream that he should do so; but what if he did? how should she answer him? in such circumstances what should she do or say? could she afford to buy his friendship,--even his warmest love at the cost of the enmity of so many others? would not mrs. orme hate her, mrs. orme, whom she truly, dearly, eagerly loved? mrs. orme's affection was, of all personal gratifications, the sweetest to her. and the young heir,--would not he hate her? nay, would he not interfere and with some strong hand prevent so mean a deed on the part of his grandfather? and if so, would she not thus have lost them altogether? and then she thought of that other friend whose aid would be so indispensable to her in this dreadful time of tribulation. how would mr. furnival receive such tidings, if it should come to pass that such tidings were to be told? lady mason was rich with female charms, and she used them partly with the innocence of the dove, but partly also with the wisdom of the serpent. but in such use as she did make of these only weapons which providence had given to her, i do not think that she can be regarded as very culpable. during those long years of her young widowhood in which nothing had been wanting to her, her conduct had been free from any hint of reproach. she had been content to find all her joy in her duties and in her love as a mother. now a great necessity for assistance had come upon her. it was necessary that she should bind men to her cause, men powerful in the world and able to fight her battle with strong arms. she did so bind them with the only chains at her command,--but she had no thought, nay, no suspicion of evil in so doing. it was very painful to her when she found that she had caused unhappiness to mrs. furnival; and it caused her pain now, also, when she thought of sir peregrine's new love. she did wish to bind these men to her by a strong attachment; but she would have stayed this feeling at a certain point had it been possible for her so to manage it. in the mean time sir peregrine still asked himself that question. he had declared to himself when first the idea had come to him, that none of those whom he loved should be injured. he would even ask his daughter-in-law's consent, condescending to plead his cause before her, making her understand his motives, and asking her acquiescence as a favour. he would be so careful of his grandson that this second marriage--if such event did come to pass--should not put a pound out of his pocket, or at any rate should not hamper the succession of the estate with a pound of debt. and then he made excuses to himself as to the step which he proposed to take, thinking how he would meet his friends, and how he would carry himself before his old servants. old men have made more silly marriages than this which he then desired. gentlemen such as sir peregrine in age and station have married their housemaids,--have married young girls of eighteen years of age,--have done so and faced their friends and servants afterwards. the bride that he proposed to himself was a lady, an old friend, a woman over forty, and one whom by such a marriage he could greatly assist in her deep sorrow. why should he not do it? after much of such thoughts as these, extended over nearly a week, he resolved to speak his mind to mrs. orme. if it were to be done it should be done at once. the incredulous unromantic readers of this age would hardly believe me if i said that his main object was to render assistance to lady mason in her difficulty; but so he assured himself, and so he believed. this assistance to be of true service must be given at once;--and having so resolved he sent for mrs. orme into the library. "edith, my darling," he said, taking her hand and pressing it between both his own as was often the wont with him in his more affectionate moods. "i want to speak to you--on business that concerns me nearly; may perhaps concern us all nearly. can you give me half an hour?" "of course i can--what is it, sir? i am a bad hand at business; but you know that." "sit down, dear; there; sit there, and i will sit here. as to this business, no one can counsel me as well as you." "dearest father, i should be a poor councillor in anything." "not in this, edith. it is about lady mason that i would speak to you. we both love her dearly; do we not?" "i do." "and are glad to have her here?" "oh, so glad. when this trial is only over, it will be so sweet, to have her for a neighbour. we really know her now. and it will be so pleasant to see much of her." there was nothing discouraging in this, but still the words in some slight degree grated against sir peregrine's feelings. at the present moment he did not wish to think of lady mason as living at orley farm, and would have preferred that his daughter-in-law should have spoken of her as being there, at the cleeve. "yes; we know her now," he said. "and believe me in this, edith; no knowledge obtained of a friend in happiness is at all equal to that which is obtained in sorrow. had lady mason been prosperous, had she never become subject to the malice and avarice of wicked people, i should never have loved her as i do love her." "nor should i, father." "she is a cruelly ill-used woman, and a woman worthy of the kindest usage. i am an old man now, but it has never before been my lot to be so anxious for a fellow-creature as i am for her. it is dreadful to think that innocence in this country should be subject to such attacks." "indeed it is; but you do not think that there is any danger?" this was all very well, and showed that mrs. orme's mind was well disposed towards the woman whom he loved. but he had known that before, and he began to feel that he was not approaching the object which he had in view. "edith," at last he said abruptly, "i love her with my whole heart. i would fain make her--my wife." sir peregrine orme had never in his course through life failed in anything for lack of courage; and when the idea came home to him that he was trembling at the task which he had imposed on himself, he dashed at it at once. it is so that forlorn hopes are led, and become not forlorn; it is so that breaches are taken. "your wife!" said mrs. orme. she would not have breathed a syllable to pain him if she could have helped it, but the suddenness of the announcement overcame her for a moment. "yes, edith, my wife. let us discuss the matter before you condemn it. but in the first place i would have you to understand this--i will not marry her if you say that it will make you unhappy. i have not spoken to her as yet, and she knows nothing of this project." sir peregrine, it may be presumed, had not himself thought much of that kiss which he had given her. "you," he continued to say, "have given up your whole life to me. you are my angel. if this thing will make you unhappy it shall not be done." sir peregrine had not so considered it, but with such a woman as mrs. orme this was, of course, the surest way to overcome opposition. on her own behalf, thinking only of herself, she would stand in the way of nothing that could add to sir peregrine's happiness. but nevertheless the idea was strong in her mind that such a marriage would be imprudent. sir peregrine at present stood high before the world. would he stand so high if he did this thing? his gray hair and old manly bearing were honoured and revered by all who knew him. would this still be so if he made himself the husband of lady mason? she loved so dearly, she valued so highly the honour that was paid to him! she was so proud of her own boy in that he was the grandson of so perfect a gentleman! would not this be a sad ending to such a career? such were the thoughts which ran through her mind at the moment. "make me unhappy!" she said getting up and going over to him. "it is your happiness of which i would think. will it make you more happy?" "it will enable me to befriend her more effectually." "but, dearest father, you must be the first consideration to us,--to me and peregrine. will it make you more happy?" "i think it will," he answered slowly. "then i, for one, will say nothing against it," she answered. she was very weak, it will be said. yes, she was weak. many of the sweetest, kindest, best of women are weak in this way. it is not every woman that can bring herself to say hard, useful, wise words in opposition to the follies of those they love best. a woman to be useful and wise no doubt should have such power. for myself i am not so sure that i like useful and wise women. "then i for one will say nothing against it," said mrs. orme, deficient in utility, wanting in wisdom, but full of the sweetest affection. "you are sure that you will not love her the less yourself?" said sir peregrine. "yes; i am sure of that. if it were to be so, i should endeavour to love her the more." "dearest edith. i have only one other person to tell." "do you mean peregrine?" she said in her softest voice. "yes. of course he must be told. but as it would not be well to ask his consent,--as i have asked yours--" and then as he said this she kissed his brow. "but you will let him know it?" "yes; that is if she accepts my proposition. then he shall know it immediately. and, edith, my dear, you may be sure of this; nothing that i do shall be allowed in any way to injure his prospects or to hamper him as regards money when i am gone. if this marriage takes place i cannot do very much for her in the way of money; she will understand that. something i can of course." and then mrs. orme stood over the fire, looking at the hot coals, and thinking what lady mason's answer would be. she esteemed lady mason very highly, regarding her as a woman sensible and conscientious at all points, and she felt by no means certain that the offer would be accepted. what if lady mason should say that such an arrangement would not be possible for her. mrs. orme felt that under such circumstances she at any rate would not withdraw her love from lady mason. "and now i may as well speak to her at once," said sir peregrine. "is she in the drawing-room?" "i left her there." "will you ask her to come to me--with my love?" "i had better not say anything i suppose?" sir peregrine, in his heart of hearts wished that his daughter-in-law could say it all, but he would not give her such a commission. "no; perhaps not." and then mrs. orme was going to leave him. "one word more, edith. you and i, darling, have known each other so long and loved each other so well, that i should be unhappy if i were to fall in your estimation." "there is no fear of that, father." "will you believe me when i assure you that my great object in doing this is to befriend a good and worthy woman whom i regard as ill used--beyond all ill usage of which i have hitherto known anything?" she then assured him that she did so believe, and she assured him truly; after that she left him and went away to send in lady mason for her interview. in the mean time sir peregrine got up and stood with his back to the fire. he would have been glad that the coming scene could be over, and yet i should be wronging him to say that he was afraid of it. there would be a pleasure to him in telling her that he loved her so dearly and trusted her with such absolute confidence. there would be a sort of pleasure to him in speaking even of her sorrow, and in repeating his assurance that he would fight the battle for her with all the means at his command. and perhaps also there would be some pleasure in the downcast look of her eye, as she accepted the tender of his love. something of that pleasure he had known already. and then he remembered the other alternative. it was quite upon the cards that she should decline his offer. he did not by any means shut his eyes to that. did she do so, his friendship should by no means be withdrawn from her. he would be very careful from the onset that she should understand so much as that. and then he heard the light footsteps in the hall; the gentle hand was raised to the door, and lady mason was standing in the room. "dear lady mason," he said, meeting her half way across the room, "it is very kind of you to come to me when i send for you in this way." "it would be my duty to come to you, if it were half across the kingdom;--and my pleasure also." "would it?" said he, looking into her face with all the wishfulness of a young lover. from that moment she knew what was coming. strange as was the destiny which was to be offered to her at this period of her life, yet she foresaw clearly that the offer was to be made. what she did not foresee, what she could not foretell, was the answer which she might make to it! "it would certainly be my sweetest pleasure to send for you if you were away from us,--to send for you or to follow you," said he. "i do not know how to make return for all your kind regard to me;--to you and to dear mrs. orme." "call her edith, will you not? you did so call her once." "i call her so often when we are alone together, now; and yet i feel that i have no right." "you have every right. you shall have every right if you will accept it. lady mason, i am an old man,--some would say a very old man. but i am not too old to love you. can, you accept the love of an old man like me?" lady mason was, as we are aware, not taken in the least by surprise; but it was quite necessary that she should seem to be so taken. this is a little artifice which is excusable in almost any lady at such a period. "sir peregrine," she said, "you do not mean more than the love of a most valued friend?" "yes, much more. i mean the love of a husband for his wife; of a wife for her husband." "sir peregrine! ah me! you have not thought of this, my friend. you have not remembered the position in which i am placed. dearest, dearest friend; dearest of all friends,"--and then she knelt before him, leaning on his knees, as he sat in his accustomed large arm-chair. "it may not be so. think of the sorrow that would come to you and yours, if my enemies should prevail." "by ---- they shall not prevail!" swore sir peregrine, roundly; and as he swore the oath he put his two hands upon her shoulders. "no; we will hope not. i should die here at your feet if i thought that they could prevail. but i should die twenty deaths were i to drag you with me into disgrace. there will be disgrace even in standing at that bar." "who will dare to say so, when i shall stand there with you?" said sir peregrine. there was a feeling expressed in his face as he spoke these words, which made it glorious, and bright, and beautiful. she, with her eyes laden with tears, could not see it; but nevertheless, she knew that it was bright and beautiful. and his voice was full of hot eager assurance,--that assurance which had the power to convey itself from one breast to another. would it not be so? if he stood there with her as her husband and lord, would it not be the case that no one would dare to impute disgrace to her? and yet she did not wish it. even yet, thinking of all this as she did think of it, according to the truth of the argument which he himself put before her, she would still have preferred that it should not be so. if she only knew with what words to tell him so;--to tell him so and yet give no offence! for herself, she would have married him willingly. why should she not? nay, she could and would have loved him, and been to him a wife, such as he could have found in no other woman. but she said within her heart that she owed him kindness and gratitude--that she owed them all kindness, and that it would be bad to repay them in such a way as this. she also thought of sir peregrine's gray hairs, and of his proud standing in the county, and the respect in which men held him. would it be well in her to drag him down in his last days from the noble pedestal on which he stood, and repay him thus for all that he was doing for her? "well," said he, stroking her soft hair with his hands--the hair which appeared in front of the quiet prim cap she wore, "shall it be so? will you give me the right to stand there with you and defend you against the tongues of wicked men? we each have our own weakness, and we also have each our own strength. there i may boast that i should be strong." she thought again for a moment or two without rising from her knees, and also without speaking. would such strength suffice? and if it did suffice, would it then be well with him? as for herself, she did love him. if she had not loved him before, she loved him now. who had ever been to her so noble, so loving, so gracious as he? in her ears no young lover's vows had ever sounded. in her heart such love as all the world knows had never been known. her former husband had been kind to her in his way, and she had done her duty by him carefully, painfully, and with full acceptance of her position. but there had been nothing there that was bright, and grand, and noble. she would have served sir peregrine on her knees in the smallest offices, and delighted in such services. it was not for lack of love that she must refuse him. but still she did not answer him, and still he stroked her hair. "it would be better that you had never seen me," at last she said; and she spoke with truth the thought of her mind. that she must do his bidding, whatever that bidding might be, she had in a certain way acknowledged to herself. if he would have it so, so it must be. how could she refuse him anything, or be disobedient in aught to one to whom she owed so much? but still it would be wiser otherwise, wiser for all--unless it were for herself alone. "it would be better that you had never seen me," she said. "nay, not so, dearest. that it would not be better for me,--for me and edith i am quite sure. and i would fain hope that for you--" "oh, sir peregrine! you know what i mean. you know how i value your kindness. what should i be if it were withdrawn from me?" "it shall not be withdrawn. do not let that feeling actuate you. answer me out of your heart, and however your heart may answer, remember this, that my friendship and support shall be the same. if you will take me for your husband, as your husband will i stand by you. if you cannot,--then i will stand by you as your father." what could she say? a word or two she did speak as to mrs. orme and her feelings, delaying her absolute reply--and as to peregrine orme and his prospects; but on both, as on all other points, the baronet was armed with his answer. he had spoken to his darling edith, and she had gladly given her consent. to her it would be everything to have so sweet a friend. and then as to his heir, every care should be taken that no injury should be done to him; and speaking of this, sir peregrine began to say a few words, plaintively, about money. but then lady mason stopped him. "no," she said, "she could not, and would not, listen to that. she would have no settlement. no consideration as to money should be made to weigh with her. it was in no degree for that--" and then she wept there till she would have fallen had he not supported her. what more is there to be told. of course she accepted him. as far as i can see into such affairs no alternative was allowed to her. she also was not a wise woman at all points. she was one whose feelings were sometimes too many for her, and whose feelings on this occasion had been much too many for her. had she been able to throw aside from her his offer, she would have done so; but she had felt that she was not able. "if you wish it, sir peregrine," she said at last. "and can you love an old man?" he had asked. old men sometimes will ask questions such as these. she did not answer him, but stood by his side; and, then again he kissed her, and was happy. he resolved from that moment that lady mason should no longer be regarded as the widow of a city knight, but as the wife elect of a country baronet. whatever ridicule he might incur in this matter, he would incur at once. men and women had dared to speak of her cruelly, and they should now learn that any such future speech would be spoken of one who was exclusively his property. let any who chose to be speakers under such circumstances look to it. he had devoted himself to her that he might be her knight and bear her scathless through the fury of this battle. with god's help he would put on his armour at once for that fight. let them who would now injure her look to it. as soon as might be she should bear his name; but all the world should know at once what was her right to claim his protection. he had never been a coward, and he would not now be guilty of the cowardice of hiding his intentions. if there were those who chose to smile at the old man's fancy, let them smile. there would be many, he knew, who would not understand an old man's honour and an old man's chivalry. "my own one," he then said, pressing her again to his side, "will you tell edith, or shall i? she expects it." but lady mason begged that he would tell the tale. it was necessary, she said, that she should be alone for a while. and then, escaping, she went to her own chamber. "ask mrs. orme if she will kindly step to me," said sir peregrine, having rang his bell for the servant. lady mason escaped across the hall to the stairs, and succeeded in reaching her room without being seen by any one. then she sat herself down, and began to look her future world in the face. two questions she had to ask. would it be well for her that this marriage should take place? and would it be well for him? in an off-hand way she had already answered both questions; but she had done so by feeling rather than by thought. no doubt she would gain much in the coming struggle by such a position as sir peregrine would give her. it did seem to her that mr. dockwrath and joseph mason would hardly dare to bring such a charge as that threatened against the wife of sir peregrine orme. and then, too, what evidence as to character would be so substantial as the evidence of such a marriage? but how would mr. furnival bear it, and if he were offended would it be possible that the fight should be fought without him? no; that would be impossible. the lawyer's knowledge, experience, and skill were as necessary to her as the baronet's position and character. but why should mr. furnival be offended by such a marriage? "she did not know," she said to herself. "she could not see that there should be cause of offence." but yet some inner whisper of her conscience told her that there would be offence. must mr. furnival be told; and must he be told at once? and then what would lucius say and think, and how should she answer the strong words which her son would use to her? he would use strong words she knew, and would greatly dislike this second marriage of his mother. what grown-up son is ever pleased to hear that his mother is about to marry? the cleeve must be her home now--that is, if she did this deed. the cleeve must be her home, and she must be separated in all things from orley farm. as she thought of this her mind went back, and back to those long gone days in which she had been racked with anxiety that orley farm should be the inheritance of the little baby that was lying at her feet. she remembered how she had pleaded to the father, pointing out the rights of her son--declaring, and with justice, that for herself she had asked for nothing; but that for him--instead of asking might she not demand? was not that other son provided for, and those grown-up women with their rich husbands? "is he not your child as well as they?" she had pleaded. "is he not your own, and as well worthy of your love?" she had succeeded in getting the inheritance for the baby at her feet;--but had his having it made her happy, or him? then her child had been all in all to her; but now she felt that that child was half estranged from her about this very property, and would become wholly estranged by the method she was taking to secure it! "i have toiled for him," she said to herself, "rising up early, and going to bed late; but the thief cometh in the night and despoileth it." who can guess the bitterness of her thoughts as she said this? but her last thoughts, as she sat there thinking, were of him--sir peregrine. would it be well for him that he should do this? and in thus considering she did not turn her mind chiefly to the usual view in which such a marriage would be regarded. men might call sir peregrine an old fool and laugh at him; but for that she would, with god's help, make him amends. in those matters, he could judge for himself; and should he judge it right thus to link his life to hers, she would be true and leal to him in all things. but then, about this trial. if there came disgrace and ruin, and an utter overthrow? if--? would it not be well at any rate that no marriage should take place till that had been decided? she could not find it in her heart to bring down his old gray hairs with utter sorrow to the grave. chapter xxxvi. what the young men thought about it. lucius mason at this time was living at home at orley farm, not by any means in a happy frame of mind. it will be perhaps remembered that he had at one time had an interview with mr. furnival in that lawyer's chambers, which was by no means consoling to him, seeing that mr. furnival had pooh-poohed him and his pretensions in a very off-hand way; and he had since paid a very memorable visit to mr. dockwrath in which he had hardly been more successful. nevertheless, he had gone to another lawyer. he had felt it impossible to remain tranquil, pursuing the ordinary avocations of his life, while such dreadful charges were being made openly against his mother, and being so made without any authorised contradiction. he knew that she was innocent. no doubt on that matter ever perplexed his mind for a moment. but why was she such a coward that she would not allow him to protect her innocence in the only way which the law permitted? he could hardly believe that he had no power of doing so even without her sanction; and therefore he went to another lawyer. the other lawyer did him no good. it was not practicable that he, the son, should bring an action for defamatory character on the part of the mother, without that mother's sanction. moreover, as this new lawyer saw in a moment, any such interference on the part of lucius, and any interposition of fresh and new legal proceedings would cripple and impede the advisers to whom lady mason had herself confided her own case. the new lawyer could do nothing, and thus lucius, again repulsed, betook himself to orley farm in no happy frame of mind. for some day or two after this he did not see his mother. he would not go down to the cleeve, though they sent up and asked him; and she was almost afraid to go across to the house and visit him. "he will be in church on sunday," she had said to mrs. orme. but he was not in church on sunday, and then on sunday afternoon she did go to him. this, it will be understood, was before sir peregrine had made his offer, and therefore as to that, there was as yet no embarrassment on the widow's mind. "i cannot help feeling, mother," he said, after she had sat there with him for a short time, "that for the present there is a division between you and me." "oh, lucius!" "it is no use our denying it to ourselves. it is so. you are in trouble, and you will not listen to my advice. you leave my house and take to the roof of a new and an untried friend." "no, lucius; not that." "yes. i say a new friend. twelve months ago, though you might call there, you never did more than that--and even that but seldom. they are new friends; and yet, now that you are in trouble, you choose to live with them." "dear lucius, is there any reason why i should not visit at the cleeve?" "yes; if you ask me--yes;" and now he spoke very sternly. "there is a cloud upon you, and you should know nothing of visitings and of new friendships till that cloud has been dispersed. while these things are being said of you, you should set at no other table than this, and drink of no man's cup but mine. i know your innocence," and as he went on to speak, he stood up before her and looked down fully into her face, "but others do not. i know how unworthy are these falsehoods with which wicked men strive to crush you, but others believe that they are true accusations. they cannot be disregarded, and now it seems,--now that you have allowed them to gather to a head, they will result in a trial, during which you will have to stand at the bar charged with a dreadful crime." "oh, lucius!" and she hid her eyes in her hands. "i could not have helped it. how could i have helped it?" "well; it must be so now. and till that trial is over, here should be your place. here, at my right hand; i am he who am bound to stand by you. it is i whose duty it is to see that your name be made white again, though i spend all i have, ay, and my life in doing it. i am the one man on whose arm you have a right to lean. and yet, in such days as these, you leave my house and go to that of a stranger." "he is not a stranger, lucius." "he cannot be to you as a son should be. however, it is for you to judge. i have no control in this matter, but i think it right that you should know what are my thoughts." and then she had crept back again to the cleeve. let lucius say what he might, let this additional sorrow be ever so bitter, she could not obey her son's behests. if she did so in one thing she must do so in all. she had chosen her advisers with her best discretion, and by that choice she must abide--even though it separated her from her son. she could not abandon sir peregrine orme and mr. furnival. so she crept back and told all this to mrs. orme. her heart would have utterly sunk within her could she not have spoken openly to some one of this sorrow. "but he loves you," mrs. orme had said, comforting her. "it is not that he does not love you." "but he is so stern to me." and then mrs. orme had kissed her, and promised that none should be stern to her, there, in that house. on the morning after this sir peregrine had made his offer, and then she felt that the division between her and her boy would be wider than ever. and all this had come of that inheritance which she had demanded so eagerly for her child. and now lucius was sitting alone in his room at orley farm, having, for the present, given up all idea of attempting anything himself by means of the law. he had made his way into mr. dockwrath's office, and had there insulted the attorney in the presence of witnesses. his hope now was that the attorney might bring an action against him. if that were done he would thus have the means of bringing out all the facts of the case before a jury and a judge. it was fixed in his mind that if he could once drag that reptile before a public tribunal, and with loud voice declare the wrong that was being done, all might be well. the public would understand and would speak out, and the reptile would be scorned and trodden under foot. poor lucius! it is not always so easy to catch public sympathy, and it will occur sometimes that the wrong reptile is crushed by the great public heel. [illustration: lucius mason in his study.] he had his books before him as he sat there--his latham and his pritchard, and he had the jawbone of one savage and the skull of another. his liverpool bills for unadulterated guano were lying on the table, and a philosophical german treatise on agriculture which he had resolved to study. it became a man, he said to himself, to do a man's work in spite of any sorrow. but, nevertheless, as he sat there, his studies were but of little service to him. how many men have declared to themselves the same thing, but have failed when the trial came! who, can command the temper and the mind? at ten i will strike the lyre and begin my poem. but at ten the poetic spirit is under a dark cloud--because the water for the tea had not boiled when it was brought in at nine. and so the lyre remains unstricken. and lucius found that he could not strike his lyre. for days he had sat there and no good note had been produced. and then he had walked over his land, having a farming man at his heels, thinking that he could turn his mind to the actual and practical working of his land. but little good had come of that either. it was january, and the land was sloppy and half frozen. there was no useful work to be done on it. and then what farmer greenwood had once said of him was true enough, "the young maister's spry and active surely, but he can't let unself down to stable doong and the loik o' that." he had some grand idea of farming--a conviction that the agricultural world in general was very backward, and that he would set it right. even now in his sorrow, as he walked through his splashy, frozen fields, he was tormented by a desire to do something, he knew not what, that might be great. he had no such success on the present occasion and returned disconsolate to the house. this happened about noon on the day after that on which sir peregrine had declared himself. he returned as i have said to the house, and there at the kitchen door he met a little girl whom he knew well as belonging to the cleeve. she was a favourite of mrs. orme's, was educated and clothed by her, and ran on her messages. now she had brought a letter up to lucius from his mother. curtsying low she so told him, and he at once went into the sitting-room where he found it lying on his table. his hand was nervous as he opened it; but if he could have seen how tremulous had been the hand that wrote it! the letter was as follows:-- dearest lucius, i know you will be very much surprised at what i am going to tell you, but i hope you will not judge me harshly. if i know myself at all i would take no step of any kind for my own advantage which could possibly injure you. at the present moment we unfortunately do not agree about a subject which is troubling us both, and i cannot therefore consult you as i should otherwise have done. i trust that by god's mercy these troubles may come to an end, and that there may be no further differences between you and me. sir peregrine orme has made me an offer of marriage and i have accepted it-- lucius mason when he had read so far threw down the letter upon the table, and rising suddenly from his chair walked rapidly up and down the room. "marry him!" he said out loud, "marry him!" the idea that their fathers and mothers should marry and enjoy themselves is always a thing horrible to be thought of in the minds of the rising generation. lucius mason now began to feel against his mother the same sort of anger which joseph mason had felt when his father had married again. "marry him!" and then he walked rapidly about the room, as though some great injury had been threatened to him. and so it had, in his estimation. was it not her position in life to be his mother? had she not had her young days? but it did not occur to him to think what those young days had been. and this then was the meaning of her receding from his advice and from his roof! she had been preparing for herself in the world new hopes, a new home, and a new ambition. and she had so prevailed upon the old man that he was about to do this foolish thing! then again he walked up and down the room, injuring his mother much in his thoughts. he gave her credit for none of those circumstances which had truly actuated her in accepting the hand which sir peregrine had offered her. in that matter touching the orley farm estate he could acquit his mother instantly,--with acclamation. but in this other matter he had pronounced her guilty before she had been allowed to plead. then he took up the letter and finished it. sir peregrine orme has made me an offer of marriage and i have accepted it. it is very difficult to explain in a letter all the causes that have induced me to do so. the first perhaps is this, that i feel myself so bound to him by love and gratitude, that i think it my duty to fall in with all his wishes. he has pointed out to me that as my husband he can do more for me than would be possible for him without that name. i have explained to him that i would rather perish than that he should sacrifice himself; but he is pleased to say that it is no sacrifice. at any rate he so wishes it, and as mrs. orme has cordially assented, i feel myself bound to fall in with his views. it was only yesterday that sir peregrine made his offer. i mention this that you may know that i have lost no time in telling you. dearest lucius, believe that i shall be as ever your most affectionate mother, mary mason. the little girl will wait for an answer if she finds that you are at the farm. "no," he said to himself, still walking about the room. "she can never be to me the same mother that she was. i would have sacrificed everything for her. she should have been the mistress of my house, at any rate till she herself should have wished it otherwise. but now--" and then his mind turned away suddenly to sophia furnival. i cannot myself but think that had that affair of the trial been set at rest lady mason would have been prudent to look for another home. the fact that orley farm was his house and not hers occurred almost too frequently to lucius mason; and i am not certain that it would have been altogether comfortable as a permanent residence for his mother after he should have brought home to it some such bride as her he now proposed to himself. it was necessary that he should write an answer to his mother, which he did at once. orley farm, -- january. dear mother, it is i fear too late for me to offer any counsel on the subject of your letter. i cannot say that i think you are right. your affectionate son, lucius mason. and then, having finished this, he again walked the room. "it is all up between me and her," he said, "as real friends in life and heart. she shall still have the respect of a son, and i shall have the regard of a mother. but how can i trim my course to suit the welfare of the wife of sir peregrine orme?" and then he lashed himself into anger at the idea that his mother should have looked for other solace than that which he could have given. nothing more from the cleeve reached him that day; but early on the following morning he had a visitor whom he certainly had not expected. before he sat down to his breakfast he heard the sound of a horse's feet before the door, and immediately afterwards peregrine orme entered the sitting-room. he was duly shown in by the servant, and in his ordinary way came forward quickly and shook hands. then he waited till the door was closed, and at once began upon the subject which had brought him there. "mason," he said, "you have heard of this that is being done at the cleeve?" lucius immediately fell back a step or two, and considered for a moment how he should answer. he had pressed very heavily on his mother in his own thoughts, but he was not prepared to hear her harshly spoken of by another. "yes," said he, "i have heard." "and i understand from your mother that you do not approve of it." "approve of it! no; i do not approve of it." "nor by heavens do i!" "i do not approve of it," said mason, speaking with deliberation; "but i do not know that i can take any steps towards preventing it." "cannot you see her, and talk to her, and tell her how wrong it is?" "wrong! i do not know that she is wrong in that sense. i do not know that you have any right to blame her. why do not you speak to your grandfather?" "so i have--as far as it was possible for me. but you do not know sir peregrine. no one has any influence over him, but my mother;--and now also your mother." "and what does mrs. orme say?" "she will say nothing. i know well that she disapproves of it. she must disapprove of it, though she will not say so. she would rather burn off both her hands than displease my grandfather. she says that he asked her and that she consented." "it seems to me that it is for her and you to prevent this." "no; it is for your mother to prevent it. only think of it, mason. he is over seventy, and, as he says himself, he will not burden the estate with a new jointure. why should she do it?" "you are wronging her there. it is no affair of money. she is not going to marry him for what she can get." "then why should she do it?" "because he tells her. these troubles about the lawsuit have turned her head, and she has put herself entirely into his hands. i think she is wrong. i could have protected her from all this evil, and would have done so. i could have done more, i think, than sir peregrine can do. but she has thought otherwise, and i do not know that i can help it." "but will you speak to her? will make her perceive that she is injuring a family that is treating her with kindness?" "if she will come here i will speak to her. i cannot do it there. i cannot go down to your grandfather's house with such an object as that." "all the world will turn against her if she marries him," said peregrine. and then there was silence between them for a moment or two. "it seems to me," said lucius at last, "that you wrong my mother very much in this matter, and lay all the blame where but the smallest part of the blame is deserved. she has no idea of money in her mind, or any thought of pecuniary advantage. she is moved solely by what your grandfather has said to her,--and by an insane dread of some coming evil which she thinks may be lessened by his assistance. you are in the house with them, and can speak to him,--and if you please to her also. i do not see that i can do either." "and you will not help me to break it off?" "certainly,--if i can see my way." "will you write to her?" "well; i will think about it." "whether she be to blame or not it must be your duty as well as mine to prevent such a marriage if it be possible. think what people will say of it?" after some further discussion peregrine remounted his horse, and rode back to the cleeve, not quite satisfied with young mason. "if you do speak to her,--to my mother, do it gently." those were the last words whispered by lucius as peregrine orme had his foot in the stirrup. young peregrine orme, as he rode home, felt that the world was using him very unkindly. everything was going wrong with him, and an idea entered his head that he might as well go and look for sir john franklin at the north pole, or join some energetic traveller in the middle of central africa. he had proposed to madeline staveley and had been refused. that in itself caused a load to lie on his heart which was almost unendurable;--and now his grandfather was going to disgrace himself. he had made his little effort to be respectable and discreet, devoting himself to the county hunt and county drawing-rooms, giving up the pleasures of london and the glories of dissipation. and for what? then peregrine began to argue within himself as some others have done before him-- "were it not better done as others use--" he said to himself, in that or other language; and as he rode slowly into the courtyard of the cleeve, he thought almost with regret of his old friend carroty bob. chapter xxxvii. peregrine's eloquence. in the last chapter peregrine orme called at orley farm with the view of discussing with lucius mason the conduct of their respective progenitors; and, as will be remembered, the young men agreed in a general way that their progenitors were about to make fools of themselves. poor peregrine, however, had other troubles on his mind. not only had his grandfather been successful in love, but he had been unsuccessful. as he had journeyed home from noningsby to the cleeve in a high-wheeled vehicle which he called his trap, he had determined, being then in a frame of mind somewhat softer than was usual with him, to tell all his troubles to his mother. it sounds as though it were lack-a-daisical--such a resolve as this on the part of a dashing young man, who had been given to the pursuit of rats, and was now a leader among the sons of nimrod in the pursuit of foxes. young men of the present day, when got up for the eyes of the world, look and talk as though they could never tell their mothers anything,--as though they were harder than flint, and as little in want of a woman's counsel and a woman's help as a colonel of horse on the morning of a battle. but the rigid virility of his outward accoutrements does in no way alter the man of flesh and blood who wears them; the young hero, so stern to the eye, is, i believe, as often tempted by stress of sentiment to lay bare the sorrow of his heart as is his sister. on this occasion peregrine said to himself that he would lay bare the sorrow of his heart. he would find out what others thought of that marriage which he had proposed to himself; and then, if his mother encouraged him, and his grandfather approved, he would make another attack, beginning on the side of the judge, or perhaps on that of lady staveley. but he found that others, as well as he, were labouring under a stress of sentiment; and when about to tell his own tale, he had learned that a tale was to be told to him. he had dined with lady mason, his mother, and his grandfather, and the dinner had been very silent. three of the party were in love, and the fourth was burdened with the telling of the tale. the baronet himself said nothing on the subject as he and his grandson sat over their wine; but later in the evening peregrine was summoned to his mother's room, and she, with considerable hesitation and much diffidence, informed him of the coming nuptials. "marry lady mason!" he had said. "yes, peregrine. why should he not do so if they both wish it?" peregrine thought that there were many causes and impediments sufficiently just why no such marriage should take place, but he had not his arguments ready at his fingers' ends. he was so stunned by the intelligence that he could say but little about it on that occasion. by the few words that he did say, and by the darkness of his countenance, he showed plainly enough that he disapproved. and then his mother said all that she could in the baronet's favour, pointing out that in a pecuniary way peregrine would receive benefit rather than injury. "i'm not thinking of the money, mother." "no, my dear; but it is right that i should tell you how considerate your grandfather is." "all the same, i wish he would not marry this woman." "woman, peregrine! you should not speak in that way of a friend whom i dearly love." "she is a woman all the same." and then he sat sulkily looking at the fire. his own stress of sentiment did not admit of free discussion at the present moment, and was necessarily postponed. on that other affair he was told that his grandfather would be glad to see him on the following morning; and then he left his mother. "your grandfather, peregrine, asked for my assent," said mrs. orme; "and i thought it right to give it." this she said to make him understand that it was no longer in her power to oppose the match. and she was thoroughly glad that this was so, for she would have lacked the courage to oppose sir peregrine in anything. on the next morning peregrine saw his grandfather before breakfast. his mother came to his room door while he was dressing to whisper a word of caution to him. "pray, be courteous to him," she said. "remember how good he is to you--to us both! say that you congratulate him." "but i don't," said peregrine. "ah, but, peregrine--" "i'll tell you what i'll do, mother. i'll leave the house altogether and go away, if you wish it." "oh, peregrine! how can you speak in that way? but he's waiting now. pray, pray, be kind in your manner to him." he descended with the same sort of feeling which had oppressed him on his return home after his encounter with carroty bob in smithfield. since then he had been on enduring good terms with his grandfather, but now again all the discomforts of war were imminent. "good morning, sir," he said, on going into his grandfather's dressing-room. "good morning, peregrine." and then there was silence for a moment or two. "did you see your mother last night?" "yes; i did see her." "and she told you what it is that i propose to do?" "yes, sir; she told me." "i hope you understand, my boy, that it will not in any way affect your own interests injuriously." "i don't care about that, sir--one way or the other." "but i do, peregrine. having seen to that i think that i have a right to please myself in this matter." "oh, yes, sir; i know you have the right." "especially as i can benefit others. are you aware that your mother has cordially given her consent to the marriage?" "she told me that you had asked her, and that she had agreed to it. she would agree to anything." "peregrine, that is not the way in which you should speak of your mother." and then the young man stood silent, as though there was nothing more to be said. indeed, he had nothing more to say. he did not dare to bring forward in words all the arguments against the marriage which were now crowding themselves into his memory, but he could not induce himself to wish the old man joy, or to say any of those civil things which are customary on such occasions. the baronet sat for a while, silent also, and a cloud of anger was coming across his brow; but he checked that before he spoke. "well, my boy," he said, and his voice was almost more than usually kind, "i can understand your thoughts, and we will say nothing of them at present. all i will ask of you is to treat lady mason in a manner befitting the position in which i intend to place her." "if you think it will be more comfortable, sir, i will leave the cleeve for a time." "i hope that may not be necessary--why should it? or at any rate, not as yet," he added, as a thought as to his wedding day occurred to him. and then the interview was over, and in another half-hour they met again at breakfast. in the breakfast-room lady mason was also present. peregrine was the last to enter, and as he did so his grandfather was already standing in his usual place, with the book of prayers in his hand, waiting that the servants should arrange themselves at their chairs before he knelt down. there was no time then for much greeting, but peregrine did shake hands with her as he stept across to his accustomed corner. he shook hands with her, and felt that her hand was very cold; but he did not look at her, nor did he hear any answer given to his muttered words. when they all got up she remained close to mrs. orme, as though she might thus be protected from the anger which she feared from sir peregrine's other friends. and at breakfast also she sat close to her, far away from the baronet, and almost hidden by the urn from his grandson. sitting there she said nothing; neither in truth did she eat anything. it was a time of great suffering to her, for she knew that her coming could not be welcomed by the young heir. "it must not be," she said to herself over and over again. "though he turn me out of the house, i must tell him that it cannot be so." after breakfast peregrine had ridden over to orley farm, and there held his consultation with the other heir. on his returning to the cleeve, he did not go into the house, but having given up his horse to a groom, wandered away among the woods. lucius mason had suggested that he, peregrine orme, should himself speak to lady mason on this matter. he felt that his grandfather would be very angry, should he do so. but he did not regard that much. he had filled himself full with the theory of his duties, and he would act up to it. he would see her, without telling any one what was his purpose, and put it to her whether she would bring down this destruction on so noble a gentleman. having thus resolved, he returned to the house, when it was already dark, and making his way into the drawing-room, sat himself down before the fire, still thinking of his plan. the room was dark, as such rooms are dark for the last hour or two before dinner in january, and he sat himself in an arm-chair before the fire, intending to sit there till it would be necessary that he should go to dress. it was an unaccustomed thing with him so to place himself at such a time, or to remain in the drawing-room at all till he came down for a few minutes before dinner; but he did so now, having been thrown out of his usual habits by the cares upon his mind. he had been so seated about a quarter of an hour, and was already nearly asleep, when he heard the rustle of a woman's garment, and looking round, with such light as the fire gave him, perceived that lady mason was in the room. she had entered very quietly, and was making her way in the dark to a chair which she frequently occupied, between the fire and one of the windows, and in doing so she passed so near peregrine as to touch him with her dress. "lady mason," he said, speaking, in the first place, in order that she might know that she was not alone, "it is almost dark; shall i ring for candles for you?" she started at hearing his voice, begged his pardon for disturbing him, declined his offer of light, and declared that she was going up again to her own room immediately. but it occurred to him that if it would be well that he should speak to her, it would be well that he should do so at once; and what opportunity could be more fitting than the present? "if you are not in a hurry about anything," he said, "would you mind staying here for a few minutes?" "oh no, certainly not." but he could perceive that her voice trembled in uttering even these few words. "i think i'd better light a candle," he said; and then he did light one of those which stood on the corner of the mantelpiece,--a solitary candle, which only seemed to make the gloom of the large room visible. she, however, was standing close to it, and would have much preferred that the room should have been left to its darkness. "won't you sit down for a few minutes?" and then she sat down. "i'll just shut the door, if you don't mind." and then, having done so, he returned to his own chair and again faced the fire. he saw that she was pale and nervous, and he did not like to look at her as he spoke. he began to reflect also that they might probably be interrupted by his mother, and he wished that they could adjourn to some other room. that, however, seemed to be impossible; so he summoned up all his courage, and began his task. "i hope you won't think me uncivil, lady mason, for speaking to you about this affair." "oh no, mr. orme; i am sure that you will not be uncivil to me." "of course i cannot help feeling a great concern in it, for it's very nearly the same, you know, as if he were my father. indeed, if you come to that, it's almost worse; and i can assure you it is nothing about money that i mind. many fellows in my place would be afraid about that, but i don't care twopence what he does in that respect. he is so honest and so noble-hearted, that i am sure he won't do me a wrong." "i hope not, mr. orme; and certainly not in respect to me." "i only mention it for fear you should misunderstand me. but there are other reasons, lady mason, why this marriage will make me--make me very unhappy." "are there? i shall be so unhappy if i make others unhappy." "you will then,--i can assure you of that. it is not only me, but your own son. i was up with him to-day, and he thinks of it the same as i do." "what did he say, mr. orme?" "what did he say? well, i don't exactly remember his words; but he made me understand that your marriage with sir peregrine would make him very unhappy. he did indeed. why do you not see him yourself, and talk to him?" "i thought it best to write to him in the first place." "well, now you have written; and don't you think it would be well that you should go up and see him? you will find that he is quite as strong against it as i am,--quite." peregrine, had he known it, was using the arguments which were of all the least likely to induce lady mason to pay a visit to orley farm. she dreaded the idea of a quarrel with her son, and would have made almost any sacrifice to prevent such a misfortune; but at the present moment she feared the anger of his words almost more than the anger implied by his absence. if this trial could be got over, she would return to him and almost throw herself at his feet; but till that time, might it not be well that they should be apart? at any rate, these tidings of his discontent could not be efficacious in inducing her to seek him. "dear lucius!" she said, not addressing herself to her companion, but speaking her thoughts. "i would not willingly give him cause to be discontented with me." "he is, then, very discontented. i can assure you of that." "yes; he and i think differently about all this." "ah, but don't you think you had better speak to him before you quite make up your mind? he is your son, you know; and an uncommon clever fellow too. he'll know how to say all this much better than i do." "say what, mr. orme?" "why, of course you can't expect that anybody will like such a marriage as this;--that is, anybody except you and sir peregrine." "your mother does not object to it." "my mother! but you don't know my mother yet. she would not object to have her head cut off if anybody wanted it that she cared about. i do not know how it has all been managed, but i suppose sir peregrine asked her. then of course she would not object. but look at the common sense of it, lady mason. what does the world always say when an old man like my grandfather marries a young woman?" "but i am not--." so far she got, and then she stopped herself. "we have all liked you very much. i'm sure i have for one; and i'll go in for you, heart and soul, in this shameful law business. when lucius asked me, i didn't think anything of going to that scoundrel in hamworth; and all along i've been delighted that sir peregrine took it up. by heavens! i'd be glad to go down to yorkshire myself, and walk into that fellow that wants to do you this injury. i would indeed; and i'll stand by you as strong as anybody. but, lady mason, when it comes to one's grandfather marrying, it--it--it--. think what people in the county will say of him. if it was your father, and if he had been at the top of the tree all his life, how would you like to see him get a fall, and be laughed at as though he were in the mud just when he was too old ever to get up again?" i am not sure whether lucius mason, with all his cleverness, could have put the matter much better, or have used a style of oratory more efficacious to the end in view. peregrine had drawn his picture with a coarse pencil, but he had drawn it strongly, and with graphic effect. and then he paused; not with self-confidence, or as giving his companion time to see how great had been his art, but in want of words, and somewhat confused by the strength of his own thoughts. so he got up and poked the fire, turning his back to it, and then sat down again. "it is such a deuce of a thing, lady mason," he said, "that you must not be angry with me for speaking out." "oh, mr. orme, i am not angry, and i do not know what to say to you." "why don't you speak to lucius?" "what could he say more than you have said? dear mr. orme, i would not injure him,--your grandfather, i mean,--for all that the world holds." "you will injure him;--in the eyes of all his friends." "then i will not do it. i will go to him, and beg him that it may not be so. i will tell him that i cannot. anything will be better than bringing him to sorrow or disgrace." "by jove! but will you really?" peregrine was startled and almost frightened at the effect of his own eloquence. what would the baronet say when he learned that he had been talked out of his wife by his grandson? "mr. orme," continued lady mason, "i am sure you do not understand how this matter has been brought about. if you did, however much it might grieve you, you would not blame me, even in your thoughts. from the first to the last my only desire has been to obey your grandfather in everything." "but you would not marry him out of obedience?" "i would--and did so intend. i would, certainly; if in doing so i did him no injury. you say that your mother would give her life for him. so would i;--that or anything else that i could give, without hurting him or others. it was not i that sought for this marriage; nor did i think of it. if you were in my place, mr. orme, you would know how difficult it is to refuse." peregrine again got up, and standing with his back to the fire, thought over it all again. his soft heart almost relented towards the woman who had borne his rough words with so much patient kindness. had sir peregrine been there then, and could he have condescended so far, he might have won his grandson's consent without much trouble. peregrine, like some other generals, had expended his energy in gaining his victory, and was more ready now to come to easy terms than he would have been had he suffered in the combat. [illustration: peregrine's eloquence.] "well," he said after a while, "i'm sure i'm very much obliged to you for the manner in which you have taken what i said to you. nobody knows about it yet, i suppose; and perhaps, if you will talk to the governor--" "i will talk to him, mr. orme." "thank you; and then perhaps all things may turn out right. i'll go and dress now." and so saying he took his departure, leaving her to consider how best she might act at this crisis of her life, so that things might go right, if such were possible. the more she thought of it, the less possible it seemed that her affairs should be made to go right. chapter xxxviii. oh, indeed! the dinner on that day at the cleeve was not very dull. peregrine had some hopes that the idea of the marriage might be abandoned, and was at any rate much better disposed towards lady mason than he had been. he spoke to her, asking her whether she had been out, and suggesting roast mutton or some such creature comfort. this was lost neither on sir peregrine nor on mrs. orme, and they both exerted themselves to say a few words in a more cheery tone than had been customary in the house for the last day or two. lady mason herself did not say much; but she had sufficient tact to see the effort which was being made; and though she spoke but little she smiled and accepted graciously the courtesies that were tendered to her. then the two ladies went away, and peregrine was again left with his grandfather. "that was a nasty accident that graham had going out of monkton grange," said he, speaking on the moment of his closing the dining-room door after his mother. "i suppose you heard all about it, sir?" having fought his battle so well before dinner, he was determined to give some little rest to his half-vanquished enemy. "the first tidings we heard were that he was dead," said sir peregrine, filling his glass. "no; he wasn't dead. but of course you know that now. he broke an arm and two ribs, and got rather a bad squeeze. he was just behind me, you know, and i had to wait for him. i lost the run, and had to see harriet tristram go away with the best lead any one has had to a fast thing this year. that's an uncommon nasty place at the back of monkton grange." "i hope, peregrine, you don't think too much about harriet tristram." "think of her! who? i? think of her in what sort of a way? i think she goes uncommonly well to hounds." "that may be, but i should not wish to see you pin your happiness on any lady that was celebrated chiefly for going well to hounds." "do you mean marry her?" and peregrine immediately made a strong comparison in his mind between miss tristram and madeline staveley. "yes; that's what i did mean." "i wouldn't have her if she owned every fox-cover in the county. no, by jove! i know a trick worth two of that. it's jolly enough to see them going, but as to being in love with them--in that sort of way--" "you are quite right, my boy; quite right. it is not that that a man wants in a wife." "no," said peregrine, with a melancholy cadence in his voice, thinking of what it was that he did want. and so they sat sipping their wine. the turn which the conversation had taken had for the moment nearly put lady mason out of the young man's head. "you would be very young to marry yet," said the baronet. "yes, i should be young; but i don't know that there is any harm in that." "quite the contrary, if a young man feels himself to be sufficiently settled. your mother i know would be very glad that you should marry early;--and so should i, if you married well." what on earth could all this mean? it could not be that his grandfather knew that he was in love with miss staveley; and had this been known his grandfather would not have talked of harriet tristram. "oh yes; of course a fellow should marry well. i don't think much of marrying for money." "nor do i, peregrine;--i think very little of it." "nor about being of very high birth." "well; it would make me unhappy--very unhappy if you were to marry below your own rank." "what do you call my own rank?" "i mean any girl whose father is not a gentleman, and whose mother is not a lady; and of whose education among ladies you could not feel certain." "i could be quite certain about her," said peregrine, very innocently. "her! what her?" "oh, i forgot that we were talking about nobody." "you don't mean harriet tristram?" "no, certainly not." "of whom were you thinking, peregrine? may i ask--if it be not too close a secret?" and then again there was a pause, during which peregrine emptied his glass and filled it again. he had no objection to talk to his grandfather about miss staveley, but he felt ashamed of having allowed the matter to escape him in this sort of way. "i will tell you why i ask, my boy," continued the baronet. "i am going to do that which many people will call a very foolish thing." "you mean about lady mason." "yes; i mean my own marriage with lady mason. we will not talk about that just at present, and i only mention it to explain that before i do so, i shall settle the property permanently. if you were married i should at once divide it with you. i should like to keep the old house myself, till i die--" "oh, sir!" "but sooner than give you cause of offence i would give that up." "i would not consent to live in it unless i did so as your guest." "until your marriage i think of settling on you a thousand a year;--but it would add to my happiness if i thought it likely that you would marry soon. now may i ask of whom were you thinking?" peregrine paused for a second or two before he made any reply, and then he brought it out boldly. "i was thinking of madeline staveley." "then, my boy, you were thinking of the prettiest girl and the best-bred lady in the county. here's her health;" and he filled for himself a bumper of claret. "you couldn't have named a woman whom i should be more proud to see you bring home. and your mother's opinion of her is the same as mine. i happen to know that;" and with a look of triumph he drank his glass of wine, as though much that was very joyful to him had been already settled. "yes," said peregrine mournfully, "she is a very nice girl; at least i think so." "the man who can win her, peregrine, may consider himself to be a lucky fellow. you were quite right in what you were saying about money. no man feels more sure of that than i do. but if i am not mistaken miss staveley will have something of her own. i rather think that arbuthnot got ten thousand pounds." "i'm sure i don't know, sir," said peregrine; and his voice was by no means as much elated as that of his grandfather. "i think he did; or if he didn't get it all, the remainder is settled on him. and the judge is not a man to behave better to one child than to another." "i suppose not." and then the conversation flagged a little, for the enthusiasm was all one side. it was moreover on that side which naturally would have been the least enthusiastic. poor peregrine had only told half his secret as yet, and that not the most important half. to sir peregrine the tidings, as far as he had heard them, were very pleasant. he did not say to himself that he would purchase his grandson's assent to his own marriage by giving his consent to his grandson's marriage. but it did seem to him that the two affairs, acting upon each other, might both be made to run smooth. his heir could have made no better choice in selecting the lady of his love. sir peregrine had feared much that some miss tristram or the like might have been tendered to him as the future lady orme, and he was agreeably surprised to find that a new mistress for the cleeve had been so well chosen. he would be all kindness to his grandson and win from him, if it might be possible, reciprocal courtesy and complaisance. "your mother will be very pleased when she hears this," he said. "i meant to tell my mother," said peregrine, still very dolefully, "but i do not know that there is anything in it to please her. i only said that i--i admired miss staveley." "my dear boy, if you'll take my advice you'll propose to her at once. you have been staying in the same house with her, and--" "but i have." "have what?" "i have proposed to her." "well?" "and she has refused me. you know all about it now, and there's no such great cause for joy." "oh, you have proposed to her. have you spoken to her father or mother?" "what was the use when she told me plainly that she did not care for me? of course i should have asked her father. as to lady staveley, she and i got on uncommonly well. i'm almost inclined to think that she would not have objected." "it would be a very nice match for them, and i dare say she would not have objected." and then for some ten minutes they sat looking at the fire. peregrine had nothing more to say about it, and the baronet was thinking how best he might encourage his grandson. "you must try again, you know," at last he said. "well; i fear not. i do not think it would be any good. i'm not quite sure she does not care for some one else." "who is he?" "oh, a fellow that's there. the man who broke his arm. i don't say she does, you know, and of course you won't mention it." sir peregrine gave the necessary promises, and then endeavoured to give encouragement to the lover. he would himself see the judge, if it were thought expedient, and explain what liberal settlement would be made on the lady in the event of her altering her mind. "young ladies, you know, are very prone to alter their minds on such matters," said the old man. in answer to which peregrine declared his conviction that madeline staveley would not alter her mind. but then do not all despondent lovers hold that opinion of their own mistresses? sir peregrine had been a great gainer by what had occurred, and so he felt it. at any rate all the novelty of the question of his own marriage was over, as between him and peregrine; and then he had acquired a means of being gracious which must almost disarm his grandson of all power of criticism. when he, an old man, was ready to do so much to forward the views of a young man, could it be possible that the young man should oppose his wishes? and peregrine was aware that his power of opposition was thus lessened. in the evening nothing remarkable occurred between them. each had his or her own plans; but these plans could not be furthered by anything to be said in a general assembly. lady mason had already told to mrs. orme all that had passed in the drawing-room before dinner, and sir peregrine had determined that he would consult mrs. orme as to that matter regarding miss staveley. he did not think much of her refusal. young ladies always do refuse--at first. on the day but one following this there came another visit from mr. furnival, and he was for a long time closeted with sir peregrine. matthew round had, he said, been with him, and had felt himself obliged in the performance of his duty to submit a case to counsel on behalf of his client joseph mason. he had not as yet received the written opinion of sir richard leatherham, to whom he had applied; but nevertheless, as he wished to give every possible notice, he had called to say that his firm were of opinion that an action must be brought either for forgery or for perjury. "for perjury!" mr. furnival had said. "well; yes. we would wish to be as little harsh as possible. but if we convict her of having sworn falsely when she gave evidence as to having copied the codicil herself, and having seen it witnessed by the pretended witnesses;--why in that case of course the property would go back." "i can't give any opinion as to what might be the result in such a case," said mr. furnival. mr. round had gone on to say that he thought it improbable that the action could be tried before the summer assizes. "the sooner the better as far as we are concerned," said mr. furnival. "if you really mean that, i will see that there shall be no unnecessary delay." mr. furnival had declared that he did really mean it, and so the interview had ended. mr. furnival had really meant it, fully concurring in the opinion which mr. chaffanbrass had expressed on this matter; but nevertheless the increasing urgency of the case had almost made him tremble. he still carried himself with a brave outside before mat round, protesting as to the utter absurdity as well as cruelty of the whole proceeding; but his conscience told him that it was not absurd. "perjury!" he said to himself, and then he rang the bell for crabwitz. the upshot of that interview was that mr. crabwitz received a commission to arrange a meeting between that great barrister, the member for the essex marshes, and mr. solomon aram. "won't it look rather, rather--rather--; you know what i mean, sir?" crabwitz had asked. "we must fight these people with their own weapons," said mr. furnival;--not exactly with justice, seeing that messrs. round and crook were not at all of the same calibre in the profession as mr. solomon aram. mr. furnival had already at this time seen mr. slow, of the firm of slow and bideawhile, who were sir peregrine's solicitors. this he had done chiefly that he might be able to tell sir peregrine that he had seen him. mr. slow had declared that the case was one which his firm would not be prepared to conduct, and he named a firm to which he should recommend his client to apply. but mr. furnival, carefully considering the whole matter, had resolved to take the advice and benefit by the experience of mr. chaffanbrass. and then he went down once more to the cleeve. poor mr. furnival! in these days he was dreadfully buffeted about both as regards his outer man and his inner conscience by this unfortunate case, giving up to it time that would otherwise have turned itself into heaps of gold; giving up domestic conscience--for mrs. furnival was still hot in her anger against poor lady mason; and giving up also much peace of mind, for he felt that he was soiling his hands by dirty work. but he thought of the lady's pale sweet face, of her tear-laden eye, of her soft beseeching tones, and gentle touch; he thought of these things--as he should not have thought of them;--and he persevered. on this occasion he was closeted with sir peregrine for a couple of hours, and each heard much from the other that surprised him very much. sir peregrine, when he was told that mr. solomon aram from bucklersbury, and mr. chaffanbrass from the old bailey, were to be retained for the defence of his future wife, drew himself up and said that he could hardly approve of it. the gentlemen named were no doubt very clever in criminal concerns; he could understand as much as that, though he had not had great opportunity of looking into affairs of that sort. but surely, in lady mason's case, assistance of such a description would hardly be needed. would it not be better to consult messrs. slow and bideawhile? and then it turned out that messrs. slow and bideawhile had been consulted; and mr. furnival, not altogether successfully, endeavoured to throw dust into the baronet's eyes, declaring that in a combat with the devil one must use the devil's weapons. he assured sir peregrine that he had given the matter his most matured and indeed most painful professional consideration; there were unfortunate circumstances which required peculiar care; it was a matter which would depend entirely on the evidence of one or two persons who might be suborned; and in such a case it would be well to trust to those who knew how to break down and crush a lying witness. in such work as that slow and bideawhile would be innocent and ignorant as babes. as to breaking down and crushing a witness anxious to speak the truth, mr. furnival at that time said nothing. "i will not think that falsehood and fraud can prevail," said sir peregrine proudly. "but they do prevail sometimes," said mr. furnival. and then with much outer dignity of demeanour, but with some shame-faced tremblings of the inner man hidden under the guise of that outer dignity, sir peregrine informed the lawyer of his great purpose. "indeed!" said mr. furnival, throwing himself back into his chair with a start. "yes, mr. furnival. i should not have taken the liberty to trouble you with a matter so private in its nature, but for your close professional intimacy and great friendship with lady mason." "oh, indeed!" said mr. furnival; and the baronet could understand from the lawyer's tone that even he did not approve. chapter xxxix. why should he go? "i am well aware, mr. staveley, that you are one of those gentlemen who amuse themselves by frequently saying such things to girls. i had learned your character in that respect before i had been in the house two days." "then, miss furnival, you learned what was very false. may i ask who has blackened me in this way in your estimation?" it will be easily seen from this that mr. augustus staveley and miss furnival were at the present moment alone together in one of the rooms at noningsby. "my informant," she replied, "has been no one special sinner whom you can take by the throat and punish. indeed, if you must shoot anybody, it should be chiefly yourself, and after that your father, and mother, and sisters. but you need not talk of being black. such sins are venial now-a-days, and convey nothing deeper than a light shade of brown." "i regard a man who can act in such a way as very base." "such a way as what, mr. staveley?" "a man who can win a girl's heart for his own amusement." "i said nothing about the winning of hearts. that is treachery of the worst dye; but i acquit you of any such attempt. when there is a question of the winning of hearts men look so different." "i don't know how they look," said augustus, not altogether satisfied as to the manner in which he was being treated--"but such has been my audacity,--my too great audacity on the present occasion." "you are the most audacious of men, for your audacity would carry you to the feet of another lady to-morrow without the slightest check." "and that is the only answer i am to receive from you?" "it is quite answer enough. what would you have me do? get up and decline the honour of being mrs. augustus staveley with a curtsy?" "no--i would have you do nothing of the kind. i would have you get up and accept the honour,--with a kiss." "so that you might have the kiss, and i might have the--; i was going to say disappointment, only that would be untrue. let me assure you that i am not so demonstrative in my tokens of regard." "i wonder whether you mean that you are not so honest?" "no, mr. staveley; i mean nothing of the kind; and you are very impertinent to express such a supposition. what have i done or said to make you suppose that i have lost my heart to you?" "as you have mine, it is at any rate human nature in me to hope that i might have yours." "psha! your heart! you have been making a shuttlecock of it till it is doubtful whether you have not banged it to pieces. i know two ladies who carry in their caps two feathers out of it. it is so easy to see when a man is in love. they all go cross-gartered like malvolio;--cross-gartered in their looks and words and doings." "and there is no touch of all this in me?" "you cross-gartered! you have never got so far yet as a lack-a-daisical twist to the corner of your mouth. did you watch mr. orme before he went away?" "why; was he cross-gartered?" "but you men have no eyes; you never see anything. and your idea of love-making is to sit under a tree wishing, wondering whether the ripe fruit will fall down into your mouth. ripe fruit does sometimes fall, and then it is all well with you. but if it won't, you pass on and say that it is sour. as for climbing--" "the fruit generally falls too fast to admit of such exercise," said staveley, who did not choose that all the sharp things should be said on the other side. "and that is the result of your very extended experience? the orchards which have been opened to you have not, i fear, been of the first quality. mr. staveley, my hand will do very well by itself. such is not the sort of climbing that is required. that is what i call stooping to pick up the fruit that has fallen." and as she spoke, she moved a little away from him on the sofa. "and how is a man to climb?" "do you really mean that you want a lesson? but if i were to tell you, my words would be thrown away. men will not labour who have gotten all that they require without work. why strive to deserve any woman, when women are plenty who do not care to be deserved? that plan of picking up the fallen apples is so much the easier." the lesson might perhaps have been given, and miss furnival might have imparted to mr. staveley her idea of "excelsior" in the matter of love-making, had not mr. staveley's mother come into the room at that moment. mrs. staveley was beginning to fear that the results of her christmas hospitality would not be satisfactory. peregrine orme, whom she would have been so happy to welcome to the warmest corner of her household temple as a son, had been sent away in wretchedness and disappointment. madeline was moping about the house, hardly making an effort to look like herself; attributing, in her mother's ears, all her complaint to that unexpected interview with peregrine orme, but not so attributing it--as her mother fancied--with correctness. and there was felix graham still in the room up stairs, the doctor having said that he might be moved in a day or two;--that is, such movement might possibly be effected without detriment;--but having said also that another ten days of uninterrupted rest would be very desirable. and now, in addition to this, her son augustus was to be found on every wet morning closeted somewhere with sophia furnival;--on every wet morning, and sometimes on dry mornings also! [illustration: lady stavely interrupting her son and sophia furnival.] and then, on this very day, lady staveley had discovered that felix graham's door in the corridor was habitually left open. she knew her child too well, and was too clear and pure in her own mind, to suppose that there was anything wrong in this;--that clandestine talkings were arranged, or anything planned in secret. what she feared was that which really occurred. the door was left open, and as madeline passed felix would say a word, and then madeline would pause and answer him. such words as they were might have been spoken before all the household, and if so spoken would have been free from danger. but they were not free from danger when spoken in that way, in the passage of a half-closed doorway;--all which lady staveley understood perfectly. "baker," she had said, with more of anger in her voice than was usual with her, "why do you leave that door open?" "i think it sweetens the room, my lady;" and, indeed, felix graham sometimes thought so too. "nonsense; every sound in the house must be heard. keep it shut, if you please." "yes, my lady," said mrs. baker--who also understood perfectly. "he is better, my darling," said mrs. baker to madeline, the same day; "and, indeed, for that he is well enough as regards eating and drinking. but it would be cruelty to move him yet. i heard what the doctor said." "who talks of moving him?" "well, he talks of it himself; and the doctor said it might be possible. but i know what that means." "what does it mean?" "why, just this: that if we want to get rid of him, it won't quite be the death of him." "but who wants to get rid of him?" "i'm sure i don't. i don't mind my trouble the least in life. he's as nice a young gentleman as ever i sat beside the bed of; and he's full of spirit--he is." and then madeline appealed to her mother. surely her mother would not let mr. graham be sent out of the house in his present state, merely because the doctor said it might be possible to move him without causing his instant death! and tears stood in poor madeline's eyes as she thus pleaded the cause of the sick and wounded. this again tormented lady staveley, who found it necessary to give further caution to mrs. baker. "baker," she said, "how can you be so foolish as to be talking to miss madeline about mr. graham's arm?" "who, my lady? i, my lady?" "yes, you; when you know that the least thing frightens her. don't you remember how ill it made her when roger"--roger was an old family groom--"when roger had that accident?" lady staveley might have saved herself the trouble of the reminiscence as to roger, for baker knew more about it than that. when roger's scalp had been laid bare by a fall, miss madeline had chanced to see it, and had fainted; but miss madeline was not fainting now. baker knew all about it, almost better than lady staveley herself. it was of very little use talking to baker about roger the groom. baker thought that mr. felix graham was a very nice young man, in spite of his "not being exactly handsomelike about the physgognomy," as she remarked to one of the younger maids, who much preferred peregrine orme. coming away from this last interval with mrs. baker, lady staveley interrupted her son and sophia furnival in the back drawing-room, and began to feel that her solicitude for her children would be almost too much for her. why had she asked that nasty girl to her house, and why would not the nasty girl go away? as for her going away, there was no present hope; for it had been arranged that she should stay for another fortnight. why could not the fates have been kind, and have allowed felix graham and miss furnival to fall in love with each other? "i can never make a daughter of her if he does marry her," lady staveley said to herself, as she looked at them. augustus looked as though he were detected, and stammered out some question about his mother and the carriage; but miss furnival did not for a moment lose her easy presence of mind. "lady staveley," said she, "why does not your son go and hunt, or shoot, or fish, instead of staying in the house all day? it seems to me that his time is so heavy on his hands that he will almost have to hang himself." "i'm sure i can't tell," said lady staveley, who was not so perfect an actor as her guest. "i do think gentlemen in the house in the morning always look so unfortunate. you have been endeavouring to make yourself agreeable, but you know you've been yawning." "do you suppose then that men never sit still in the morning?" said augustus. "oh, in their chambers, yes; or on the bench, and perhaps also behind counters; but they very seldom do so in a drawing-room. you have been fidgeting about with the poker till you have destroyed the look of the fireplace." "well, i'll go and fidget up stairs with graham," said he; and so he left the room. "nasty, sly girl," said lady staveley to herself as she took up her work and sat herself down in her own chair. augustus did go up to his friend and found him reading letters. there was no one else in the room, and the door when augustus reached it was properly closed. "i think i shall be off to-morrow, old boy," said felix. "then i think you'll do no such thing," said augustus. "what's in the wind now?" "the doctor said this morning that i could be moved without danger." "he said that it might possibly be done in two or three days--that was all. what on earth makes you so impatient? you've nothing to do. nobody else wants to see you; and nobody here wants to get rid of you." "you're wrong in all your three statements." "the deuce i am! who wants to get rid of you?" "that shall come last. i have something to do, and somebody else does want to see me. i've got a letter from mary here, and another from mrs. thomas;" and he held up to view two letters which he had received, and which had, in truth, startled him. "mary's duenna;--the artist who is supposed to be moulding the wife." "yes; mary's duenna, or mary's artist, whichever you please." "and which of them wants to see you? it's just like a woman, to require a man's attendance exactly when he is unable to move." then felix, though he did not give up the letters to be read, described to a certain extent their contents. "i don't know what on earth has happened," he said. "mary is praying to be forgiven, and saying that it is not her fault; and mrs. thomas is full of apologies, declaring that her conscience forces her to tell everything; and yet, between them both, i do not know what has happened." "miss snow has probably lost the key of the workbox you gave her." "i have not given her a workbox." "then the writing-desk. that's what a man has to endure when he will make himself head schoolmaster to a young lady. and so you're going to look after your charge with your limbs still in bandages?" "just so;" and then he took up the two letters and read them again, while staveley still sat on the foot of the bed. "i wish i knew what to think about it," said felix. "about what?" said the other. and then there was another pause, and another reading of a portion of the letters. "there seems something--something almost frightful to me," said felix gravely, "in the idea of marrying a girl in a few months' time, who now, at so late a period of our engagement, writes to me in that sort of cold, formal way." "it's the proper moulded-wife style, you may depend," said augustus. "i'll tell you what, staveley, if you can talk to me seriously for five minutes, i shall be obliged to you. if that is impossible to you, say so, and i will drop the matter." "well, go on; i am serious enough in what i intend to express, even though i may not be so in my words." "i'm beginning to have my doubts about this dear girl." "i've had my doubts for some time." "not, mark you, with regard to myself. the question is not now whether i can love her sufficiently for my own happiness. on that side i have no longer the right to a doubt." "but you wouldn't marry her if you did not love her." "we need not discuss that. but what if she does not love me? what if she would think it a release to be freed from this engagement? how am i to find that out?" augustus sat for a while silent, for he did feel that the matter was serious. the case as he looked at it stood thus:--his friend graham had made a very foolish bargain, from which he would probably be glad to escape, though he could not now bring himself to say as much. but this bargain, bad for him, would probably be very good for the young lady. the young lady, having no shilling of her own, and no merits of birth or early breeding to assist her outlook in the world, might probably regard her ready-made engagement to a clever, kind-hearted, high-spirited man, as an advantage not readily to be abandoned. staveley, as a sincere friend, was very anxious that the match should be broken off; but he could not bring himself to tell graham that he thought that the young lady would so wish. according to his idea the young lady must undergo a certain amount of disappointment, and receive a certain amount of compensation. graham had been very foolish, and must pay for his folly. but in preparing to do so, it would be better that he should see and acknowledge the whole truth of the matter. "are you sure that you have found out your own feelings?" staveley said at last; and his tone was then serious enough even for his friend. "it hardly matters whether i have or have not," said felix. "it matters above all things;--above all things, because as to them you may come to something like certainty. of the inside of her heart you cannot know so much. the fact i take it is this--that you would wish to escape from this bondage." "no; not unless i thought she regarded it as bondage also. it may be that she does. as for myself, i believe that at the present moment such a marriage would be for me the safest step that i could take." "safe as against what danger?" "all dangers. how, if i should learn to love another woman,--some one utterly out of my reach,--while i am still betrothed to her?" "i rarely flatter you, graham, and don't mean to do it now; but no girl ought to be out of your reach. you have talent, position, birth, and gifts of nature, which should make you equal to any lady. as for money, the less you have the more you should look to get. but if you would cease to be mad, two years would give you command of an income." "but i shall never cease to be mad." "who is it that cannot be serious, now?" "well, i will be serious--serious enough. i can afford to be so, as i have received my medical passport for to-morrow. no girl, you say, ought to be out of my reach. if the girl were one miss staveley, should she be regarded as out of my reach?" "a man doesn't talk about his own sister," said staveley, having got up from the bed and walked to the window, "and i know you don't mean anything." "but, by heavens! i do mean a great deal." "what is it you mean, then?" "i mean this--what would you say if you learned that i was a suitor for her hand?" staveley had been right in saying that a man does not talk about his own sister. when he had declared, with so much affectionate admiration for his friend's prowess, that he might aspire to the hand of any lady, that one retiring, modest-browed girl had not been thought of by him. a man in talking to another man about women is always supposed to consider those belonging to himself as exempt from the incidents of the conversation. the dearest friends do not talk to each other about their sisters when they have once left school; and a man in such a position as that now taken by graham has to make fight for his ground as closely as though there had been no former intimacies. my friend smith in such a matter as that, though i have been hail fellow with him for the last ten years, has very little advantage over jones, who was introduced to the house for the first time last week. and therefore staveley felt himself almost injured when felix graham spoke to him about madeline. "what would i say? well--that is a question one does not understand, unless--unless you really meant to state it as a fact that it was your intention to propose to her." "but i mean rather to state it as a fact that it is not my intention to propose to her." "then we had better not speak of her." "listen to me a moment. in order that i may not do so, it will be better for me--better for us all, that i should leave the house." "do you mean to say--?" "yes, i do mean to say! i mean to say all that your mind is now suggesting to you. i quite understand your feelings when you declare that a man does not like to talk of his own sister, and therefore we will talk of your sister no more. old fellow, don't look at me as though you meant to drop me." augustus came back to the bedside, and again seating himself, put his hand almost caressingly over his friend's shoulder. "i did not think of this," he said. "no; one never does think of it," graham replied. "and she?" "she knows no more of it than that bed-post," said graham. "the injury, such as there is, is all on one side. but i'll tell you who suspects it." "baker?" "your mother. i am much mistaken if you will not find that she, with all her hospitality, would prefer that i should recover my strength elsewhere." "but you have done nothing to betray yourself." "a mother's ears are very sharp. i know that it is so. i cannot explain to you how. do you tell her that i think of getting up to london to-morrow, and see how she will take it. and, staveley, do not for a moment suppose that i am reproaching her. she is quite right. i believe that i have in no way committed myself--that i have said no word to your sister with which lady staveley has a right to feel herself aggrieved; but if she has had the wit to read the thoughts of my bosom, she is quite right to wish that i were out of the house." poor lady staveley had been possessed of no such wit at all. the sphynx which she had read had been one much more in her own line. she had simply read the thoughts in her daughter's bosom--or rather, the feelings in her daughter's heart. augustus staveley hardly knew what he ought to say. he was not prepared to tell his friend that he was the very brother-in-law for whose connection he would be desirous. such a marriage for madeline, even should madeline desire it, would not be advantageous. when augustus told graham that he had gifts of nature which made him equal to any lady, he did not include his own sister. and yet the idea of acquiescing in his friend's sudden departure was very painful to him. "there can be no reason why you should not stay up here, you know," at last he said;--and in so saying he pronounced an absolute verdict against poor felix. on few matters of moment to a man's own heart can he speak out plainly the whole truth that is in him. graham had intended so to do, but had deceived himself. he had not absolutely hoped that his friend would say, "come among us, and be one of us; take her, and be my brother." but yet there came upon his heart a black load of disappointment, in that the words which were said were the exact opposite of these. graham had spoken of himself as unfit to match with madeline staveley, and madeline staveley's brother had taken him at his word. the question which augustus asked himself was this--was it, or was it not practicable that graham should remain there without danger of intercourse with his sister? to felix the question came in a very different shape. after having spoken as he had spoken--might he be allowed to remain there, enjoying such intercourse, or might he not? that was the question to which he had unconsciously demanded an answer;--and unconsciously he had still hoped that the question might be answered in his favour. he had so hoped, although he was burdened with mary snow, and although he had spoken of his engagement with that lady in so rigid a spirit of self-martyrdom. but the question had been answered against him. the offer of a further asylum in the seclusion of that bedroom had been made to him by his friend with a sort of proviso that it would not be well that he should go further than the bedroom, and his inner feelings at once grated against each other, making him wretched and almost angry. "thank you, no; i understand how kind you are, but i will not do that. i will write up to-night, and shall certainly start to-morrow." "my dear fellow--" "i should get into a fever, if i were to remain in this house after what i have told you. i could not endure to see you, or your mother, or baker, or marian, or any one else. don't talk about it. indeed, you ought to feel that it is not possible. i have made a confounded ass of myself, and the sooner i get away the better. i say--perhaps you would not be angry if i was to ask you to let me sleep for an hour or so now. after that i'll get up and write my letters." he was very sore. he knew that he was sick at heart, and ill at ease, and cross with his friend; and knew also that he was unreasonable in being so. staveley's words and manner had been full of kindness. graham was aware of this, and was therefore the more irritated with himself. but this did not prevent his being angry and cross with his friend. "graham," said the other, "i see clearly enough that i have annoyed you." "not in the least. a man falls into the mud, and then calls to another man to come and see him. the man in the mud of course is not comfortable." "but you have called to me, and i have not been able to help you." "i did not suppose you would, so there has been no disappointment. indeed, there was no possibility for help. i shall follow out the line of life which i have long since chalked out for myself, and i do not expect that i shall be more wretched than other poor devils around me. as far as my idea goes, it all makes very little difference. now leave me; there's a good fellow." "dear old fellow, i would give my right hand if it would make you happy!" "but it won't. your right hand will make somebody else happy, i hope." "i'll come up to you again before dinner." "very well. and, staveley, what we have now said cannot be forgotten between us; but when we next meet, and ever after, let it be as though it were forgotten." then he settled himself down on the bed, and augustus left the room. it will not be supposed that graham did go to sleep, or that he had any thought of doing so. when he was alone those words of his friend rang over and over again in his ears, "no girl ought to be out of your reach." why should madeline staveley be out of his reach, simply because she was his friend's sister? he had been made welcome to that house, and therefore he was bound to do nothing unhandsome by the family. but then he was bound by other laws, equally clear, to do nothing unhandsome by any other family--or by any other lady. if there was anything in staveley's words, they applied as strongly to staveley's sister as to any other girl. and why should not he, a lawyer, marry a lawyer's daughter? sophia furnival, with her hatful of money, would not be considered too high for him; and in what respect was madeline staveley above sophia furnival? that the one was immeasurably above the other in all those respects which in his estimation tended towards female perfection, he knew to be true enough; but the fruit which he had been forbidden to gather hung no higher on the social tree than that other fruit which he had been specially invited to pluck and garner. and then graham was not a man to think any fruit too high for him. he had no overweening idea of his own deserts, either socially or professionally, nor had he taught himself to expect great things from his own genius; but he had that audacity of spirit which bids a man hope to compass that which he wishes to compass,--that audacity which is both the father and mother of success,--that audacity which seldom exists without the inner capability on which it ought to rest. but then there was mary snow! augustus staveley thought but little of mary snow. according to his theory of his friend's future life, mary snow might be laid aside without much difficulty. if this were so, why should not madeline be within his reach? but then was it so? had he not betrothed himself to mary snow in the presence of the girl's father, with every solemnity and assurance, in a manner fixed beyond that of all other betrothals? alas, yes; and for this reason it was right that he should hurry away from noningsby. then he thought of mary's letter, and of mrs. thomas's letter. what was it that had been done? mary had written as though she had been charged with some childish offence; but mrs. thomas talked solemnly of acquitting her own conscience. what could have happened that had touched mrs. thomas in the conscience? but his thoughts soon ran away from the little house at peckham, and settled themselves again at noningsby. should he hear more of madeline's footsteps?--and if not, why should they have been banished from the corridor? should he hear her voice again at the door,--and if not, why should it have been hushed? there is a silence which may be more eloquent than the sounds which it follows. had no one in that house guessed the feelings in his bosom, she would have walked along the corridor as usual, and spoken a word with her sweet voice in answer to his word. he felt sure that this would be so no more; but who had stopped it, and why should such sounds be no more heard? at last he did go to sleep, not in pursuance of any plan formed for doing so; for had he been asked he would have said that sleep was impossible for him. but he did go to sleep, and when he awoke it was dark. he had intended to have got up and dressed on that afternoon, or to have gone through such ceremony of dressing as was possible for him,--in preparation of his next day's exercise; and now he rose up in his bed with a start, angry with himself in having allowed the time to pass by him. "lord love you, mr. graham, why how you have slept!" said mrs. baker. "if i haven't just sent your dinner down again to keep hot. such a beautiful pheasant, and the bread sauce'll be lumpy now, for all the world like pap." "never mind the bread sauce, mrs. baker;--the pheasant's the thing." "and her ladyship's been here, mr. graham, only she wouldn't have you woke. she won't hear of your being moved to-morrow, nor yet won't the judge. there was a rumpus down stairs when mr. augustus as much as mentioned it. i know one who--" "you know one who--you were saying?" "never mind.--it ain't one more than another, but it's all. you ain't to leave this to-morrow, so you may just give it over. and indeed your things is all at the wash, so you can't;--and now i'll go down for the pheasant." felix still declared very positively that he should go, but his doing so did not shake mrs. baker. the letter-bag he knew did not leave till eight, and as yet it was not much past five. he would see staveley again after his dinner, and then he would write. when augustus left the room in the middle of the day he encountered madeline wandering about the house. in these days she did wander about the house, as though there were something always to be done in some place apart from that in which she then was. and yet the things which she did were but few. she neither worked nor read, and as for household duties, her share in them was confined almost entirely to the morning and evening teapot. "it isn't true that he's to go to-morrow morning, augustus, is it?" said she. "who, graham? well; he says that he will. he is very anxious to get to london; and no doubt he finds it stupid enough lying there and doing nothing." "but he can do as much there as he can lying by himself in his own chambers, where i don't suppose he would have anybody to look after him. he thinks he's a trouble and all that, and therefore he wants to go. but you know mamma doesn't mind about trouble of that kind; and what should we think of it afterwards if anything bad was to happen to your friend because we allowed him to leave the house before he was in a fit state to be moved? of course mr. pottinger says so--" mr. pottinger was the doctor. "of course mr. pottinger says so, because he thinks he has been so long here, and he doesn't understand." "but mr. pottinger would like to keep a patient." "oh no; he's not at all that sort of man. he'd think of mamma,--the trouble i mean of having a stranger in the house. but you know mamma would think nothing of that, especially for such an intimate friend of yours." augustus turned slightly round so as to look more fully into his sister's face, and he saw that a tear was gathered in the corner of her eye. she perceived his glance and partly shrank under it, but she soon recovered herself and answered it. "i know what you mean," she said, "and if you choose to think so, i can't help it. but it is horrible--horrible--" and then she stopped herself, finding that a little sob would become audible if she trusted herself to further words. "you know what i mean, mad?" he said, putting his arm affectionately round her waist. "and what is it that i mean? come; you and i never have any secrets;--you always say so when you want to get at mine. tell me what it is that i mean." "i haven't got any secret." "but what did i mean?" "you looked at me, because i don't want you to let them send mr. graham away. if it was old mr. furnival i shouldn't like them to turn him out of this house when he was in such a state as that." "poor mr. furnival; no; i think he would bear it worse than felix." "then why should he go? and why--should you look at me in that way?" "did i look at you, mad? well, i believe i did. we are to have no secrets; are we?" "no," said she. but she did not say it in the same eager voice with which hitherto she had declared that they would always tell each other everything. "felix graham is my friend," said he, "my special friend; and i hope you will always like my friends. but--" "well?" she said. "you know what i mean, mad" "yes," she said. "that is all, dearest." and then she knew that he also had cautioned her not to fall in love with felix graham, and she felt angry with him for the caution. "why--why--why--?" but she hardly knew as yet how to frame the question which she desired to ask herself. chapter xl. i call it awful. "oh indeed!" those had been the words with which mr. furnival had received the announcement made by sir peregrine as to his proposed nuptials. and as he uttered them the lawyer drew himself up stiffly in his chair, looking much more like a lawyer and much less like an old family friend than he had done the moment before. whereupon sir peregrine drew himself up also. "yes," he said. "i should be intrusive if i were to trouble you with my motives, and therefore i need only say further as regards the lady, that i trust that my support, standing as i shall do in the position of her husband, will be more serviceable to her than it could otherwise have been in this trial which she will, i presume, be forced to undergo." "no doubt; no doubt," said mr. furnival; and then the interview had ended. the lawyer had been anxious to see his client, and had intended to ask permission to do so; but he had felt on hearing sir peregrine's tidings that it would be useless now to make any attempt to see her alone, and that he could speak to her with no freedom in sir peregrine's presence. so he left the cleeve, having merely intimated to the baronet the fact of his having engaged the services of mr. chaffanbrass and mr. solomon aram. "you will not see lady mason?" sir peregrine had asked. "thank you; i do not know that i need trouble her," mr. furnival had answered. "you of course will explain to her how the case at present stands. i fear she must reconcile herself to the fact of a trial. you are aware, sir peregrine, that the offence imputed is one for which bail will be taken. i should propose yourself and her son. of course i should be happy to lend my own name, but as i shall be on the trial, perhaps it may be as well that this should be avoided." bail will be taken! these words were dreadful in the ears of the expectant bridegroom. had it come to this; that there was a question whether or no she should be locked up in a prison, like a felon? but nevertheless his heart did not misgive him. seeing how terribly she was injured by others, he felt himself bound by the stronger law to cling to her himself. such was the special chivalry of the man. mr. furnival on his return to london thought almost more of sir peregrine than he did either of lady mason or of himself. was it not a pity? was it not a thousand pities that that aged noble gentleman should be sacrificed? he had felt angry with sir peregrine when the tidings were first communicated to him; but now, as he journeyed up to london this feeling of anger was transferred to his own client. this must be her doing, and such doing on her part, while she was in her present circumstances, was very wicked. and then he remembered her guilt,--her probable guilt, and his brow became very black. her supposed guilt had not been horrible to him while he had regarded it as affecting herself alone, and in point of property affecting joseph mason and her son lucius. he could look forward, sometimes almost triumphantly, to the idea of washing her--so far as this world's washing goes--from that guilt, and setting her up again clear before the world, even though in doing so he should lend a hand in robbing joseph mason of his estate. but this dragging down of another--and such another--head into the vortex of ruin and misery was horrible to him. he was not straitlaced, or mealy-mouthed, or overburthened with scruples. in the way of his profession he could do many a thing at which--i express a single opinion with much anxious deference--at which an honest man might be scandalized if it came beneath his judgment unprofessionally. but this he could not stand. something must be done in the matter. the marriage must be stayed till after the trial,--or else he must himself retire from the defence and explain both to lady mason and to sir peregrine why he did so. and then he thought of the woman herself, and his spirit within him became very bitter. had any one told him that he was jealous of the preference shown by his client to sir peregrine, he would have fumed with anger, and thought that he was fuming justly. but such was in truth the case. though he believed her to have been guilty of this thing, though he believed her to be now guilty of the worse offence of dragging the baronet to his ruin, still he was jealous of her regard. had she been content to lean upon him, to trust to him as her great and only necessary friend, he could have forgiven all else, and placed at her service the full force of his professional power,--even though by doing so he might have lowered himself in men's minds. and what reward did he expect? none. he had formed no idea that the woman would become his mistress. all that was as obscure before his mind's eye, as though she had been nineteen and he five-and-twenty. he was to dine at home on this day, that being the first occasion of his doing so for--as mrs. furnival declared--the last six months. in truth, however, the interval had been long, though not so long as that. he had a hope that having announced his intention, he might find the coast clear and hear martha biggs spoken of as a dear one lately gone. but when he arrived at home martha biggs was still there. under circumstances as they now existed mrs. furnival had determined to keep martha biggs by her, unless any special edict for her banishment should come forth. then, in case of such special edict, martha biggs should go, and thence should arise the new casus belli. mrs. furnival had made up her mind that war was expedient,--nay, absolutely necessary. she had an idea, formed no doubt from the reading of history, that some allies require a smart brush now and again to blow away the clouds of distrust which become engendered by time between them; and that they may become better allies than ever afterwards. if the appropriate time for such a brush might ever come, it had come now. all the world,--so she said to herself,--was talking of mr. furnival and lady mason. all the world knew of her injuries. martha biggs was second cousin to mr. crook's brother's wife--i speak of that mr. crook who had been professionally known for the last thirty years as the partner of mr. round. it had been whispered in the office in bedford row--such whisper i fear originating with old round--that mr. furnival admired his fair client. hence light had fallen upon the eyes of martha biggs, and the secret of her friend was known to her. need i trace the course of the tale with closer accuracy? "oh, kitty," she had said to her friend with tears that evening--"i cannot bear to keep it to myself any more! i cannot when i see you suffering so. it's awful." "cannot bear to keep what, martha?" "oh, i know. indeed all the town knows it now." "knows what? you know how i hate that kind of thing. if you have anything to say, speak out." this was not kind to such a faithful friend as martha biggs; but martha knew what sacrifices friendship such as hers demanded, and she did not resent it. "well then;--if i am to speak out, it's--lady mason. and i do say that it's shameful, quite shameful;--and awful; i call it awful." mrs. furnival had not said much at the time to encourage the fidelity of her friend, but she was thus justified in declaring to herself that her husband's goings on had become the talk of all the world;--and his goings on especially in that quarter in which she had long regarded them with so much dismay. she was not therefore prepared to welcome him on this occasion of his coming home to dinner by such tokens of friendly feeling as the dismissal of her friend to red lion square. when the moment for absolute war should come martha biggs should be made to depart. mr. furnival when he arrived at his own house was in a thoughtful mood, and disposed for quiet and domestic meditation. had miss biggs not been there he could have found it in his heart to tell everything about lady mason to his wife, asking her counsel as to what he should do with reference to that marriage. could he have done so, all would have been well; but this was not possible while that red-faced lump of a woman from red lion square sat in his drawing-room, making everything uncomfortable. the three sat down to dinner together, and very little was said between them. mr. furnival did try to be civil to his wife, but wives sometimes have a mode of declining such civilities without committing themselves to overt acts of war. to miss biggs mr. furnival could not bring himself to say anything civil, seeing that he hated her; but such words as he did speak to her she received with grim griffin-like austerity, as though she were ever meditating on the awfulness of his conduct. and so in truth she was. why his conduct was more awful in her estimation since she had heard lady mason's name mentioned, than when her mind had been simply filled with general ideas of vague conjugal infidelity, i cannot say; but such was the case. "i call it awful," were the first words she again spoke when she found herself once more alone with mrs. furnival in the drawing-room. and then she sat down over the fire, thinking neither of her novel nor her knitting, with her mind deliciously filled with the anticipation of coming catastrophes. "if i sit up after half-past ten would you mind going to bed?" said mrs. furnival, when they had been in the drawing-room about ten minutes. "oh no, not in the least," said miss biggs. "i'll be sure to go." but she thought it very unkind, and she felt as a child does who is deceived in a matter of being taken to the play. if no one goes the child can bear it. but to see others go, and to be left behind, is too much for the feelings of any child,--or of martha biggs. mr. furnival had no inclination for sitting alone over his wine on this occasion. had it been possible for him he would have preferred to have gone quickly up stairs, and to have taken his cup of coffee from his wife's hand with some appreciation of domestic comfort. but there could be no such comfort to him while martha biggs was there, so he sat down stairs, sipping his port according to his custom, and looking into the fire for a solution of his difficulties about lady mason. he began to wish that he had never seen lady mason, and to reflect that the intimate friendship of pretty women often brings with it much trouble. he was resolved on one thing. he would not go down into court and fight that battle for lady orme. were he to do so the matter would have taken quite a different phase,--one that he had not at all anticipated. in case that his present client should then have become lady orme, mr. chaffanbrass and mr. solomon aram might carry on the battle between them, with such assistance as they might be able to get from messrs. slow and bideawhile. he became angry as he drank his port, and in his anger he swore that it should be so. and then as his anger became hot at the close of his libations, he remembered that martha biggs was up stairs, and became more angry still. and thus when he did go into the drawing-room at some time in the evening not much before ten, he was not in a frame of mind likely to bring about domestic comfort. he walked across the drawing-room, sat down in an arm-chair by the table, and took up the last number of a review, without speaking to either of them. whereupon mrs. furnival began to ply her needle which had been lying idly enough upon her work, and martha biggs fixed her eyes intently upon her book. so they sat twenty minutes without a word being spoken, and then mrs. furnival inquired of her lord whether he chose to have tea. "of course i shall,--when you have it," said he. "don't mind us," said mrs. furnival. "pray don't mind me," said martha biggs. "don't let me be in the way." "no, i won't," said mr. furnival. whereupon miss biggs again jumped up in her chair as though she had been electrified. it may be remembered that on a former occasion mr. furnival had sworn at her--or at least in her presence. "you need not be rude to a lady in your own house, because she is my friend," said mrs. furnival. "bother," said mr. furnival. "and now if we are going to have any tea, let us have it." "i don't think i'll mind about tea to-night, mrs. furnival," said miss biggs, having received a notice from her friend's eye that it might be well for her to depart. "my head aches dreadful, and i shall be better in bed. good-night, mrs. furnival." and then she took her candle and went away. for the next five minutes there was not a word said. no tea had been ordered, although it had been mentioned. mrs. furnival had forgotten it among the hot thoughts that were running through her mind, and mr. furnival was indifferent upon the subject. he knew that something was coming, and he resolved that he would have the upper hand let that something be what it might. he was being ill used,--so he said to himself--and would not put up with it. at last the battle began. he was not looking, but he heard her first movement as she prepared herself. "tom!" she said, and then the voice of the war goddess was again silent. he did not choose to answer her at the instant, and then the war goddess rose from her seat and again spoke. "tom!" she said, standing over him and looking at him. "what is it you mean?" said he, allowing his eyes to rise to her face over the top of his book. "tom!" she said for the third time. "i'll have no nonsense, kitty," said he. "if you have anything to say, say it." even then she had intended to be affectionate,--had so intended at the first commencement of her address. she had no wish to be a war goddess. but he had assisted her attempt at love by no gentle word, by no gentle look, by no gentle motion. "i have this to say," she replied; "you are disgracing both yourself and me, and i will not remain in this house to be a witness to it." "then you may go out of the house." these words, be it remembered, were uttered not by the man himself, but by the spirit of port wine within the man. "tom, do you say that;--after all?" "by heavens i do say it! i'll not be told in my own drawing-room, even by you, that i am disgracing myself." "then why do you go after that woman down to hamworth? all the world is talking of you. at your age too! you ought to be ashamed of yourself." "i can't stand this," said he, getting up and throwing the book from him right across the drawing-room floor; "and, by heavens! i won't stand it." "then why do you do it, sir?" "kitty, i believe the devil must have entered into you to drive you mad." "oh, oh, oh! very well, sir. the devil in the shape of drink and lust has entered into you. but you may understand this; i--will--not--consent to live with you while such deeds as these are being done." and then without waiting for another word, she stormed out of the room. volume ii. chapter xli. how can i save him? "i will not consent to live with you while such deeds as these are being done." such were the last words which mrs. furnival spoke as she walked out of her own drawing-room, leaving her husband still seated in his arm-chair. what was he to do? those who would hang by the letter of the law in such matters may say that he should have rung the bell, sent for his wife, explained to her that obedience was a necessary duty on her part, and have finished by making her understand that she must and would continue to live wherever he chose that she should live. there be those who say that if a man be anything of a man, he can always insure obedience in his own household. he has the power of the purse and the power of the law; and if, having these, he goes to the wall, it must be because he is a poor creature. those who so say have probably never tried the position. mr. furnival did not wish to send for his wife, because by doing so he would have laid bare his sore before his servants. he could not follow her, because he knew that he should not find her alone in her room. nor did he wish for any further parley, because he knew that she would speak loud, and probably sob--nay, very possibly proceed to a fainting fit. and, moreover, he much doubted whether he would have the power to keep her in the house if it should be her pleasure to leave it. and then what should he do? the doing of something in such a catastrophe was, he thought, indispensable. was ever a man so ill treated? was ever jealousy so groundless? here was a woman, with whom he was on the point of quarrelling, who was engaged to be married to another man, whom for months past he had only seen as a client; and on her account he was to be told by his wife that she would not consent to live with him! yes; it was quite indispensable that he should do something. at last he went to bed, and slept upon it; not sharing the marital couch, but occupying his own dressing-room. in the morning, however, as he sat down to his solitary breakfast, he was as far as ever from having made up his mind what that something should be. a message was brought to him by an elderly female servant with a grave face,--the elderly servant who had lived with them since their poorer days,--saying that "missus would not come down to breakfast this morning." there was no love sent, no excuse as to illness, no semblance of a peaceable reason, assumed even to deceive the servant. it was clear to mr. furnival that the servant was intended to know all about it. "and miss biggs says, sir, that if you please you're not to wait for her." "very well, that'll do," said mr. furnival, who had not the slightest intention of waiting for miss biggs; and then he sat himself down to eat his bacon, and bethink himself what step he would take with this recreant and troublesome spouse. while he was thus employed the post came. the bulk of his letters as a matter of course went to his chambers; but there were those among his correspondents who wrote to him at harley street. to-day he received three or four letters, but our concern will be with one only. this one bore the hamworth post-mark, and he opened it the first, knowing that it came from lady mason. it was as follows:-- _private_ the cleeve, rd january, --. my dear mr. furnival, i am so very sorry that i did not see you to-day! indeed, your leaving without seeing me has made me unhappy, for i cannot but think that it shows that you are displeased. under these circumstances i must write to you and explain to you how that came to pass which sir peregrine told you. i have not let him know that i am writing to you, and i think for his sake that i had better not. but he is so good, and has shown to me such nobleness and affection, that i can hardly bring myself to have any secret from him. you may conceive what was my surprise when i first understood that he wished to make me his wife. it is hardly six months since i thought that i was almost exceeding my station in visiting at his house. then by degrees i began to be received as a friend, and at last i found myself treated with the warmest love. but still i had no thought of this, and i knew that it was because of my great trouble that sir peregrine and mrs. orme were so good to me. when he sent for me into his library and told me what he wished, i could not refuse him anything. i promised obedience to him as though i were a child; and in this way i found myself engaged to be his wife. when he told me that he would have it so, how could i refuse him, knowing as i do all that he has done for me, and thinking of it as i do every minute? as for loving him, of course i love him. who that knows him does not love him? he is made to be loved. no one is so good and so noble as he. but of love of that sort i had never dreamed. ah me, no!--a woman burdened as i am does not think of love. he told me that he would have it so, and i said that i would obey him; and he tried to prove to me that in this dreadful trial it would be better for me. but i would not wish it on that account. he has done enough for me without my causing him such injury. when i argued it with him, trying to say that others would not like it, he declared that mrs. orme would be well pleased, and, indeed, so she told me afterwards herself. and thus i yielded to him, and agreed that i would be his wife. but i was not happy, thinking that i should injure him; and i promised only because i could not deny him. but the day before yesterday young mr. orme, his grandson, came to me and told me that such a marriage would be very wrong. and i do believe him. he said that old family friends would look down upon his grandfather and ridicule him if he were to make this marriage. and i can see that it would be so. i would not have such injury come upon him for the gain of all the world to myself. so i have made up my mind to tell him that it cannot be, even though i should anger him. and i fear that it will anger him, for he loves to have his own way,--especially in doing good; and he thinks that our marriage would rescue me altogether from the danger of this trial. so i have made up my mind to tell him, but i have not found courage to do it yet; and i do wish, dear mr. furnival, that i might see you first. i fear that i may have lost your friendship by what has already been done. if so, what will become of me? when i heard that you had gone without asking for me, my heart sank within me. i have two friends whom i so dearly love, and i would fain do as both direct me, if that may be possible. and now i propose to go up to london to-morrow, and to be at your chambers about one o'clock. i have told sir peregrine and mrs. orme that i am going; but he is too noble-minded to ask questions now that he thinks i may feel myself constrained to tell him. so i will call in lincoln's inn at one o'clock, and i trust that if possible you will see me. i am greatly in want of your advice, for in truth i hardly know what to do. pray believe me to be always your attached friend, mary mason. there was hardly a word,--i believe not a word in that letter that was not true. her acceptance of sir peregrine had been given exactly in the manner and for the reasons there explained; and since she had accepted him she had been sorry for having done so, exactly in the way now described. she was quite willing to give up her husband if it was thought best,--but she was not willing to give up her friend. she was not willing to give up either friend, and her great anxiety was so to turn her conduct that she might keep them both. mr. furnival was gratified as he read the letter--gratified in spite of his present frame of mind. of course he would see her;--and of course, as he himself well knew, would take her again into favour. but he must insist on her carrying out her purpose of abandoning the marriage project. if, arising from this abandonment, there should be any coolness on the part of sir peregrine, mr. furnival would not regret it. mr. furnival did not feel quite sure whether in the conduct of this case he was not somewhat hampered by the--energetic zeal of sir peregrine's line of defence. when he had finished the perusal of his letter and the consideration which it required, he put it carefully into his breast coat pocket, envelope and all. what might not happen if he left that envelope about in that house? and then he took it out again, and observed upon the cover the hamworth post-mark, very clear. post-marks now-a-days are very clear, and everybody may know whence a letter comes. his letters had been brought to him by the butler; but was it not probable that that ancient female servant might have seen them first, and have conveyed to her mistress intelligence as to this post-mark? if so--; and mr. furnival almost felt himself to be guilty as he thought of it. while he was putting on his greatcoat in the hall, the butler assisting him, the ancient female servant came to him again. there was a look about her face which told of war, and declared her to be, if not the chief lieutenant of his wife, at any rate her colour-serjeant. martha biggs no doubt was chief lieutenant. "missus desires me to ask," said she, with her grim face and austere voice, "whether you will be pleased to dine at home to-day?" and yet the grim, austere woman could be affectionate and almost motherly in her ministrations to him when things were going well, and had eaten his salt and broken his bread for more than twenty years. all this was very hard! "because," continued the woman, "missus says she thinks she shall be out this evening herself." "where is she going?" "missus didn't tell me, sir." he almost determined to go up stairs and call upon her to tell him what she was going to do, but he remembered that if he did it would surely make a row in the house. miss biggs would put her head out of some adjacent door and scream, "oh laws!" and he would have to descend his own stairs with the consciousness that all his household were regarding him as a brute. so he gave up that project. "no," he said, "i shall not dine at home;" and then he went his way. "missus is very aggravating," said the butler, as soon as the door was closed. "you don't know what cause she has, spooner," said the housekeeper very solemnly. "is it at his age? i believe it's all nonsense, i do;--feminine fancies, and vagaries of the weaker sex." "yes, i dare say; that's what you men always say. but if he don't look out he'll find missus'll be too much for him. what'd he do if she were to go away from him?" "do?--why live twice as jolly. it would only be the first rumpus of the thing." i am afraid that there was some truth in what spooner said. it is the first rumpus of the thing, or rather the fear of that, which keeps together many a couple. at one o'clock there came a timid female rap at mr. furnival's chamber door, and the juvenile clerk gave admittance to lady mason. crabwitz, since the affair of that mission down at hamworth, had so far carried a point of his, that a junior satellite was now permanently installed; and for the future the indignity of opening doors, and "just stepping out" into chancery lane, would not await him. lady mason was dressed all in black,--but this was usual with her when she left home. to-day, however, there was about her something blacker and more sombre than usual. the veil which she wore was thick, and completely hid her face; and her voice, as she asked for mr. furnival, was low and plaintive. but, nevertheless, she had by no means laid aside the charm of womanhood; or it might be more just to say that the charm of womanhood had not laid aside her. there was that in her figure, step, and gait of going which compelled men to turn round and look at her. we all know that she had a son some two or three and twenty years of age, and that she had not been quite a girl when she married. but, notwithstanding this, she was yet young; and though she made no effort--no apparent effort--to maintain the power and influence which beauty gives, yet she did maintain it. he came forward and took her by the hand with all his old affectionate regard, and, muttering some words of ordinary salutation, led her to a chair. it may be that she muttered something also, but if so the sound was too low to reach his ears. she sat down where he placed her, and as she put her hand on the table near her arm, he saw that she was trembling. "i got your letter this morning," he said, by way of beginning the conversation. "yes," she said; and then, finding that it was not possible that he should hear her through her veil, she raised it. she was very pale, and there was a look of painful care, almost of agony, round her mouth. he had never seen her look so pale,--but he said to himself at the same time that he had never seen her look so beautiful. "and to tell you the truth, lady mason, i was very glad to get it. you and i had better speak openly to each other about this;--had we not?" "oh, yes," she said. and then there was a struggle within her not to tremble--a struggle that was only too evident. she was aware of this, and took her hand off the table. "i vexed you because i did not see you at the cleeve the other day." "because i thought that you were angry with me." "and i was so." "oh, mr. furnival!" "wait a moment, lady mason. i was angry;--or rather sorry and vexed to hear of that which i did not approve. but your letter has removed that feeling. i can now understand the manner in which this engagement was forced upon you; and i understand also--do i not?--that the engagement will not be carried out?" she did not answer him immediately, and he began to fear that she repented of her purpose. "because," said he, "under no other circumstances could i--" "stop, mr. furnival. pray do not be severe with me." and she looked at him with eyes which would almost have melted his wife,--and which he was quite unable to withstand. had it been her wish, she might have made him promise to stand by her, even though she had persisted in her engagement. "no, no; i will not be severe." "i do not wish to marry him," she went on to say. "i have resolved to tell him so. that was what i said in my letter." "yes, yes." "i do not wish to marry him. i would not bring his gray hairs with sorrow to the grave--no, not to save myself from--" and then, as she thought of that from which she desired to save herself, she trembled again, and was silent. "it would create in men's minds such a strong impression against you, were you to marry him at this moment!" "it is of him i am thinking;--of him and lucius. mr. furnival, they might do their worst with me, if it were not for that thought. my boy!" and then she rose from her chair, and stood upright before him, as though she were going to do or say some terrible thing. he still kept his chair, for he was startled, and hardly knew what he would be about. that last exclamation had come from her almost with a shriek, and now her bosom was heaving as though her heart would burst with the violence of her sobbing. "i will go," she said. "i had better go." and she hurried away towards the door. "no, no; do not go yet." and he rose to stop her, but she was quite passive. "i do not know why you should be so much moved now." but he did know. he did understand the very essence and core of her feelings;--as probably may the reader also. but it was impossible that he should allow her to leave him in her present state. she sat down again, and leaning both her arms upon the table, hid her face within her hands. he was now standing, and for the moment did not speak to her. indeed he could not bring himself to break the silence, for he saw her tears, and could still hear the violence of her sobs. and then she was the first to speak. "if it were not for him," she said, raising her head, "i could bear it all. what will he do? what will he do?" "you mean," said mr. furnival, speaking very slowly, "if the--verdict--should go against us." "it will go against us," she said. "will it not?--tell me the truth. you are so clever, you must know. tell me how it will go. is there anything i can do to save him?" and she took hold of his arm with both her hands, and looked up eagerly--oh, with such terrible eagerness!--into his face. would it not have been natural now that he should have asked her to tell him the truth? and yet he did not dare to ask her. he thought that he knew it. he felt sure,--almost sure, that he could look into her very heart, and read there the whole of her secret. but still there was a doubt,--enough of doubt to make him wish to ask the question. nevertheless he did not ask it. "mr. furnival," she said; and as she spoke there was a hardness came over the soft lines of her feminine face; a look of courage which amounted almost to ferocity, a look which at the moment recalled to his mind, as though it were but yesterday, the attitude and countenance she had borne as she stood in the witness-box at that other trial, now so many years since,--that attitude and countenance which had impressed the whole court with so high an idea of her courage. "mr. furnival, weak as i am, i could bear to die here on the spot,--now--if i could only save him from this agony. it is not for myself i suffer." and then the terrible idea occurred to him that she might attempt to compass her escape by death. but he did not know her. that would have been no escape for her son. "and you too think that i must not marry him?" she said, putting up her hands to her brows as though to collect her thoughts. "no; certainly not, lady mason." "no, no. it would be wrong. but, mr. furnival, i am so driven that i know not how i should act. what if i should lose my mind?" and as she looked at him there was that about her eyes which did tell him that such an ending might be possible. "do not speak in such a way," he said. "no, i will not. i know that it is wrong. i will go down there, and tell him that it must not--must not be so. but i may stay at the cleeve;--may i not?" "oh, certainly--if he wishes it,--after your understanding with him." "ah; he may turn me out, may he not? and they are so kind to me, so gentle and so good. and lucius is so stern. but i will go back. sternness will perhaps be better for me now than love and kindness." in spite of everything, in the teeth of his almost certain conviction of her guilt, he would now, even now, have asked her to come to his own house, and have begged her to remain there till the trial was over,--if only he had had the power to do so. what would it be to him what the world might say, if she should be proved guilty? why should not he have been mistaken as well as others? and he had an idea that if he could get her into his own hands he might still bring her through triumphantly,--with assistance from solomon aram and chaffanbrass. he was strongly convinced of her guilt, but by no means strongly convinced that her guilt could be proved. but then he had no house at the present moment that he could call his own. his kitty, the kitty of whom he still sometimes thought with affection,--that kitty whose soft motherly heart would have melted at such a story of a woman's sorrows, if only it had been rightly approached,--that kitty was now vehemently hostile, hostile both to him and to this very woman for whom he would have asked her care. "may god help me!" said the poor woman. "i do not know where else to turn for aid. well; i may go now then. and, indeed, why should i take up your time further?" but before she did go, mr. furnival gave her much counsel. he did not ask as to her guilt, but he did give her that advice which he would have thought most expedient had her guilt been declared and owned. he told her that very much would depend on her maintaining her present position and standing; that she was so to carry herself as not to let people think that she was doubtful about the trial; and that above all things she was to maintain a composed and steadfast manner before her son. as to the ormes, he bade her not to think of leaving the cleeve, unless she found that her remaining there would be disagreeable to sir peregrine after her explanation with him. that she was to decline the marriage engagement, he was very positive; on that subject there was to be no doubt. and then she went; and as she passed down the dark passage into the new square by the old gate of the chancellor's court, she met a stout lady. the stout lady eyed her savagely, but was not quite sure as to her identity. lady mason in her trouble passed the stout lady without taking any notice of her. chapter xlii. john kenneby goes to hamworth. when john kenneby dined with his sister and brother-in-law on christmas-day he agreed, at the joint advice of the whole party there assembled, that he would go down and see mr. dockwrath at hamworth, in accordance with the invitation received from that gentleman;--his enemy, dockwrath, who had carried off miriam usbech, for whom john kenneby still sighed,--in a gentle easy manner indeed,--but still sighed as though it were an affair but of yesterday. but though he had so agreed, and though he had never stirred from that resolve, he by no means did it immediately. he was a slow man, whose life had offered him but little excitement; and the little which came to him was husbanded well and made to go a long way. he thought about this journey for nearly a month before he took it, often going to his sister and discussing it with her, and once or twice seeing the great moulder himself. at last he fixed a day and did go down to hamworth. he had, moreover, been invited to the offices of messrs. round and crook, and that visit also was as yet unpaid. a clerk from the house in bedford row had found him out at hubbles and grease's, and had discovered that he would be forthcoming as a witness. on the special subject of his evidence not much had then passed, the clerk having had no discretion given him to sift the matter. but kenneby had promised to go to bedford row, merely stipulating for a day at some little distance of time. that day was now near at hand; but he was to see dockwrath first, and hence it occurred that he now made his journey to hamworth. but another member of that christmas party at great st. helen's had not been so slow in carrying out his little project. mr. kantwise had at once made up his mind that it would be as well that he should see dockwrath. it would not suit him to incur the expense of a journey to hamworth, even with the additional view of extracting payment for that set of metallic furniture; but he wrote to the attorney telling him that he should be in london in the way of trade on such and such a day, and that he had tidings of importance to give with reference to the great orley farm case. dockwrath did see him, and the result was that mr. kantwise got his money, fourteen eleven;--at least he got fourteen seven six, and had a very hard fight for the three odd half-crowns,--and dockwrath learned that john kenneby, if duly used, would give evidence on his side of the question. and then kenneby did go down to hamworth. he had not seen miriam usbech since the days of her marriage. he had remained hanging about the neighbourhood long enough to feast his eyes with the agony of looking at the bride, and then he had torn himself away. circumstances since that had carried him one way and miriam another, and they had never met. time had changed him very little, and what change time had made was perhaps for the better. he hesitated less when he spoke, he was less straggling and undecided in his appearance, and had about him more of manhood than in former days. but poor miriam had certainly not been altered for the better by years and circumstances as far as outward appearance went. kenneby as he walked up from the station to the house,--and from old remembrances he knew well where the house stood,--gave up his mind entirely to the thought of seeing miriam, and in his memories of old love passages almost forgot the actual business which now brought him to the place. to him it seemed as though he was going to meet the same miriam he had left,--the miriam to whom in former days he had hardly ventured to speak of love, and to whom he must not now venture so to speak at all. he almost blushed as he remembered that he would have to take her hand. there are men of this sort, men slow in their thoughts but very keen in their memories; men who will look for the glance of a certain bright eye from a window-pane, though years have rolled on since last they saw it,--since last they passed that window. such men will bethink themselves, after an interval of weeks, how they might have brought up wit to their use and improved an occasion which chance had given them. but when the bright eyes do glance, such men pass by abashed; and when the occasion offers, their wit is never at hand. nevertheless they are not the least happy of mankind, these never-readies; they do not pick up sudden prizes, but they hold fast by such good things as the ordinary run of life bestows upon them. there was a lady even now, a friend of mrs. moulder, ready to bestow herself and her fortune on john kenneby,--a larger fortune than miriam had possessed, and one which would not now probably be neutralised by so large a family as poor miriam had bestowed upon her husband. how would miriam meet him? it was of this he thought, as he approached the door. of course he must call her mrs. dockwrath, though the other name was so often on his tongue. he had made up his mind, for the last week past, that he would call at the private door of the house, passing by the door of the office. otherwise the chances were that he would not see miriam at all. his enemy, dockwrath, would be sure to keep him from her presence. dockwrath had ever been inordinately jealous. but when he came to the office-door he hardly had the courage to pass on to that of the private dwelling. his heart beat too quickly, and the idea of seeing miriam was almost too much for him. but, nevertheless, he did carry out his plan, and did knock at the door of the house. and it was opened by miriam herself. he knew her instantly in spite of all the change. he knew her, but the whole course of his feelings were altered at the moment, and his blood was made to run the other way. and she knew him too. "la, john," she said, "who'd have thought of seeing you?" and she shifted the baby whom she carried from one arm to the other as she gave him her hand in token of welcome. [illustration: john kenneby and miriam dockwrath.] "it is a long time since we met," he said. he felt hardly any temptation now to call her miriam. indeed it would have seemed altogether in opposition to the common order of things to do so. she was no longer miriam, but the maternal dockwrath;--the mother of that long string of dirty children whom he saw gathered in the passage behind her. he had known as a fact that she had all the children, but the fact had not made the proper impression on his mind till he had seen them. "a long time! 'deed then it is. why we've hardly seen each other since you used to be a courting of me; have we? but, my! john; why haven't you got a wife for yourself these many years? but come in. i'm glad to see every bit of you, so i am; though i've hardly a place to put you to sit down in." and then she opened a door and took him into a little sitting-room on the left-hand side of the passage. his feeling of intense enmity to dockwrath was beginning to wear away, and one of modified friendship for the whole family was supervening. it was much better that it should be so. he could not understand before how dockwrath had had the heart to write to him and call him john, but now he did understand it. he felt that he could himself be friendly with dockwrath now, and forgive him all the injury; he felt also that it would not go so much against the grain with him to marry that friend as to whom his sister would so often solicit him. "i think you may venture to sit down upon them," said miriam, "though i can't say that i have ever tried myself." this speech referred to the chairs with which her room was supplied, and which kenneby seemed to regard with suspicion. "they are very nice i'm sure," said he, "but i don't think i ever saw any like them." "nor nobody else either. but don't you tell him so," and she nodded with her head to the side of the house on which the office stood. "i had as nice a set of mahoganys as ever a woman could want, and bought with my own money too, john; but he's took them away to furnish some of his lodgings opposite, and put them things here in their place. don't, sam; you'll have 'em all twisted about nohows in no time if you go to use 'em in that way." "i wants to see the pictur' on the table," said sam. "drat the picture," said mrs. dockwrath. "it was hard, wasn't it, john, to see my own mahoganys, as i had rubbed with my own hands till they was ever so bright, and as was bought with my own money too, took away and them things brought here? sam, if you twist that round any more, i'll box your ears. one can't hear oneself speak with the noise." "they don't seem to be very useful," said kenneby. "useful! they're got up for cheatery;--that's what they're got up for. and that dockwrath should be took in with 'em--he that's so sharp at everything,--that's what surprises me. but laws, john, it isn't the sharp ones that gets the best off. you was never sharp, but you're as smirk and smooth as though you came out of a band-box. i am glad to see you, john, so i am." and she put her apron up to her eyes and wiped away a tear. "is mr. dockwrath at home?" said john. "sam, run round and see if your father's in the office. he'll be home to dinner, i know. molly, do be quiet with your sister. i never see such a girl as you are for bothering. you didn't come down about business, did you, john?" and then kenneby explained to her that he had been summoned by dockwrath as to the matter of this orley farm trial. while he was doing so, sam returned to say that his father had stepped out, but would be back in half an hour, and mrs. dockwrath, finding it impossible to make use of her company sitting-room, took her old lover into the family apartment which they all ordinarily occupied. "you can sit down there at any rate without it all crunching under you, up to nothing." and she emptied for him as she spoke the seat of an old well-worn horse-hair bottomed arm-chair. "as to them tin things i wouldn't trust myself on one of them; and so i told him, angry as it made him. but now about poor lady mason--. sam and molly, you go into the garden, there's good children. they is so ready with their ears, john; and he contrives to get everything out of 'em. now do tell me about this." kenneby could not help thinking that the love match between miriam and her husband had not turned out in all respects well, and i fear that he derived from the thought a certain feeling of consolation. "he" was spoken about in a manner that did not betoken unfailing love and perfect confidence. perhaps miriam was at this moment thinking that she might have done better with her youth and her money! she was thinking of nothing of the kind. her mind was one that dwelt on the present, not on the past. she was unhappy about her furniture, unhappy about the frocks of those four younger children, unhappy that the loaves of bread went faster and faster every day, very unhappy now at the savageness with which her husband prosecuted his anger against lady mason. but it did not occur to her to be unhappy because she had not become mrs. kenneby. mrs. dockwrath had more to tell in the matter than had kenneby, and when the elder of the children who were at home had been disposed of she was not slow to tell it. "isn't it dreadful, john, to think that they should come against her now, and the will all settled as it was twenty year ago? but you won't say anything against her; will you now, john? she was always a good friend to you; wasn't she? though it wasn't much use; was it?" it was thus that she referred to the business before them, and to the love passages of her early youth at the same time. "it's a very dreadful affair," said kenneby, very solemnly; "and the more i think of it the more dreadful it becomes." "but you won't say anything against her, will you? you won't go over to his side; eh, john?" "i don't know much about sides," said he. "he'll get himself into trouble with it; i know he will. i do so wish you'd tell him, for he can't hurt you if you stand up to him. if i speak,--lord bless you, i don't dare to call my soul my own for a week afterwards." "is he so very--" "oh, dreadful, john. he's bid me never speak a word to her. but for all that i used till she went away down to the cleeve yonder. and what do you think they say now? and i do believe it too. they say that sir peregrine is going to make her his lady. if he does that it stands to reason that dockwrath and joseph mason will get the worst of it. i'm sure i hope they will; only he'll be twice as hard if he don't make money by it in some way." "will he, now?" "indeed he will. you never knew anything like him for hardness if things go wrong awhile. i know he's got lots of money, because he's always buying up bits of houses; besides, what has he done with mine? but yet sometimes you'd hardly think he'd let me have bread enough for the children--and as for clothes--!" poor miriam! it seemed that her husband shared with her but few of the spoils or triumphs of his profession. tidings now came in from the office that dockwrath was there. "you'll come round and eat a bit of dinner with us?" said she, hesitatingly. he felt that she hesitated, and hesitated himself in his reply. "he must say something in the way of asking you, you know, and then say you'll come. his manner's nothing to you, you know. do now. it does me good to look at you, john; it does indeed." and then, without making any promise, he left her and went round to the office. kenneby had made up his mind, talking over the matter with moulder and his sister, that he would be very reserved in any communication which he might make to dockwrath as to his possible evidence at the coming trial; but nevertheless when dockwrath had got him into his office, the attorney made him give a succinct account of everything he knew, taking down his deposition in a regular manner. "and now if you'll just sign that," dockwrath said to him when he had done. "i don't know about signing," said kenneby. "a man should never write his own name unless he knows why." "you must sign your own deposition;" and the attorney frowned at him and looked savage. "what would a judge say to you in court if you had made such a statement as this, affecting the character of a woman like lady mason, and then had refused to sign it? you'd never be able to hold up your head again." "wouldn't i?" said kenneby gloomily; and he did sign it. this was a great triumph to dockwrath. mat round had succeeded in getting the deposition of bridget bolster, but he had got that of john kenneby. "and now," said dockwrath, "i'll tell you what we'll do;--we'll go to the blue posts--you remember the blue posts?--and i'll stand a beef steak and a glass of brandy and water. i suppose you'll go back to london by the p.m. train. we shall have lots of time." kenneby said that he should go back by the p.m. train, but he declined, with considerable hesitation, the beefsteak and brandy and water. after what had passed between him and miriam he could not go to the blue posts with her husband. "nonsense, man," said dockwrath. "you must dine somewhere." but kenneby said that he should dine in london. he always preferred dining late. besides, it was a long time since he had been at hamworth, and he was desirous of taking a walk that he might renew his associations. "associations!" said dockwrath with a sneer. according to his ideas a man could have no pleasant associations with a place unless he had made money there or been in some way successful. now john kenneby had enjoyed no success at hamworth. "well then, if you prefer associations to the blue posts i'll say good-bye to you. i don't understand it myself. we shall see each other at the trial you know." kenneby with a sigh said that he supposed they should. "are you going into the house," said dockwrath, "to see her again?" and he indicated with his head the side on which his wife was, as she before had indicated his side. "well, yes; i think i'll say good-bye." "don't be talking to her about this affair. she understands nothing about it, and everything goes up to that woman at orley farm." and so they parted. "and he wanted you to go to the blue posts, did he?" said miriam when she heard of the proposition. "it's like him. if there is to be any money spent it's anywhere but at home." "but i ain't going," said john. "he'll go before the day's out, though he mayn't get his dinner there. and he'll be ever so free when he's there. he'll stand brandy and water to half hamworth when he thinks he can get anything by it; but if you'll believe me, john, though i've all the fag of the house on me, and all them children, i can't get a pint of beer--not regular--betwixt breakfast and bedtime." poor miriam! why had she not taken advice when she was younger? john kenneby would have given her what beer was good for her, quite regularly. then he went out and took his walk, sauntering away to the gate of orley farm, and looking up the avenue. he ventured up some way, and there at a distance before him he saw lucius mason walking up and down, from the house towards the road and back again, swinging a heavy stick in his hand, with his hat pressed down over his brows. kenneby had no desire to speak to him; so he returned to the gate, and thence went back to the station, escaping the town by a side lane; and in this way he got back to london without holding further communication with the people of hamworth. chapter xliii. john kenneby's courtship. "she's as sweet a temper, john, as ever stirred a lump of sugar in her tea," said mrs. moulder to her brother, as they sat together over the fire in great st. helen's on that same evening,--after his return from hamworth. "that she is,--and so smiley always found her. 'she's always the same,' smiley said to me many a day. and what can a man want more than that?" "that's quite true," said john. "and then as to her habits--i never knew her take a drop too much since first i set eyes on her, and that's nigh twenty years ago. she likes things comfortable;--and why shouldn't she, with two hundred a year of her own coming out of the kingsland road brick-fields? as for dress, her things is beautiful, and she is the woman that takes care of 'em! why, i remember an irish tabinet as smiley gave her when first that venture in the brick-fields came up money; if that tabinet is as much as turned yet, why, i'll eat it. and then, the best of it is, she'll have you to-morrow. indeed she will; or to-night, if you'll ask her. goodness gracious! if there ain't moulder!" and the excellent wife jumped up from her seat, poked the fire, emptied the most comfortable arm-chair, and hurried out to the landing at the top of the stairs. presently the noise of a loudly wheezing pair of lungs was heard, and the commercial traveller, enveloped from head to foot in coats and comforters, made his appearance. he had just returned from a journey, and having deposited his parcels and packages at the house of business of hubbles and grease in houndsditch, had now returned to the bosom of his family. it was a way he had, not to let his wife know exactly the period of his return. whether he thought that by so doing he might keep her always on the alert and ready for marital inspection, or whether he disliked to tie himself down by the obligation of a fixed time for his return, mrs. moulder had never made herself quite sure. but on neither view of the subject did she admire this practice of her lord. she had on many occasions pointed out to him how much more snug she could make him if he would only let her know when he was coming. but he had never taken the hint, and in these latter days she had ceased to give it. "why, i'm uncommon cold," he said in answer to his wife's inquiries after his welfare. "and so would you be too, if you'd come up from leeds since you'd had your dinner. what, john, are you there? the two of you are making yourself snug enough, i suppose, with something hot?" "not a drop he's had yet since he's been in the house," said mrs. moulder. "and he's hardly as much as darkened the door since you left it." and mrs. moulder added, with some little hesitation in her voice, "mrs. smiley is coming in to-night, moulder." "the d---- she is! there's always something of that kind when i gets home tired out, and wants to be comfortable. i mean to have my supper to myself, as i likes it, if all the mother smileys in london choose to come the way. what on earth is she coming here for this time of night?" "why, moulder, you know." "no; i don't know. i only know this, that when a man's used up with business he don't want to have any of that nonsense under his nose." "if you mean me--" began john kenneby. "i don't mean you; of course not; and i don't mean anybody. here, take my coats, will you? and let me have a pair of slippers. if mrs. smiley thinks that i'm going to change my pants, or put myself about for her--" "laws, moulder, she don't expect that." "she won't get it any way. here's john dressed up as if he was going to a box in the the-atre. and you--why should you be going to expense, and knocking out things that costs money, because mother smiley's coming? i'll smiley her." "now, moulder--" but mrs. moulder knew that it was of no use speaking to him at the present moment. her task should be this,--to feed and cosset him if possible into good humour before her guest should arrive. her praises of mrs. smiley had been very fairly true. but nevertheless she was a lady who had a mind and voice of her own, as any lady has a right to possess who draws in her own right two hundred a year out of a brick-field in the kingsland road. such a one knows that she is above being snubbed, and mrs. smiley knew this of herself as well as any lady; and if moulder, in his wrath, should call her mother smiley, or give her to understand that he regarded her as an old woman, that lady would probably walk herself off in a great dudgeon,--herself and her share in the brick-field. to tell the truth, mrs. smiley required that considerable deference should be paid to her. mrs. moulder knew well what was her husband's present ailment. he had dined as early as one, and on his journey up from leeds to london had refreshed himself with drink only. that last glass of brandy which he had taken at the peterborough station had made him cross. if she could get him to swallow some hot food before mrs. smiley came, all might yet be well. "and what's it to be, m.?" she said in her most insinuating voice--"there's a lovely chop down stairs, and there's nothing so quick as that." "chop!" he said, and it was all he did say at the moment. "there's a 'am in beautiful cut," she went on, showing by the urgency of her voice how anxious she was on the subject. for the moment he did not answer her at all, but sat facing the fire, and running his fat fingers through his uncombed hair. "mrs. smiley!" he said; "i remember when she was kitchen-maid at old pott's." "she ain't nobody's kitchen-maid now," said mrs. moulder, almost prepared to be angry in the defence of her friend. "and i never could make out when it was that smiley married her,--that is, if he ever did." "now, moulder, that's shocking of you. of course he married her. she and i is nearly an age as possible, though i think she is a year over me. she says not, and it ain't nothing to me. but i remember the wedding as if it was yesterday. you and i had never set eyes on each other then, m." this last she added in a plaintive tone, hoping to soften him. "are you going to keep me here all night without anything?" he then said. "let me have some whisky,--hot, with;--and don't stand there looking at nothing." "but you'll take some solids with it, moulder? why it stands to reason you'll be famished." "do as you're bid, will you, and give me the whisky. are you going to tell me when i'm to eat and when i'm to drink, like a child?" this he said in that tone of voice which made mrs. moulder know that he meant to be obeyed; and though she was sure that he would make himself drunk, she was compelled to minister to his desires. she got the whisky and hot water, the lemon and sugar, and set the things beside him; and then she retired to the sofa. john kenneby the while sat perfectly silent looking on. perhaps he was considering whether he would be able to emulate the domestic management of dockwrath or of moulder when he should have taken to himself mrs. smiley and the kingsland brick-field. "if you've a mind to help yourself, john, i suppose you'll do it," said moulder. "none for me just at present, thank'ee," said kenneby. "i suppose you wouldn't swallow nothing less than wine in them togs?" said the other, raising his glass to his lips. "well, here's better luck, and i'm blessed if it's not wanting. i'm pretty well tired of this go, and so i mean to let 'em know pretty plainly." all this was understood by mrs. moulder, who knew that it only signified that her husband was half tipsy, and that in all probability he would be whole tipsy before long. there was no help for it. were she to remonstrate with him in his present mood, he would very probably fling the bottle at her head. indeed, remonstrances were never of avail with him. so she sat herself down, thinking how she would run down when she heard mrs. smiley's step, and beg that lady to postpone her visit. indeed it would be well to send john to convey her home again. moulder swallowed his glass of hot toddy fast, and then mixed another. his eyes were very bloodshot, and he sat staring at the fire. his hands were thrust into his pockets between the periods of his drinking, and he no longer spoke to any one. "i'm ---- if i stand it," he growled forth, addressing himself. "i've stood it a ---- deal too long." and then he finished the second glass. there was a sort of understanding on the part of his wife that such interjections as these referred to hubbles and grease, and indicated a painfully advanced state of drink. there was one hope; the double heat, that of the fire and of the whisky, might make him sleep; and if so, he would be safe for two or three hours. "i'm blessed if i do, and that's all," said moulder, grasping the whisky-bottle for the third time. his wife sat behind him very anxious, but not daring to interfere. "it's going over the table, m.," she then said. "d---- the table!" he answered; and then his head fell forward on his breast, and he was fast asleep with the bottle in his hand. "put your hand to it, john," said mrs. moulder in a whisper. but john hesitated. the lion might rouse himself if his prey were touched. "he'll let it go easy if you put your hand to it. he's safe enough now. there. if we could only get him back from the fire a little, or his face'll be burnt off of him." "but you wouldn't move him?" "well, yes; we'll try. i've done it before, and he's never stirred. come here, just behind. the casters is good, i know. laws! ain't he heavy?" and then they slowly dragged him back. he grunted out some half-pronounced threat as they moved him; but he did not stir, and his wife knew that she was again mistress of the room for the next two hours. it was true that he snored horribly, but then she was used to that. "you won't let her come up, will you?" said john. "why not? she knows what men is as well i do. smiley wasn't that way often, i believe; but he was awful when he was. he wouldn't sleep it off, quite innocent, like that; but would break everything about the place, and then cry like a child after it. now moulder's got none of that about him. the worst of it is, how am i ever to get him into bed when he wakes?" while the anticipation of this great trouble was still on her mind, the ring at the bell was heard, and john kenneby went down to the outer door that he might pay to mrs. smiley the attention of waiting upon her up stairs. and up stairs she came, bristling with silk--the identical irish tabinet, perhaps, which had never been turned--and conscious of the business which had brought her. "what--moulder's asleep is he?" she said as she entered the room. "i suppose that's as good as a pair of gloves, any way." "he ain't just very well," said mrs. moulder, winking at her friend; "he's tired after a long journey." "oh-h! ah-h!" said mrs. smiley, looking down upon the sleeping beauty, and understanding everything at a glance. "it's uncommon bad for him, you know, because he's so given to flesh." "it's as much fatigue as anything," said the wife. "yes, i dare say;" and mrs. smiley shook her head. "if he fatigues himself so much as that often he'll soon be off the hooks." much was undoubtedly to be borne from two hundred a year in a brick-field, especially when that two hundred a year was coming so very near home; but there is an amount of impertinent familiarity which must be put down even in two hundred a year. "i've known worse cases than him, my dear; and that ended worse." "oh, i dare say. but you're mistook if you mean smiley. it was 'sepilus as took him off, as everybody knows." "well, my dear, i'm sure i'm not going to say anything against that. and now, john, do help her off with her bonnet and shawl, while i get the tea-things." mrs. smiley was a firm set, healthy-looking woman of--about forty. she had large, dark, glassy eyes, which were bright without sparkling. her cheeks were very red, having a fixed settled colour that never altered with circumstances. her black wiry hair was ended in short crisp curls, which sat close to her head. it almost collected like a wig, but the hair was in truth her own. her mouth was small, and her lips thin, and they gave to her face a look of sharpness that was not quite agreeable. nevertheless she was not a bad-looking woman, and with such advantages as two hundred a year and the wardrobe which mrs. moulder had described, was no doubt entitled to look for a second husband. "well, mr. kenneby, and how do you find yourself this cold weather? dear, how he do snore; don't he?" "yes," said kenneby, very thoughtfully, "he does rather." he was thinking of miriam usbech as she was twenty years ago, and of mrs. smiley as she appeared at present. not that he felt inclined to grumble at the lot prepared for him, but that he would like to take a few more years to think about it. and then they sat down to tea. the lovely chops which moulder had despised, and the ham in beautiful cut which had failed to tempt him, now met with due appreciation. mrs. smiley, though she had never been known to take a drop too much, did like to have things comfortable; and on this occasion she made an excellent meal, with a large pocket-handkerchief of moulder's--brought in for the occasion--stretched across the broad expanse of the irish tabinet. "we sha'n't wake him, shall we?" said she, as she took her last bit of muffin. "not till he wakes natural, of hisself," said mrs. moulder. "when he's worked it off, he'll rouse himself, and i shall have to get him to bed." "he'll be a bit patchy then, won't he?" "well, just for a while of course he will," said mrs. moulder. "but there's worse than him. to-morrow morning, maybe, he'll be just as sweet as sweet. it don't hang about him, sullen like. that's what i hate, when it hangs about 'em." then the tea-things were taken away, mrs. smiley in her familiarity assisting in the removal, and--in spite of the example now before them--some more sugar and some more spirits, and some more hot water were put upon the table. "well, i don't mind just the least taste in life, mrs. moulder, as we're quite between friends; and i'm sure you'll want it to-night to keep yourself up." mrs. moulder would have answered these last words with some severity had she not felt that good humour now might be of great value to her brother. "well, john, and what is it you've got to say to her?" said mrs. moulder, as she put down her empty glass. between friends who understood each other so well, and at their time of life, what was the use of ceremony? "la, mrs. moulder, what should he have got to say? nothing i'm sure as i'd think of listening to." "you try her, john." "not but what i've the greatest respect in life for mr. kenneby, and always did have. if you must have anything to do with men, i've always said, recommend me to them as is quiet and steady, and hasn't got too much of the gab;--a quiet man is the man for me any day." "well, john?" said mrs. moulder. "now, mrs. moulder, can't you keep yourself to yourself, and we shall do very well. laws, how he do snore! when his head goes bobbing that way i do so fear he'll have a fit." "no he won't; he's coming to, all right. well, john?" "i'm sure i shall be very happy," said john, "if she likes it. she says that she respects me, and i'm sure i've a great respect for her. i always had--even when mr. smiley was alive." "it's very good of you to say so," said she; not speaking however as though she were quite satisfied. what was the use of his remembering smiley just at present? "enough's enough between friends any day," said mrs. moulder. "so give her your hand, john." "i think it'll be right to say one thing first," said kenneby, with a solemn and deliberate tone. "and what's that?" said mrs. smiley, eagerly. "in such a matter as this," continued kenneby, "where the hearts are concerned--" "you didn't say anything about hearts yet," said mrs. smiley, with some measure of approbation in her voice. "didn't i?" said kenneby. "then it was an omission on my part, and i beg leave to apologise. but what i was going to say is this: when the hearts are concerned, everything should be honest and above-board." "oh of course," said mrs. moulder; "and i'm sure she don't suspect nothing else." "you'd better let him go on," said mrs. smiley. "my heart has not been free from woman's lovely image." "and isn't free now, is it, john?" said mrs. moulder. "i've had my object, and though she's been another's, still i've kept her image on my heart." "but it ain't there any longer, john? he's speaking of twenty years ago, mrs. smiley." "it's quite beautiful to hear him," said mrs. smiley. "go on, mr. kenneby." "the years are gone by as though they was nothing, and still i've had her image on my heart. i've seen her to-day." "her gentleman's still alive, ain't he?" asked mrs. smiley. "and likely to live," said mrs. moulder. "i've seen her to-day," kenneby continued; "and now the adriatic's free to wed another." neither of the ladies present exactly understood the force of the quotation; but as it contained an appropriate reference to marriage, and apparently to a second marriage, it was taken by both of them in good part. he was considered to have made his offer, and mrs. smiley thereupon formally accepted him. "he's spoke quite handsome, i'm sure," said mrs. smiley to his sister; "and i don't know that any woman has a right to expect more. as to the brick-fields--." and then there was a slight reference to business, with which it will not be necessary that the readers of this story should embarrass themselves. soon after that mr. kenneby saw mrs. smiley home in a cab, and poor mrs. moulder sat by her lord till he roused himself from his sleep. let us hope that her troubles with him were as little vexatious as possible; and console ourselves with the reflection that at twelve o'clock the next morning, after the second bottle of soda and brandy, he was "as sweet as sweet." chapter xliv. showing how lady mason could be very noble. lady mason returned to the cleeve after her visit to mr. furnival's chambers, and nobody asked her why she had been to london or whom she had seen. nothing could be more gracious than the deference which was shown to her, and the perfect freedom of action which was accorded to her. on that very day lady staveley had called at the cleeve, explaining to sir peregrine and mrs. orme that her visit was made expressly to lady mason. "i should have called at orley farm, of course," said lady staveley, "only that i hear that lady mason is likely to prolong her visit with you. i must trust to you, mrs. orme, to make all that understood." sir peregrine took upon himself to say that it all should be understood, and then drawing lady staveley aside, told her of his own intended marriage. "i cannot but be aware," he said, "that i have no business to trouble you with an affair that is so exclusively our own; but i have a wish, which perhaps you may understand, that there should be no secret about it. i think it better, for her sake, that it should be known. if the connection can be of any service to her, she should reap that benefit now, when some people are treating her name with a barbarity which i believe to be almost unparalleled in this country." in answer to this lady staveley was of course obliged to congratulate him, and she did so with the best grace in her power; but it was not easy to say much that was cordial, and as she drove back with mrs. arbuthnot to noningsby the words which were said between them as to lady mason were not so kindly meant towards that lady as their remarks on their journey to the cleeve. lady staveley had hoped,--though she had hardly expressed her hope even to herself, and certainly had not spoken of it to any one else,--that she might have been able to say a word or two to mrs. orme about young peregrine, a word or two that would have shown her own good feeling towards the young man,--her own regard, and almost affection for him, even though this might have been done without any mention of madeline's name. she might have learned in this way whether young orme had made known at home what had been his hopes and what his disappointments, and might have formed some opinion whether or no he would renew his suit. she would not have been the first to mention her daughter's name; but if mrs. orme should speak of it, then the subject would be free for her, and she could let it be known that the heir of the cleeve should at any rate have her sanction and good will. what happiness could be so great for her as that of having a daughter so settled, within eight miles of her? and then it was not only that a marriage between her daughter and peregrine orme would be an event so fortunate, but also that those feelings with reference to felix graham were so unfortunate! that young heart, she thought, could not as yet be heavy laden, and it might be possible that the whole affair should be made to run in the proper course,--if only it could be done at once. but now, that tale which sir peregrine had told her respecting himself and lady mason had made it quite impossible that anything should be said on the other subject. and then again, if it was decreed that the noningsby family and the family of the cleeve should be connected, would not such a marriage as this between the baronet and lady mason be very injurious? so that lady staveley was not quite happy as she returned to her own house. lady staveley's message, however, for lady mason was given with all its full force. sir peregrine had felt grateful for what had been done, and mrs. orme, in talking of it, made quite the most of it. civility from the staveleys to the ormes would not, in the ordinary course of things, be accounted of any special value. the two families might, and naturally would, know each other on intimate terms. but the ormes would as a matter of course stand the highest in general estimation. now, however, the ormes had to bear up lady mason with them. sir peregrine had so willed it, and mrs. orme had not for a moment thought of contesting the wish of one whose wishes she had never contested. no words were spoken on the subject; but still with both of them there was a feeling that lady staveley's countenance and open friendship would be of value. when it had come to this with sir peregrine orme, he was already disgraced in his own estimation,--already disgraced, although he declared to himself a thousand times that he was only doing his duty as a gentleman. on that evening lady mason said no word of her new purpose. she had pledged herself both to peregrine orme and to mr. furnival. to both she had made a distinct promise that she would break off her engagement, and she knew well that the deed should be done at once. but how was she to do it? with what words was she to tell him that she had changed her mind and would not take the hand that he had offered to her? she feared to be a moment alone with peregrine lest he should tax her with the non-fulfilment of her promise. but in truth peregrine at the present moment was thinking more of another matter. it had almost come home to him that his grandfather's marriage might facilitate his own; and though he still was far from reconciling himself to the connection with lady mason, he was almost disposed to put up with it. on the following day, at about noon, a chariot with a pair of post-horses was brought up to the door of the cleeve at a very fast pace, and the two ladies soon afterwards learned that lord alston was closeted with sir peregrine. lord alston was one of sir peregrine's oldest friends. he was a man senior both in age and standing to the baronet; and, moreover, he was a friend who came but seldom to the cleeve, although his friendship was close and intimate. nothing was said between mrs. orme and lady mason, but each dreaded that lord alston had come to remonstrate about the marriage. and so in truth he had. the two old men were together for about an hour, and then lord alston took his departure without asking for, or seeing any other one of the family. lord alston had remonstrated about the marriage, using at last very strong language to dissuade the baronet from a step which he thought so unfortunate; but he had remonstrated altogether in vain. every word he had used was not only fruitless, but injurious; for sir peregrine was a man whom it was very difficult to rescue by opposition, though no man might be more easily led by assumed acquiescence. "orme, my dear fellow," said his lordship, towards the end of the interview, "it is my duty, as an old friend, to tell you this." "then, lord alston, you have done your duty." "not while a hope remains that i may prevent this marriage." "there is ground for no such hope on your part; and permit me to say that the expression of such a hope to me is greatly wanting in courtesy." "you and i," continued lord alston, without apparent attention to the last words which sir peregrine had spoken, "have nearly come to the end of our tether here. our careers have been run; and i think i may say as regards both, but i may certainly say as regards you, that they have been so run that we have not disgraced those who preceded us. our dearest hopes should be that our names may never be held as a reproach by those who come after us." "with god's blessing i will do nothing to disgrace my family." "but, orme, you and i cannot act as may those whose names in the world are altogether unnoticed. i know that you are doing this from a feeling of charity to that lady." "i am doing it, lord alston, because it so pleases me." "but your first charity is due to your grandson. suppose that he was making an offer of his hand to the daughter of some nobleman,--as he is so well entitled to do,--how would it affect his hopes if it were known that you at the time had married a lady whose misfortune made it necessary that she should stand at the bar in a criminal court?" "lord alston," said sir peregrine, rising from his chair, "i trust that my grandson may never rest his hopes on any woman whose heart could be hardened against him by such a thought as that." "but what if she should be guilty?" said lord alston. "permit me to say," said sir peregrine, still standing, and standing now bolt upright, as though his years did not weigh on him a feather, "that this conversation has gone far enough. there are some surmises to which i cannot listen, even from lord alston." then his lordship shrugged his shoulders, declared that in speaking as he had spoken he had endeavoured to do a friendly duty by an old friend,--certainly the oldest, and almost the dearest friend he had,--and so he took his leave. the wheels of the chariot were heard grating over the gravel, as he was carried away from the door at a gallop, and the two ladies looked into each other's faces, saying nothing. sir peregrine was not seen from that time till dinner; but when he did come into the drawing-room his manner to lady mason was, if possible, more gracious and more affectionate than ever. "so lord alston was here to-day," peregrine said to his mother that night before he went to bed. "yes, he was here." "it was about this marriage, mother, as sure as i am standing here." "i don't think lord alston would interfere about that, perry." "wouldn't he? he would interfere about anything he did not like; that is, as far as the pluck of it goes. of course he can't like it. who can?" "perry, your grandfather likes it; and surely he has a right to please himself." "i don't know about that. you might say the same thing if he wanted to kill all the foxes about the place, or do any other outlandish thing. of course he might kill them, as far as the law goes, but where would he be afterwards? she hasn't said anything to him, has she?" "i think not." "nor to you?" "no; she has not spoken to me; not about that." "she promised me positively that she would break it off." "you must not be hard on her, perry." just as these words were spoken, there came a low knock at mrs. orme's dressing-room door. this room, in which mrs. orme was wont to sit for an hour or so every night before she went to bed, was the scene of all the meetings of affection which took place between the mother and the son. it was a pretty little apartment, opening from mrs. orme's bed-room, which had at one time been the exclusive property of peregrine's father. but by degrees it had altogether assumed feminine attributes; had been furnished with soft chairs, a sofa, and a lady's table; and though called by the name of mrs. orme's dressing-room, was in fact a separate sitting-room devoted to her exclusive use. sir peregrine would not for worlds have entered it without sending up his name beforehand, and this he did on only very rare occasions. but lady mason had of late been admitted here, and mrs. orme now knew that it was her knock. "open the door, perry," she said; "it is lady mason." he did open the door, and lady mason entered. "oh, mr. orme, i did not know that you were here." "i am just off. good night, mother." "but i am disturbing you." "no, we had done;" and he stooped down and kissed his mother. "good night, lady mason. hadn't i better put some coals on for you, or the fire will be out?" he did put on the coals, and then he went his way. lady mason while he was doing this had sat down on the sofa, close to mrs. orme; but when the door was closed mrs. orme was the first to speak. "well, dear," she said, putting her hand caressingly on the other's arm. i am inclined to think that had there been no one whom mrs. orme was bound to consult but herself, she would have wished that this marriage should have gone on. to her it would have been altogether pleasant to have had lady mason ever with her in the house; and she had none of those fears as to future family retrospections respecting which lord alston had spoken with so much knowledge of the world. as it was, her manner was so caressing and affectionate to her guest, that she did much more to promote sir peregrine's wishes than to oppose them. "well, dear," she said, with her sweetest smile. "i am so sorry that i have driven your son away." "he was going. besides, it would make no matter; he would stay here all night sometimes, if i didn't drive him away myself. he comes here and writes his letters at the most unconscionable hours, and uses up all my note-paper in telling some horsekeeper what is to be done with his mare." "ah, how happy you must be to have him!" "well, i suppose i am," she said, as a tear came into her eyes. "we are so hard to please. i am all anxiety now that he should be married; and if he were married, then i suppose i should grumble because i did not see so much of him. he would be more settled if he would marry, i think. for myself i approve of early marriages for young men." and then she thought of her own husband whom she had loved so well and lost so soon. and so they sat silent for a while, each thinking of her own lot in life. "but i must not keep you up all night," said lady mason. "oh, i do so like you to be here," said the other. then again she took hold of her arm, and the two women kissed each other. "but, edith," said the other, "i came in here to-night with a purpose. i have something that i wish to say to you. can you listen to me?" "oh yes," said mrs. orme; "surely." "has your son been talking to you about--about what was said between him and me the other day? i am sure he has, for i know he tells you everything,--as he ought to do." "yes, he did speak to me," said mrs. orme, almost trembling with anxiety. "i am so glad, for now it will be easier for me to tell you. and since that i have seen mr. furnival, and he says the same. i tell you because you are so good and so loving to me. i will keep nothing from you; but you must not tell sir peregrine that i talked to mr. furnival about this." mrs. orme gave the required promise, hardly thinking at the moment whether or no she would be guilty of any treason against sir peregrine in doing so. "i think i should have said nothing to him, though he is so very old a friend, had not mr. orme--" "you mean peregrine?" "yes; had not he been so--so earnest about it. he told me that if i married sir peregrine i should be doing a cruel injury to him--to his grandfather." "he should not have said that." "yes, edith,--if he thinks it. he told me that i should be turning all his friends against him. so i promised him that i would speak to sir peregrine, and break it off if it be possible." "he told me that." "and then i spoke to mr. furnival, and he told me that i should be blamed by all the world if i were to marry him. i cannot tell you all he said, but he said this: that if--if--" "if what, dear?" "if in the court they should say--" "say what?" "say that i did this thing,--then sir peregrine would be crushed, and would die with a broken heart." "but they cannot say that;--it is impossible. you do not think it possible that they can do so?" and then again she took hold of lady mason's arm, and looked up anxiously, into her face. she looked up anxiously, not suspecting anything, not for a moment presuming it possible that such a verdict could be justly given, but in order that she might see how far the fear of a fate so horrible was operating on her friend. lady mason's face was pale and woe-worn, but not more so than was now customary with her. "one cannot say what may be possible," she answered slowly. "i suppose they would not go on with it if they did not think they had some chance of success." "you mean as to the property?" "yes; as to the property." "but why should they not try that, if they must try it, without dragging you there?" "ah, i do not understand; or at least i cannot explain it. mr. furnival says that it must be so; and therefore i shall tell sir peregrine to-morrow that all this must be given up." and then they sat together silently, holding each other by the hand. "good night, edith," lady mason said at last, getting up from her seat. "good night, dearest." "you will let me be your friend still, will you not?" said lady mason. "my friend! oh yes; always my friend. why should this interfere between you and me?" "but he will be very angry--at least i fear that he will. not that--not that he will have anything to regret. but the very strength of his generosity and nobleness will make him angry. he will be indignant because i do not let him make this sacrifice for me. and then--and then--i fear i must leave this house." "oh no, not that; i will speak to him. he will do anything for me." "it will be better perhaps that i should go. people will think that i am estranged from lucius. but if i go, you will come to me? he will let you do that; will he not?" and then there were warm, close promises given, and embraces interchanged. the women did love each other with a hearty, true love, and each longed that they might be left together. and yet how different they were, and how different had been their lives! the prominent thought in lady mason's mind as she returned to her own room was this:--that mrs. orme had said no word to dissuade her from the line of conduct which she had proposed to herself. mrs. orme had never spoken against the marriage as peregrine had spoken, and mr. furnival. her heart had not been stern enough to allow her to do that. but was it not clear that her opinion was the same as theirs? lady mason acknowledged to herself that it was clear, and acknowledged to herself also that no one was in favour of the marriage. "i will do it immediately after breakfast," she said to herself. and then she sat down,--and sat through the half the night thinking of it. mrs. orme, when she was left alone, almost rebuked herself in that she had said no word of counsel against the undertaking which lady mason proposed for herself. for mr. furnival and his opinion she did not care much. indeed, she would have been angry with lady mason for speaking to mr. furnival on the subject, were it not that her pity was too deep to admit of any anger. that the truth must be established at the trial mrs. orme felt all but confident. when alone she would feel quite sure on this point, though a doubt would always creep in on her when lady mason was with her. but now, as she sat alone, she could not realise the idea that the fear of a verdict against her friend should offer any valid reason against the marriage. the valid reasons, if there were such, must be looked for elsewhere. and were these other reasons so strong in their validity? sir peregrine desired the marriage; and so did lady mason herself, as regarded her own individual wishes. mrs. orme was sure that this was so. and then for her own self, she,--sir peregrine's daughter-in-law, the only lady concerned in the matter,--she also would have liked it. but her son disliked it, and she had yielded so far to the wishes of her son. well; was it not right that with her those wishes should be all but paramount? and thus she endeavoured to satisfy her conscience as she retired to rest. on the following morning the four assembled at breakfast. lady mason hardly spoke at all to any one. mrs. orme, who knew what was about to take place, was almost as silent; but sir peregrine had almost more to say than usual to his grandson. he was in good spirits, having firmly made up his mind on a certain point; and he showed this by telling peregrine that he would ride with him immediately after breakfast. "what has made you so slack about your hunting during the last two or three days?" he asked. "i shall hunt to-morrow," said peregrine. "then you can afford time to ride with me through the woods after breakfast." and so it would have been arranged had not lady mason immediately said that she hoped to be able to say a few words to sir peregrine in the library after breakfast. "_place aux dames_," said he. "peregrine, the horses can wait." and so the matter was arranged while they were still sitting over their toast. peregrine, as this was said, had looked at his mother, but she had not ventured to take her eyes for a moment from the teapot. then he had looked at lady mason, and saw that she was, as it were, going through a fashion of eating her breakfast. in order to break the absolute silence of the room he muttered something about the weather, and then his grandfather, with the same object, answered him. after that no words were spoken till sir peregrine, rising from his chair, declared that he was ready. he got up and opened the door for his guest, and then hurrying across the hall, opened the library door for her also, holding it till she had passed in. then he took her left hand in his, and passing his right arm round her waist, asked her if anything disturbed her. "oh yes," she said, "yes; there is much that disturbs me. i have done very wrong." "how done wrong, mary?" she could not recollect that he had called her mary before, and the sound she thought was very sweet;--was very sweet, although she was over forty, and he over seventy years of age. "i have done very wrong, and i have now come here that i may undo it. dear sir peregrine, you must not be angry with me." "i do not think that i shall be angry with you; but what is it, dearest?" but she did not know how to find words to declare her purpose. it was comparatively an easy task to tell mrs. orme that she had made up her mind not to marry sir peregrine, but it was by no means easy to tell the baronet himself. and now she stood there leaning over the fireplace, with his arm round her waist,--as it behoved her to stand no longer, seeing the resolution to which she had come. but still she did not speak. "well, mary, what is it? i know there is something on your mind or you would not have summoned me in here. is it about the trial? have you seen mr. furnival again?" "no; it is not about the trial," she said, avoiding the other question. "what is it then?" "sir peregrine, it is impossible that we should be married." and thus she brought forth her tidings, as it were at a gasp, speaking at the moment with a voice that was almost indicative of anger. "and why not?" said he, releasing her from his arm and looking at her. "it cannot be," she said. "and why not, lady mason?" "it cannot be," she said again, speaking with more emphasis, and with a stronger tone. "and is that all that you intend to tell me? have i done anything that has offended you?" "offended me! no. i do not think that would be possible. the offence is on the other side--" "then, my dear,--" "but listen to me now. it cannot be. i know that it is wrong. everything tells me that such a marriage on your part would be a sacrifice,--a terrible sacrifice. you would be throwing away your great rank--" "no," shouted sir peregrine; "not though i married a kitchen-maid,--instead of a lady who in social life is my equal." "ah, no; i should not have said rank. you cannot lose that;--but your station in the world, the respect of all around you, the--the--the--" "who has been telling you all this?" "i have wanted no one to tell me. thinking of it has told it me all. my own heart which is full of gratitude and love for you has told me." "you have not seen lord alston?" "lord alston! oh, no." "has peregrine been speaking to you?" "peregrine!" "yes; peregrine; my grandson?" "he has spoken to me." "telling you to say this to me. then he is an ungrateful boy;--a very ungrateful boy. i would have done anything to guard him from wrong in this matter." "ah; now i see the evil that i have done. why did i ever come into the house to make quarrels between you?" "there shall be no quarrel. i will forgive him even that if you will be guided by me. and, dearest mary, you must be guided by me now. this matter has gone too far for you to go back--unless, indeed, you will say that personally you have an aversion to the marriage." "oh, no; no; it is not that," she said eagerly. she could not help saying it with eagerness. she could not inflict the wound on his feelings which her silence would then have given. "under those circumstances, i have a right to say that the marriage must go on." "no; no." "but i say it must. sit down, mary." and she did sit down, while he stood leaning over her and thus spoke. "you speak of sacrificing me. i am an old man with not many more years before me. if i did sacrifice what little is left to me of life with the object of befriending one whom i really love, there would be no more in it than what a man might do, and still feel that the balance was on the right side. but here there will be no sacrifice. my life will be happier, and so will edith's. and so indeed will that boy's, if he did but know it. for the world's talk, which will last some month or two, i care nothing. this i will confess, that if i were prompted to this only by my own inclination, only by love for you--" and as he spoke he held out his hand to her, and she could not refuse him hers--"in such a case i should doubt and hesitate and probably keep aloof from such a step. but it is not so. in doing this i shall gratify my own heart, and also serve you in your great troubles. believe me, i have thought of that." "i know you have, sir peregrine,--and therefore it cannot be." "but therefore it shall be. the world knows it now; and were we to be separated after what has past, the world would say that i--i had thought you guilty of this crime." "i must bear all that." and now she stood before him, not looking him in the face, but with her face turned down towards the ground, and speaking hardly above her breath. "by heavens, no; not whilst i can stand by your side. not whilst i have strength left to support you and thrust the lie down the throat of such a wretch as joseph mason. no, mary, go back to edith and tell her that you have tried it, but that there is no escape for you." and then he smiled at her. his smile at times could be very pleasant! but she did not smile as she answered him. "sir peregrine," she said; and she endeavoured to raise her face to his but failed. "well, my love." "sir peregrine, i am guilty." "guilty! guilty of what?" he said, startled rather than instructed by her words. "guilty of all this with which they charge me." and then she threw herself at his feet, and wound her arms round his knees. [illustration: guilty.] chapter xlv. showing how mrs. orme could be very weak minded. i venture to think, i may almost say to hope, that lady mason's confession at the end of the last chapter will not have taken anybody by surprise. if such surprise be felt i must have told my tale badly. i do not like such revulsions of feeling with regard to my characters as surprises of this nature must generate. that lady mason had committed the terrible deed for which she was about to be tried, that mr. furnival's suspicion of her guilt was only too well founded, that mr. dockwrath with his wicked ingenuity had discovered no more than the truth, will, in its open revelation, have caused no surprise to the reader;--but it did cause terrible surprise to sir peregrine orme. and now we must go back a little and endeavour to explain how it was that lady mason had made this avowal of her guilt. that she had not intended to do so when she entered sir peregrine's library is very certain. had such been her purpose she would not have asked mrs. orme to visit her at orley farm. had such a course of events been in her mind she would not have spoken of her departure from the cleeve as doubtful. no. she had intended still to keep her terrible secret to herself; still to have leaned upon sir peregrine's arm as on the arm of a trusting friend. but he had overcome her by his generosity; and in her fixed resolve that he should not be dragged down into this abyss of misery the sudden determination to tell the truth at least to him had come upon her. she did tell him all; and then, as soon as the words were out of her mouth, the strength which had enabled her to do so deserted her, and she fell at his feet overcome by weakness of body as well as spirit. but the words which she spoke did not at first convey to his mind their full meaning. though she had twice repeated the assertion that she was guilty, the fact of her guilt did not come home to his understanding as a thing that he could credit. there was something, he doubted not, to surprise and harass him,--something which when revealed and made clear might, or might not, affect his purpose of marrying,--something which it behoved this woman to tell before she could honestly become his wife, something which was destined to give his heart a blow. but he was very far as yet from understanding the whole truth. let us think of those we love best, and ask ourselves how much it would take to convince us of their guilt in such a matter. that thrusting of the lie down the throat of joseph mason had become to him so earnest a duty, that the task of believing the lie to be on the other side was no easy one. the blow which he had to suffer was a cruel blow. lady mason, however, was merciful, for she might have enhanced the cruelty tenfold. he stood there wondering and bewildered for some minutes of time, while she, with her face hidden, still clung round his knees. "what is it?" at last he said. "i do not understand." but she had no answer to make to him. her great resolve had been quickly made and quickly carried out, but now the reaction left her powerless. he stooped down to raise her; but when he moved she fell prone upon the ground; he could hear her sobs as though her bosom would burst with them. and then by degrees the meaning of her words began to break upon him. "i am guilty of all this with which they charge me." could that be possible? could it be that she had forged that will; that with base, premeditated contrivance she had stolen that property; stolen it and kept it from that day to this;--through all these long years? and then he thought of her pure life, of her womanly, dignified repose, of her devotion to her son,--such devotion indeed!--of her sweet pale face and soft voice! he thought of all this, and of his own love and friendship for her,--of edith's love for her! he thought of it all, and he could not believe that she was guilty. there was some other fault, some much lesser fault than that, with which she charged herself. but there she lay at his feet, and it was necessary that he should do something towards lifting her to a seat. he stooped and took her by the hand, but his feeble strength was not sufficient to raise her. "lady mason," he said, "speak to me. i do not understand you. will you not let me seat you on the sofa?" but she, at least, had realised the full force of the revelation she had made, and lay there covered with shame, broken-hearted, and unable to raise her eyes from the ground. with what inward struggles she had played her part during the last few months, no one might ever know! but those struggles had been kept to herself. the world, her world, that world for which she had cared, in which she had lived, had treated her with honour and respect, and had looked upon her as an ill-used innocent woman. but now all that would be over. every one now must know what she was. and then, as she lay there, that thought came to her. must every one know it? was there no longer any hope for her? must lucius be told? she could bear all the rest, if only he might be ignorant of his mother's disgrace;--he, for whom all had been done! but no. he, and every one must know it. oh! if the beneficent spirit that sees all and pities all would but take her that moment from the world! when sir peregrine asked her whether he should seat her on the sofa, she slowly picked herself up, and with her head still crouching towards the ground, placed herself where she before had been sitting. he had been afraid that she would have fainted, but she was not one of those women whose nature easily admits of such relief as that. though she was always pale in colour and frail looking, there was within her a great power of self-sustenance. she was a woman who with a good cause might have dared anything. with the worst cause that a woman could well have, she had dared and endured very much. she did not faint, nor gasp as though she were choking, nor become hysteric in her agony; but she lay there, huddled up in the corner of the sofa, with her face hidden, and all those feminine graces forgotten which had long stood her in truth so royally. the inner, true, living woman was there at last,--that and nothing else. but he,--what was he to do? it went against his heart to harass her at that moment; but then it was essential that he should know the truth. the truth, or a suspicion of the truth was now breaking upon him; and if that suspicion should be confirmed, what was he to do? it was at any rate necessary that everything should be put beyond a doubt. "lady mason," he said, "if you are able to speak to me--" "yes," she said, gradually straightening herself, and raising her head though she did not look at him. "yes. i am able." but there was something terrible in the sound of her voice. it was such a sound of agony that he felt himself unable to persist. "if you wish it i will leave you, and come back,--say in an hour." "no, no; do not leave me." and her whole body was shaken with a tremour, as though of an ague fit. "do not go away, and i will tell you everything. i did it." "did what?" "i--forged the will. i did it all.--i am guilty." there was the whole truth now, declared openly and in the most simple words, and there was no longer any possibility that he should doubt. it was very terrible,--a terrible tragedy. but to him at this present moment the part most frightful was his and her present position. what should he do for her? how should he counsel her? in what way so act that he might best assist her without compromising that high sense of right and wrong which in him was a second nature. he felt at the moment that he would still give his last shilling to rescue her,--only that there was the property! let the heavens fall, justice must be done there. even a wretch such as joseph mason must have that which was clearly his own. as she spoke those last words, she had risen from the sofa, and was now standing before him resting with her hands upon the table, like a prisoner in the dock. "what!" he said; "with your own hands?" "yes; with my own hands. when he would not do justice to my baby, when he talked of that other being the head of his house, i did it, with my own hands,--during the night." "and you wrote the names,--yourself?" "yes; i wrote them all." and then there was again silence in the room; but she still stood, leaning on the table, waiting for him to speak her doom. he turned away from the spot in which he had confronted her and walked to the window. what was he to do? how was he to help her? and how was he to be rid of her? how was he to save his daughter from further contact with a woman such as this? and how was he to bid his daughter behave to this woman as one woman should behave to another in her misery? then too he had learned to love her himself,--had yearned to call her his own; and though this in truth was a minor sorrow, it was one which at the moment added bitterness to the others. but there she stood, still waiting her doom, and it was necessary that that doom should be spoken by him. "if this can really be true--" "it is true. you do not think that a woman would falsely tell such a tale as that against herself!" "then i fear--that this must be over between you and me." there was a relief to her, a sort of relief, in those words. the doom as so far spoken was so much a matter of course that it conveyed no penalty. her story had been told in order that that result might be attained with certainty. there was almost a tone of scorn in her voice as she said, "oh yes; all that must be over." "and what next would you have me do?" he asked. "i have nothing to request," she said. "if you must tell it to all the world, do so." "tell it; no. it will not be my business to be an informer." "but you must tell it. there is mrs. orme." "yes: to edith!" "and i must leave the house. oh, where shall i go when he knows it? and where will he go?" wretched miserable woman, but yet so worthy of pity! what a terrible retribution for that night's work was now coming on her! he again walked to the window to think how he might answer these questions. must he tell his daughter? must he banish this criminal at once from his house? every one now had been told of his intended marriage; every one had been told through lord alston, mr. furnival, and such as they. that at any rate must now be untold. and would it be possible that she should remain there, living with them at the cleeve, while all this was being done? in truth he did not know how to speak. he had not hardness of heart to pronounce her doom. "of course i shall leave the house," she said, with something almost of pride in her voice. "if there be no place open to me but a gaol i will do that. perhaps i had better go now and get my things removed at once. say a word of love for me to her;--a word of respectful love." and she moved as though she were going to the door. but he would not permit her to leave him thus. he could not let the poor, crushed, broken creature wander forth in her agony to bruise herself at every turn, and to be alone in her despair. she was still the woman whom he had loved; and, over and beyond that, was she not the woman who had saved him from a terrible downfall by rushing herself into utter ruin for his sake? he must take some steps in her behalf--if he could only resolve what those steps should be. she was moving to the door, but stopping her, he took her by the hand. "you did it," he said, "and he, your husband, knew nothing of it?" the fact itself was so wonderful, that he had hardly as yet made even that all his own. "i did it, and he knew nothing of it. i will go now, sir peregrine; i am strong enough." "but where will you go?" "ah me, where shall i go?" and she put the hand which was at liberty up to her temple, brushing back her hair as though she might thus collect her thoughts. "where shall i go? but he does not know it yet. i will go now to orley farm. when must he be told? tell me that. when must he know it?" "no, lady mason; you cannot go there to-day. it's very hard to say what you had better do." "very hard," she echoed, shaking her head. "but you must remain here at present;--at the cleeve i mean; at any rate for to-day. i will think about it. i will endeavour to think what may be the best." "but--we cannot meet now. she and i;--mrs. orme?" and then again he was silent; for in truth the difficulties were too many for him. might it not be best that she should counterfeit illness and be confined to her own room? but then he was averse to recommend any counterfeit; and if mrs. orme did not go to her in her assumed illness, the counterfeit would utterly fail of effect in the household. and then, should he tell mrs. orme? the weight of these tidings would be too much for him, if he did not share them with some one. so he made up his mind that he must tell them to her--though to no other one. "i must tell her," he said. "oh yes," she replied; and he felt her hand tremble in his, and dropped it. he had forgotten that he thus held her as all these thoughts pressed upon his brain. "i will tell it to her, but to no one else. if i might advise you, i would say that it will be well for you now to take some rest. you are agitated, and--" "agitated! yes. but you are right, sir peregrine. i will go at once to my room. and then--" "then, perhaps,--in the course of the morning, you will see me again." "where?--will you come to me there?" "i will see you in her room, in her dressing-room. she will be down stairs, you know." from which last words the tidings were conveyed to lady mason that she was not to see mrs. orme again. and then she went, and as she slowly made her way across the hall she felt that all of evil, all of punishment that she had ever anticipated, had now fallen upon her. there are periods in the lives of some of us--i trust but of few--when, with the silent inner voice of suffering, we call on the mountains to fall and crush us, and on the earth to gape open and take us in. when, with an agony of intensity, we wish that our mothers had been barren. in those moments the poorest and most desolate are objects to us of envy, for their sufferings can be as nothing to our own. lady mason, as she crept silently across the hall, saw a servant girl pass down towards the entrance to the kitchen, and would have given all, all that she had in the world, to have changed places with that girl. but no change was possible for her. neither would the mountains crush her, nor would the earth take her in. there was her burden, and she must bear it to the end. there was the bed which she had made for herself, and she must lie upon it. no escape was possible to her. she had herself mixed the cup, and she must now drink of it to the dregs. slowly and very silently she made her way up to her own room, and having closed the door behind her sat herself down upon the bed. it was as yet early in the morning, and the servant had not been in the chamber. there was no fire there although it was still mid-winter. of such details as these sir peregrine had remembered nothing when he recommended her to go to her own room. nor did she think of them at first as she placed herself on the bed-side. but soon the bitter air pierced her through and through, and she shivered with the cold as she sat there. after a while she got herself a shawl, wrapped it close around her, and then sat down again. she bethought herself that she might have to remain in this way for hours, so she rose again and locked the door. it would add greatly to her immediate misery if the servants were to come while she was there, and see her in her wretchedness. presently the girls did come, and being unable to obtain entrance were told by lady mason that she wanted the chamber for the present. whereupon they offered to light the fire, but she declared that she was not cold. her teeth were shaking in her head, but any suffering was better than the suffering of being seen. [illustration: lady mason after her confession.] she did not lie down, or cover herself further than she was covered with that shawl, nor did she move from her place for more than an hour. by degrees she became used to the cold. she was numbed, and as it were, half dead in all her limbs, but she had ceased to shake as she sat there, and her mind had gone back to the misery of her position. there was so much for her behind that was worse! what should she do when even this retirement should not be allowed to her? instead of longing for the time when she should be summoned to meet sir peregrine, she dreaded its coming. it would bring her nearer to that other meeting when she would have to bow her head and crouch before her son. she had been there above an hour and was in truth ill with the cold when she heard,--and scarcely heard,--a light step come quickly along the passage towards her door. her woman's ear instantly told her who owned that step, and her heart once more rose with hope. was she coming there to comfort her, to speak to the poor bruised sinner one word of feminine sympathy? the quick light step stopped at the door, there was a pause, and then a low, low knock was heard. lady mason asked no question, but dropping from the bed hurried to the door and turned the key. she turned the key, and as the door was opened half hid herself behind it;--and then mrs. orme was in the room. "what! you have no fire?" she said, feeling that the air struck her with a sudden chill. "oh, this is dreadful! my poor, poor dear!" and then she took hold of both lady mason's hands. had she possessed the wisdom of the serpent as well as the innocence of the dove she could not have been wiser in her first mode of addressing the sufferer. for she knew it all. during that dreadful hour sir peregrine had told her the whole story; and very dreadful that hour had been to her. he, when he attempted to give counsel in the matter, had utterly failed. he had not known what to suggest, nor could she say what it might be wisest for them all to do; but on one point her mind had been at once resolved. the woman who had once been her friend, whom she had learned to love, should not leave the house without some sympathy and womanly care. the guilt was very bad; yes, it was terrible; she acknowledged that it was a thing to be thought of only with shuddering. but the guilt of twenty years ago did not strike her senses so vividly as the abject misery of the present day. there was no pity in her bosom for mr. joseph mason when she heard the story, but she was full of pity for her who had committed the crime. it was twenty years ago, and had not the sinner repented? besides, was she to be the judge? "judge not, and ye shall not be judged," she said, when she thought that sir peregrine spoke somewhat harshly in the matter. so she said, altogether misinterpreting the scripture in her desire to say something in favour of the poor woman. but when it was hinted to her that lady mason might return to orley farm without being again seen by her, her woman's heart at once rebelled. "if she has done wrong," said mrs. orme-- "she has done great wrong--fearful wrong," said sir peregrine. "it will not hurt me to see her because she has done wrong. not see her while she is in the house! if she were in the prison, would i not go to see her?" and then sir peregrine had said no more, but he loved his daughter-in-law all the better for her unwonted vehemence. "you will do what is right," he said--"as you always do." then he left her; and she, after standing for a few moments while she shaped her thoughts, went straight away to lady mason's room. she took lady mason by both her hands and found that they were icy cold. "oh, this is dreadful," she said. "come with me, dear." but lady mason still stood, up by the bed-head, whither she had retreated from the door. her eyes were still cast upon the ground and she leaned back as mrs. orme held her, as though by her weight she would hinder her friend from leading her from the room. "you are frightfully cold," said mrs. orme. "has he told you?" said lady mason, asking the question in the lowest possible whisper, and still holding back as she spoke. "yes; he has told me;--but no one else--no one else." and then for a few moments nothing was spoken between them. "oh, that i could die!" said the poor wretch, expressing in words that terrible wish that the mountains might fall upon her and crush her. "you must not say that. that would be wicked, you know. he can comfort you. do you not know that he will comfort you, if you are sorry for your sins and go to him?" but the woman in her intense suffering could not acknowledge to herself any idea of comfort. "ah, me!" she exclaimed, with a deep bursting sob which went straight to mrs. orme's heart. and then a convulsive fit of trembling seized her so strongly that mrs. orme could hardly continue to hold her hands. "you are ill with the cold," she said. "come with me, lady mason, you shall not stay here longer." lady mason then permitted herself to be led out of the room, and the two went quickly down the passage to the head of the front stairs, and from thence to mrs. orme's room. in crossing the house they had seen no one and been seen by no one; and lady mason when she came to the door hurried in, that she might again hide herself in security for the moment. as soon as the door was closed mrs. orme placed her in an arm-chair which she wheeled up to the front of the fire, and seating herself on a stool at the poor sinner's feet, chafed her hands within her own. she took away the shawl and made her stretch out her feet towards the fire, and thus seated close to her, she spoke no word for the next half-hour as to the terrible fact that had become known to her. then, on a sudden, as though the ice of her heart had thawed from the warmth of the other's kindness, lady mason burst into a flood of tears, and flinging herself upon her friend's neck and bosom begged with earnest piteousness to be forgiven. and mrs. orme did forgive her. many will think that she was wrong to do so, and i fear it must be acknowledged that she was not strong minded. by forgiving her i do not mean that she pronounced absolution for the sin of past years, or that she endeavoured to make the sinner think that she was no worse for her sin. mrs. orme was a good churchwoman but not strong, individually, in points of doctrine. all that she left mainly to the woman's conscience and her own dealings with her saviour,--merely saying a word of salutary counsel as to a certain spiritual pastor who might be of aid. but mrs. orme forgave her,--as regarded herself. she had already, while all this was unknown, taken this woman to her heart as pure and good. it now appeared that the woman had not been pure, had not been good!--and then she took her to her heart again! criminal as the woman was, disgraced and debased, subject almost to the heaviest penalties of outraged law and justice, a felon against whom the actual hands of the law's myrmidons would probably soon prevail, a creature doomed to bear the scorn of the lowest of her fellow-creatures,--such as she was, this other woman, pure and high, so shielded from the world's impurity that nothing ignoble might touch her,--this lady took her to her heart again and promised in her ear with low sweet words of consolation that they should still be friends. i cannot say that mrs. orme was right. that she was weak minded i feel nearly certain. but, perhaps, this weakness of mind may never be brought against her to her injury, either in this world or in the next. i will not pretend to give the words which passed between them at that interview. after a while lady mason allowed herself to be guided all in all by her friend's advice as though she herself had been a child. it was decided that for the present,--that is for the next day or two,--lady mason should keep her room at the cleeve as an invalid. counterfeit in this there would be none certainly, for indeed she was hardly fit for any place but her own bed. if inclined and able to leave her room, she should be made welcome to the use of mrs. orme's dressing-room. it would only be necessary to warn peregrine that for the present he must abstain from coming there. the servants, mrs. orme said, had heard of their master's intended marriage. they would now hear that this intention had been abandoned. on this they would put their own construction, and would account in their own fashion for the fact that sir peregrine and his guest no longer saw each other. but no suspicion of the truth would get abroad when it was seen that lady mason was still treated as a guest at the cleeve. as to such future steps as might be necessary to be taken, mrs. orme would consult with sir peregrine, and tell lady mason from time to time. and as for the sad truth, the terrible truth,--that, at any rate for the present, should be told to no other ears. and so the whole morning was spent, and mrs. orme saw neither sir peregrine nor her son till she went down to the library in the first gloom of the winter evening. chapter xlvi. a woman's idea of friendship. sir peregrine after the hour that he had spent with his daughter-in-law,--that terrible hour during which lady mason had sat alone on the bed-side,--returned to the library and remained there during the whole of the afternoon. it may be remembered that he had agreed to ride through the woods with his grandson; but that purpose had been abandoned early in the day, and peregrine had in consequence been hanging about the house. he soon perceived that something was amiss, but he did not know what. he had looked for his mother, and had indeed seen her for a moment at her door; but she had told him that she could not then speak to him. sir peregrine also had shut himself up, but about the hour of dusk he sent for his grandson; and when mrs. orme, on leaving lady mason, went down to the library, she found them both together. they were standing with their backs to the fire, and the gloom in the room was too dark to allow of their faces being seen, but she felt that the conversation between them was of a serious nature. indeed what conversation in that house could be other than serious on that day? "i see that i am disturbing you," she said, preparing to retreat. "i did not know that you were together." "do not go, edith," said the old man. "peregrine, put a chair for your mother. i have told him that all this is over now between me and lady mason." she trembled as she heard the words, for it seemed to her that there must be danger now in even speaking of lady mason,--danger with reference to that dreadful secret, the divulging of which would be so fatal. "i have told him," continued sir peregrine, "that for a few minutes i was angry with him when i heard from lady mason that he had spoken to her; but i believe that on the whole it is better that it should have been so." "he would be very unhappy if anything that he had done had distressed you," said mrs. orme, hardly knowing what words to use, or how to speak. nor did she feel quite certain as yet how much had been told to her son, and how much was concealed from him. "no, no, no," said the old man, laying his arm affectionately on the young man's shoulder. "he has done nothing to distress me. there is nothing wrong--nothing wrong between him and me. thank god for that. but, perry, we will think now of that other matter. have you told your mother anything about it?" and he strove to look away from the wretchedness of his morning's work to something in his family that still admitted of a bright hope. "no, sir; not yet. we won't mind that just now." and then they all remained silent, mrs. orme sitting, and the two men still standing with their backs towards the fire. her mind was too intent on the unfortunate lady up stairs to admit of her feeling interest in that other unknown matter to which sir peregrine had alluded. "if you have done with perry," she said at last, "i would be glad to speak to you for a minute or two." "oh yes," said peregrine;--"we have done." and then he went. "you have told him," said she, as soon as they were left together. "told him; what, of her? oh no. i have told him that that,--that idea of mine has been abandoned." from this time forth sir peregrine could never endure to speak of his proposed marriage, nor to hear it spoken of. "he conceives that this has been done at her instance," he continued. "and so it has," said mrs. orme, with much more of decision in her voice than was customary with her. "and so it has," he repeated after her. "nobody must know of this,"--said she very solemnly, standing up and looking into his face with eager eyes. "nobody but you and i." "all the world, i fear, will know it soon," said sir peregrine. "no; no. why should all the world know it? had she not told us we should not have known it. we should not have suspected it. mr. furnival, who understands these things;--he does not think her guilty." "but, edith--the property!" "let her give that up--after a while; when all this has passed by. that man is not in want. it will not hurt him to be without it a little longer. it will be enough for her to do that when this trial shall be over." "but it is not hers. she cannot give it up. it belongs to her son,--or is thought to belong to him. it is not for us to be informers, edith--" "no, no; it is not for us to be informers. we must remember that." "certainly. it is not for us to tell the story of her guilt; but her guilt will remain the same, will be acted over and over again every day, while the proceeds of the property go into the hands of lucius mason. it is that which is so terrible, edith;--that her conscience should have been able to bear that load for the last twenty years! a deed done,--that admits of no restitution, may admit of repentance. we may leave that to the sinner and his conscience, hoping that he stands right with his maker. but here, with her, there has been a continual theft going on from year to year,--which is still going on. while lucius mason holds a sod of orley farm, true repentance with her must be impossible. it seems so to me." and sir peregrine shuddered at the doom which his own rectitude of mind and purpose forced him to pronounce. "it is not she that has it," said mrs. orme. "it was not done for herself." "there is no difference in that," said he sharply. "all sin is selfish, and so was her sin in this. her object was the aggrandisement of her own child; and when she could not accomplish that honestly, she did it by fraud, and--and--and--. edith, my dear, you and i must look at this thing as it is. you must not let your kind heart make your eyes blind in a matter of such moment." "no, father; nor must the truth make our hearts cruel. you talk of restitution and repentance. repentance is not the work of a day. how are we to say by what struggles her poor heart has been torn?" "i do not judge her." "no, no; that is it. we may not judge her; may we? but we may assist her in her wretchedness. i have promised that i will do all i can to aid her. you will allow me to do so;--you will; will you not?" and she pressed his arm and looked up into his face, entreating him. since first they two had known each other, he had never yet denied her a request. it was a law of his life that he would never do so. but now he hesitated, not thinking that he would refuse her, but feeling that on such an occasion it would be necessary to point out to her how far she might go without risk of bringing censure on her own name. but in this case, though the mind of sir peregrine might be the more logical, the purpose of his daughter-in-law was the stronger. she had resolved that such communication with crime would not stain her, and she already knew to what length she would go in her charity. indeed, her mind was fully resolved to go far enough. "i hardly know as yet what she intends to do; any assistance that you can give her must, i should say, depend on her own line of conduct." "but i want your advice as to that. i tell you what i purpose. it is clear that mr. furnival thinks she will gain the day at this trial." "but mr. furnival does not know the truth." "nor will the judge and the lawyers, and all the rest. as you say so properly, it is not for us to be the informers. if they can prove it, let them. but you would not have her tell them all against herself?" and then she paused, waiting for his answer. "i do not know. i do not know what to say. it is not for me to advise her." "ah, but it is for you," she said; and as she spoke she put her little hand down on the table with an energy which startled him. "she is here--a wretched woman, in your house. and why do you know the truth? why has it been told to you and me? because without telling it she could not turn you from that purpose of yours. it was generous, father--confess that; it was very generous." "yes, it was generous," said sir peregrine. "it was very generous. it would be base in us if we allowed ourselves to forget that. but i was telling you my plan. she must go to this trial." "oh yes; there will be no doubt as to that." "then--if she can escape, let the property be given up afterwards." "i do not see how it is to be arranged. the property will belong to lucius, and she cannot give it up then. it is not so easy to put matters right when guilt and fraud have set them wrong." "we will do the best we can. even suppose that you were to tell lucius afterwards;--you yourself! if that were necessary, you know." and so by degrees she talked him over; but yet he would come to no decision as to what steps he himself must take. what if he himself should go to mr. round, and pledge himself that the whole estate should be restored to mr. mason of groby, on condition that the trial were abandoned? the world would probably guess the truth after that; but the terrible trial and the more terrible punishment which would follow it might be thus escaped. poor sir peregrine! even when he argued thus within himself, his conscience told him that in taking such a line of conduct, he himself would be guilty of some outrage against the law by aiding a criminal in her escape. he had heard of misprision of felony; but nevertheless, he allowed his daughter-in-law to prevail. before such a step as this could be taken the consent of lady mason must of course be obtained; but as to that mrs. orme had no doubt. if lucius could be induced to abandon the property without hearing the whole story, it would be well. but if that could not be achieved,--then the whole story must be told to him. "and you will tell it," mrs. orme said to him. "it would be easier for me to cut off my right arm," he answered; "but i will do my best." and then came the question as to the place of lady mason's immediate residence. it was evident to mrs. orme that sir peregrine expected that she would at once go back to orley farm;--not exactly on that day, nor did he say on the day following. but his words made it very manifest that he did not think it right that she should under existing circumstances remain at the cleeve. sir peregrine, however, as quickly understood that mrs. orme did not wish her to go away for some days. "it would injure the cause if she were to leave us quite at once," said mrs. orme. "but how can she stay here, my dear,--with no one to see her; with none but the servants to wait upon her?" "i should see her," said mrs. orme, boldly. "do you mean constantly--in your old, friendly way?" "yes, constantly; and," she added after a pause, "not only here, but at orley farm also." and then there was another pause between them. sir peregrine certainly was not a cruel man, nor was his heart by any means hardened against the lady with whom circumstances had lately joined him so closely. indeed, since the knowledge of her guilt had fully come upon him, he had undertaken the conduct of her perilous affairs in a manner more confidential even than that which had existed while he expected to make her his wife. but, nevertheless, it went sorely against the grain with him when it was proposed that there should still exist a close intimacy between the one cherished lady of his household and the woman who had been guilty of so base a crime. it seemed to him that he might touch pitch and not be defiled;--he or any man belonging to him. but he could not reconcile it to himself that the widow of his son should run such risk. in his estimation there was something almost more than human about the purity of the only woman that blessed his hearth. it seemed to him as though she were a sacred thing, to be guarded by a shrine,--to be protected from all contact with the pollutions of the outer world. and now it was proposed to him that she should take a felon to her bosom as her friend! "but will that be necessary, edith?" he said; "and after all that has been revealed to us now, will it be wise?" "i think so," she said, speaking again with a very low voice. "why, should i not?" "because she has shown herself unworthy of such friendship;--unfit for it i should say." "unworthy! dear father, is she not as worthy and as fit as she was yesterday? if we saw clearly into each other's bosom, whom should we think worthy?" "but you would not choose for your friend one--one who could do such a deed as that?" "no; i would not choose her because she had so acted; nor perhaps if i knew all beforehand would i open my heart to one who had so done. but it is different now. what are love and friendship worth if they cannot stand against such trials as these?" "do you mean, edith, that no crime would separate you from a friend?" "i have not said that. there are circumstances always. but if she repents,--as i am sure she does, i cannot bring myself to desert her. who else is there that can stand by her now; what other woman? at any rate i have promised her, and you would not have me break my word." thus she again gained her point, and it was settled that for the present lady mason should be allowed to occupy her own room,--her own room, and occasionally mrs. orme's sitting-room, if it pleased her to do so. no day was named for her removal, but, mrs. orme perfectly understood that the sooner such a day could be fixed the better sir peregrine would be pleased. and, indeed, his household as at present arranged was not a pleasant one. the servants had all heard of his intended marriage, and now they must also hear that that intention was abandoned. and yet the lady would remain up stairs as a guest of his! there was much in this that was inconvenient; but under circumstances as they now existed, what could he do? when all this was arranged and mrs. orme had dressed for dinner, she again went to lady mason. she found her in bed, and told her that at night she would come to her and tell her all. and then she instructed her own servant as to attending upon the invalid. in doing this she was cunning in letting a word fall here and there, that might teach the woman that that marriage purpose was all over; but nevertheless there was so much care and apparent affection in her mode of speaking, and she gave her orders for lady mason's comfort with so much earnestness, that no idea could get abroad in the household that there had been any cause for absolute quarrel. late at night, when her son had left her, she did go again to her guest's room, and sitting down by the bed-side she told her all that had been planned, pointing out however with much care that, as a part of those plans, orley farm was to be surrendered to joseph mason. "you think that is right; do you not?" said mrs. orme, almost trembling as she asked a question so pertinent to the deed which the other had done, and to that repentance for the deed which was now so much to be desired. "yes," said the other, "of course it will be right." and then the thought that it was not in her power to abandon the property occurred to her also. if the estate must be voluntarily surrendered, no one could so surrender it but lucius mason. she knew this, and felt at the moment that of all men he would be the least likely to do so, unless an adequate reason was made clearly plain to him. the same thought at the same moment was passing through the minds of them both; but lady mason could not speak out her thought, and mrs. orme would not say more on that terrible day to trouble the mind of the poor creature whose sufferings she was so anxious to assuage. and then lady mason was left alone, and having now a partner in her secret, slept sounder than she had done since the tidings first reached her of mr. dockwrath's vengeance. chapter xlvii. the gem of the four families. and now we will go back to noningsby. on that evening graham ate his pheasant with a relish although so many cares sat heavy on his mind, and declared, to mrs. baker's great satisfaction, that the cook had managed to preserve the bread sauce uninjured through all the perils of delay which it had encountered. "bread sauce is so ticklish; a simmer too much and it's clean done for," mrs. baker said with a voice of great solicitude. but she had been accustomed perhaps to patients whose appetites were fastidious. the pheasant and the bread sauce and the mashed potatoes, all prepared by mrs. baker's own hands to be eaten as spoon meat, disappeared with great celerity; and then, as graham sat sipping the solitary glass of sherry that was allowed to him, meditating that he would begin his letter the moment the glass was empty, augustus staveley again made his appearance. [illustration: "bread sauce is so ticklish."] "well, old fellow," said he, "how are you now?" and he was particularly careful so to speak as to show by his voice that his affection for his friend was as strong as ever. but in doing so he showed also that there was some special thought still present in his mind,--some feeling which was serious in its nature if not absolutely painful. "staveley," said the other, gravely, "i have acquired knowledge to-day which i trust i may carry with me to my grave." "and what is that?" said augustus, looking round to mrs. baker as though he thought it well that she should be out of the room before the expected communication was made. but mrs. baker's attention was so riveted by her patient's earnestness, that she made no attempt to go. "it is a wasting of the best gifts of providence," said graham, "to eat a pheasant after one has really done one's dinner." "oh, that's it, is it?" said augustus. "so it is, sir," said mrs. baker, thinking that the subject quite justified the manner. "and of no use whatsoever to eat only a little bit of one as a man does then. to know what a pheasant is you should have it all to yourself." "so you should, sir," said mrs. baker, quite delighted and very much in earnest. "and you should have nothing else. then, if the bird be good to begin with, and has been well hung--" "there's a deal in that," said mrs. baker. "then, i say, you'll know what a pheasant is. that's the lesson which i have learned to-day, and i give it you as an adequate return for the pheasant itself." "i was almost afeard it would be spoilt by being brought up the second time," said mrs. baker. "and so i said to my lady; but she wouldn't have you woke, nohow." and then mrs. baker, having heard the last of the lecture, took away the empty wine-glass and shut the door behind her. "and now i'll write those two letters," said graham. "what i've written hitherto i wrote in bed, and i feel almost more awkward now i am up than i did then." "but what letters are they?" "well, one to my laundress to tell her i shall be there to-morrow, and one to mary snow to say that i'll see her the day after." "then, felix, don't trouble yourself to write either. you positively won't go to-morrow--" "who says so?" "the governor. he has heard from my mother exactly what the doctor said, and declares that he won't allow it. he means to see the doctor himself before you stir. and he wants to see you also. i am to tell you he'll come to you directly after breakfast." "i shall be delighted to see your father, and am very much gratified by his kindness, but--" "but what--" "i'm a free agent, i suppose,--to go when i please?" "not exactly. the law is unwritten; but by traditional law a man laid up in his bedroom is not free to go and come. no action for false imprisonment would lie if mrs. baker kept all your clothes away from you." "i should like to try the question." "you will have the opportunity, for you may be sure that you'll not leave this to-morrow." "it would depend altogether on the evidence of the doctor." "exactly so. and as the doctor in this case would clearly be on the side of the defendants, a verdict on behalf of the plaintiff would not be by any means attainable." after that the matter was presumed to be settled, and graham said no more as to leaving noningsby on the next day. as things turned out afterwards he remained there for another week. "i must at any rate write a letter to mary snow," he said. and to mary snow he did write some three or four lines, augustus sitting by the while. augustus staveley would have been very glad to know the contents, or rather the spirit of those lines; but nothing was said about them, and the letter was at last sealed up and intrusted to his care for the post-bag. there was very little in it that could have interested augustus staveley or any one else. it contained the ordinary, but no more than the ordinary terms of affection. he told her that he found it impracticable to move himself quite immediately. and then as to that cause of displeasure,--that cause of supposed displeasure as to which both mary and mrs. thomas had written, he declared that he did not believe that anything had been done that he should not find it easy to forgive after so long an absence. augustus then remained there for another hour, but not a word was said between the young men on that subject which was nearest, at the moment, to the hearts of both of them. each was thinking of madeline, but neither of them spoke as though any such subject were in their thoughts. "heaven and earth!" said augustus at last, pulling out his watch. "it only wants three minutes to seven. i shall have a dozen messages from the judge before i get down, to know whether he shall come and help me change my boots. i'll see you again before i go to bed. good-bye, old fellow." and then graham was again alone. if lady staveley were really angry with him for loving her daughter,--if his friend staveley were in very truth determined that such love must under no circumstances be sanctioned,--would they treat him as they were treating him? would they under such circumstances make his prolonged stay in the house an imperative necessity? he could not help asking himself this question, and answering it with some gleam of hope. and then he acknowledged to himself that it was ungenerous in him to do so. his remaining there,--the liberty to remain there which had been conceded to him,--had arisen solely from the belief that a removal in his present state would be injudicious. he assured himself of this over and over again, so that no false hope might linger in his heart. and yet hope did linger there whether false or true. why might he not aspire to the hand of madeline staveley,--he who had been assured that he need regard no woman as too high for his aspirations? "mrs. baker," he said that evening, as that excellent woman was taking away his tea-things, "i have not heard miss staveley's voice these two days." "well, no; no more you have," said she. "there's two ways, you know, mr. graham, of going to her part of the house. there's the door that opens at the end of the passage by her mamma's room. she's been that way, and that's the reason, i suppose. there ain't no other, i'm sure." "one likes to hear one's friends if one can't see them; that's all." "to be sure one does. i remember as how when i had the measles--i was living with my lady's mother, as maid to the young ladies. there was four of 'em, and i dressed 'em all--god bless 'em. they've all got husbands now and grown families--only there ain't one among 'em equal to our miss madeline, though there's some of 'em much richer. when my lady married him,--the judge, you know,--he was the poorest of the lot. they didn't think so much of him when he came a-courting in those days." "he was only a practising barrister then." "oh yes; he knew well how to practise, for miss isabella--as she was then--very soon made up her mind about him. laws, mr. graham, she used to tell me everything in them days. they didn't want her to have nothing to say to mr. staveley at first; but she made up her mind, and though she wasn't one of them as has many words, like miss furnival down there, there was no turning her." "did she marry at last against their wish?" "oh dear, no; nothing of that sort. she wasn't one of them flighty ones neither. she just made up her own mind and bided. and now i don't know whether she hasn't done about the best of 'em all. them oliphants is full of money, they do say--full of money. that was miss louisa, who came next. but, lord love you, mr. graham, he's so crammed with gout as he can't ever put a foot to the ground; and as cross;--as cross as cross. we goes there sometimes, you know. then the girls is all plain; and young mr. oliphant, the son,--why he never so much as speaks to his own father; and though they're rolling in money, they say he can't pay for the coat on his back. now our mr. augustus, unless it is that he won't come down to morning prayers and always keeps the dinner waiting, i don't think there's ever a black look between him and his papa. and as for miss madeline,--she's the gem of the four families. everybody gives that up to her." if madeline's mother married a barrister in opposition to the wishes of her family--a barrister who then possessed nothing but his wits--why should not madeline do so also? that was of course the line which his thoughts took. but then, as he said to himself, madeline's father had been one of the handsomest men of his day, whereas he was one of the ugliest; and madeline's father had been encumbered with no mary snow. a man who had been such a fool as he, who had gone so far out of the regular course, thinking to be wiser than other men, but being in truth much more silly, could not look for that success and happiness in life which men enjoy who have not been so lamentably deficient in discretion! 'twas thus that he lectured himself; but still he went on thinking of madeline staveley. there had been some disagreeable confusion in the house that afternoon after augustus had spoken to his sister. madeline had gone up to her own room, and had remained there, chewing the cud of her thoughts. both her sister and her brother had warned her about this man. she could moreover divine that her mother was suffering under some anxiety on the same subject. why was all this? why should these things be said and thought? why should there be uneasiness in the house on her account in this matter of mr. graham? she acknowledged to herself that there was such uneasiness;--and she almost acknowledged to herself the cause. but while she was still sitting over her own fire, with her needle untouched beside her, her father had come home, and lady staveley had mentioned to him that mr. graham thought of going on the next day. "nonsense, my dear," said the judge. "he must not think of such a thing. he can hardly be fit to leave his room yet." "pottinger does say that it has gone on very favourably," pleaded lady staveley. "but that's no reason he should destroy the advantages of his healthy constitution by insane imprudence. he's got nothing to do. he wants to go merely because he thinks he is in your way." lady staveley looked wishfully up in her husband's face, longing to tell him all her suspicions. but as yet her grounds for them were so slight that even to him she hesitated to mention them. "his being here is no trouble to me, of course," she said. "of course not. you tell him so, and he'll stay," said the judge. "i want to see him to-morrow myself;--about this business of poor lady mason's." immediately after that he met his son. and augustus also told him that graham was going. "oh no; he's not going at all," said the judge. "i've settled that with your mother." "he's very anxious to be off," said augustus gravely. "and why? is there any reason?" "well; i don't know." for a moment he thought he would tell his father the whole story; but he reflected that his doing so would be hardly fair towards his friend. "i don't know that there is any absolute reason; but i'm quite sure that he is very anxious to go." the judge at once perceived that there was something in the wind, and during that hour in which the pheasant was being discussed up in graham's room, he succeeded in learning the whole from his wife. dear, good, loving wife! a secret of any kind from him was an impossibility to her, although that secret went no further than her thoughts. "the darling girl is so anxious about him, that--that i'm afraid," said she. "he's by no means a bad sort of man, my love," said the judge. "but he's got nothing--literally nothing," said the mother. "neither had i, when i went a wooing," said the judge. "but, nevertheless, i managed to have it all my own way." "you don't mean really to make a comparison?" said lady staveley. "in the first place you were at the top of your profession." "was i? if so i must have achieved that distinction at a very early age." and then he kissed his wife very affectionately. nobody was there to see, and under such circumstances a man may kiss his wife even though he be a judge, and between fifty and sixty years old. after that he again spoke to his son, and in spite of the resolves which augustus had made as to what friendship required of him, succeeded in learning the whole truth. late in the evening, when all the party had drunk their cups of tea, when lady staveley was beginning her nap, and augustus was making himself agreeable to miss furnival--to the great annoyance of his mother, who half rousing herself every now and then, looked sorrowfully at what was going on with her winking eyes,--the judge contrived to withdraw with madeline into the small drawing-room, telling her as he put his arm around her waist, that he had a few words to say to her. "well, papa," said she, as at his bidding she sat herself down beside him on the sofa. she was frightened, because such summonses were very unusual; but nevertheless her father's manner towards her was always so full of love that even in her fear she felt a comfort in being with him. "my darling," he said, "i want to ask you one or two questions--about our guest here who has hurt himself,--mr. graham." "yes, papa." and now she knew that she was trembling with nervous dread. "you need not think that i am in the least angry with you, or that i suspect you of having done or said, or even thought anything that is wrong. i feel quite confident that i have no cause to do so." "oh, thank you, papa." "but i want to know whether mr. graham has ever spoken to you--as a lover." "never, papa." "because under the circumstances of his present stay here, his doing so would, i think, have been ungenerous." "he never has, papa, in any way--not a single word." "and you have no reason to regard him in that light." "no, papa." but in the speaking of these last two words there was a slight hesitation,--the least possible shade of doubt conveyed, which made itself immediately intelligible to the practised ear of the judge. "tell me all, my darling;--everything that there is in your heart, so that we may help each other if that may be possible." "he has never said anything to me, papa." "because your mamma thinks that you are more anxious about him than you would be about an ordinary visitor." "does she?" "has any one else spoken to you about mr. graham?" "augustus did, papa; and isabella, some time ago." "then i suppose they thought the same." "yes; i suppose they did." "and now, dear, is there anything else you would like to say to me about it?" "no, papa, i don't think there is." "but remember this always;--that my only wishes respecting you, and your mother's wishes also, are to see you happy and good." "i am very happy, papa." "and very good also to the best of my belief." and then he kissed her, and they went back again into the large drawing-room. many of my readers, and especially those who are old and wise,--if i chance to have any such,--will be inclined to think that the judge behaved foolishly in thus cross-questioning his daughter on a matter, which, if it were expedient that it should die away, would die away the more easily the less it were talked about. but the judge was an odd man in many of the theories of his life. one of them, with reference to his children, was very odd, and altogether opposed to the usual practice of the world. it was this,--that they should be allowed, as far as was practicable, to do what they liked. now the general opinion of the world is certainly quite the reverse--namely this, that children, as long as they are under the control of their parents, should be hindered and prevented in those things to which they are most inclined. of course the world in general, in carrying out this practice, excuses it by an assertion,--made to themselves or others,--that children customarily like those things which they ought not to like. but the judge had an idea quite opposed to this. children, he said, if properly trained would like those things which were good for them. now it may be that he thought his daughter had been properly trained. "he is a very clever young man, my dear; you may be sure of that," were the last words which the judge said to his wife that night. "but then he has got nothing," she replied; "and he is so uncommonly plain." the judge would not say a word more, but he could not help thinking that this last point was one which might certainly be left to the young lady. chapter xlviii. the angel of light under a cloud. on the following morning, according to appointment, the judge visited felix graham in his room. it was only the second occasion on which he had done so since the accident, and he was therefore more inclined to regard him as an invalid than those who had seen him from day to day. "i am delighted to hear that your bones have been so amenable," said the judge. "but you must not try them too far. we'll get you down stairs into the drawing-room, and see how you get on there by the next few days." "i don't want to trouble you more than i can help," said felix, sheepishly. he knew that there were reasons why he should not go into that drawing-room, but of course he could not guess that those reasons were as well known to the judge as they were to himself. "you sha'n't trouble us--more than you can help. i am not one of those men who tell my friends that nothing is a trouble. of course you give trouble." "i am so sorry!" "there's your bed to make, my dear fellow, and your gruel to warm. you know shakspeare pretty well by heart i believe, and he puts that matter,--as he did every other matter,--in the best and truest point of view. lady macbeth didn't say she had no labour in receiving the king. 'the labour we delight in physics pain,' she said. those were her words, and now they are mine." "with a more honest purpose behind," said felix. "well, yes; i've no murder in my thoughts at present. so that is all settled, and lady staveley will be delighted to see you down stairs to-morrow." "i shall be only too happy," felix answered, thinking within his own mind that he must settle it all in the course of the day with augustus. "and now perhaps you will be strong enough to say a few words about business." "certainly," said graham. "you have heard of this orley farm case, in which our neighbour lady mason is concerned." "oh yes; we were all talking of it at your table;--i think it was the night, or a night or two, before my accident." "very well; then you know all about it. at least as much as the public knows generally. it has now been decided on the part of joseph mason,--the husband's eldest son, who is endeavouring to get the property,--that she shall be indicted for perjury." "for perjury!" "yes; and in doing that, regarding the matter from his point of view, they are not deficient in judgment." "but how could she have been guilty of perjury?" "in swearing that she had been present when her husband and the three witnesses executed the deed. if they have any ground to stand on--and i believe they have none whatever, but if they have, they would much more easily get a verdict against her on that point than on a charge of forgery. supposing it to be the fact that her husband never executed such a deed, it would be manifest that she must have sworn falsely in swearing that she saw him do so." "why, yes; one would say so." "but that would afford by no means conclusive evidence that she had forged the surreptitious deed herself." "it would be strong presumptive evidence that she was cognizant of the forgery." "perhaps so,--but uncorroborated would hardly bring a verdict after such a lapse of years. and then moreover a prosecution for forgery, if unsuccessful, would produce more painful feeling. whether successful or unsuccessful it would do so. bail could not be taken in the first instance, and such a prosecution would create a stronger feeling that the poor lady was being persecuted." "those who really understand the matter will hardly thank them for their mercy." "but then so few will really understand it. the fact however is that she will be indicted for perjury. i do not know whether the indictment has not been already laid. mr. furnival was with me in town yesterday, and at his very urgent request, i discussed the whole subject with him. i shall be on the home circuit myself on these next spring assizes, but i shall not take the criminal business at alston. indeed i should not choose that this matter should be tried before me under any circumstances, seeing that the lady is my near neighbour. now furnival wants you to be engaged on the defence as junior counsel." "with himself?" "yes; with himself,--and with mr. chaffanbrass." "with mr. chaffanbrass!" said graham, in a tone almost of horror--as though he had been asked to league himself with all that was most disgraceful in the profession;--as indeed perhaps he had been. "yes--with mr. chaffanbrass." "will that be well, judge, do you think?" "mr. chaffanbrass no doubt is a very clever man, and it may be wise in such a case as this to have the services of a barrister who is perhaps unequalled in his power of cross-examining a witness." "does his power consist in making a witness speak the truth, or in making him conceal it?" "perhaps in both. but here, if it be the case as mr. furnival suspects, that witnesses will be suborned to give false evidence--" "but surely the rounds would have nothing to do with such a matter as that?" "no, probably not. i am sure that old richard round would abhor any such work as you or i would do. they take the evidence as it is brought to them. i believe there is no doubt that at any rate one of the witnesses to the codicil in question will now swear that the signature to the document is not her signature." "a woman--is it?" "yes; a woman. in such a case it may perhaps be allowable to employ such a man as mr. chaffanbrass; and i should tell you also, such another man as mr. solomon aram." "solomon aram, too! why, judge, the old bailey will be left bare." "the shining lights will certainly be down at alston. now under those circumstances will you undertake the case?" "would you;--in my place?" "yes; if i were fully convinced of the innocence of my client at the beginning." "but what if i were driven to change my opinion as the thing progressed?" "you must go on, in such a case, as a matter of course." "i suppose i can have a day or two to think of it?" "oh yes. i should not myself be the bearer to you of mr. furnival's message, were it not that i think that lady mason is being very cruelly used in the matter. if i were a young man in your position, i should take up the case _con amore_, for the sake of beauty and womanhood. i don't say that that quixotism is very wise; but still i don't think it can be wrong to join yourself even with such men as chaffanbrass and mr. solomon aram, if you can feel confident that you have justice and truth on your side." then after a few more words the interview was over, and the judge left the room making some further observation as to his hope of seeing graham in the drawing-room on the next day. on the following morning there came from peckham two more letters for graham, one of course from mary snow, and one from mrs. thomas. we will first give attention to that from the elder lady. she commenced with much awe, declaring that her pen trembled within her fingers, but that nevertheless she felt bound by her conscience and that duty which she owed to mr. graham, to tell him everything that had occurred,--"word by word," as she expressed it. and then felix, looking at the letter, saw that he held in his hand two sheets of letter paper, quite full of small writing, the latter of which was crossed. she went on to say that her care had been unremitting, and her solicitude almost maternal; that mary's conduct had on the whole been such as to inspire her with "undeviating confidence;" but that the guile of the present age was such, especially in respect to female servants--who seemed, in mrs. thomas's opinion, to be sent in these days express from a very bad place for the express assistance of a very bad gentleman--that it was impossible for any woman, let her be ever so circumspect, to say "what was what, or who was who." from all which graham learned that mrs. thomas had been "done;" but by the middle of the third page he had as yet learned nothing as to the manner of the doing. but by degrees the long reel unwinded itself;--angel of light, and all. mary snow had not only received but had answered a lover's letter. she had answered that lover's letter by making an appointment with him; and she had kept that appointment,--with the assistance of the agent sent express from that very bad gentleman. all this mrs. thomas had only discovered afterwards by finding the lover's letter, and the answer which the angel of light had written. both of these she copied verbatim, thinking probably that the original documents were too precious to be intrusted to the post; and then ended by saying that an additional year of celibacy, passed under a closer espionage, and with more severe moral training, might still perhaps make mary snow fit for the high destiny which had been promised to her. the only part of this letter which felix read twice was that which contained the answer from the angel of light to her lover. "you have been very wicked to address me," the angel of light said severely. "and it is almost impossible that i should ever forgive you!" if only she could have brought herself to end there! but her nature, which the lover had greatly belied in likening it to her name, was not cold enough for this. so she added a few more words very indiscreetly. "as i want to explain to you why i can never see you again, i will meet you on thursday afternoon, at half-past four, a little way up clapham lane, at the corner of the doctor's wall, just beyond the third lamp." it was the first letter she had ever written to a lover, and the poor girl had betrayed herself by keeping a copy of it. and then graham came to mary snow's letter to himself, which, as it was short, the reader shall have entire. my dear mr. graham, i never was so unhappy in my life, and i am sure i don't know how to write to you. of course i do not think you will ever see me again unless it be to upbraid me for my perfidy, and i almost hope you won't, for i should sink into the ground before your eyes. and yet i didn't mean to do anything very wrong, and when i did meet him i wouldn't as much as let him take me by the hand;--not of my own accord. i don't know what she has said to you, and i think she ought to have let me read it; but she speaks to me now in such a way that i don't know how to bear it. she has rummaged among everything i have got, but i am sure she could find nothing except those two letters. it wasn't my fault that he wrote to me, though i know now i ought not to have met him. he is quite a genteel young man, and very respectable in the medical line; only i know that makes no difference now, seeing how good you have been to me. i don't ask you to forgive me, but it nearly kills me when i think of poor papa. yours always, most unhappy, and very sorry for what i have done, mary snow. poor mary snow! could any man under such circumstances have been angry with her? in the first place if men will mould their wives, they must expect that kind of thing; and then, after all, was there any harm done? if ultimately he did marry mary snow, would she make a worse wife because she had met the apothecary's assistant at the corner of the doctor's wall, under the third lamp-post? graham, as he sat with the letters before him, made all manner of excuses for her; and this he did the more eagerly, because he felt that he would have willingly made this affair a cause for breaking off his engagement, if his conscience had not told him that it would be unhandsome in him to do so. when augustus came he could not show the letters to him. had he done so it would have been as much as to declare that now the coast was clear as far as he was concerned. he could not now discuss with his friend the question of mary snow, without also discussing the other question of madeline staveley. so he swept the letters away, and talked almost entirely about the orley farm case. "i only wish i were thought good enough for the chance," said augustus. "by heavens! i would work for that woman as i never could work again for any fee that could be offered me." "so would i; but i don't like my fellow-labourers." "i should not mind that." "i suppose," said graham, "there can be no possible doubt as to her absolute innocence?" "none whatever. my father has no doubt. furnival has no doubt. sir peregrine has no doubt,--who, by-the-by, is going to marry her." "nonsense!" "oh, but he is though. he has taken up her case _con amore_ with a vengeance." "i should be sorry for that. it makes me think him a fool, and her--a very clever woman." and so that matter was discussed, but not a word was said between them about mary snow, or as to that former conversation respecting madeline staveley. each felt then there was a reserve between them; but each felt also that there was no way of avoiding this. "the governor seems determined that you sha'n't stir yet awhile," augustus said as he was preparing to take his leave. "i shall be off in a day or two at the furthest all the same," said graham. "and you are to drink tea down stairs to-night. i'll come and fetch you as soon as we're out of the dining-room. i can assure you that your first appearance after your accident has been duly announced to the public, and that you are anxiously expected." and then staveley left him. so he was to meet madeline that evening. his first feeling at the thought was one of joy, but he soon brought himself almost to wish that he could leave noningsby without any such meeting. there would have been nothing in it,--nothing that need have called for observation or remark,--had he not told his secret to augustus. but his secret had been told to one, and might be known to others in the house. indeed he felt sure that it was suspected by lady staveley. it could not, as he said to himself, have been suspected by the judge, or the judge would not have treated him in so friendly a manner, or have insisted so urgently on his coming down among them. and then, how should he carry himself in her presence? if he were to say nothing to her, his saying nothing would be remarked; and yet he felt that all his powers of self-control would not enable him to speak to her in the same manner that he would speak to her sister. he had to ask himself, moreover, what line of conduct he did intend to follow. if he was still resolved to marry mary snow, would it not be better that he should take this bull by the horns and upset it at once? in such case, madeline staveley must be no more to him than her sister. but then he had two intentions. in accordance with one he would make mary snow his wife; and in following the other he would marry miss staveley. it must be admitted that the two brides which he proposed to himself were very different. the one that he had moulded for his own purposes was not, as he admitted, quite equal to her of whom nature, education, and birth had had the handling. again he dined alone; but on this occasion mrs. baker was able to elicit from him no enthusiasm as to his dinner. and yet she had done her best, and placed before him a sweetbread and dish of sea-kale that ought to have made him enthusiastic. "i had to fight with the gardener for that like anything," she said, singing her own praises when he declined to sing them. "dear me! they'll think that i am a dreadful person to have in the house." "not a bit. only they sha'n't think as how i'm going to be said 'no' to in that way when i've set my mind on a thing. i know what's going and i know what's proper. why, laws, mr. graham, there's heaps of things there and yet there's no getting of 'em;--unless there's a party or the like of that. what's the use of a garden i say,--or of a gardener neither, if you don't have garden stuff? it's not to look at. do finish it now;--after all the trouble i had, standing over him in the cold while he cut it." "oh dear, oh dear, mrs. baker, why did you do that?" "he thought to perish me, making believe it took him so long to get at it; but i'm not so easy perished; i can tell him that! i'd have stood there till now but what i had it. miss madeline see'd me as i was coming in, and asked me what i'd been doing." "i hope you didn't tell her that i couldn't live without sea-kale?" "i told her that i meant to give you your dinner comfortable as long as you had it up here; and she said--; but laws, mr. graham, you don't care what a young lady says to an old woman like me. you'll see her yourself this evening, and then you can tell her whether or no the sea-kale was worth the eating! it's not so badly biled, i will say that for hannah cook, though she is rampagious sometimes." he longed to ask her what words madeline had used, even in speaking on such a subject as this; but he did not dare to do so. mrs. baker was very fond of talking about miss madeline, but graham was by no means assured that he should find an ally in mrs. baker if he told her all the truth. at last the hour arrived, and augustus came to convoy him down to the drawing-room. it was now many days since he had been out of that room, and the very fact of moving was an excitement to him. he hardly knew how he might feel in walking down stairs, and could not quite separate the nervousness arising from his shattered bones from that other nervousness which came from his--shattered heart. the word is undoubtedly a little too strong, but as it is there, there let it stay. when he reached the drawing-room, he almost felt that he had better decline to enter it. the door however was opened, and he was in the room before he could make up his mind to any such step, and he found himself being walked across the floor to some especial seat, while a dozen kindly anxious faces were crowding round him. "here's an arm-chair, mr. graham, kept expressly for you, near the fire," said lady staveley. "and i am extremely glad to see you well enough to fill it." "welcome out of your room, sir," said the judge. "i compliment you, and pottinger also, upon your quick recovery; but allow me to tell you that you don't yet look a man fit to rough it alone in london." "i feel very well, sir," said graham. and then mrs. arbuthnot greeted him, and miss furnival, and four or five others who were of the party, and he was introduced to one or two whom he had not seen before. marian too came up to him,--very gently, as though he were as brittle as glass, having been warned by her mother. "oh, mr. felix," she said, "i was so unhappy when your bones were broken. i do hope they won't break again." and then he perceived that madeline was in the room and was coming up to him. she had in truth not been there when he first entered, having thought it better, as a matter of strategy, to follow upon his footsteps. he was getting up to meet her, when lady staveley spoke to him. "don't move, mr. graham. invalids, you know, are chartered." "i am very glad to see you once more down stairs," said madeline, as she frankly gave him her hand,--not merely touching his--"very, very glad. but i do hope you will get stronger before you venture to leave noningsby. you have frightened us all very much by your terrible accident." all this was said in her peculiarly sweet silver voice, not speaking as though she were dismayed and beside herself, or in a hurry to get through a lesson which she had taught herself. she had her secret to hide, and had schooled herself how to hide it. but in so schooling herself she had been compelled to acknowledge to herself that the secret did exist. she had told herself that she must meet him, and that in meeting him she must hide it. this she had done with absolute success. such is the peculiar power of women; and her mother, who had listened not only to every word, but to every tone of her voice, gave her exceeding credit. "there's more in her than i thought there was," said sophia furnival to herself, who had also listened and watched. "it has not gone very deep, with her," said the judge, who on this matter was not so good a judge as miss furnival. "she cares about me just as mrs. baker does," said graham to himself, who was the worst judge of them all. he muttered something quite unintelligible in answer to the kindness of her words; and then madeline, having gone through her task, retired to the further side of the round table, and went to work among the teacups. and then the conversation became general, turning altogether on the affairs of lady mason. it was declared as a fact by lady staveley that there was to be a marriage between sir peregrine orme and his guest, and all in the room expressed their sorrow. the women were especially indignant. "i have no patience with her," said mrs. arbuthnot. "she must know that such a marriage at his time of life must be ridiculous, and injurious to the whole family." the women were very indignant,--all except miss furnival, who did not say much, but endeavoured to palliate the crimes of lady mason in that which she did say. "i do not know that she is more to blame than any other lady who marries a gentleman thirty years older than herself." "i do then," said lady staveley, who delighted in contradicting miss furnival. "and so would you too, my dear, if you had known sir peregrine as long as i have. and if--if--if--but it does not matter. i am very sorry for lady mason,--very. i think she is a woman cruelly used by her own connections; but my sympathies with her would be warmer if she had refrained from using her power over an old gentleman like sir peregrine, in the way she has done." in all which expression of sentiment the reader will know that poor dear lady staveley was wrong from the beginning to the end. "for my part," said the judge, "i don't see what else she was to do. if sir peregrine asked her, how could she refuse?" "my dear!" said lady staveley. "according to that, papa, every lady must marry any gentleman that asks her," said mrs. arbuthnot. "when a lady is under so deep a weight of obligation i don't know how she is to refuse. my idea is that sir peregrine should not have asked her." "and mine too," said felix. "unless indeed he did it under an impression that he could fight for her better as her husband than simply as a friend." "and i feel sure that that is what he did think," said madeline, from the further side of the table. and her voice sounded in graham's ears as the voice of eve may have sounded to adam. no; let him do what he might in the world;--whatever might be the form in which his future career should be fashioned, one thing was clearly impossible to him. he could not marry mary snow. had he never learned to know what were the true charms of feminine grace and loveliness, it might have been possible for him to do so, and to have enjoyed afterwards a fair amount of contentment. but now even contentment would be impossible to him under such a lot as that. not only would he be miserable, but the woman whom he married would be wretched also. it may be said that he made up his mind definitely, while sitting in that arm-chair, that he would not marry mary snow. poor mary snow! her fault in the matter had not been great. when graham was again in his room, and the servant who was obliged to undress him had left him, he sat over his fire, wrapped in his dressing-gown, bethinking himself what he would do. "i will tell the judge everything," he said at last. "then, if he will let me into his house after that, i must fight my own battle." and so he betook himself to bed. chapter xlix. mrs. furnival can't put up with it. when lady mason last left the chambers of her lawyer in lincoln's inn, she was watched by a stout lady as she passed through the narrow passage leading from the old to the new square. that fact will i trust be remembered, and i need hardly say that the stout lady was mrs. furnival. she had heard betimes of the arrival of that letter with the hamworth post-mark, had felt assured that it was written by the hands of her hated rival, and had at once prepared for action. "i shall leave this house to-day,--immediately after breakfast," she said to miss biggs, as they sat disconsolately at the table with the urn between them. "and i think you will be quite right, my dear," replied miss biggs. "it is your bounden duty to put down such wicked iniquity as this;--not only for your own sake, but for that of morals in general. what in the world is there so beautiful and so lovely as a high tone of moral sentiment?" to this somewhat transcendental question mrs. furnival made no reply. that a high tone of moral sentiment as a thing in general, for the world's use, is very good, she was no doubt aware; but her mind at the present moment was fixed exclusively on her own peculiar case. that tom furnival should be made to give up seeing that nasty woman who lived at hamworth, and to give up also having letters from her,--that at present was the extent of her moral sentiment. his wicked iniquity she could forgive with a facility not at all gratifying to miss biggs, if only she could bring about such a result as that. so she merely grunted in answer to the above proposition. "and will you sleep away from this?" asked miss biggs. "certainly i will. i will neither eat here, nor sleep here, nor stay here till i know that all this is at an end. i have made up my mind what i will do." "well?" asked the anxious martha. "oh, never mind. i am not exactly prepared to talk about it. there are things one can't talk about,--not to anybody. one feels as though one would burst in mentioning it. i do, i know." martha biggs could not but feel that this was hard, but she knew that friendship is nothing if it be not long enduring. "dearest kitty!" she exclaimed. "if true sympathy can be of service to you--" "i wonder whether i could get respectable lodgings in the neighbourhood of red lion square for a week?" said mrs. furnival, once more bringing the conversation back from the abstract to the concrete. in answer to this miss biggs of course offered the use of her own bedroom and of her father's house; but her father was an old man, and mrs. furnival positively refused to agree to any such arrangement. at last it was decided that martha should at once go off and look for lodgings in the vicinity of her own home, that mrs. furnival should proceed to carry on her own business in her own way,--the cruelty being this, that she would not give the least hint as to what that way might be,--and that the two ladies should meet together in the red lion square drawing-room at the close of the day. "and about dinner, dear?" asked miss biggs. "i will get something at a pastrycook's," said mrs. furnival. "and your clothes, dear?" "rachel will see about them; she knows." now rachel was the old female servant of twenty years' standing; and the disappointment experienced by poor miss biggs at the ignorance in which she was left was greatly enhanced by a belief that rachel knew more than she did. mrs. furnival would tell rachel but would not tell her. this was very, very hard, as miss biggs felt. but, nevertheless, friendship, sincere friendship is long enduring, and true patient merit will generally receive at last its appropriate reward. then mrs. furnival had sat down, martha biggs having been duly sent forth on the mission after the lodgings, and had written a letter to her husband. this she intrusted to rachel, whom she did not purpose to remove from that abode of iniquity from which she herself was fleeing, and having completed her letter she went out upon her own work. the letter ran as follows:-- harley street--friday. my dearest tom, i cannot stand this any longer, so i have thought it best to leave the house and go away. i am very sorry to be forced to such a step as this, and would have put up with a good deal first; but there are some things which i cannot put up with,--and won't. i know that a woman has to obey her husband, and i have always obeyed you, and thought it no hardship even when i was left so much alone; but a woman is not to see a slut brought in under her very nose,--and i won't put up with it. we've been married now going on over twenty-five years, and it's terrible to think of being driven to this. i almost believe it will drive me mad, and then, when i'm a lunatic, of course you can do as you please. i don't want to have any secrets from you. where i shall go i don't yet know, but i've asked martha biggs to take lodgings for me somewhere near her. i must have somebody to speak to now and again, so you can write to red lion square till you hear further. it's no use sending for me, for i _won't come_;--not till i know that you think better of your present ways of going on. i don't know whether you have the power to get the police to come after me, but i advise you not. if you do anything of that sort the people about shall hear of it. and now, tom, i want to say one word to you. you can't think it's a happiness to me going away from my own home where i have lived respectable so many years, or leaving you whom i've loved with all my whole heart. it makes me very very unhappy, so that i could sit and cry all day if it weren't for pride and because the servants shouldn't see me. to think that it has come to this after all! oh, tom, i wonder whether you ever think of the old days when we used to be so happy in keppel street! there wasn't anybody then that you cared to see, except me;--i do believe that. and you'd always come home then, and i never thought bad of it though you wouldn't have a word to speak to me for hours. because you were doing your duty. but you ain't doing your duty now, tom. you know you ain't doing your duty when you never dine at home, and come home so cross with wine that you curse and swear, and have that nasty woman coming to see you at your chambers. don't tell me it's about law business. ladies don't go to barristers' chambers about law business. all that is done by attorneys. i've heard you say scores of times that you never would see people themselves, and yet you see her. oh, tom, you have made me so wretched! but i can forgive it all, and will never say another word about it to fret you, if you'll only promise me to have nothing more to say to that woman. of course i'd like you to come home to dinner, but i'd put up with that. you've made your own way in the world, and perhaps it's only right you should enjoy it. i don't think so much dining at the club can be good for you, and i'm afraid you'll have gout, but i don't want to bother you about that. send me a line to say that you won't see her any more, and i'll come back to harley street at once. if you can't bring yourself to do that, you--and--i--must--part. i can put up with a great deal, but i can't put up with that;--_and won't_. your affectionate loving wife, c. furnival. "i wonder whether you ever think of the old days when we used to be so happy in keppel street?" ah me, how often in after life, in those successful days when the battle has been fought and won, when all seems outwardly to go well,--how often is this reference made to the happy days in keppel street! it is not the prize that can make us happy; it is not even the winning of the prize, though for the one short half-hour of triumph that is pleasant enough. the struggle, the long hot hour of the honest fight, the grinding work,--when the teeth are set, and the skin moist with sweat and rough with dust, when all is doubtful and sometimes desperate, when a man must trust to his own manhood knowing that those around him trust to it not at all,--that is the happy time of life. there is no human bliss equal to twelve hours of work with only six hours in which to do it. and when the expected pay for that work is worse than doubtful, the inner satisfaction is so much the greater. oh, those happy days in keppel street, or it may be over in dirty lodgings in the borough, or somewhere near the marylebone workhouse;--anywhere for a moderate weekly stipend. those were to us, and now are to others, and always will be to many, the happy days of life. how bright was love, and how full of poetry! flashes of wit glanced here and there, and how they came home and warmed the cockles of the heart. and the unfrequent bottle! methinks that wine has utterly lost its flavour since those days. there is nothing like it; long work, grinding weary work, work without pay, hopeless work; but work in which the worker trusts himself, believing it to be good. let him, like mahomet, have one other to believe in him, and surely nothing else is needed. "ah me! i wonder whether you ever think of the old days when we used to be so happy in keppel street?" nothing makes a man so cross as success, or so soon turns a pleasant friend into a captious acquaintance. your successful man eats too much and his stomach troubles him; he drinks too much and his nose becomes blue. he wants pleasure and excitement, and roams about looking for satisfaction in places where no man ever found it. he frets himself with his banker's book, and everything tastes amiss to him that has not on it the flavour of gold. the straw of an omnibus always stinks; the linings of the cabs are filthy. there are but three houses round london at which an eatable dinner may be obtained. and yet a few years since how delicious was that cut of roast goose to be had for a shilling at the eating-house near golden square. mrs. jones and mrs. green, mrs. walker and all the other mistresses, are too vapid and stupid and humdrum for endurance. the theatres are dull as lethe, and politics have lost their salt. success is the necessary misfortune of life, but it is only to the very unfortunate that it comes early. mrs. furnival, when she had finished her letter and fastened it, drew one of the heavy dining-room arm-chairs over against the fire, and sat herself down to consider her past life, still holding the letter in her lap. she had not on that morning been very careful with her toilet, as was perhaps natural enough. the cares of the world were heavy on her, and he would not be there to see her. her hair was rough, and her face was red, and she had hardly had the patience to make straight the collar round her neck. to the eye she was an untidy, angry, cross-looking woman. but her heart was full of tenderness,--full to overflowing. she loved him now as well as ever she had loved him:--almost more as the thought of parting from him pressed upon her! was he not all in all to her? had she not worshipped him during her whole life? could she not forgive him? forgive him! yes. forgive him with the fullest, frankest, freest pardon, if he would only take forgiveness. should she burn that letter in the fire, send to biggs saying that the lodgings were not wanted, and then throw herself at tom's feet, imploring him to have mercy upon her? all that she could do within her heart, and make her words as passionate, as soft, and as poetical as might be those of a young wife of twenty. but she felt that such words,--though she could frame the sentence while sitting there,--could never get themselves spoken. she had tried it, and it had been of no avail. not only should she be prepared for softness, but he also must be so prepared and at the same moment. if he should push her from him and call her a fool when she attempted that throwing of herself at his feet, how would it be with her spirit then? no. she must go forth and the letter must be left. if there were any hope of union for the future it must come from a parting for the present. so she went up stairs and summoned rachel, remaining with her in consultation for some half-hour. then she descended with her bonnet and shawl, got into a cab while spooner stood at the door looking very serious, and was driven away,--whither, no one knew in harley street except mrs. furnival herself, and that cabman. "she'll never put her foot inside this hall door again. that's my idea of the matter," said spooner. "indeed and she will," said rachel, "and be a happier woman than ever she's been since the house was took." "if i know master," said spooner, "he's not the man to get rid of an old woman, easy like that, and then 'ave her back agin." upon hearing which words, so very injurious to the sex in general, rachel walked into the house not deigning any further reply. and then, as we have seen, mrs. furnival was there, standing in the dark shadow of the lincoln's inn passage, when lady mason left the lawyer's chambers. she felt sure that it was lady mason, but she could not be quite sure. the woman, though she came out from the entry which led to her husband's chambers, might have come down from some other set of rooms. had she been quite certain she would have attacked her rival there, laying bodily hands upon her in the purlieus of the lord chancellor's court. as it was, the poor bruised creature was allowed to pass by, and as she emerged out into the light at the other end of the passage mrs. furnival became quite certain of her identity. "never mind," she said to herself. "she sha'n't escape me long. him i could forgive, if he would only give it up; but as for her--! let what come of it, come may, i will tell that woman what i think of her conduct before i am many hours older." then, giving one look up to the windows of her husband's chambers, she walked forth through the dusty old gate into chancery lane, and made her way on foot up to no. red lion square. "i'm glad i've done it," she said to herself as she went; "very glad. there's nothing else for it, when things come to such a head as that." and in this frame of mind she knocked at her friend's door. "well!" said martha biggs, with her eyes, and mouth, and arms, and heart all open. "have you got me the lodgings?" said mrs. furnival. "yes, close by;--in orange street. i'm afraid you'll find them very dull. and what have you done?" "i have done nothing, and i don't at all mind their being dull. they can't possibly be more dull than harley street." "and i shall be near you; sha'n't i?" said martha biggs. "umph," said mrs. furnival. "i might as well go there at once and get myself settled." so she did, the affectionate martha of course accompanying her; and thus the affairs of that day were over. her intention was to go down to hamworth at once, and make her way up to orley farm, at which place she believed that lady mason was living. up to this time she had heard no word of the coming trial beyond what mr. furnival had told her as to his client's "law business." and whatever he had so told her, she had scrupulously disbelieved. in her mind all that went for nothing. law business! she was not so blind, so soft, so green, as to be hoodwinked by such stuff as that. beautiful widows don't have personal interviews with barristers in their chambers over and over again, let them have what law business they may. at any rate mrs. furnival took upon herself to say that they ought not to have such interviews. she would go down to orley farm and she would have an interview with lady mason. perhaps the thing might be stopped in that way. on the following morning she received a note from her husband the consideration of which delayed her proceedings for that day. "dear kitty," the note ran. i think you are very foolish. if regard for me had not kept you at home, some consideration with reference to sophia should have done so. what you say about that poor lady at orley farm is too absurd for me to answer. if you would have spoken to me about her, i would have told you that which would have set your mind at rest, at any rate as regards her. i cannot do this in a letter, nor could i do it in the presence of your friend, miss biggs. i hope you will come back at once; but i shall not add to the absurdity of your leaving your own house by any attempt to bring you back again by force. as you must want money i enclose a check for fifty pounds. i hope you will be back before you want more; but if not i will send it as soon as you ask for it. yours affectionately as always, t. furnival. there was about this letter an absence of sentiment, and an absence of threat, and an absence of fuss, which almost overset her. could it be possible that she was wrong about lady mason? should she go to him and hear his own account before she absolutely declared war by breaking into the enemy's camp at orley farm? then, moreover, she was touched and almost overcome about the money. she wished he had not sent it to her. that money difficulty had occurred to her, and been much discussed in her own thoughts. of course she could not live away from him if he refused to make her any allowance,--at least not for any considerable time. he had always been liberal as regards money since money had been plenty with him, and therefore she had some supply with her. she had jewels too which were her own; and though, as she had already determined, she would not part with them without telling him what she was about to do, yet she could, if pressed, live in this way for the next twelve months;--perhaps, with close economy, even for a longer time than that. in her present frame of mind she had looked forward almost with gratification to being pinched and made uncomfortable. she would wear her ordinary and more dowdy dresses; she would spend much of her time in reading sermons; she would get up very early and not care what she ate or drank. in short, she would make herself as uncomfortable as circumstances would admit, and thoroughly enjoy her grievances. but then this check of fifty pounds, and this offer of as much more as she wanted when that was gone, rather took the ground from under her feet. unless she herself chose to give way she might go on living in orange street to the end of the chapter, with every material comfort about her,--keeping her own brougham if she liked, for the checks she now knew would come without stint. and he would go on living in harley street, seeing lady mason as often as he pleased. sophia would be the mistress of the house, and as long as this was so, lady mason would not show her face there. now this was not a course of events to which mrs. furnival could bring herself to look forward with satisfaction. all this delayed her during that day, but before she went to bed she made up her mind that she would at any rate go down to hamworth. tom, she knew, was deceiving her; of that she felt morally sure. she would at any rate go down to hamworth, and trust to her own wit for finding out the truth when there. chapter l. it is quite impossible. all was now sadness at the cleeve. it was soon understood among the servants that there was to be no marriage, and the tidings spread from the house, out among the neighbours and into hamworth. but no one knew the reason of this change;--none except those three, the woman herself who had committed the crime and the two to whom she had told it. on that same night, the night of the day on which the tale had been told, lady mason wrote a line,--almost a single line to her son. dearest lucius, all is over between me and sir peregrine. it is better that it should be so. i write to tell you this without losing an hour. for the present i remain here with my dear--dearest friends. your own affectionate mother, m. mason. this note she had written in obedience to the behests of mrs. orme, and even under her dictation--with the exception of one or two words, "i remain here with my friends," mrs. orme had said; but lady mason had put in the two epithets, and had then declared her own conviction that she had now no right to use such language. "yes, of me you may, certainly," said mrs. orme, keeping close to her shoulder. "then i will alter it," said lady mason. "i will write it again and say i am staying with you." but this mrs. orme had forbidden. "no; it will be better so," she said. "sir peregrine would wish it. i am sure he would. he quite agrees that--" mrs. orme did not finish her sentence, but the letter was despatched, written as above. the answer which lucius sent down before breakfast the next morning was still shorter. dearest mother, i am greatly rejoiced that it is so. your affectionate son, l. m. he sent this note, but he did not go down to her, nor was there any other immediate communication between them. all was now sadness at the cleeve. peregrine knew that that marriage project was over, and he knew also that his grandfather and lady mason did not now meet each other; but he knew nothing of the cause, though he could not but remark that he did not see her. on that day she did not come down either to dinner or during the evening; nor was she seen on the following morning. he, peregrine, felt aware that something had occurred at that interview in the library after breakfast, but was lost in surmising what that something had been. that lady mason should have told his grandfather that the marriage must be given up would have been only in accordance with the promise made by her to him; but he did not think that that alone would have occasioned such utter sadness, such deathlike silence in the household. had there been a quarrel lady mason would have gone home;--but she did not go home. had the match been broken off without a quarrel, why should she mysteriously banish herself to two rooms so that no one but his mother should see her? and he too had his own peculiar sorrow. on that morning sir peregrine had asked him to ride through the grounds, and it had been the baronet's intention to propose during that ride that he should go over to noningsby and speak to the judge about madeline. we all know how that proposition had been frustrated. and now peregrine, thinking over the matter, saw that his grandfather was not in a position at the present moment to engage himself ardently in any such work. by whatever means or whatever words he had been induced to agree to the abandonment of that marriage engagement, that abandonment weighed very heavily on his spirits. it was plain to see that he was a broken man, broken in heart and in spirit. he shut himself up alone in his library all that afternoon, and had hardly a word to say when he came out to dinner in the evening. he was very pale too, and slow and weak in his step. he tried to smile as he came up to his daughter-in-law in the drawing-room; but his smile was the saddest thing of all. and then peregrine could see that he ate nothing. he was very gentle in his demeanour to the servants, very courteous and attentive to mrs. orme, very kind to his grandson. but yet his mind was heavy;--brooding over some sorrow that oppressed it. on the following morning it was the same, and the grandson knew that he could look to his grandfather for no assistance at noningsby. immediately after breakfast peregrine got on his horse, without speaking to any one of his intention,--almost without having formed an intention, and rode off in the direction of alston. he did not take the road, but went out through the cleeve woods, on to the common, by which, had he turned to the left, he might have gone to orley farm; but when on the top of the rise from crutchley bottom he turned to the right, and putting his horse into a gallop, rode along the open ground till he came to an enclosure into which he leaped. from thence he made his way through a farm gate into a green country lane, along which he still pressed his horse, till he found himself divided from the end of a large wood by but one field. he knew the ground well, and the direction in which he was going. he could pass through that wood, and then down by an old farm-house at the other end of it, and so on to the alston road, within a mile of noningsby. he knew the ground well, for he had ridden over every field of it. when a man does so after thirty he forgets the spots which he passes in his hurry, but when he does so before twenty he never forgets. that field and that wood peregrine orme would never forget. there was the double ditch and bank over which harriet tristram had ridden with so much skill and courage. there was the spot on which he had knelt so long, while felix graham lay back against him, feeble and almost speechless. and there, on the other side, had sat madeline on her horse, pale with anxiety but yet eager with hope, as she asked question after question as to him who had been hurt. peregrine rode up to the ditch, and made his horse stand while he looked at it. it was there, then, on that spot, that he had felt the first pang of jealousy. the idea had occurred to him that he for whom he had been doing a friend's offices with such zealous kindness was his worst enemy. had he,--he, peregrine orme,--broken his arms and legs, or even broken his neck, would she have ridden up, all thoughtless of herself, and thrown her very life into her voice as she had done when she knew that felix graham had fallen from his horse? and then he had gone on with his work, aiding the hurt man as zealously as before, but still feeling that he was bound to hate him. and afterwards, at noningsby, he had continued to minister to him as to his friend,--zealously doing a friend's offices, but still feeling that the man was his enemy. not that he was insincere. there was no place for insincerity or treachery within his heart. the man had done no ill,--was a good fellow--was entitled to his kindness by all the social laws which he knew. they two had gone together from the same table to the same spot, and had been close together when the one had come to sorrow. it was his duty to act as graham's friend; and yet how could he not feel that he must hate him? and now he sat looking at the fence, wishing,--wishing;--no, certainly not wishing that graham's hurt had been more serious; but wishing that in falling from his horse he might utterly have fallen out of favour with that sweet young female heart; or rather wishing, could he so have expressed it, that he himself might have had the fall, and the broken bones, and all the danger,--so that he might also have had the interest which those eyes and that voice had shown. and then quickly he turned his horse, and without giving the beast time to steady himself he rammed him at the fence. the leap out of the wood into the field was difficult, but that back into the wood was still worse. the up-jump was higher, and the ditch which must be first cleared was broader. nor did he take it at the easiest part as he had done on that day when he rode his own horse and then graham's back into the wood. but he pressed his animal exactly at the spot from which his rival had fallen. there were still the marks of the beast's struggle, as he endeavoured to save himself before he came down, head foremost, into the ditch. the bank had been somewhat narrowed and pared away, and it was clearly the last place in the face of the whole opening into the wood, which a rider with his senses about him would have selected for his jump. the horse knowing his master's humour, and knowing also,--which is so vitally important,--the nature of his master's courage, jumped at the bank, without pausing. as i have said, no time had been given him to steady himself,--not a moment to see where his feet should go, to understand and make the most of the ground that he was to use. he jumped and jumped well, but only half gained the top of the bank. the poor brute, urged beyond his power, could not get his hind feet up so near the surface as to give him a fulcrum for a second spring. for a moment he strove to make good his footing, still clinging with his fore feet, and then slowly came down backwards into the ditch, then regained his feet, and dragging himself with an effort from the mud, made his way back into the field. peregrine orme had kept his seat throughout. his legs were accustomed to the saddle and knew how to cling to it, while there was a hope that he might struggle through. and now that he was again in the field he wheeled his horse to a greater distance, striking him with his whip, and once more pushed him at the fence. the gallant beast went at it bravely, slightly swerving from the fatal spot to which peregrine had endeavoured once more to guide him, leaped with a full spring from the unworn turf, and, barely touching the bank, landed himself and his master lightly within the precincts of the wood. "ah-h!" said peregrine, shouting angrily at the horse, as though the brute had done badly instead of well. and then he rode down slowly through the wood, and out by monkton grange farm, round the moat, and down the avenue, and before long he was standing at noningsby gate. he had not made up his mind to any plan of action, nor indeed had he determined that he would ask to see any of the family or even enter the place. the woman at the lodge opened the gate, and he rode in mechanically, asking if any of them were at home. the judge and mr. augustus were gone up to london, but my lady and the other ladies were in the house. mr. graham had not gone, the woman said in answer to his question; nor did she know when he was going. and then, armed with this information, peregrine orme rode round to the stables, and gave up his horse to a groom. "yes, lady staveley was at home," the servant said at the door. "would mr. orme walk into the drawing-room, where he would find the young ladies?" but mr. orme would not do this. he would go into a small book-room with which he was well acquainted, and have his name taken up to lady staveley. "he did not," he said, "mean to stay very long; but particularly wished to see lady staveley." in a few minutes lady staveley came to him, radiant with her sweetest smile, and with both her hands held out to greet him. "my dear mr. orme," she said, "i am delighted to see you; but what made you run away from us so suddenly?" she had considered her words in that moment as she came across the hall, and had thought that in this way she might best enable him to speak. "lady staveley," he said, "i have come here on purpose to tell you. has your daughter told you anything?" "who--madeline?" "yes, madeline. i mean miss staveley. has she said anything to you about me?" "well; yes, she has. will you not sit down, mr. orme, and then we shall be more comfortable." hitherto he had stood up, and had blurted out his words with a sudden, determined, and almost ferocious air,--as though he were going to demand the girl's hand, and challenge all the household if it were refused him. but lady staveley understood his manner and his nature, and liked him almost the better for his abruptness. "she has spoken to me, mr. orme; she has told me of what passed between you on the last day that you were with us." "and yet you are surprised that i should have gone! i wonder at that, lady staveley. you must have known--" "well; perhaps i did know; but sit down, mr. orme. i won't let you get up in that restless way, if we are to talk together. tell me frankly; what is it you think that i can do for you?" "i don't suppose you can do anything;--but i thought i would come over and speak to you. i don't suppose i've any chance?" he had seated himself far back on a sofa, and was holding his hat between his knees, with his eyes fixed on the ground; but as he spoke the last words he looked round into her face with an anxious inquiring glance which went direct to her heart. "what can i say, mr. orme?" "ah, no. of course nothing. good-bye, lady staveley. i might as well go. i know that i was a fool for coming here. i knew it as i was coming. indeed i hardly meant to come in when i found myself at the gate." "but you must not go from us like that." "i must though. do you think that i could go in and see her? if i did i should make such a fool of myself that i could never again hold up my head. and i am a fool. i ought to have known that a fellow like me could have no chance with her. i could knock my own head off, if i only knew how, for having made such an ass of myself." "no one here thinks so of you, mr. orme." "no one here thinks what?" "that it was--unreasonable in you to propose to madeline. we all know that you did her much honour." "psha!" said he, turning away from her. "ah! but you must listen to me. that is what we all think--madeline herself, and i, and her father. no one who knows you could think otherwise. we all like you, and know how good and excellent you are. and as to worldly station, of course you stand above her." "psha!" he said again angrily. how could any one presume to talk of the worldly station of his goddess? for just then madeline staveley to him was a goddess! "that is what we think, indeed, mr. orme. as for myself, had my girl come to me telling me that you had proposed to her, and telling me also that--that--that she felt that she might probably like you, i should have been very happy to hear it." and lady staveley as she spoke, put out her hand to him. "but what did she say?" asked peregrine, altogether disregarding the hand. "ah, she did not say that. she told me that she had declined the honour that you had offered her;--that she did not regard you as she must regard the man to whom she would pledge her heart." "but did she say that she could never love me?" and now as he asked the question he stood up again, looking down with all his eyes into lady staveley's face,--that face which would have been so friendly to him, so kind and so encouraging, had it been possible. "never is a long word, mr. orme." "ah, but did she say it? come, lady staveley; i know i have been a fool, but i am not a cowardly fool. if it be so;--if i have no hope, tell me at once, that i may go away. in that case i shall be better anywhere out of the county." "i cannot say that you should have no hope." "you think then that there is a chance?" and for a moment he looked as though all his troubles were nearly over. "if you are so impetuous, mr. orme, i cannot speak to you. if you will sit down for a minute or two i will tell you exactly what i think about it." and then he sat down, trying to look as though he were not impetuous. "i should be deceiving you if i were not to tell you that she speaks of the matter as though it were all over,--as though her answer to you was a final one." "ah; i knew it was so." "but then, mr. orme, many young ladies who have been at the first moment quite as sure of their decision have married the gentlemen whom they refused, and have learned to love them with all their hearts." "but she isn't like other girls," said peregrine. "i believe she is a great deal better than many, but nevertheless she may be like others in that respect. i do not say that it will be so, mr. orme. i would not on any account give you hopes which i believed to be false. but if you are anxious in the matter--" "i am as anxious about it as i am about my soul!" "oh fie, mr. orme! you should not speak in that way. but if you are anxious, i would advise you to wait." "and see her become the wife of some one else." "listen to me, mr. orme. madeline is very young. and so indeed are you too;--almost too young to marry as yet, even if my girl were willing that it should be so. but we all like you very much; and as you both are so very young, i think that you might wait with patience,--say for a year. then come to noningsby again, and try your fortune once more. that is my advice." "will you tell me one thing, lady staveley?" "what is that, mr. orme?" "does she care for any one else?" lady staveley was prepared to do anything she could for her young friend except to answer that question. she did believe that madeline cared for somebody else,--cared very much. but she did not think that any way would be opened by which that caring would be made manifest; and she thought also that if wholly ungratified by any word of intercourse that feeling would die away. could she have told everything to peregrine orme she would have explained to him that his best chance lay in that liking for felix graham; or, rather, that as his rejection had been caused by that liking, his chance would be good again when that liking should have perished from starvation. but all this lady staveley could not explain to him; nor would it have been satisfactory to her feelings had it been in her power to do so. still there remained the question, "does she care for any one else?" "mr. orme," she said, "i will do all for you that a mother can do or ought to do; but i must not admit that you have a right to ask such a question as that. if i were to answer that now, you would feel yourself justified in asking it again when perhaps it might not be so easy to answer." "i beg your pardon, lady staveley;" and peregrine blushed up to his eyes. "i did not intend--" "no; do not beg my pardon, seeing that you have given me no offence. as i said just now, all that a mother can and ought to do i will do for you. i am very frank, and tell you that i should be rejoiced to have you for my son-in-law." "i'm sure i'm very much obliged to you." "but neither by me nor by her father will any constraint ever be put on the inclinations of our child. at any rate as to whom she will not accept she will always be allowed to judge for herself. i have told you that to us you would be acceptable as a suitor; and after that i think it will be best to leave the matter for the present without any further words. let it be understood that you will spend next christmas at noningsby, and then you will both be older and perhaps know your own minds better." "that's a year, you know." "a year is not so very long--at your time of life." by which latter remark lady staveley did not show her knowledge of human nature. "and i suppose i had better go now?" said peregrine sheepishly. "if you like to go into the drawing-room, i'm sure they will all be very glad to see you." but peregrine declared that he would not do this on any account. "you do not know, lady staveley, what a fool i should make myself. it would be all over with me then." "you should be more moderate in your feelings, mr. orme." "it's all very well saying that; but you wouldn't be moderate if noningsby were on fire, or if you thought the judge was going to die." "good gracious, mr. orme!" "it's the same sort of thing to me, i can tell you. a man can't be moderate when he feels that he should like to break his own neck. i declare i almost tried to do it to-day." "oh, mr. orme!" "well; i did. but don't suppose i say that as a sort of threat. i'm safe enough to live for the next sixty years. it's only the happy people and those that are some good in the world that die. good-bye, lady staveley. i'll come back next christmas;--that is if it isn't all settled before then; but i know it will be no good." then he got on his horse and rode very slowly home, along the high road to the cleeve. lady staveley did not go in among the other ladies till luncheon was announced, and when she did so, she said no word about her visitor. nevertheless it was known by them all that peregrine orme had been there. "ah, that's mr. orme's roan-coloured horse," sophia furnival had said, getting up and thrusting her face close to the drawing-room window. it was barely possible to see a portion of the road from the drawing-room; but sophia's eyes had been sharp enough to see that portion. "a groom has probably come over with a note," said mrs. arbuthnot. "very likely," said sophia. but they all knew from her voice that the rider was no groom, and that she did not intend it to be thought that he was a groom. madeline said not a word, and kept her countenance marvellously; but she knew well enough that peregrine had been with her mother; and guessed also why he had been there. madeline had asked herself some serious questions, and had answered them also, since that conversation which she had had with her father. he had assured her that he desired only her happiness; and though in so saying he had spoken nothing of marriage, she had well understood that he had referred to her future happiness,--at that time when by her own choice she should be leaving her father's house. and now she asked herself boldly in what way might that happiness be best secured. hitherto she had refrained from any such home questions. latterly, within the last week or two, ideas of what love meant had forced themselves upon her mind. how could it have been otherwise? but she had never dared to tell herself either that she did love, or that she did not. mr. orme had come to her with his offer, plainly asking her for the gift of her heart, and she had immediately been aware that any such gift on her part was impossible,--any such gift in his favour. she had known without a moment's thought that there was no room for hesitation. had he asked her to take wings and fly away with him over the woods, the feat would not have been to her more impossible than that of loving him as his wife. yet she liked him,--liked him much in these latter days, because he had been so good to felix graham. when she felt that she liked him as she refused him, she felt also that it was for this reason that she liked him. on the day of graham's accident she had thought nothing of him,--had hardly spoken to him. but now she loved him--with a sort of love, because he had been so good to graham. though in her heart she knew all this, she asked herself no questions till her father had spoken to her of her future happiness. then, as she wandered about the house alone,--for she still went on wandering,--she did ask herself a question or two. what was it that had changed her thus, and made her gay quick step so slow? what had altered the happy silver tone of her voice? what had created that load within her which seemed to weigh her down during every hour of the day? she knew that there had been a change; that she was not as she had been; and now she asked herself the question. not on the first asking nor on the second did the answer come; not perhaps on the twentieth. but the answer did come at last, and she told herself that her heart was no longer her own. she knew and acknowledged to herself that felix graham was its master and owner. and then came the second question. under those circumstances what had she better do? her mother had told her,--and the words had fallen deep into her ears,--that it would be a great misfortune if she loved any man before she had reason to know that that man loved her. she had no such knowledge as regarded felix graham. a suspicion that it might be so she did feel,--a suspicion which would grow into a hope let her struggle against it as she might. baker, that injudicious baker, had dropped in her hearing a word or two, which assisted this suspicion. and then the open frank question put to her by her father when he demanded whether graham had addressed her as a lover, had tended towards the same result. what had she better do? of one thing she now felt perfectly certain. let the world go as it might in other respects, she could never leave her father's house as a bride unless the bridegroom were felix graham. a marriage with him might probably be impracticable, but any other marriage would be absolutely impossible. if her father or her mother told her not to think of felix graham, as a matter of course she would obey them; but not even in obedience to father or mother could she say that she loved any one else. and now, all these matters having been considered, what should she do? her father had invited her to tell everything to him, and she was possessed by a feeling that in this matter she might possibly find more indulgence with her father than with her mother; but yet it was more natural that her mother should be her confidante and adviser. she could speak to her mother, also, with a better courage, even though she felt less certain of sympathy. peregrine orme had now been there again, and had been closeted with lady staveley. on that ground she would speak, and having so resolved she lost no time in carrying out her purpose. "mamma, mr. orme was here to-day; was he not?" "yes, my love." lady staveley was sorry rather than otherwise that her daughter had asked her, but would have been puzzled to explain why such should have been the case. "i thought so," said madeline. "he rode over, and told me among other things that the match between his grandfather and lady mason is at an end. i was very glad to hear it, for i thought that sir peregrine was going to do a very foolish thing." and then there were a few further remarks on that subject, made probably by lady staveley with some undefined intention of inducing her daughter to think that peregrine orme had come over chiefly on that matter. "but, mamma--" "well, my love." "did he say anything about--about what he was speaking to me about?" "well, madeline; he did. he did say something on that subject; but i had not intended to tell you unless you had asked." "i hope, mamma, he understands that what he wants can never happen;--that is if he does want it now?" "he does want it certainly, my dear." "then i hope you told him that it can never be? i hope you did, mamma!" "but why should you be so certain about it, my love? he does not intend to trouble you with his suit,--nor do i. why not leave that to time? there can be no reason why you should not see him again on a friendly footing when this embarrassment between you shall have passed away." "there would be no reason, mamma, if he were quite sure that there could never be any other footing." "never is a very long word." [illustration: "never is a very long word."] "but it is the only true word, mamma. it would be wrong in you, it would indeed, if you were to tell him to come again. i like mr. orme very much as a friend, and i should be very glad to know him,--that is if he chose to know me." and madeline as she made this little proviso was thinking what her own worldly position might be as the wife of felix graham. "but as it is quite impossible that he and i should ever be anything else to each other, he should not be asked to come here with any other intention." "but madeline, i do not see that it is so impossible." "mamma, it is impossible; quite impossible!" to this assertion lady staveley made no answer in words, but there was that in her countenance which made her daughter understand that she did not quite agree in this assertion, or understand this impossibility. "mamma, it is quite, quite impossible!" madeline repeated. "but why so?" said lady staveley, frightened by her daughter's manner, and almost fearing that something further was to come which had by far better be left unsaid. "because, mamma, i have no love to give him. oh, mamma, do not be angry with me; do not push me away. you know who it is that i love. you knew it before." and then she threw herself on her knees, and hid her face on her mother's lap. lady staveley had known it, but up to that moment she had hoped that that knowledge might have remained hidden as though it were unknown. chapter li. mrs. furnival's journey to hamworth. when peregrine got back to the cleeve he learned that there was a lady with his mother. he had by this time partially succeeded in reasoning himself out of his despondency. he had learned at any rate that his proposition to marry into the staveley family had been regarded with favour by all that family except the one whose views on that subject were by far the most important to him; and he had learned, as he thought, that lady staveley had no suspicion that her daughter's heart was preoccupied. but in this respect lady staveley had been too cunning for him. "wait!" he said to himself as he went slowly along the road. "it's all very well to say wait, but there are some things which won't bear waiting for. a man who waits never gets well away with the hounds." nevertheless as he rode into the courtyard his hopes were somewhat higher than they had been when he rode out of it. "a lady! what lady? you don't mean lady mason?" no. the servant did not mean lady mason. it was an elderly stout lady who had come in a fly, and the elderly stout lady was now in the drawing-room with his mother. lady mason was still up stairs. we all know who was that elderly stout lady, and we must now go back and say a few words as to her journey from orange street to hamworth. on the preceding evening mrs. furnival had told martha biggs what was her intention; or perhaps it would be more just to say that martha biggs had worked it out of her. now that mrs. furnival had left the fashionable neighbourhood of cavendish square, and located herself in that eastern homely district to which miss biggs had been so long accustomed, miss biggs had been almost tyrannical. it was not that she was less attentive to her friend, or less willing to slave for her with a view to any possible or impossible result. but the friend of mrs. furnival's bosom could not help feeling her opportunity. mrs. furnival had now thrown herself very much upon her friend, and of course the friend now expected unlimited privileges;--as is always the case with friends in such a position. it is very well to have friends to lean upon, but it is not always well to lean upon one's friends. "i will be with you before you start in the morning," said martha. "it will not be at all necessary," said mrs. furnival. "oh, but i shall indeed. and, kitty, i should think nothing of going with you, if you would wish it. indeed i think you should have a female friend alongside of you in such a trouble. you have only to say the word and i'll go in a minute." mrs. furnival however did not say the word, and miss biggs was obliged to deny herself the pleasure of the journey. but true to her word she came in the morning in ample time to catch mrs. furnival before she started, and for half an hour poured out sweet counsel into her friend's ear. if one's friends would as a rule refrain from action how much more strongly would real friendship flourish in the world! "now, kitty, i do trust you will persist in seeing her." "that's why i'm going there." "yes; but she might put you off it, if you're not firm. of course she'll deny herself if you send in your name first. what i should do would be this;--to ask to be shown in to her and then follow the servant. when the happiness of a life is at stake,--the happinesses of two lives i may say, and perhaps the immortal welfare of one of them in another world,--one must not stand too much upon etiquette. you would never forgive yourself if you did. your object is to save him and to shame her out of her vile conduct. to shame her and frighten her out of it if that be possible. follow the servant in and don't give them a moment to think. that's my advice." in answer to all this mrs. furnival did not say much, and what little she did say was neither in the affirmative nor in the negative. martha knew that she was being ill treated, but not on that account did she relax her friendly efforts. the time would soon come, if all things went well, when mrs. furnival would be driven by the loneliness of her position to open her heart in a truly loving and confidential manner. miss biggs hoped sincerely that her friend and her friend's husband might be brought together again;--perhaps by her own efforts; but she did not anticipate,--or perhaps desire any speedy termination of the present arrangements. it would be well that mr. furnival should be punished by a separation of some months. then, when he had learned to know what it was to have a home without a "presiding genius," he might, if duly penitent and open in his confession, be forgiven. that was miss biggs's programme, and she thought it probable that mrs. furnival might want a good deal of consolation before that day of open confession arrived. "i shall go with you as far as the station, kitty," she said in a very decided voice. "it will not be at all necessary," mrs. furnival replied. "oh, but i shall. you must want support at such a moment as this, and as far as i can give it you shall have it." "but it won't be any support to have you in the cab with me. if you will believe me, i had rather go alone. it is so necessary that i should think about all this." but martha would not believe her; and as for thinking, she was quite ready to take that part of the work herself. "don't say another word," she said, as she thrust herself in at the cab-door after her friend. mrs. furnival hardly did say another word, but martha biggs said many. she knew that mrs. furnival was cross, ill pleased, and not disposed to confidence. but what of that? her duty as a friend was not altered by mrs. furnival's ill humour. she would persevere, and having in her hands so great an opportunity, did not despair but what the time might come when both mr. and mrs. furnival would with united voices hail her as their preserver. poor martha biggs! she did not mean amiss; but she was troublesome. it was very necessary that mrs. furnival should think over the step which she was taking. what was it that she intended to do when she arrived at hamworth? that plan of forcing her way into lady mason's house did not recommend itself to her the more in that it was recommended by martha biggs. "i suppose you will come up to us this evening?" martha said, when she left her friend in the railway carriage. "not this evening, i think. i shall be so tired," mrs. furnival had replied. "then i shall come down to you," said martha, almost holloaing after her friend, as the train started. mr. furnival would not have been displeased had he known the state of his wife's mind at that moment towards her late visitor. during the whole of her journey down to hamworth she tried to think what she would say to lady mason, but instead of so thinking her mind would revert to the unpleasantness of miss biggs's friendship. when she left the train at the hamworth station she was solicited by the driver of a public vehicle to use his fly, and having ascertained from the man that he well knew the position of orley farm, she got into the carriage and had herself driven to the residence of her hated rival. she had often heard of orley farm, but she had never as yet seen it, and now felt considerable anxiety both as regards the house and its occupant. "this is orley farm, ma'am," said the man, stopping at the gate. "shall i drive up?" but at this moment the gate was opened by a decent, respectable woman,--mrs. furnival would not quite have called her a lady,--who looked hard at the fly as it turned on to the private road. "perhaps this lady could tell me," said mrs. furnival, putting out her hand. "is this where lady mason lives?" the woman was mrs. dockwrath. on that day samuel dockwrath had gone to london, but before starting he had made known to his wife with fiendish glee that it had been at last decided by all the persons concerned that lady mason should be charged with perjury, and tried for that offence. "you don't mean to say that the judges have said so?" asked poor miriam. "i do mean to say that all the judges in england could not save her from having to stand her trial, and it is my belief that all the lawyers in the land cannot save her from conviction. i wonder whether she ever thinks now of those fields which she took away from me!" then, when her master's back was turned, she put on her bonnet and walked up to orley farm. she knew well that lady mason was at the cleeve, and believed that she was about to become the wife of sir peregrine; but she knew also that lucius was at home, and it might be well to let him know what was going on. she had just seen lucius mason when she was met by mrs. furnival's fly. she had seen lucius mason, and the angry manner in which he declared that he could in no way interfere in his mother's affairs had frightened her. "but, mr. lucius," she had said, "she ought to be doing something, you know. there is no believing how bitter samuel is about it." "he may be as bitter as he likes, mrs. dockwrath," young mason had answered with considerable dignity in his manner. "it will not in the least affect my mother's interests. in the present instance, however, i am not her adviser." whereupon mrs. dockwrath had retired, and as she was afraid to go to lady mason at the cleeve, she was about to return home when she opened the gate for mrs. furnival. she then explained that lady mason was not at home and had not been at home for some weeks; that she was staying with her friends at the cleeve, and that in order to get there mrs. furnival must go back through hamworth and round by the high road. "i knows the way well enough, mrs. dockwrath," said the driver. "i've been at the cleeve before now, i guess." so mrs. furnival was driven back to hamworth, and on going over that piece of ground she resolved that she would follow lady mason to the cleeve. why should she be afraid of sir peregrine orme or of all the ormes? why should she fear any one while engaged in the performance of so sacred a duty? i must confess that in truth she was very much afraid, but nevertheless she had herself taken on to the cleeve. when she arrived at the door, she asked of course for lady mason, but did not feel at all inclined to follow the servant uninvited into the house as recommended by miss biggs. lady mason, the man said, was not very well, and after a certain amount of parley at the door the matter ended in her being shown into the drawing-room, where she was soon joined by mrs. orme. "i am mrs. furnival," she began, and then mrs. orme begged her to sit down. "i have come here to see lady mason--on some business--some business not of a very pleasant nature. i'm sure i don't know how to trouble you with it, and yet--" and then even mrs. orme could see that her visitor was somewhat confused. "is it about the trial?" asked mrs. orme. "then there is really a lawsuit going on?" "a lawsuit!" said mrs. orme, rather puzzled. "you said something about a trial. now, mrs. orme, pray do not deceive me. i'm a very unhappy woman; i am indeed." "deceive you! why should i deceive you?" "no, indeed. why should you? and now i look at you i do not think you will." "indeed i will not, mrs. furnival." "and there is really a lawsuit then?" mrs. furnival persisted in asking. "i thought you would know all about it," said mrs. orme, "as mr. furnival manages lady mason's law business. i thought that perhaps it was about that that you had come." then mrs. furnival explained that she knew nothing whatever about lady mason's affairs, that hitherto she had not believed that there was any trial or any lawsuit, and gradually explained the cause of all her trouble. she did not do this without sundry interruptions, caused both by her own feelings and by mrs. orme's exclamations. but at last it all came forth; and before she had done she was calling her husband tom, and appealing to her listener for sympathy. "but indeed it's a mistake, mrs. furnival. it is indeed. there are reasons which make me quite sure of it." so spoke mrs. orme. how could lady mason have been in love with mr. furnival,--if such a state of things could be possible under any circumstances,--seeing that she had been engaged to marry sir peregrine? mrs. orme did not declare her reasons, but repeated with very positive assurances her knowledge that mrs. furnival was labouring under some very grievous error. "but why should she always be at his chambers? i have seen her there twice, mrs. orme. i have indeed;--with my own eyes." mrs. orme would have thought nothing of it if lady mason had been seen there every day for a week together, and regarded mrs. furnival's suspicions as an hallucination bordering on insanity. a woman be in love with mr. furnival! a very pretty woman endeavour to entice away from his wife the affection of such a man as that! as these ideas passed through mrs. orme's mind she did not perhaps remember that sir peregrine, who was more than ten years mr. furnival's senior, had been engaged to marry the same lady. but then she herself loved sir peregrine dearly, and she had no such feeling with reference to mr. furnival. she however did what was most within her power to do to allay the suffering under which her visitor laboured, and explained to her the position in which lady mason was placed. "i do not think she can see you," she ended by saying, "for she is in very great trouble." "to be tried for perjury!" said mrs. furnival, out of whose heart all hatred towards lady mason was quickly departing. had she heard that she was to be tried for murder,--that she had been convicted for murder,--it would have altogether softened her heart towards her supposed enemy. she could forgive her any offence but the one. "yes indeed," said mrs. orme, wiping a tear away from her eye as she thought of all the troubles present and to come. "it is the saddest thing. poor lady! it would almost break your heart if you were to see her. since first she heard of this, which was before christmas, she has not had one quiet moment." "poor creature!" said mrs. furnival. "ah, you would say so, if you knew all. she has had to depend a great deal upon mr. furnival for advice, and without that i don't know what she would do." this mrs. orme said, not wishing to revert to the charge against lady mason which had brought mrs. furnival down to hamworth, but still desirous of emancipating her poor friend completely from that charge. "and sir peregrine also is very kind to her,--very." this she added; feeling that up to that moment mrs. furnival could have heard nothing of the intended marriage, but thinking it probable that she must do so before long. "indeed anybody would be kind to her who saw her in her suffering. i am sure you would, mrs. furnival." "dear, dear!" said mrs. furnival who was beginning to entertain almost a kindly feeling towards mrs. orme. "it is such a dreadful position for a lady. sometimes i think that her mind will fail her before the day comes." "but what a very wicked man that other mr. mason must be!" said mrs. furnival. that was a view of the matter on which mrs. orme could not say much. she disliked that mr. mason as much as she could dislike a man whom she had never seen, but it was not open to her now to say that he was very wicked in this matter. "i suppose he thinks the property ought to belong to him," she answered. "that was settled years ago," said mrs. furnival. "horrid, cruel man! but after all i don't see why she should mind it so much." "oh, mrs. furnival!--to stand in a court and be tried." "but if one is innocent! for my part, if i knew myself innocent i could brave them all. it is the feeling that one is wrong that cows one." and mrs. furnival thought of the little confession which she would be called upon to make at home. and then feeling some difficulty as to her last words in such an interview, mrs. furnival got up to go. "perhaps, mrs. orme," she said, "i have been foolish in this." "you have been mistaken, mrs. furnival. i am sure of that." "i begin to think i have. but, mrs. orme, will you let me ask you a favour? perhaps you will not say anything about my coming here. i have been very unhappy; i have indeed; and--" mrs. furnival's handkerchief was now up at her eyes, and mrs. orme's heart was again full of pity. of course she gave the required promise; and, looking to the character of the woman, we may say that, of course, she kept it. "mrs. furnival! what was she here about?" peregrine asked of his mother. "i would rather not tell you, perry," said his mother, kissing him; and then there were no more words spoken on the subject. mrs. furnival as she made her journey back to london began to dislike martha biggs more and more, and most unjustly attributed to that lady in her thoughts the folly of this journey to hamworth. the journey to hamworth had been her own doing, and had the idea originated with miss biggs the journey would never have been made. as it was, while she was yet in the train, she came to the strong resolution of returning direct from the london station to her own house in harley street. it would be best to cut the knot at once, and thus by a bold stroke of the knife rid herself of the orange street rooms and miss biggs at the same time. she did drive to harley street, and on her arrival at her own door was informed by the astonished spooner that, "master was at home,--all alone in the dining-room. he was going to dine at home, and seemed very lonely like." there, as she stood in the hall, there was nothing but the door between her and her husband, and she conceived that the sound of her arrival must have been heard by him. for a moment her courage was weak, and she thought of hurrying up stairs. had she done so her trouble would still have been all before her. some idea of this came upon her mind, and after a moment's pause, she opened the dining-room door and found herself in her husband's presence. he was sitting over the fire in his arm-chair, very gloomily, and had not heard the arrival. he too had some tenderness left in his heart, and this going away of his wife had distressed him. "tom," she said, going up to him, and speaking in a low voice, "i have come back again." and she stood before him as a suppliant. [illustration: "tom," she said, "i have come back."] chapter lii. showing how things went on at noningsby. yes, lady staveley had known it before. she had given a fairly correct guess at the state of her daughter's affections, though she had not perhaps acknowledged to herself the intensity of her daughter's feelings. but the fact might not have mattered if it had never been told. madeline might have overcome this love for mr. graham, and all might have been well if she had never mentioned it. but now the mischief was done. she had acknowledged to her mother,--and, which was perhaps worse, she had acknowledged to herself,--that her heart was gone, and lady staveley saw no cure for the evil. had this happened but a few hours earlier she would have spoken with much less of encouragement to peregrine orme. and felix graham was not only in the house, but was to remain there for yet a while longer, spending a very considerable portion of his time in the drawing-room. he was to come down on this very day at three o'clock, after an early dinner, and on the next day he was to be promoted to the dining-room. as a son-in-law he was quite ineligible. he had, as lady staveley understood, no private fortune, and he belonged to a profession which he would not follow in the only way by which it was possible to earn an income by it. such being the case, her daughter, whom of all girls she knew to be the most retiring, the least likely to speak of such feelings unless driven to it by great stress,--her daughter had positively declared to her that she was in love with this man! could anything be more hopeless? could any position be more trying? "oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!" she said, almost wringing her hands in her vexation,--"no, my darling i am not angry," and she kissed her child and smoothed her hair. "i am not angry; but i must say i think it very unfortunate. he has not a shilling in the world." "i will do nothing that you and papa do not approve," said madeline, holding down her head. "and then you know he doesn't think of such a thing himself--of course he does not. indeed, i don't think he's a marrying man at all." "oh, mamma, do not talk in that way;--as if i expected anything. i could not but tell you the truth when you spoke of mr. orme as you did." "poor mr. orme! he is such an excellent young man." "i don't suppose he's better than mr. graham, mamma, if you speak of goodness." "i'm sure i don't know," said lady staveley, very much put beside herself. "i wish there were no such things as young men at all. there's augustus making a fool of himself." and she walked twice the length of the room in an agony of maternal anxiety. peregrine orme had suggested to her what she would feel if noningsby were on fire; but could any such fire be worse than these pernicious love flames? he had also suggested another calamity, and as lady staveley remembered that, she acknowledged to herself that the fates were not so cruel to her as they might have been. so she kissed her daughter, again assured her that she was by no means angry with her, and then they parted. this trouble had now come to such a head that no course was any longer open to poor lady staveley, but that one which she had adopted in all the troubles of her married life. she would tell the judge everything, and throw all the responsibility upon his back. let him decide whether a cold shoulder or a paternal blessing should be administered to the ugly young man up stairs, who had tumbled off his horse the first day he went out hunting, and who would not earn his bread as others did, but thought himself cleverer than all the world. the feelings in lady staveley's breast towards mr. graham at this especial time were not of a kindly nature. she could not make comparisons between him and peregrine orme without wondering at her daughter's choice. peregrine was fair and handsome, one of the curled darlings of the nation, bright of eye and smooth of skin, good-natured, of a sweet disposition, a young man to be loved by all the world, and--incidentally--the heir to a baronetcy and a good estate. all his people were nice, and he lived close in the neighbourhood! had lady staveley been set to choose a husband for her daughter she could have chosen none better. and then she counted up felix graham. his eyes no doubt were bright enough, but taken altogether he was,--at least so she said to herself--hideously ugly. he was by no means a curled darling. and then he was masterful in mind, and not soft and pleasant as was young orme. he was heir to nothing; and as to people of his own he had none in particular. who could say where he must live? as likely as not in patagonia, having been forced to accept a judgeship in that new colony for the sake of bread. but her daughter should not go to patagonia with him if she could help it! so when the judge came home that evening, she told him all before she would allow him to dress for dinner. "he certainly is not very handsome," the judge said, when lady staveley insisted somewhat strongly on that special feature of the case. "i think he is the ugliest young man i know," said her ladyship. "he looks very well in his wig," said the judge. "wig! madeline would not see him in a wig; nor anybody else very often, seeing the way he is going on about his profession. what are we to do about it?" "well. i should say, do nothing." "and let him propose to the dear girl if he chooses to take the fancy into his head?" "i don't see how we are to hinder him. but i have that impression of mr. graham that i do not think he will do anything unhandsome by us. he has some singular ideas of his own about law, and i grant you that he is plain--" "the plainest young man i ever saw," said lady staveley. "but, if i know him, he is a man of high character and much more than ordinary acquirement." "i cannot understand madeline," lady staveley went on, not caring overmuch about felix graham's acquirements. "well, my dear, i think the key to her choice is this, that she has judged not with her eyes, but with her ears, or rather with her understanding. had she accepted mr. orme, i as a father should of course have been well satisfied. he is, i have no doubt, a fine young fellow, and will make a good husband some day." "oh, excellent!" said her ladyship; "and the cleeve is only seven miles." "but i must acknowledge that i cannot feel angry with madeline." "angry! no, not angry. who would be angry with the poor child?" "indeed, i am somewhat proud of her. it seems to me that she prefers mind to matter, which is a great deal to say for a young lady." "matter!" exclaimed lady staveley, who could not but feel that the term, as applied to such a young man as peregrine orme, was very opprobrious. "wit and intellect and power of expression have gone further with her than good looks and rank and worldly prosperity. if that be so, and i believe it is, i cannot but love her the better for it." "so do i love her, as much as any mother can love her daughter." "of course you do." and the judge kissed his wife. "and i like wit and genius and all that sort of thing." "otherwise you would have not taken me, my dear." "you were the handsomest man of your day. that's why i fell in love with you." "the compliment is a very poor one," said the judge. "never mind that. i like wit and genius too; but wit and genius are none the better for being ugly; and wit and genius should know how to butter their own bread before they think of taking a wife." "you forget, my dear, that for aught we know wit and genius may be perfectly free from any such thought." and then the judge made it understood that if he were left to himself he would dress for dinner. when the ladies left the parlour that evening they found graham in the drawing-room, but there was no longer any necessity for embarrassment on madeline's part at meeting him. they had been in the room together on three or four occasions, and therefore she could give him her hand, and ask after his arm without feeling that every one was watching her. but she hardly spoke to him beyond this, nor indeed did she speak much to anybody. the conversation, till the gentlemen joined them, was chiefly kept up by sophia furnival and mrs. arbuthnot, and even after that the evening did not pass very briskly. one little scene there was, during which poor lady staveley's eyes were anxiously fixed upon her son, though most of those in the room supposed that she was sleeping. miss furnival was to return to london on the following day, and it therefore behoved augustus to be very sad. in truth he had been rather given to a melancholy humour during the last day or two. had miss furnival accepted all his civil speeches, making him answers equally civil, the matter might very probably have passed by without giving special trouble to any one. but she had not done this, and therefore augustus staveley had fancied himself to be really in love with her. what the lady's intentions were i will not pretend to say; but if she was in truth desirous of becoming mrs. staveley, she certainly went about her business in a discreet and wise manner. "so you leave us to-morrow, immediately after breakfast," said he, having dressed his face with that romantic sobriety which he had been practising for the last three days. "i am sorry to say that such is the fact," said sophia. "to tell you the truth i am not sorry," said augustus; and he turned away his face for a moment, giving a long sigh. "i dare say not, mr. staveley; but you need not have said so to me," said sophia, pretending to take him literally at his word. "because i cannot stand this kind of thing any longer. i suppose i must not see you in the morning,--alone?" "well, i suppose not. if i can get down to prayers after having all my things packed up, it will be as much as i can do." "and if i begged for half an hour as a last kindness--" "i certainly should not grant it. go and ask your mother whether such a request would be reasonable." "psha!" "ah, but it's not psha! half-hours between young ladies and young gentlemen before breakfast are very serious things." "and i mean to be serious," said augustus. "but i don't," said sophia. "i am to understand then that under no possible circumstances--" "bless me, mr. staveley, how solemn you are." "there are occasions in a man's life when he is bound to be solemn. you are going away from us, miss furnival--" "one would think i was going to jeddo, whereas i am going to harley street." "and i may come and see you there!" "of course you may if you like it. according to the usages of the world you would be reckoned very uncivil if you did not. for myself i do not much care about such usages, and therefore if you omit it i will forgive you." "very well; then i will say good-night,--and good-bye." these last words he uttered in a strain which should have melted her heart, and as he took leave of her he squeezed her hand with an affection that was almost painful. it may be remarked that if augustus staveley was quite in earnest with sophia furnival, he would have asked her that all-important question in a straightforward manner as peregrine orme had asked it of madeline. perhaps miss furnival was aware of this, and, being so aware, considered that a serious half-hour before breakfast might not as yet be safe. if he were really in love he would find his way to harley street. on the whole i am inclined to think that miss furnival did understand her business. on the following morning miss furnival went her way without any further scenes of tenderness, and lady staveley was thoroughly glad that she was gone. "a nasty, sly thing," she said to baker. "sly enough, my lady," said baker; "but our mr. augustus will be one too many for her. deary me, to think of her having the imperance to think of him." in all which miss furnival was i think somewhat ill used. if young gentlemen, such as augustus staveley, are allowed to amuse themselves with young ladies, surely young ladies such as miss furnival should be allowed to play their own cards accordingly. on that day, early in the morning, felix graham sought and obtained an interview with his host in the judge's own study. "i have come about two things," he said, taking the easy chair to which he was invited. "two or ten, i shall be very happy," said the judge cheerily. "i will take business first," said graham. "and then pleasure will be the sweeter afterwards," said the judge. "i have been thinking a great deal about this case of lady mason's, and i have read all the papers, old and new, which mr. furnival has sent me. i cannot bring myself to suppose it possible that she can have been guilty of any fraud or deception." "i believe her to be free from all guilt in the matter--as i told you before. but then of course you will take that as a private opinion, not as one legally formed. i have never gone into the matter as you have done." "i confess that i do not like having dealings with mr. chaffanbrass and mr. aram." "mr. chaffanbrass and mr. aram may not be so bad as you, perhaps in ignorance, suppose them to be. does it not occur to you that we should be very badly off without such men as chaffanbrass and aram?" "so we should without chimney-sweepers and scavengers." "graham, my dear fellow, judge not that you be not judged. i am older than you, and have seen more of these men. believe me that as you grow older and also see more of them, your opinion will be more lenient,--and more just. do not be angry with me for taking this liberty with you." "my dear judge, if you knew how i value it;--how i should value any mark of such kindness that you can show me! however i have decided that i will know something more of these gentlemen at once. if i have your approbation i will let mr. furnival know that i will undertake the case." the judge signified his approbation, and thus the first of those two matters was soon settled between them. "and now for the pleasure," said the judge. "i don't know much about pleasure," said graham, fidgeting in his chair, rather uneasily. "i'm afraid there is not much pleasure for either of us, or for anybody else, in what i'm going to say." "then there is so much more reason for having it said quickly. unpleasant things should always be got over without delay." "nothing on earth can exceed lady staveley's kindness to me, and yours, and that of the whole family since my unfortunate accident." "don't think of it. it has been nothing. we like you, but we should have done as much as that even if we had not." "and now i'm going to tell you that i have fallen in love with your daughter madeline." as the judge wished to have the tale told quickly, i think he had reason to be satisfied with the very succinct terms used by felix graham. "indeed!" said the judge. "and that was the reason why i wished to go away at the earliest possible time--and still wish it." "you are right there, mr. graham. i must say you are right there. under all the circumstances of the case i think you were right to wish to leave us." "and therefore i shall go the first thing to-morrow morning"--in saying which last words poor felix could not refrain from showing a certain unevenness of temper, and some disappointment. "gently, gently, mr. graham. let us have a few more words before we accede to the necessity of anything so sudden. have you spoken to madeline on this subject?" "not a word." "and i may presume that you do not intend to do so." for a moment or so felix graham sat without speaking, and then, getting up from his chair, he walked twice the length of the room. "upon my word, judge, i will not answer for myself if i remain here," he said at last. a softer-hearted man than judge staveley, or one who could make himself more happy in making others happy, never sat on the english bench. was not this a gallant young fellow before him,--gallant and clever, of good honest principles, and a true manly heart? was he not a gentleman by birth, education, and tastes? what more should a man want for a son-in-law? and then his daughter had had the wit to love this man so endowed. it was almost on his tongue to tell graham that he might go and seek the girl and plead his own cause to her. but bread is bread, and butcher's bills are bills! the man and the father, and the successful possessor of some thousands a year, was too strong at last for the soft-hearted philanthropist. therefore, having collected his thoughts, he thus expressed himself upon the occasion:-- "mr. graham, i think you have behaved very well in this matter, and it is exactly what i should have expected from you." the judge at the time knew nothing about mary snow. "as regards yourself personally i should be proud to own you as my son-in-law, but i am of course bound to regard the welfare of my daughter. your means i fear are but small." "very small indeed," said graham. "and though you have all those gifts which should bring you on in your profession, you have learned to entertain ideas, which hitherto have barred you from success. now i tell you what you shall do. remain here two or three days longer, till you are fit to travel, and abstain from saying anything to my daughter. come to me again in three months, if you still hold the same mind, and i will pledge myself to tell you then whether or no you have my leave to address my child as a suitor." felix graham silently took the judge's hand, feeling that a strong hope had been given to him, and so the interview was ended. chapter liii. lady mason returns home. lady mason remained at the cleeve for something more than a week after that day on which she made her confession, during which time she was fully committed to take her trial at the next assizes at alston on an indictment for perjury. this was done in a manner that astonished even herself by the absence of all publicity or outward scandal. the matter was arranged between mr. matthew round and mr. solomon aram, and was so arranged in accordance with mr. furnival's wishes. mr. furnival wrote to say that at such a time he would call at the cleeve with a post-chaise. this he did, and took lady mason with him before two magistrates for the county who were sitting at doddinghurst, a village five miles distant from sir peregrine's house. here by agreement they were met by lucius mason who was to act as one of the bailsmen for his mother's appearance at the trial. sir peregrine was the other, but it was brought about by amicable management between the lawyers that his appearance before the magistrates was not required. there were also there the two attorneys, bridget bolster the witness, one torrington from london who brought with him the absolute deed executed on that th of july with reference to the then dissolved partnership of mason and martock; and there was mr. samuel dockwrath. i must not forget to say that there was also a reporter for the press, provided by the special care of the latter-named gentleman. [illustration: lady mason going before the magistrates.] the arrival in the village of four different vehicles, and the sight of such gentlemen as mr. furnival, mr. round, and mr. aram, of course aroused some excitement there; but this feeling was kept down as much as possible, and lady mason was very quickly allowed to return to the carriage. mr. dockwrath made one or two attempts to get up a scene, and to rouse a feeling of public anger against the lady who was to be tried; but the magistrates put him down. they also seemed to be fully impressed with a sense of lady mason's innocence in the teeth of the evidence which was given against her. this was the general feeling on the minds of all people,--except of those who knew most about her. there was an idea that affairs had so been managed by mr. joseph mason and mr. dockwrath that another trial was necessary, but that the unfortunate victim of mr. mason's cupidity and mr. dockwrath's malice would be washed white as snow when the day of that trial came. the chief performers on the present occasion were round and aram, and a stranger to such proceedings would have said that they were acting in concert. mr. round pressed for the indictment, and brought forward in a very short way the evidence of bolster and torrington. mr. aram said that his client was advised to reserve her defence, and was prepared with bail to any amount. mr. round advised the magistrates that reasonable bail should be taken, and then the matter was settled. mr. furnival sat on a chair close to the elder of those two gentlemen, and whispered a word to him now and then. lady mason was provided with an arm-chair close to mr. furnival's right hand, and close to her right hand stood her son. her face was covered by a deep veil, and she was not called upon during the whole proceeding to utter one audible word. a single question was put to her by the presiding magistrate before the committal was signed, and it was understood that some answer was made to it; but this answer reached the ears of those in the room by means of mr. furnival's voice. it was observed by most of those there that during the whole of the sitting lady mason held her son's hand; but it was observed also that though lucius permitted this he did not seem to return the pressure. he stood there during the entire proceedings without motion or speech, looking very stern. he signed the bail-bond, but even that he did without saying a word. mr. dockwrath demanded that lady mason should be kept in custody till the bond should also have been signed by sir peregrine; but upon this mr. round remarked that he believed mr. joseph mason had intrusted to him the conduct of the case, and the elder magistrate desired mr. dockwrath to abstain from further interference. "all right," said he to a person standing close to him. "but i'll be too many for them yet, as you will see when she is brought before a judge and jury." and then lady mason stood committed to take her trial at the next alston assizes. when lucius had come forward to hand her from the post-chaise in which she arrived lady mason had kissed him, but this was all the intercourse that then passed between the mother and son. mr. furnival, however, informed him that his mother would return to orley farm on the next day but one. "she thinks it better that she should be at home from this time to the day of the trial," said mr. furnival; "and on the whole sir peregrine is inclined to agree with her." "i have thought so all through," said lucius. "but you are to understand that there is no disagreement between your mother and the family at the cleeve. the idea of the marriage has, as i think very properly, been laid aside." "of course it was proper that it should be laid aside." "yes; but i must beg you to understand that there has been no quarrel. indeed you will, i have no doubt, perceive that, as mrs. orme has assured me that she will see your mother constantly till the time comes." "she is very kind," said lucius. but it was evident from the tone of his voice that he would have preferred that all the ormes should have remained away. in his mind this time of suffering to his mother and to him was a period of trial and probation,--a period, if not of actual disgrace, yet of disgrace before the world; and he thought that it would have best become his mother to have abstained from all friendship out of her own family, and even from all expressed sympathy, till she had vindicated her own purity and innocence. and as he thought of this he declared to himself that he would have sacrificed everything to her comfort and assistance if she would only have permitted it. he would have loved her, and been tender to her, receiving on his own shoulders all those blows which now fell so hardly upon hers. every word should have been a word of kindness; every look should have been soft and full of affection. he would have treated her not only with all the love which a son could show to a mother, but with all the respect and sympathy which a gentleman could feel for a lady in distress. but then, in order that such a state of things as this should have existed, it would have been necessary that she should have trusted him. she should have leaned upon him, and,--though he did not exactly say so in talking over the matter with himself, still he thought it,--on him and on him only. but she had declined to lean upon him at all. she had gone away to strangers,--she, who should hardly have spoken to a stranger during these sad months! she would not have his care; and under those circumstances he could only stand aloof, hold up his head, and look sternly. as for her innocence, that was a matter of course. he knew that she was innocent. he wanted no one to tell him that his own mother was not a thief, a forger, a castaway among the world's worst wretches. he thanked no one for such an assurance. every honest man must sympathise with a woman so injured. it would be a necessity of his manhood and of his honesty! but he would have valued most a sympathy which would have abstained from all expression till after that trial should be over. it should have been for him to act and for him to speak during this terrible period. but his mother who was a free agent had willed it otherwise. and there had been one other scene. mr. furnival had introduced lady mason to mr. solomon aram, having explained to her that it would be indispensable that mr. aram should see her, probably once or twice before the trial came on. "but cannot it be done through you?" said lady mason. "though of course i should not expect that you can so sacrifice your valuable time." "pray believe me that that is not the consideration," said mr. furnival. "we have engaged the services of mr. aram because he is supposed to understand difficulties of this sort better than any other man in the profession, and his chance of rescuing you from this trouble will be much better if you can bring yourself to have confidence in him--full confidence." and mr. furnival looked into her face as he spoke with an expression of countenance that was very eloquent. "you must not suppose that i shall not do all in my power. in my proper capacity i shall be acting for you with all the energy that i can use; but the case has now assumed an aspect which requires that it should be in an attorney's hands." and then mr. furnival introduced her to mr. solomon aram. mr. solomon aram was not, in outward appearance, such a man as lady mason, sir peregrine orme, or others quite ignorant in such matters would have expected. he was not a dirty old jew with a hooked nose and an imperfect pronunciation of english consonants. mr. chaffanbrass, the barrister, bore more resemblance to a jew of that ancient type. mr. solomon aram was a good-looking man about forty, perhaps rather over-dressed, but bearing about him no other sign of vulgarity. nor at first sight would it probably have been discerned that he was of the hebrew persuasion. he had black hair and a well-formed face; but his eyes were closer than is common with most of us, and his nose seemed to be somewhat swollen about the bridge. when one knew that he was a jew one saw that he was a jew; but in the absence of such previous knowledge he might have been taken for as good a christian as any other attorney. mr. aram raised his hat and bowed as mr. furnival performed the ceremony of introduction. this was done while she was still seated in the carriage, and as lucius was waiting at the door to hand her down into the house where the magistrates were sitting. "i am delighted to have the honour of making your acquaintance," said mr. aram. lady mason essayed to mutter some word; but no word was audible, nor was any necessary. "i have no doubt," continued the attorney, "that we shall pull through this little difficulty without any ultimate damage whatsoever. in the mean time it is of course disagreeable to a lady of your distinction." and then he made another bow. "we are peculiarly happy in having such a tower of strength as mr. furnival," and then he bowed to the barrister. "and my old friend mr. chaffanbrass is another tower of strength. eh, mr. furnival?" and so the introduction was over. lady mason had quite understood mr. furnival;--had understood both his words and his face, when he told her how indispensable it was that she should have full confidence in this attorney. he had meant that she should tell him all. she must bring herself to confess everything to this absolute stranger. and then--for the first time--she felt sure that mr. furnival had guessed her secret. he also knew it, but it would not suit him that any one should know that he knew it! alas, alas! would it not be better that all the world should know it and that there might be an end? had not her doom been told to her? even if the paraphernalia of justice,--the judge, and the jury, and the lawyers, could be induced to declare her innocent before all men, must she not confess her guilt to him,--to that one,--for whose verdict alone she cared? if he knew her to be guilty what matter who might think her innocent? and she had been told that all must be declared to him. that property was his,--but his only through her guilt; and that property must be restored to its owner! so much sir peregrine orme had declared to be indispensable,--sir peregrine orme, who in other matters concerning this case was now dark enough in his judgment. on that point, however, there need be no darkness. though the heaven should fall on her devoted head, that tardy justice must be done! when this piece of business had been completed at doddinghurst, lady mason returned to the cleeve, whither mr. furnival accompanied her. he had offered his seat in the post-chaise to lucius, but the young man had declared that he was unwilling to go to the cleeve, and consequently there was no opportunity for conversation between lady mason and her son. on her arrival she went at once to her room, and there she continued to live as she had done for the last few days till the morning of her departure came. to mrs. orme she told all that had occurred, as mr. furnival did also to sir peregrine. on that occasion sir peregrine said very little to the barrister, merely bowing his head courteously as each different point was explained, in intimation of his having heard and understood what was said to him. mr. furnival could not but see that his manner was entirely altered. there was no enthusiasm now, no violence of invective against that wretch at groby park, no positive assurance that his guest's innocence must come out at the trial bright as the day! he showed no inclination to desert lady mason's cause, and indeed insisted on hearing the particulars of all that had been done; but he said very little, and those few words adverted to the terrible sadness of the subject. he seemed too to be older than he had been, and less firm in his gait. that terrible sadness had already told greatly upon him. those about him had observed that he had not once crossed the threshold of his hall door since the morning on which lady mason had taken to her own room. "he has altered his mind," said the lawyer to himself as he was driven back to the hamworth station. "he also now believes her to be guilty." as to his own belief, mr. furnival held no argument within his own breast, but we may say that he was no longer perplexed by much doubt upon the matter. and then the morning came for lady mason's departure. sir peregrine had not seen her since she had left him in the library after her confession, although, as may be remembered, he had undertaken to do so. but he had not then known how mrs. orme might act when she heard the story. as matters had turned out mrs. orme had taken upon herself the care of their guest, and all intercourse between lady mason and sir peregrine had passed through his daughter-in-law. but now, on this morning, he declared that he would go to her up stairs in mrs. orme's room, and himself hand her down through the hall into the carriage. against this lady mason had expostulated, but in vain. "it will be better so, dear," mrs. orme had said. "it will teach the servants and people to think that he still respects and esteems you." "but he does not!" said she, speaking almost sharply. "how would it be possible? ah, me--respect and esteem are gone from me for ever!" "no, not for ever," replied mrs. orme. "you have much to bear, but no evil lasts for ever." "will not sin last for ever;--sin such as mine?" "not if you repent;--repent and make such restitution as is possible. lady mason, say that you have repented. tell me that you have asked him to pardon you!" and then, as had been so often the case during these last days, lady mason sat silent, with hard, fixed eyes, with her hands clasped, and her lips compressed. never as yet had mrs. orme induced her to say that she had asked for pardon at the cost of telling her son that the property which he called his own had been procured for him by his mother's fraud. that punishment, and that only, was too heavy for her neck to bear. her acquittal in the law court would be as nothing to her if it must be followed by an avowal of her guilt to her own son! sir peregrine did come up stairs and handed her down through the hall as he had proposed. when he came into the room she did not look at him, but stood leaning against the table, with her eyes fixed upon the ground. "i hope you find yourself better," he said, as he put out his hand to her. she did not even attempt to make a reply, but allowed him just to touch her fingers. "perhaps i had better not come down," said mrs. orme. "it will be easier to say good-bye here." "good-bye," said lady mason, and her voice sounded in sir peregrine's ears like a voice from the dead. "god bless you and preserve you," said mrs. orme, "and restore you to your son. god will bless you if you will ask him. no; you shall not go without a kiss." and she put out her arms that lady mason might come to her. the poor broken wretch stood for a moment as though trying to determine what she would do; and then, almost with a shriek, she threw herself on to the bosom of the other woman, and burst into a flood of tears. she had intended to abstain from that embrace; she had resolved that she would do so, declaring to herself that she was not fit to be held against that pure heart; but the tenderness of the offer had overcome her; and now she pressed her friend convulsively in her arms, as though there might yet be comfort for her as long as she could remain close to one who was so good to her. "i shall come and see you very often," said mrs. orme,--"almost daily." "no, no, no," exclaimed the other, hardly knowing the meaning of her own words. "but i shall. my father is waiting now, dear, and you had better go." sir peregrine had turned to the window, where he stood shading his eyes with his hand. when he heard his daughter-in-law's last words he again came forward, and offered lady mason his arm. "edith is right," he said. "you had better go now. when you are at home you will be more composed." and then he led her forth, and down the stairs, and across the hall, and with infinite courtesy put her into the carriage. it was a moment dreadful to lady mason; but to sir peregrine, also, it was not pleasant. the servants were standing round, officiously offering their aid,--those very servants who had been told about ten days since that this lady was to become their master's wife and their mistress. they had been told so with no injunction as to secrecy, and the tidings had gone quickly through the whole country. now it was known that the match was broken off, that the lady had been living up stairs secluded for the last week, and that she was to leave the house this morning, having been committed during the last day or two to stand her trial at the assizes for some terrible offence! he succeeded in his task. he handed her into the carriage, and then walked back through his own servants to the library without betraying to them the depth of his sorrow; but he knew that the last task had been too heavy for him. when it was done he shut himself up and sat there for hours without moving. he also declared to himself that the world was too hard for him, and that it would be well for him that he should die. never till now had he come into close contact with crime, and now the criminal was one whom as a woman he had learned to love, and whom he had proposed to the world as his wife! the criminal was one who had declared her crime in order to protect him, and whom therefore he was still bound in honour to protect! when lady mason arrived at orley farm her son was waiting at the door to receive her. it should have been said that during the last two days,--that is ever since the committal,--mrs. orme had urged upon her very strongly that it would be well for her to tell everything to her son. "what! now, at once?" the poor woman had said. "yes, dear, at once," mrs. orme had answered. "he will forgive you, for i know he is good. he will forgive you, and then the worst of your sorrow will be over." but towards doing this lady mason had made no progress even in her mind. in the violence of her own resolution she had brought herself to tell her guilt to sir peregrine. that effort had nearly destroyed her, and now she knew that she could not frame the words which should declare the truth to lucius. what; tell him the tale; whereas her whole life had been spent in an effort to conceal it from him? no. she knew that she could not do it. but the idea of doing so made her tremble at the prospect of meeting him. "i am very glad you have come home, mother," said lucius, as he received her. "believe me that for the present this will be the best place for both of us," and then he led her into the house. "dear lucius, it would always be best for me to be with you, if it were possible." he did not accuse her of hypocrisy in saying this; but he could not but think that had she really thought and felt as she now spoke nothing need have prevented her remaining with him. had not his house ever been open to her? had he not been willing to make her defence the first object of his life? had he not longed to prove himself a good son? but she had gone from him directly that troubles came upon her, and now she said that she would fain be with him always--if it were possible! where had been the impediment? in what way had it been not possible? he thought of this with bitterness as he followed her into the house, but he said not a word of it. he had resolved that he would be a pattern son, and even now he would not rebuke her. she had lived in this house for some four-and-twenty years, but it seemed to her in no way like her home. was it not the property of her enemy, joseph mason? and did she not know that it must go back into that enemy's hands? how then could it be to her like a home? the room in which her bed was laid was that very room in which her sin had been committed. there in the silent hours of the night, while the old man lay near his death in the adjoining chamber, had she with infinite care and much slow preparation done that deed, to undo which, were it possible, she would now give away her existence,--ay, her very body and soul. and yet for years she had slept in that room, if not happily at least tranquilly. it was matter of wonder to her now, as she looked back at her past life, that her guilt had sat so lightly on her shoulders. the black unwelcome guest, the spectre of coming evil, had ever been present to her; but she had seen it indistinctly, and now and then the power had been hers to close her eyes. never again could she close them. nearer to her, and still nearer, the spectre came; and now it sat upon her pillow, and put its claw upon her plate; it pressed upon her bosom with its fiendish strength, telling her that all was over for her in this world:--ay, and telling her worse even than that. her return to her old home brought with it but little comfort. and yet she was forced to make an effort at seeming glad that she had come there,--a terrible effort! he, her son, was not gay or disposed to receive from her a show of happiness; but he did think that she should compose herself and be tranquil, and that she should resume the ordinary duties of her life in her ordinarily quiet way. in all this she was obliged to conform herself to his wishes,--or to attempt so to conform herself, though her heart should break in the struggle. if he did but know it all, then he would suffer her to be quiet,--suffer her to lie motionless in her misery! once or twice she almost said to herself that she would make the effort; but when she thought of him and his suffering, of his pride, of the respect which he claimed from all the world as the honest son of an honest mother, of his stubborn will and stiff neck, which would not bend, but would break beneath the blow. she had done all for him,--to raise him in the world; and now she could not bring herself to undo the work that had cost her so dearly! that evening she went through the ceremony of dinner with him, and he was punctilious in waiting upon her as though bread and meat could comfort her or wine could warm her heart. there was no warmth for her in all the vintages of the south, no comfort though gods should bring to her their banquets. she was heavy laden,--laden to the breaking of her back, and did not know where to lay her burden down. "mother," he said to her that night, lifting his head from the books over which he had been poring, "there must be a few words between us about this affair. they might as well be spoken now." "yes, lucius; of course--if you desire it." "there can be no doubt now that this trial will take place." "no doubt;" she said. "there can be no doubt." "is it your wish that i should take any part in it?" she remained silent, for some moments before she answered him, thinking,--striving to think, how best she might do him pleasure. "what part?" she said at last. "a man's part, and a son's part. shall i see these lawyers and learn from them what they are at? have i your leave to tell them that you want no subterfuge, no legal quibbles,--that you stand firmly on your own clear innocence, and that you defy your enemies to sully it? mother, those who have sent you to such men as that cunning attorney have sent you wrong,--have counselled you wrong." "it cannot be changed now, lucius." "it can be changed, if you will tell me to change it." and then again she paused. ah, think of her anguish as she sought for words to answer him! "no, lucius," she said, "it cannot be changed now." "so be it, mother; i will not ask again," and then he moodily returned to his books, while she returned to her thoughts. ah, think of her misery! chapter liv. telling all that happened beneath the lamp-post. when felix graham left noningsby and made his way up to london, he came at least to one resolution which he intended to be an abiding one. that idea of a marriage with a moulded wife should at any rate be abandoned. whether it might be his great destiny to be the husband of madeline staveley, or whether he might fail in achieving this purpose, he declared to himself that it would be impossible that he should ever now become the husband of mary snow. and the ease with which his conscience settled itself on this matter as soon as he had received from the judge that gleam of hope astonished even himself. he immediately declared to himself that he could not marry mary snow without perjury! how could he stand with her before the altar and swear that he would love her, seeing that he did not love her at all,--seeing that he altogether loved some one else? he acknowledged that he had made an ass of himself in this affair of mary snow. this moulding of a wife had failed with him, he said, as it always must fail with every man. but he would not carry his folly further. he would go to mary snow, tell her the truth, and then bear whatever injury her angry father might be able to inflict on him. independently of that angry father he would of course do for mary snow all that his circumstances would admit. perhaps the gentleman of a poetic turn of mind whom mary had consented to meet beneath the lamp-post might assist him in his views; but whether this might be so or not, he would not throw that meeting ungenerously in her teeth. he would not have allowed that offence to turn him from his proposed marriage had there been nothing else to turn him, and therefore he would not plead that offence as the excuse for his broken troth. that the breaking of that troth would not deeply wound poor mary's heart--so much he did permit himself to believe on the evidence of that lamp-post. he had written to mrs. thomas telling her when he would be at peckham, but in his letter he had not said a word as to those terrible tidings which she had communicated to him. he had written also to mary, assuring her that he accused her of no injury against him, and almost promising her forgiveness; but this letter mary had not shown to mrs. thomas. in these days mary's anger against mrs. thomas was very strong. that mrs. thomas should have used all her vigilance to detect such goings on as those of the lamp-post was only natural. what woman in mrs. thomas's position,--or in any other position,--would not have done so? mary snow knew that had she herself been the duenna she would have left no corner of a box unturned but she would have found those letters. and having found them she would have used her power over the poor girl. she knew that. but she would not have betrayed her to the man. truth between woman and woman should have prevented that. were not the stockings which she had darned for mrs. thomas legion in number? had she not consented to eat the veriest scraps of food in order that those three brats might be fed into sleekness to satisfy their mother's eyes? had she not reported well of mrs. thomas to her lord, though that house of peckham was nauseous to her? had she ever told to mr. graham any one of those little tricks which were carried on to allure him into a belief that things at peckham were prosperous? had she ever exposed the borrowing of those teacups when he came, and the fact that those knobs of white sugar were kept expressly on his behoof? no; she would have scorned to betray any woman; and that woman whom she had not betrayed should have shown the same feeling towards her. therefore there was enmity at peckham, and the stockings of those infants lay unmended in the basket. "mary, i have done it all for the best," said mrs. thomas, driven to defend herself by the obdurate silence of her pupil. "no, mrs. thomas, you didn't. you did it for the worst," said mary. and then there was again silence between them. it was on the morning following this that felix graham was driven to the door in a cab. he still carried his arm in a sling, and was obliged to be somewhat slow in his movements, but otherwise he was again well. his accident however was so far a godsend to both the women at peckham that it gave them a subject on which they were called upon to speak, before that other subject was introduced. mary was very tender in her inquiries,--but tender in a bashful retiring way. to look at her one would have said that she was afraid to touch the wounded man lest he should be again broken. "oh, i'm all right," said he, trying to assume a look of good-humour. "i sha'n't go hunting again in a hurry; you may be sure of that." "we have all great reason to be thankful that providence interposed to save you," said mrs. thomas, in her most serious tone. had providence interposed to break mrs. thomas's collar-bone, or at least to do her some serious outward injury, what a comfort it would be, thought mary snow. "have you seen your father lately?" asked graham. "not since i wrote to you about the money that he--borrowed," said mary. "i told her that she should not have given it to him," said mrs. thomas. "she was quite right," said graham. "who could refuse assistance to a father in distress?" whereupon mary put her handkerchief up to her eyes and began to cry. "that's true of course," said mrs. thomas; "but it would never do that he should be a drain in that way. he should feel that if he had any feeling." "so he has," said mary. "and you are driven close enough yourself sometimes, mrs. thomas. there's days when you'd like to borrow nineteen and sixpence if anybody would lend it you." "very well," said mrs. thomas, crossing her hands over each other in her lap and assuming a look of resignation; "i suppose all this will be changed now. i have endeavoured to do my duty, and very hard it has been." felix felt that the sooner he rushed into the middle of the subject which brought him there, the better it would be for all parties. that the two ladies were not very happy together was evident, and then he made a little comparison between madeline and mary. was it really the case that for the last three years he had contemplated making that poor child his wife? would it not be better for him to tie a millstone round his neck and cast himself into the sea? that was now his thought respecting mary snow. "mrs. thomas," he said, "i should like to speak to mary alone for a few minutes if you could allow it." "oh certainly; by all means. it will be quite proper." and gathering up a bundle of the unfortunate stockings she took herself out of the room. mary, as soon as graham had spoken, became almost pale, and sat perfectly still with her eyes fixed on her betrothed husband. while mrs. thomas was there she was prepared for war and her spirit was hot within her, but all that heat fled in a moment when she found herself alone with the man to whom it belonged to speak her doom. he had almost said that he would forgive her, but yet she had a feeling that that had been done which could not altogether be forgiven. if he asked her whether she loved the hero of the lamp-post what would she say? had he asked her whether she loved him, felix graham, she would have sworn that she did, and have thought that she was swearing truly; but in answer to that other question if it were asked, she felt that her answer must be false. she had no idea of giving up felix of her own accord, if he were still willing to take her. she did not even wish that he would not take her. it had been the lesson of her life that she was to be his wife, and, by becoming so, provide for herself and for her wretched father. nevertheless a dream of something different from that had come across her young heart, and the dream had been so pleasant! how painfully, but yet with what a rapture, had her heart palpitated as she stood for those ten wicked minutes beneath the lamp-post! "mary," said felix, as soon as they were alone,--and as he spoke he came up to her and took her hand, "i trust that i may never be the cause to you of any unhappiness;--that i may never be the means of making you sad." "oh, mr. graham, i am sure that you never will. it is i that have been bad to you." "no, mary, i do not think you have been bad at all. i should have been sorry that that had happened, and that i should not have known it." "i suppose she was right to tell, only--" in truth mary did not at all understand what might be the nature of graham's thoughts and feelings on such a subject. she had a strong woman's idea that the man whom she ought to love would not be gratified by her meeting another man at a private assignation, especially when that other man had written to her a love-letter; but she did not at all know how far such a sin might be regarded as pardonable according to the rules of the world recognised on such subjects. at first, when the letters were discovered and the copies of them sent off to noningsby, she thought that all was over. according to her ideas, as existing at that moment, the crime was conceived to be one admitting of no pardon; and in the hours spent under that conviction all her consolation came from the feeling that there was still one who regarded her as an angel of light. but then she had received graham's letter, and as she began to understand that pardon was possible, that other consolation waxed feeble and dim. if felix graham chose to take her, of course she was there for him to take. it never for a moment occurred to her that she could rebel against such taking, even though she did shine as an angel of light to one dear pair of eyes. "i suppose she was right to tell you, only--" "do not think, mary, that i am going to scold you, or even that i am angry with you." "oh, but i know you must be angry." "indeed i am not. if i pledge myself to tell you the truth in everything, will you be equally frank with me?" "yes," said mary. but it was much easier for felix to tell the truth than for mary to be frank. i believe that schoolmasters often tell fibs to schoolboys, although it would be so easy for them to tell the truth. but how difficult it is for the schoolboy always to tell the truth to his master! mary snow was now as a schoolboy before her tutor, and it may almost be said that the telling of the truth was to her impossible. but of course she made the promise. who ever said that she would not tell the truth when so asked? "have you ever thought, mary, that you and i would not make each other happy if we were married?" "no; i have never thought that," said mary innocently. she meant to say exactly that which she thought graham would wish her to say, but she was slow in following his lead. "it has never occurred to you that though we might love each other very warmly as friends--and so i am sure we always shall--yet we might not suit each other in all respects as man and wife?" "i mean to do the very best i can; that is, if--if--if you are not too much offended with me now." "but, mary, it should not be a question of doing the best you can. between man and wife there should be no need of such effort. it should be a labour of love." "so it will;--and i'm sure i'll labour as hard as i can." felix began to perceive that the line he had taken would not answer the required purpose, and that he must be somewhat more abrupt with her,--perhaps a little less delicate, in coming to the desired point. "mary," he said, "what is the name of that gentleman whom--whom you met out of doors you know?" "albert fitzallen," said mary, hesitating very much as she pronounced the name, but nevertheless rather proud of the sound. "and you are--fond of him?" asked graham. poor girl! what was she to say? "no; i'm not very fond of him." "are you not? then why did you consent to that secret meeting?" "oh, mr. graham--i didn't mean it; indeed i didn't. and i didn't tell him to write to me, nor yet to come looking after me. upon my word i didn't. but then i thought when he sent me that letter that he didn't know;--about you i mean; and so i thought i'd better tell him; and that's why i went. indeed that was the reason." "mrs. thomas could have told him that." "but i don't like mrs. thomas, and i wouldn't for worlds that she should have had anything to do with it. i think mrs. thomas has behaved very bad to me; so i do. and you don't half know her;--that you don't." "i will ask you one more question, mary, and before answering it i want to make you believe that my only object in asking it is to ascertain how i may make you happy. when you did meet mr.--this gentleman--" "albert fitzallen." "when you did meet mr. fitzallen, did you tell him nothing else except that you were engaged to me? did you say nothing to him as to your feelings towards himself?" "i told him it was very wrong of him to write me that letter." "and what more did you tell him?" "oh, mr. graham, i won't see him any more; indeed i won't. i give you my most solemn promise. indeed i won't. and i will never write a line to him,--or look at him. and if he sends anything i'll send it to you. indeed i will. there was never anything of the kind before; upon my word there wasn't. i did let him take my hand, but i didn't know how to help it when i was there. and he kissed me--only once. there; i've told it all now, as though you were looking at me. and i ain't a bad girl, whatever she may say of me. indeed i ain't." and then poor mary snow burst out into an agony of tears. felix began to perceive that he had been too hard upon her. he had wished that the first overtures of a separation should come from her, and in wishing this he had been unreasonable. he walked for a while about the room, and then going up to her he stood close by her and took her hand. "mary," he said, "i'm sure you're not a bad girl." "no;" she said, "no, i ain't;" still sobbing convulsively. "i didn't mean anything wrong, and i couldn't help it." "i am sure you did not, and nobody has said you did." "yes, they have. she has said so. she said that i was a bad girl. she told me so, up to my face." "she was very wrong if she said so." "she did then, and i couldn't bear it." "i have not said so, and i don't think so. indeed in all this matter i believe that i have been more to blame than you." "no;--i know i was wrong. i know i shouldn't have gone to see him." "i won't even say as much as that, mary. what you should have done;--only the task would have been too hard for any young girl--was to have told me openly that you--liked this young gentleman." "but i don't want ever to see him again." "look here, mary," he said. but now he had dropped her hand and taken a chair opposite to her. he had begun to find that the task which he had proposed to himself was not so easy even for him. "look here, mary. i take it that you do like this young gentleman. don't answer me till i have finished what i am going to say. i suppose you do like him,--and if so it would be very wicked in you to marry me." "oh, mr. graham--" "wait a moment, mary. but there is nothing wicked in your liking him." it may be presumed that mr. graham would hold such an opinion as this, seeing that he had allowed himself the same latitude of liking. "it was perhaps only natural that you should learn to do so. you have been taught to regard me rather as a master than as a lover." "oh, mr. graham, i'm sure i've loved you. i have indeed. and i will. i won't even think of al--" "but i want you to think of him,--that is if he be worth thinking of." "he's a very good young man, and always lives with his mother." "it shall be my business to find out that. and now mary, tell me truly. if he be a good young man, and if he loves you well enough to marry you, would you not be happier as his wife than you would as mine?" there! the question that he wished to ask her had got itself asked at last. but if the asking had been difficult, how much more difficult must have been the answer! he had been thinking over all this for the last fortnight, and had hardly known how to come to a resolution. now he put the matter before her without a moment's notice and expected an instant decision. "speak the truth, mary;--what you think about it;--without minding what anybody may say of you." but mary could not say anything, so she again burst into tears. "surely you know the state of your own heart, mary?" "i don't know," she answered. "my only object is to secure your happiness;--the happiness of both of us, that is." "i'll do anything you please," said mary. "well then, i'll tell you what i think. i fear that a marriage between us would not make either of us contented with our lives. i'm too old and too grave for you." yet mary snow was not younger than madeline staveley. "you have been told to love me; and you think that you do love me because you wish to do what you think to be your duty. but i believe that people can never really love each other merely because they are told to do so. of course i cannot say what sort of a young man mr. fitzallen may be; but if i find that he is fit to take care of you, and that he has means to support you,--with such little help as i can give,--i shall be very happy to promote such an arrangement." everybody will of course say that felix graham was base in not telling her that all this arose, not from her love affair with albert fitzallen, but from his own love affair with madeline staveley. but i am inclined to think that everybody will be wrong. had he told her openly that he did not care for her, but did care for some one else, he would have left her no alternative. as it was, he did not mean that she should have any alternative. but he probably consulted her feelings best in allowing her to think that she had a choice. and then, though he owed much to her, he owed nothing to her father; and had he openly declared his intention of breaking off the match because he had attached himself to some one else, he would have put himself terribly into her father's power. he was willing to submit to such pecuniary burden in the matter as his conscience told him that he ought to bear; but mr. snow's ideas on the subject of recompense might be extravagant; and therefore,--as regarded snow the father,--he thought that he might make some slight and delicate use of the meeting under the lamp-post. in doing so he would be very careful to guard mary from her father's anger. indeed mary would be surrendered, out of his own care, not to that of her father, but to the fostering love of the gentleman in the medical line of life. "i'll do anything that you please," said mary, upon whose mind and heart all these changes had come with a suddenness which prevented her from thinking,--much less speaking her thoughts. "perhaps you had better mention it to mrs. thomas." "oh, mr. graham, i'd rather not talk to her. i don't love her a bit." "well, i will not press it on you if you do not wish it. and have i your permission to speak to mr. fitzallen;--and if he approves to speak to his mother?" "i'll do anything you think best, mr. graham," said poor mary. she was poor mary; for though she had consented to meet a lover beneath the lamp-post, she had not been without ambition, and had looked forward to the glory of being wife to such a man as felix graham. she did not however, for one moment, entertain any idea of resistance to his will. and then felix left her, having of course an interview with mrs. thomas before he quitted the house. to her, however, he said nothing. "when anything is settled, mrs. thomas, i will let you know." the words were so lacking in confidence that mrs. thomas when she heard them knew that the verdict had gone against her. felix for many months had been accustomed to take leave of mary snow with a kiss. but on this day he omitted to kiss her, and then mary knew that it was all over with her ambition. but love still remained to her. "there is some one else who will be proud to kiss me," she said to herself, as she stood alone in the room when he closed the door behind him. chapter lv. what took place in harley street. "tom, i've come back again," said mrs. furnival, as soon as the dining-room door was closed behind her back. "i'm very glad to see you; i am indeed," said he, getting up and putting out his hand to her. "but i really never knew why you went away." "oh yes, you know. i'm sure you know why i went. but--" "i'll be shot if i did then." "i went away because i did not like lady mason going to your chambers." "psha!" "yes; i know i was wrong, tom. that is i was wrong--about that." "of course you were, kitty." "well; don't i say i was? and i've come back again, and i beg your pardon;--that is about the lady." "very well. then there's an end of it." "but tom; you know i've been provoked. haven't i now? how often have you been home to dinner since you have been member of parliament for that place?" "i shall be more at home now, kitty." "shall you indeed? then i'll not say another word to vex you. what on earth can i want, tom, except just that you should sit at home with me sometimes on evenings, as you used to do always in the old days? and as for martha biggs--" "is she come back too?" "oh dear no. she's in red lion square. and i'm sure, tom, i never had her here except when you wouldn't dine at home. i wonder whether you know how lonely it is to sit down to dinner all by oneself!" "why; i do it every other day of my life. and i never think of sending for martha biggs; i promise you that." "she isn't very nice, i know," said mrs. furnival--"that is, for gentlemen." "i should say not," said mr. furnival. then the reconciliation had been effected, and mrs. furnival went up stairs to prepare for dinner, knowing that her husband would be present, and that martha biggs would not. and just as she was taking her accustomed place at the head of the table, almost ashamed to look up lest she should catch spooner's eye who was standing behind his master, rachel went off in a cab to orange street, commissioned to pay what might be due for the lodgings, to bring back her mistress's boxes, and to convey the necessary tidings to miss biggs. "well i never!" said martha, as she listened to rachel's story. "and they're quite loving i can assure you," said rachel. "it'll never last," said miss biggs triumphantly--"never. it's been done too sudden to last." "so i'll say good-night if you please, miss biggs," said rachel, who was in a hurry to get back to harley street. "i think she might have come here before she went there; especially as it wasn't anything out of her way. she couldn't have gone shorter than bloomsbury square, and russell square, and over tottenham court road." "missus didn't think of that, i dare say." "she used to know the way about these parts well enough. but give her my love, rachel." then martha biggs was again alone, and she sighed deeply. it was well that mrs. furnival came back so quickly to her own house, as it saved the scandal of any domestic quarrel before her daughter. on the following day sophia returned, and as harmony was at that time reigning in harley street, there was no necessity that she should be presumed to know anything of what had occurred. that she did know,--know exactly what her mother had done, and why she had done it, and how she had come back, leaving martha biggs dumfounded by her return, is very probable, for sophia furnival was a clever girl, and one who professed to understand the ins and outs of her own family,--and perhaps of some other families. but she behaved very prettily to her papa and mamma on the occasion, never dropping a word which could lead either of them to suppose that she had interrogated rachel, been confidential with the housemaid, conversed on the subject--even with spooner, and made a morning call on martha biggs herself. there arose not unnaturally some conversation between the mother and daughter as to lady mason;--not as to lady mason's visits to lincoln's inn and their impropriety as formerly presumed;--not at all as to that; but in respect to her present lamentable position and that engagement which had for a time existed between her and sir peregrine orme. on this latter subject mrs. furnival had of course heard nothing during her interview with mrs. orme at noningsby. at that time lady mason had formed the sole subject of conversation; but in explaining to mrs. furnival that there certainly could be no unhallowed feeling between her husband and the lady, mrs. orme had not thought it necessary to allude to sir peregrine's past intentions. mrs. furnival, however, had heard the whole matter discussed in the railway carriage, had since interrogated her husband,--learning, however, not very much from him,--and now inquired into all the details from her daughter. "and she and sir peregrine were really to be married?" mrs. furnival, as she asked the question, thought with confusion of her own unjust accusations against the poor woman. under such circumstances as those lady mason must of course have been innocent as touching mr. furnival. "yes," said sophia. "there is no doubt whatsoever that they were engaged. sir peregrine told lady staveley so himself." "and now it's all broken off again?" "oh yes; it is all broken off now. i believe the fact to be this. lord alston, who lives near noningsby, is a very old friend of sir peregrine's. when he heard of it he went to the cleeve--i know that for certain;--and i think he talked sir peregrine out of it." "but, my conscience, sophia--after he had made her the offer!" "i fancy that mrs. orme arranged it all. whether lord alston saw her or not i don't know. my belief is that lady mason behaved very well all through, though they say very bitter things against her at noningsby." "poor thing!" said mrs. furnival, the feelings of whose heart were quite changed as regarded lady mason. "i never knew a woman so badly treated." sophia had her own reasons for wishing to make the best of lady mason's case. "and for myself i do not see why sir peregrine should not have married her if he pleased." "he is rather old, my dear." "people don't think so much about that now-a-days as they used. if he liked it, and she too, who had a right to say anything? my idea is that a man with any spirit would have turned lord alston out of the house. what business had he to interfere?" "but about the trial, sophia?" "that will go on. there's no doubt about that. but they all say that it's the most unjust thing in the world, and that she must be proved innocent. i heard the judge say so myself." "but why are they allowed to try her then?" "oh, papa will tell you that." "i never like to bother your papa about law business." particularly not, mrs. furnival, when he has a pretty woman for his client! "my wonder is that she should make herself so unhappy about it," continued sophia. "it seems that she is quite broken down." "but won't she have to go and sit in the court,--with all the people staring at her?" "that won't kill her," said sophia, who felt that she herself would not perish under any such process. "if i was sure that i was in the right, i think that i could hold up my head against all that. but they say that she is crushed to the earth." "poor thing!" said mrs. furnival. "i wish that i could do anything for her." and in this way they talked the matter over very comfortably. two or three days after this sophia furnival was sitting alone in the drawing-room in harley street, when spooner answered a double knock at the door, and lucius mason was shown up stairs. mrs. furnival had gone to make her peace in red lion square, and there may perhaps be ground for supposing that lucius had cause to expect that miss furnival might be seen at this hour without interruption. be that as it may, she was found alone, and he was permitted to declare his purpose unmolested by father, mother, or family friends. "you remember how we parted at noningsby," said he, when their first greetings were well over. "oh, yes; i remember it very well. i do not easily forget words such as were spoken then." "you said that you would never turn away from me." "nor will i;--that is with reference to the matter as to which we were speaking." "is our friendship then to be confined to one subject?" "by no means. friendship cannot be so confined, mr. mason. friendship between true friends must extend to all the affairs of life. what i meant to say was this-- but i am quite sure that you understand me without any explanation." he did understand her. she meant to say that she had promised to him her sympathy and friendship, but nothing more. but then he had asked for nothing more. the matter of doubt within his own heart was this. should he or should he not ask for more; and if he resolved on answering this question in the affirmative, should he ask for it now? he had determined that morning that he would come to some fixed purpose on this matter before he reached harley street. as he crossed out of oxford street from the omnibus he had determined that the present was no time for love-making;--walking up regent street, he had told himself that if he had one faithful heart to bear him company he could bear his troubles better;--as he made his way along the north side of cavendish square he pictured to himself what would be the wound to his pride if he were rejected;--and in passing the ten or twelve houses which intervened in harley street between the corner of the square and the abode of his mistress, he told himself that the question must be answered by circumstances. "yes, i understand you," he said. "and believe me in this--i would not for worlds encroach on your kindness. i knew that when i pressed your hand that night, i pressed the hand of a friend,--and nothing more." "quite so," said sophia. sophia's wit was usually ready enough, but at that moment she could not resolve with what words she might make the most appropriate reply to her--friend. what she did say was rather lame, but it was not dangerous. "since that i have suffered a great deal," said lucius. "of course you know that my mother has been staying at the cleeve?" "oh yes. i believe she left it only a day or two since." "and you heard perhaps of her--. i hardly know how to tell you, if you have not heard it." "if you mean about sir peregrine, i have heard of that." "of course you have. all the world has heard of it." and lucius mason got up and walked about the room holding his hand to his brow. "all the world are talking about it. miss furnival, you have never known what it is to blush for a parent." miss furnival at the moment felt a sincere hope that mr. mason might never hear of mrs. furnival's visit to the neighbourhood of orange street and of the causes which led to it, and by no means thought it necessary to ask for her friend's sympathy on that subject. "no," said she, "i never have; nor need you do so for yours. why should not lady mason have married sir peregrine orme, if they both thought such a marriage fitting?" "what; at such a time as this; with these dreadful accusations running in her ears? surely this was no time for marrying! and what has come of it? people now say that he has rejected her and sent her away." "oh no. they cannot say that." "but they do. it is reported that sir peregrine has sent her away because he thinks her to be guilty. that i do not believe. no honest man, no gentleman, could think her guilty. but is it not dreadful that such things should be said?" "will not the trial take place very shortly now? when that is once over all these troubles will be at an end." "miss furnival, i sometimes think that my mother will hardly have strength to sustain the trial. she is so depressed that i almost fear her mind will give way; and the worst of it is that i am altogether unable to comfort her." "surely that at present should specially be your task." "i cannot do it. what should i say to her? i think that she is wrong in what she is doing; thoroughly, absolutely wrong. she has got about her a parcel of lawyers. i beg your pardon, miss furnival, but you know i do not mean such as your father." "but has not he advised it?" "if so i cannot but think he is wrong. they are the very scum of the gaols; men who live by rescuing felons from the punishment they deserve. what can my mother require of such services as theirs? it is they that frighten her and make her dread all manner of evils. why should a woman who knows herself to be good and just fear anything that the law can do to her?" "i can easily understand that such a position as hers must be very dreadful. you must not be hard upon her, mr. mason, because she is not as strong as you might be." "hard upon her! ah, miss furnival, you do not know me. if she would only accept my love i would wait upon her as a mother does upon her infant. no labour would be too much for me; no care would be too close. but her desire is that this affair should never be mentioned between us. we are living now in the same house, and though i see that this is killing her yet i may not speak of it." then he got up from his chair, and as he walked about the room he took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. "i wish i could comfort you," said she. and in saying so she spoke the truth. by nature she was not tender hearted, but now she did sympathise with him. by nature, too, she was not given to any deep affection, but she did feel some spark of love for lucius mason. "i wish i could comfort you." and as she spoke she also got up from her chair. "and you can," said he, suddenly stopping himself and coming close to her. "you can comfort me,--in some degree. you and you only can do so. i know this is no time for declarations of love. were it not that we are already so much to each other, i would not indulge myself at such a moment with such a wish. but i have no one whom i can love; and--it is very hard to bear." and then he stood, waiting for her answer, as though he conceived that he had offered her his hand. but miss furnival well knew that she had received no offer. "if my warmest sympathy can be of service to you--" "it is your love i want," he said, taking her hand as he spoke. "your love, so that i may look on you as my wife;--your acceptance of my love, so that we may be all in all to each other. there is my hand. i stand before you now as sad a man as there is in all london. but there is my hand--will you take it and give me yours in pledge of your love." i should be unjust to lucius mason were i to omit to say that he played his part with a becoming air. unhappiness and a melancholy mood suited him perhaps better than the world's ordinary good-humour. he was a man who looked his best when under a cloud, and shone the brightest when everything about him was dark. and sophia also was not unequal to the occasion. there was, however, this difference between them. lucius was quite honest in all that he said and did upon the occasion; whereas miss furnival was only half honest. perhaps she was not capable of a higher pitch of honesty than that. "there is my hand," said she; and they stood holding each other, palm to palm. "and with it your heart?" said lucius. "and with it my heart," answered sophia. nor as she spoke did she hesitate for a moment, or become embarrassed, or lose her command of feature. had augustus staveley gone through the same ceremony at noningsby in the same way i am inclined to think that she would have made the same answer. had neither done so, she would not on that account have been unhappy. what a blessed woman would lady staveley have been had she known what was being done in harley street at this moment! in some short rhapsody of love it may be presumed that lucius indulged himself when he found that the affair which he had in hand had so far satisfactorily arranged itself. but he was in truth too wretched at heart for any true enjoyment of the delights of a favoured suitor. they were soon engaged again on that terrible subject, seated side by side indeed and somewhat close, but the tone of their voices and their very words were hardly different from what they might have been had no troth been plighted between them. his present plan was that sophia should visit orley farm for a time, and take that place of dear and bosom friend which a woman circumstanced as was his mother must so urgently need. we, my readers, know well who was now that loving friend, and we know also which was best fitted for such a task, sophia furnival or mrs. orme. but we have had, i trust, better means of reading the characters of those ladies than had fallen to the lot of lucius mason, and should not be angry with him because his eyes were dark. sophia hesitated a moment before she answered this proposition,--not as though she were slack in her love, or begrudged her services to his mother; but it behoved her to look carefully at the circumstances before she would pledge herself to such an arrangement as that. if she went to orley farm on such a mission would it not be necessary to tell her father and mother,--nay, to tell all the world that she was engaged to lucius mason; and would it be wise to make such a communication at the present moment? lucius said a word to her of going into court with his mother, and sitting with her, hand in hand, while that ordeal was passing by. in the publicity of such sympathy there was something that suited the bearings of miss furnival's mind, the idea that lady mason was guilty had never entered her head, and therefore, on this she thought there could be no disgrace in such a proceeding. but nevertheless--might it not be prudent to wait till that trial were over? "if you are my wife you must be her daughter; and how can you better take a daughter's part?" pleaded lucius. "no, no; and i would do it with my whole heart. but, lucius, does she know me well enough? it is of her that we must think. after all that you have told me, can we think that she would wish me to be there?" it was his desire that his mother should learn to have such a wish, and this he explained to her. he himself could do but little at home because he could not yield his opinion on those matters of importance as to which he and his mother differed so vitally; but if she had a woman with her in the house,--such a woman as his own sophia,--then he thought her heart would be softened and part of her sorrow might be assuaged. sophia at last said that she would think about it. it would be improper, she said, to pledge herself to anything rashly. it might be that as her father was to defend lady mason, he might on that account object to his daughter being in the court. lucius declared that this would be unreasonable,--unless indeed mr. furnival should object to his daughter's engagement. and might he not do so? sophia thought it very probable that he might. it would make no difference in her, she said. her engagement would be equally binding,--as permanently binding, let who would object to it. and as she made this declaration, there was of course a little love scene. but, for the present, it might be best that in this matter she should obey her father. and then she pointed out how fatal it might be to avert her father from the cause while the trial was still pending. upon the whole she acted her part very prudently, and when lucius left her she was pledged to nothing but that one simple fact of a marriage engagement. chapter lvi. how sir peregrine did business with mr. round. in the mean time sir peregrine was sitting at home trying to determine in what way he should act under the present emergency, actuated as he was on one side by friendship and on the other by duty. for the first day or two--nay for the first week after the confession had been made to him,--he had been so astounded, had been so knocked to the earth, and had remained in such a state of bewilderment, that it had been impossible for him to form for himself any line of conduct. his only counsellor had been mrs. orme; and, though he could not analyze the matter, he felt that her woman's ideas of honour and honesty were in some way different from his ideas as a man. to her the sorrows and utter misery of lady mason seemed of greater weight than her guilt. at least such was the impression which her words left. mrs. orme's chief anxiety in the matter still was that lady mason should be acquitted;--as strongly so now as when they both believed her to be as guiltless as themselves. but sir peregrine could not look at it in this light. he did not say that he wished that she might be found guilty;--nor did he wish it. but he did announce his opinion to his daughter-in-law that the ends of justice would so be best promoted, and that if the matter were driven to a trial it would not be for the honour of the court that a false verdict should be given. nor would he believe that such a false verdict could be obtained. an english judge and an english jury were to him the palladium of discerning truth. in an english court of law such a matter could not remain dark;--nor ought it, let whatever misery betide. it was strange how that old man should have lived so near the world for seventy years, should have taken his place in parliament and on the bench, should have rubbed his shoulders so constantly against those of his neighbours, and yet have retained so strong a reliance on the purity of the world in general. here and there such a man may still be found, but the number is becoming very few. as for the property, that must of necessity be abandoned. lady mason had signified her agreement to this; and therefore he was so far willing that she should be saved from further outward punishment, if that were still possible. his plan was this; and to his thinking it was the only plan that was feasible. let the estate be at once given up to the proper owner,--even now, before the day of trial should come; and then let them trust, not to joseph mason, but to joseph mason's advisers to abstain from prosecuting the offender. even this course he knew to be surrounded by a thousand difficulties; but it might be possible. of mr. round, old mr. round, he had heard a good report. he was a kind man, and even in this very matter had behaved in a way that had shamed his client. might it not be possible that mr. round would engage to drop the prosecution if the immediate return of the property were secured? but to effect this must he not tell mr. round of the woman's guilt? and could he manage it himself? must he not tell mr. furnival? and by so doing, would he not rob lady mason of her sole remaining tower of strength?--for if mr. furnival knew that she was guilty, mr. furnival must of course abandon her cause. and then sir peregrine did not know how to turn himself, as he thus argued the matter within his own bosom. and then too his own disgrace sat very heavy on him. whether or no the law might pronounce lady mason to have been guilty, all the world would know her guilt. when that property should be abandoned, and her wretched son turned out to earn his bread, it would be well understood that she had been guilty. and this was the woman, this midnight forger, whom he had taken to his bosom, and asked to be his wife! he had asked her, and she had consented, and then he had proclaimed the triumph of his love to all the world. when he stood there holding her to his breast he had been proud of her affection. when lord alston had come to him with his caution he had scorned his old friend and almost driven him from his door. when his grandson had spoken a word, not to him but to another, he had been full of wrath. he had let it be known widely that he would feel no shame in showing her to the world as lady orme. and now she was a forger, and a perjurer, and a thief;--a thief who for long years had lived on the proceeds of her dexterous theft. and yet was he not under a deep obligation to her--under the very deepest? had she not saved him from a worse disgrace;--saved him at the cost of all that was left to herself? was he not still bound to stand by her? and did he not still love her? poor sir peregrine! may we not say that it would have been well for him if the world and all its trouble could have now been ended so that he might have done with it? mrs. orme was his only counsellor, and though she could not be brought to agree with him in all his feelings, yet she was of infinite comfort to him. had she not shared with him this terrible secret his mind would have given way beneath the burden. on the day after lady mason's departure from the cleeve, he sat for an hour in the library considering what he would do, and then he sent for his daughter-in-law. if it behoved him to take any step to stay the trial, he must take it at once. the matter had been pressed on by each side, and now the days might be counted up to that day on which the judges would arrive in alston. that trial would be very terrible to him in every way. he had promised, during those pleasant hours of his love and sympathy in which he had felt no doubt as to his friend's acquittal, that he would stand by her when she was arraigned. that was now impossible, and though he had not dared to mention it to lady mason, he knew that she would not expect that he should do so. but to mrs. orme he had spoken on the matter, and she had declared her purpose of taking the place which it would not now become him to fill! sir peregrine had started from his chair when she had so spoken. what! his daughter! she, the purest of the pure, to whom the very air of a court of law would be a contamination;--she, whose whiteness had never been sullied by contact with the world's dust; she set by the side of that terrible criminal, hand in hand with her, present to all the world as her bosom friend! there had been but few words between them on the matter; but sir peregrine had felt strongly that that might not be permitted. far better than that it would be that he should humble his gray hairs and sit there to be gazed at by the crowd. but on all accounts how much was it to be desired that there should be no trial! "sit down, edith," he said, as with her soft step she came up to him. "i find that the assizes will be here, in alston, at the end of next month." "so soon as that, father?" "yes; look here: the judges will come in on the th of march." "ah me--this is very sudden. but, father, will it not be best for her that it should be over?" mrs. orme still thought, had always thought that the trial itself was unavoidable. indeed she had thought and she did think that it afforded to lady mason the only possible means of escape. her mind on the subject, if it could have been analyzed, would probably have been this. as to the property, that question must for the present stand in abeyance. it is quite right that it should go to its detestable owners,--that it should be made over to them at some day not very distant. but for the present, the trial for that old, long-distant crime was the subject for them to consider. could it be wrong to wish for an acquittal for the sinner,--an acquittal before this world's bar, seeing that a true verdict had undoubtedly been given before another bar? mrs. orme trusted that no jury would convict her friend. let lady mason go through that ordeal; and then, when the law had declared her innocent, let restitution be made. "it will be very terrible to all if she be condemned," said sir peregrine. "very terrible! but mr. furnival--" "edith, if it comes to that, she will be condemned. mr. furnival is a lawyer and will not say so; but from his countenance, when he speaks of her, i know that he expects it!" "oh, father, do not say so." "but if it is so--. my love, what is the purport of these courts of law if it be not to discover the truth, and make it plain to the light of day?" poor sir peregrine! his innocence in this respect was perhaps beautiful, but it was very simple. mr. aram, could he have been induced to speak out his mind plainly, would have expressed, probably, a different opinion. "but she escaped before," said mrs. orme, who was clearly at present on the same side with mr. aram. "yes; she did;--by perjury, edith. and now the penalty of that further crime awaits her. there was an old poet who said that the wicked man rarely escapes at last. i believe in my heart that he spoke the truth." "father, that old poet knew nothing of our faith." sir peregrine could not stop to explain, even if he knew how to do so, that the old poet spoke of punishment in this world, whereas the faith on which his daughter relied is efficacious for pardon beyond the grave. it would be much, ay, in one sense everything, if lady mason could be brought to repent of the sin she had committed; but no such repentance would stay the bitterness of joseph mason or of samuel dockwrath. if the property were at once restored, then repentance might commence. if the property were at once restored, then the trial might be stayed. it might be possible that mr. round might so act. he felt all this, but he could not argue on it. "i think, my dear," he said, "that i had better see mr. round." "but you will not tell him?" said mrs. orme, sharply. "no; i am not authorised to do that." "but he will entice it from you! he is a lawyer, and he will wind anything out from a plain, chivalrous man of truth and honour." "my dear, mr. round i believe is a good man." "but if he asks you the question, what will you say?" "i will tell him to ask me no such question." "oh, father, be careful. for her sake be careful. how is it that you know the truth;--or that i know it? she told it here because in that way only could she save you from that marriage. father, she has sacrificed herself for--for us." sir peregrine when this was said to him got up from his chair and walked away to the window. he was not angry with her that she so spoke to him. nay; he acknowledged inwardly the truth of her words, and loved her for her constancy. but nevertheless they were very bitter. how had it come to pass that he was thus indebted to so deep a criminal? what had he done for her but good? "do not go from me," she said, following him. "do not think me unkind." "no, no, no," he answered, striving almost ineffectually to repress a sob. "you are not unkind." for two days after that not a word was spoken between them on the subject, and then he did go to mr. round. not a word on the subject was spoken between sir peregrine and mrs. orme; but she was twice at orley farm during the time, and told lady mason of the steps which her father-in-law was taking. "he won't betray me!" lady mason had said. mrs. orme had answered this with what best assurance she should give; but in her heart of hearts she feared that sir peregrine would betray the secret. it was not a pleasant journey for sir peregrine. indeed it may be said that no journeys could any longer be pleasant for him. he was old and worn and feeble; very much older and much more worn than he had been at the period spoken of in the commencement of this story, though but a few months had passed over his head since that time. for him now it would have been preferable to remain in the arm-chair by the fireside in his own library, receiving such comfort in his old age as might come to him from the affection of his daughter-in-law and grandson. but he thought that it behoved him to do this work; and therefore, old and feeble as he was, he set himself to his task. he reached the station in london, had himself driven to bedford row in a cab, and soon found himself in the presence of mr. round. [illustration: sir peregrine at mr. round's office.] there was much ceremonial talk between them before sir peregrine could bring himself to declare the purport which had brought him there. mr. round of course protested that he was very sorry for all this affair. the case was not in his hands personally. he had hoped many years since that the matter was closed. his client, mr. mason of groby park, had insisted that it should be reopened; and now he, mr. round, really hardly knew what to say about it. "but, mr. round, do you think it is quite impossible that the trial should even now be abandoned?" asked sir peregrine very carefully. "well, i fear it is. mason thinks that the property is his, and is determined to make another struggle for it. i am imputing nothing wrong to the lady. i really am not in a position to have any opinion of my own--" "no, no, no; i understand. of course your firm is bound to do the best it can for its client. but, mr. round;--i know i am quite safe with you." "well; safe in one way i hope you are. but, sir peregrine, you must of course remember that i am the attorney for the other side,--for the side to which you are opposed." "but still;--all that you can want is your client's interest." "of course we desire to serve his interest." "and with that view, mr. round, is it not possible that we might come to some compromise?" "what;--by giving up part of the property?" "by giving up all the property," said sir peregrine, with considerable emphasis. "whew-w-w." mr. round at the moment made no other answer than this, which terminated in a low whistle. "better that, at once, than that she should die broken-hearted," said sir peregrine. there was then silence between them for a minute or two, after which mr. round, turning himself round in his chair so as to face his visitor more fully, spoke as follows. "i told you just now, sir peregrine, that i was mr. mason's attorney, and i must now tell you, that as regards this interview between you and me, i will not hold myself as being in that position. what you have said shall be as though it had not been said; and as i am not, myself, taking any part in the proceedings, this may with absolute strictness be the case. but--" "if i have said anything that i ought not to have said--" began sir peregrine. "allow me for one moment," continued mr. round. "the fault is mine, if there be a fault, as i should have explained to you that the matter could hardly be discussed with propriety between us." "mr. round, i offer you my apology from the bottom of my heart." "no, sir peregrine. you shall offer me no apology, nor will i accept any. i know no words strong enough to convey to you my esteem and respect for your character." "sir!" "but i will ask you to listen to me for a moment. if any compromise be contemplated, it should be arranged by the advice of mr. furnival and of mr. chaffanbrass, and the terms should be settled between mr. aram and my son. but i cannot myself say that i see any possibility of such a result. it is not however for me to advise. if on that matter you wish for advice, i think that you had better see mr. furnival." "ah!" said sir peregrine, telling more and more of the story by every utterance he made. "and now it only remains for me to assure you once more that the words which have been spoken in this room shall be as though they had not been spoken." and then mr. round made it very clear that there was nothing more to be said between them on the subject of lady mason. sir peregrine repeated his apology, collected his hat and gloves, and with slow step made his way down to his cab, while mr. round absolutely waited upon him till he saw him seated within the vehicle. "so mat is right after all," said the old attorney to himself as he stood alone with his back to his own fire, thrusting his hands into his trousers-pockets. "so mat is right after all!" the meaning of this exclamation will be plain to my readers. mat had declared to his father his conviction that lady mason had forged the codicil in question, and the father was now also convinced that she had done so. "unfortunate woman!" he said; "poor, wretched woman!" and then he began to calculate what might yet be her chances of escape. on the whole he thought that she would escape. "twenty years of possession," he said to himself "and so excellent a character!" but, nevertheless, he repeated to himself over and over again that she was a wretched, miserable woman. we may say that all the persons most concerned were convinced, or nearly convinced, of lady mason's guilt. among her own friends mr. furnival had no doubt of it, and mr. chaffanbrass and mr. aram but very little; whereas sir peregrine and mrs. orme of course had none. on the other side mr. mason and mr. dockwrath were both fully sure of the truth, and the two rounds, father and son, were quite of the same mind. and yet, except with dockwrath and sir peregrine, the most honest and the most dishonest of the lot, the opinion was that she would escape. these were five lawyers concerned, not one of whom gave to the course of justice credit that it would ascertain the truth, and not one of whom wished that the truth should be ascertained. surely had they been honest-minded in their profession they would all have so wished;--have so wished, or else have abstained from all professional intercourse in the matter. i cannot understand how any gentleman can be willing to use his intellect for the propagation of untruth, and to be paid for so using it. as to mr. chaffanbrass and mr. solomon aram,--to them the escape of a criminal under their auspices would of course be a matter of triumph. to such work for many years had they applied their sharp intellects and legal knowledge. but of mr. furnival;--what shall we say of him? sir peregrine went home very sad at heart, and crept silently back into his own library. in the evening, when he was alone with mrs. orme, he spoke one word to her. "edith," he said, "i have seen mr. round. we can do nothing for her there." "i feared not," said she. "no; we can do nothing for her there." after that sir peregrine took no step in the matter. what step could he take? but he sat over his fire in his library, day after day, thinking over it all, and waiting till those terrible assizes should have come. chapter lvii. the loves and hopes of albert fitzallen. felix graham, when he left poor mary snow, did not go on immediately to the doctor's shop. he had made up his mind that mary snow should never be his wife, and therefore considered it wise to lose no time in making such arrangements as might be necessary both for his release and for hers. but, nevertheless, he had not the heart to go about the work the moment that he left her. he passed by the apothecary's, and looking in saw a young man working sedulously at a pestle. if albert fitzallen were fit to be her husband and willing to be so, poor as he was himself, he would still make some pecuniary sacrifice by which he might quiet his own conscience and make mary's marriage possible. he still had a sum of £ , belonging to him, that being all his remaining capital; and the half of that he would give to mary as her dower. so in two days he returned, and again looking in at the doctor's shop, again saw the young man at his work. "yes, sir, my name is albert fitzallen," said the medical aspirant, coming round the counter. there was no one else in the shop, and felix hardly knew how to accost him on so momentous a subject, while he was still in charge of all that store of medicine, and liable to be called away at any moment to relieve the ailments of clapham. albert fitzallen was a pale-faced, light-haired youth, with an incipient moustache, with his hair parted in equal divisions over his forehead, with elaborate shirt-cuffs elaborately turned back, and with a white apron tied round him so that he might pursue his vocation without injury to his nether garments. his face, however, was not bad, nor mean, and had there not been about him a little air of pretension, assumed perhaps to carry off the combined apron and beard, felix would have regarded him altogether with favourable eyes. "is it in the medical way?" asked fitzallen, when graham suggested that he should step out with him for a few minutes. graham explained that it was not in the medical way,--that it was in a way altogether of a private nature; and then the young man, pulling off his apron and wiping his hands on a thoroughly medicated towel, invoked the master of the establishment from an inner room, and in a few minutes mary snow's two lovers were walking together, side by side, along the causeway. "i believe you know miss snow," said felix, rushing at once into the middle of all those delicate circumstances. albert fitzallen drew himself up, and declared that he had that honour. "i also know her," said felix. "my name is felix graham--" "oh, sir, very well," said albert. the street in which they were standing was desolate, and the young man was able to assume a look of decided hostility without encountering any other eyes than those of his rival. "if you have anything to say to me, sir, i am quite prepared to listen to you--to listen to you, and to answer you. i have heard your name mentioned by miss snow." and albert fitzallen stood his ground as though he were at once going to cover himself with his pistol arm. "yes, i know you have. mary has told me what has passed between you. you may regard me, mr. fitzallen, as mary's best and surest friend." "i know you have been a friend to her; i am aware of that. but, mr. graham, if you will allow me to say so, friendship is one thing, and the warm love of a devoted bosom is another." "quite so," said felix. "a woman's heart is a treasure not to be bought by any efforts of friendship," said fitzallen. "i fully agree with you there," said graham. "far be it from me to make any boast," continued the other, "or even to hint that i have gained a place in that lady's affections. i know my own position too well, and say proudly that i am existing only on hope." here, to show his pride, he hit himself with his closed fist on his shirt-front. "but, mr. graham, i am free to declare, even in your presence, though you may be her best and surest friend,"--and there was not wanting from the tone of his voice a strong flavour of scorn as he repeated these words--"that i do exist on hope, let your claims be what they will. if you desire to make such hope on my part a cause of quarrel, i have nothing to say against it." and then he twirled all that he could twirl of that incipient moustache. "by no means," said graham. "oh, very well," said fitzallen. "then we understand that the arena of love is open to us both. i do not fail to appreciate the immense advantages which you enjoy in this struggle." and then fitzallen looked up into graham's ugly face, and thought of his own appearance in the looking-glass. "what i want to know is this," said felix. "if you marry mary snow, what means have you of maintaining her? would your mother receive her into her house? i presume you are not a partner in that shop; but would it be possible to get you in as a partner, supposing mary were to marry you and had a little money as her fortune?" "eh!" said albert, dropping his look of pride, allowing his hand to fall from his lips, and standing still before his companion with his mouth wide open. "of course you mean honestly by dear mary." "oh, sir, yes, on the honour of a gentleman. my intentions, sir, are--. mr. graham, i love that young lady with a devotion of heart, that--that--that--. then you don't mean to marry her yourself; eh, mr. graham?" "no, mr. fitzallen, i do not. and now, if you will so far confide in me, we will talk over your prospects." "oh, very well. i'm sure you are very kind. but miss snow did tell me--" "yes, i know she did, and she was quite right. but as you said just now, a woman's heart cannot be bought by friendship. i have not been a bad friend to mary, but i had no right to expect that i could win her love in that way. whether or no you may be able to succeed, i will not say, but i have abandoned the pursuit." in all which graham intended to be exceedingly honest, but was, in truth, rather hypocritical. "then the course is open to me," said fitzallen. "yes, the course is open," answered graham. "but the race has still to be run. don't you think that miss snow is of her nature very--very cold?" felix remembered the one kiss beneath the lamp-post,--the one kiss given, and received. he remembered also that mary's acquaintance with the gentleman must necessarily have been short; and he made no answer to this question. but he made a comparison. what would madeline have said and done had he attempted such an iniquity? and he thought of her flashing eyes and terrible scorn, of the utter indignation of all the staveley family, and of the wretched abyss into which the offender would have fallen. he brought back the subject at once to the young man's means, to his mother, and to the doctor's shop; and though he learned nothing that was very promising, neither did he learn anything that was the reverse. albert fitzallen did not ride a very high horse when he learned that his supposed rival was so anxious to assist him. he was quite willing to be guided by graham, and, in that matter of the proposed partnership, was sure that old balsam, the owner of the business, would be glad to take a sum of money down. "he has a son of his own," said albert, "but he don't take to it at all. he's gone into wine and spirits; but he don't sell half as much as he drinks." felix then proposed that he should call on mrs. fitzallen, and to this albert gave a blushing consent. "mother has heard of it," said albert, "but i don't exactly know how." perhaps mrs. fitzallen was as attentive as mrs. thomas had been to stray documents packed away in odd places. "and i suppose i may call on--on--mary?" asked the lover, as graham took his leave. but felix could give no authority for this, and explained that mrs. thomas might be found to be a dragon still guarding the hesperides. would it not be better to wait till mary's father had been informed? and then, if all things went well, he might prosecute the affair in due form and as an acknowledged lover. all this was very nice, and as it was quite unexpected, fitzallen could not but regard himself as a fortunate young man. he had never contemplated the possibility of mary snow being an heiress. and when his mother had spoken to him of the hopelessness of his passion, she had suggested that he might perhaps marry his mary in five or six years. now the dearest wish of his heart was brought close within his reach, and he must have been a happy man. but yet, though this certainly was so, nevertheless, there was a feeling of coldness about his love, and almost of disappointment as he again took his place behind the counter. the sorrows of lydia in the play when she finds that her passion meets with general approbation are very absurd but, nevertheless, are quite true to nature. lovers would be great losers if the path of love were always to run smooth. under such a dispensation, indeed, there would probably be no lovers. the matter would be too tame. albert did not probably bethink himself of a becoming disguise, as did lydia,--of an amiable ladder of ropes, of a conscious moon, or a scotch parson; but he did feel, in some undefined manner, that the romance of his life had been taken away from him. five minutes under a lamp-post with mary snow was sweeter to him than the promise of a whole bevy of evenings spent in the same society, with all the comforts of his mother's drawing-room around him. ah, yes, dear readers--my male readers of course i mean--were not those minutes under the lamp-post always very pleasant? but graham encountered none of this feeling when he discussed the same subject with albert's mother. she was sufficiently alive to the material view of the matter, and knew how much of a man's married happiness depends on his supplies of bread and butter. six hundred pounds! mr. graham was very kind--very kind indeed. she hadn't a word to say against mary snow. she had seen her, and thought her very pretty and modest looking. albert was certainly warmly attached to the young lady. of that she was quite certain. and she would say this of albert,--that a better-disposed young man did not exist anywhere. he came home quite regular to his meals, and spent ten hours a day behind the counter in mr. balsam's shop--ten hours a day, sundays included, which mrs. fitzallen regarded as a great drawback to the medical line--as should i also, most undoubtedly. but six hundred pounds would make a great difference. mrs. fitzallen little doubted but that sum would tempt mr. balsam into a partnership, or perhaps the five hundred, leaving one hundred for furniture. in such a case albert would spend his sundays at home, of course. after that, so much having been settled, felix graham got into an omnibus and took himself back to his own chambers. so far was so good. this idea of a model wife had already become a very expensive idea, and in winding it up to its natural conclusion poor graham was willing to spend almost every shilling that he could call his own. but there was still another difficulty in his way. what would snow père say? snow père was, he knew, a man with whom dealings would be more difficult than with albert fitzallen. and then, seeing that he had already promised to give his remaining possessions to albert fitzallen, with what could he bribe snow père to abandon that natural ambition to have a barrister for his son-in-law? in these days, too, snow père had derogated even from the position in which graham had first known him, and had become but little better than a drunken, begging impostor. what a father-in-law to have had! and then felix graham thought of judge staveley. he sent, however, to the engraver, and the man was not long in obeying the summons. in latter days graham had not seen him frequently, having bestowed his alms through mary, and was shocked at the unmistakable evidence of the gin-shop which the man's appearance and voice betrayed. how dreadful to the sight are those watery eyes; that red, uneven, pimpled nose; those fallen cheeks; and that hanging, slobbered mouth! look at the uncombed hair, the beard half shorn, the weak, impotent gait of the man, and the tattered raiment, all eloquent of gin! you would fain hold your nose when he comes nigh you, he carries with him so foul an evidence of his only and his hourly indulgence. you would do so, had you not still a respect for his feelings, which he himself has entirely forgotten to maintain. how terrible is that absolute loss of all personal dignity which the drunkard is obliged to undergo! and then his voice! every tone has been formed by gin, and tells of the havoc which the compound has made within his throat. i do not know whether such a man as this is not the vilest thing which grovels on god's earth. there are women whom we affect to scorn with the full power of our contempt; but i doubt whether any woman sinks to a depth so low as that. she also may be a drunkard, and as such may more nearly move our pity and affect our hearts, but i do not think she ever becomes so nauseous a thing as the man that has abandoned all the hopes of life for gin. you can still touch her;--ay, and if the task be in one's way, can touch her gently, striving to bring her back to decency. but the other! well, one should be willing to touch him too, to make that attempt of bringing back upon him also. i can only say that the task is both nauseous and unpromising. look at him as he stands there before the foul, reeking, sloppy bar, with the glass in his hand, which he has just emptied. see the grimace with which he puts it down, as though the dram had been almost too unpalatable. it is the last touch of hypocrisy with which he attempts to cover the offence;--as though he were to say, "i do it for my stomach's sake; but you know how i abhor it." then he skulks sullenly away, speaking a word to no one,--shuffling with his feet, shaking himself in his foul rags, pressing himself into a heap--as though striving to drive the warmth of the spirit into his extremities! and there he stands lounging at the corner of the street, till his short patience is exhausted, and he returns with his last penny for the other glass. when that has been swallowed the policeman is his guardian. reader, such as you and i have come to that, when abandoned by the respect which a man owes to himself. may god in his mercy watch over us and protect us both! such a man was snow père as he stood before graham in his chambers in the temple. he could not ask him to sit down, so he himself stood up as he talked to him. at first the man was civil, twirling his old hat about, and shifting from one foot to the other;--very civil, and also somewhat timid, for he knew that he was half drunk at the moment. but when he began to ascertain what was graham's object in sending for him, and to understand that the gentleman before him did not propose to himself the honour of being his son-in-law, then his civility left him, and, drunk as he was, he spoke out his mind with sufficient freedom. "you mean to say, mr. graham"--and under the effect of gin he turned the name into gorm--"that you are going to throw that young girl over?" "i mean to say no such thing. i shall do for her all that is in my power. and if that is not as much as she deserves, it will, at any rate, be more than you deserve for her." "and you won't marry her?" "no; i shall not marry her. nor does she wish it. i trust that she will be engaged, with my full approbation--" "and what the deuce, sir, is your full approbation to me? whose child is she, i should like to know? look here, mr. gorm; perhaps you forget that you wrote me this letter when i allowed you to have the charge of that young girl?" and he took out from his breast a very greasy pocket-book, and displayed to felix his own much-worn letter,--holding it, however, at a distance, so that it should not be torn from his hands by any sudden raid. "do you think, sir, i would have given up my child if i didn't know she was to be married respectable? my child is as dear to me as another man's." "i hope she is. and you are a very lucky fellow to have her so well provided for. i've told you all i've got to say, and now you may go." "mr. gorm!" "i've nothing more to say; and if i had, i would not say it to you now. your child shall be taken care of." "that's what i call pretty cool on the part of any gen'leman. and you're to break your word,--a regular breach of promise, and nothing ain't to come of it! i'll tell you what, mr. gorm, you'll find that something will come of it. what do you think i took this letter for?" "you took it, i hope, for mary's protection." "and by ---- she shall be protected." "she shall, undoubtedly; but i fear not by you. for the present i will protect her; and i hope that soon a husband will do so who will love her. now, mr. snow, i've told you all i've got to say, and i must trouble you to leave me." nevertheless there were many more words between them before graham could find himself alone in his chambers. though snow père might be a thought tipsy--a sheet or so in the wind, as folks say, he was not more tipsy than was customary with him, and knew pretty well what he was about. "and what am i to do with myself; mr. gorm?" he asked in a snivelling voice, when the idea began to strike him that it might perhaps be held by the courts of law that his intended son-in-law was doing well by his daughter. "work," said graham, turning upon him sharply and almost fiercely. "that's all very well. it's very well to say 'work!'" "you'll find it well to do it, too. work, and don't drink. you hardly think, i suppose, that if i had married your daughter i should have found myself obliged to support you in idleness?" "it would have been a great comfort in my old age to have had a daughter's house to go to," said snow, naïvely, and now reduced to lachrymose distress. but when he found that felix would do nothing for him; that he would not on the present occasion lend him a sovereign, or even half a crown, he again became indignant and paternal, and in this state of mind was turned out of the room. "heaven and earth!" said felix to himself, clenching his hands and striking the table with both of them at the same moment. that was the man with whom he had proposed to link himself in the closest ties of family connection. albert fitzallen did not know mr. snow; but it might be a question whether it would not be graham's duty to introduce them to each other. chapter lviii. miss staveley declines to eat minced veal. the house at noningsby was now very quiet. all the visitors had gone, including even the arbuthnots. felix graham and sophia furnival, that terrible pair of guests, had relieved mrs. staveley of their presence; but, alas! the mischief they had done remained behind them. the house was very quiet, for augustus and the judge were up in town during the greater part of the week, and madeline and her mother were alone. the judge was to come back to noningsby but once before he commenced the circuit which was to terminate at alston; and it seemed to be acknowledged now on all sides that nothing more of importance was to be done or said in that locality until after lady mason's trial. it may be imagined that poor madeline was not very happy. felix had gone away, having made no sign, and she knew that her mother rejoiced that he had so gone. she never accused her mother of cruelty, even within her own heart. she seemed to realise to herself the assurance that a marriage with the man she loved was a happiness which she had no right to expect. she knew that her father was rich. she was aware that in all probability her own fortune would be considerable. she was quite sure that felix graham was clever and fit to make his way through the world. and yet she did not think it hard that she should be separated from him. she acknowledged from the very first that he was not the sort of man whom she ought to have loved, and therefore she was prepared to submit. it was, no doubt, the fact that felix graham had never whispered to her a word of love, and that therefore, on that ground, she had no excuse for hope. but, had that been all, she would not have despaired. had that been all, she might have doubted, but her doubt would have been strongly mingled with the sweetness of hope. he had never whispered a syllable of love, but she had heard the tone of his voice as she spoke a word to him at his chamber door; she had seen his eyes as they fell on her when he was lifted into the carriage; she had felt the tremor of his touch on that evening when she walked up to him across the drawing-room and shook hands with him. such a girl as madeline staveley does not analyze her feelings on such a matter, and then draw her conclusions. but a conclusion is drawn; the mind does receive an impression; and the conclusion and impression are as true as though they had been reached by the aid of logical reasoning. had the match been such as her mother would have approved, she would have had a hope as to felix graham's love--strong enough for happiness. as it was, there was no use in hoping; and therefore she resolved--having gone through much logical reasoning on this head--that by her all ideas of love must be abandoned. as regarded herself, she must be content to rest by her mother's side as a flower ungathered. that she could marry no man without the approval of her father and mother was a thing to her quite certain; but it was, at any rate, as certain that she could marry no man without her own approval. felix graham was beyond her reach. that verdict she herself pronounced, and to it she submitted. but peregrine orme was still more distant from her;--peregrine orme, or any other of the curled darlings who might come that way playing the part of a suitor. she knew what she owed to her mother, but she also knew her own privileges. there was nothing said on the subject between the mother and child during three days. lady staveley was more than ordinarily affectionate to her daughter, and in that way made known the thoughts which were oppressing her; but she did so in no other way. all this madeline understood, and thanked her mother with the sweetest smiles and the most constant companionship. nor was she, even now, absolutely unhappy, or wretchedly miserable; as under such circumstances would be the case with many girls. she knew all that she was prepared to abandon, but she understood also how much remained to her. her life was her own, and with her life the energy to use it. her soul was free. and her heart, though burdened with love, could endure its load without sinking. let him go forth on his career. she would remain in the shade, and be contented while she watched it. so strictly wise and philosophically serene had madeline become within a few days of graham's departure, that she snubbed poor mrs. baker, when that good-natured and sharp-witted housekeeper said a word or two in praise of her late patient. "we are very lonely, ain't we, miss, without mr. graham to look after?" said mrs. baker. "i'm sure we are all very glad that he has so far recovered as to be able to be moved." "that's in course,--though i still say that he went before he ought. he was such a nice gentleman. where there's one better, there's twenty worse; and as full of cleverness as an egg's full of meat." in answer to which madeline said nothing. "at any rate, miss madeline, you ought to say a word for him," continued mrs. baker; "for he used to worship the sound of your voice. i've known him lay there and listen, listen, listen, for your very footfall." "how can you talk such stuff, mrs. baker? you have never known anything of the kind--and even if he had, how could you know it? you should not talk such nonsense to me, and i beg you won't again." then she went away, and began to read a paper about sick people written by florence nightingale. but it was by no means lady staveley's desire that her daughter should take to the florence nightingale line of life. the charities of noningsby were done on a large scale, in a quiet, handsome, methodical manner, and were regarded by the mistress of the mansion as a very material part of her life's duty; but she would have been driven distracted had she been told that a daughter of hers was about to devote herself exclusively to charity. her ideas of general religion were the same. morning and evening prayers, church twice on sundays, attendance at the lord's table at any rate once a month, were to herself--and in her estimation for her own family--essentials of life. and they had on her their practical effects. she was not given to backbiting--though, when stirred by any motive near to her own belongings, she would say an ill-natured word or two. she was mild and forbearing to her inferiors. her hand was open to the poor. she was devoted to her husband and her children. in no respect was she self-seeking or self-indulgent. but, nevertheless, she appreciated thoroughly the comforts of a good income--for herself and for her children. she liked to see nice-dressed and nice-mannered people about her, preferring those whose fathers and mothers were nice before them. she liked to go about in her own carriage, comfortably. she liked the feeling that her husband was a judge, and that he and she were therefore above other lawyers and other lawyers' wives. she would not like to have seen mrs. furnival walk out of a room before her, nor perhaps to see sophia furnival when married take precedence of her own married daughter. she liked to live in a large place like noningsby, and preferred country society to that of the neighbouring town. it will be said that i have drawn an impossible character, and depicted a woman who served both god and mammon. to this accusation i will not plead, but will ask my accusers whether in their life's travail they have met no such ladies as lady staveley? but such as she was, whether good or bad, she had no desire whatever that her daughter should withdraw herself from the world, and give up to sick women what was meant for mankind. her idea of a woman's duties comprehended the birth, bringing up, education, and settlement in life of children, also due attendance upon a husband, with a close regard to his special taste in cookery. there was her granddaughter marian. she was already thinking what sort of a wife she would make, and what commencements of education would best fit her to be a good mother. it is hardly too much to say that marian's future children were already a subject of care to her. such being her disposition, it was by no means matter of joy to her when she found that madeline was laying out for herself little ways of life, tending in some slight degree to the monastic. nothing was said about it, but she fancied that madeline had doffed a ribbon or two in her usual evening attire. that she read during certain fixed hours in the morning was very manifest. as to that daily afternoon service at four o'clock--she had very often attended that, and it was hardly worthy of remark that she now went to it every day. but there seemed at this time to be a monotonous regularity about her visits to the poor, which told to lady staveley's mind--she hardly knew what tale. she herself visited the poor, seeing some of them almost daily. if it was foul weather they came to her, and if it was fair weather she went to them. but madeline, without saying a word to any one, had adopted a plan of going out exactly at the same hour with exactly the same object, in all sorts of weather. all this made lady staveley uneasy; and then, by way of counterpoise, she talked of balls, and offered madeline _carte blanche_ as to a new dress for that special one which would grace the assizes. "i don't think i shall go," said madeline; and thus lady staveley became really unhappy. would not felix graham be better than no son-in-law? when some one had once very strongly praised florence nightingale in lady staveley's presence, she had stoutly declared her opinion that it was a young woman's duty to get married. for myself, i am inclined to agree with her. then came the second friday after graham's departure, and lady staveley observed, as she and her daughter sat at dinner alone, that madeline would eat nothing but potatoes and sea-kale. "my dear, you will be ill if you don't eat some meat." "oh no, i shall not," said madeline with her prettiest smile. "but you always used to like minced veal." "so i do, but i won't have any to-day, mamma, thank you." then lady staveley resolved that she would tell the judge that felix graham, bad as he might be, might come there if he pleased. even felix graham would be better than no son-in-law at all. on the following day, the saturday, the judge came down with augustus, to spend his last sunday at home before the beginning of his circuit, and some little conversation respecting felix graham did take place between him and his wife. "if they are both really fond of each other, they had better marry," said the judge, curtly. "but it is terrible to think of their having no income," said his wife. "we must get them an income. you'll find that graham will fall on his legs at last." "he's a very long time before he begins to use them," said lady staveley. "and then you know the cleeve is such a nice property, and mr. orme is--" "but, my love, it seems that she does not like mr. orme." "no, she doesn't," said the poor mother in a tone of voice that was very lachrymose. "but if she would only wait she might like him,--might she not now? he is such a very handsome young man." "if you ask me, i don't think his beauty will do it." "i don't suppose she cares for that sort of thing," said lady staveley, almost crying. "but i'm sure of this, if she were to go and make a nun of herself, it would break my heart,--it would, indeed. i should never hold up my head again." what could lady staveley's idea have been of the sorrows of some other mothers, whose daughters throw themselves away after a different fashion? after lunch on sunday the judge asked his daughter to walk with him, and on that occasion the second church service was abandoned. she got on her bonnet and gloves, her walking-boots and winter shawl, and putting her arm happily and comfortably within his, started for what she knew would be a long walk. "we'll get as far as the bottom of cleeve hill," said the judge. now the bottom of cleeve hill, by the path across the fields and the common, was five miles from noningsby. "oh, as for that, i'll walk to the top if you like," said madeline. "if you do, my dear, you'll have to go up alone," said the judge. and so they started. there was a crisp, sharp enjoyment attached to a long walk with her father which madeline always loved, and on the present occasion she was willing to be very happy; but as she started, with her arm beneath his, she feared she knew not what. she had a secret, and her father might touch upon it; she had a sore, though it was not an unwholesome festering sore, and her father might probe the wound. there was, therefore, the slightest shade of hypocrisy in the alacrity with which she prepared herself, and in the pleasant tone of her voice as she walked down the avenue towards the gate. but by the time that they had gone a mile, when their feet had left the road and were pressing the grassy field-path, there was no longer any hypocrisy in her happiness. madeline believed that no human being could talk as did her father, and on this occasion he came out with his freshest thoughts and his brightest wit. nor did he, by any means, have the talk all to himself. the delight of judge staveley's conversation consisted chiefly in that--that though he might bring on to the carpet all the wit and all the information going, he rarely uttered much beyond his own share of words. and now they talked of pictures and politics--of the new gallery that was not to be built at charing cross, and the great onslaught which was not to end in the dismissal of ministers. and then they got to books--to novels, new poetry, magazines, essays, and reviews; and with the slightest touch of pleasant sarcasm the judge passed sentence on the latest efforts of his literary contemporaries. and thus at last they settled down on a certain paper which had lately appeared in a certain quarterly--a paper on a grave subject, which had been much discussed--and the judge on a sudden stayed his hand, and spared his raillery. "you have not heard, i suppose, who wrote that?" said he. no; madeline had not heard. she would much like to know. when young people begin their world of reading there is nothing so pleasant to them as knowing the little secrets of literature; who wrote this and that, of which folk are then talking;--who manages this periodical, and puts the salt and pepper into those reviews. the judge always knew these events of the inner literary world, and would communicate them freely to madeline as they walked. no; there was no longer the slightest touch of hypocrisy in her pleasant manner and eager voice as she answered, "no, papa, i have not heard. was it mr. so-and-so?" and she named an ephemeral literary giant of the day. "no," said the judge, "it was not so-and-so; but yet you might guess, as you know the gentleman." then the slight shade of hypocrisy came upon her again in a moment. "she couldn't guess," she said; "she didn't know." but as she thus spoke the tone of her voice was altered. "that article," said the judge, "was written by felix graham. it is uncommonly clever, and yet there are a great many people who abuse it." and now all conversation was stopped. poor madeline, who had been so ready with her questions, so eager with her answers, so communicative and so inquiring, was stricken dumb on the instant. she had ceased for some time to lean upon his arm, and therefore he could not feel her hand tremble; and he was too generous and too kind to look into her face; but he knew that he had touched the fibres of her heart, and that all her presence of mind had for the moment fled from her. of course such was the case, and of course he knew it. had he not brought her out there, that they might be alone together when he subjected her to the violence of this shower-bath? "yes," he continued, "that was written by our friend graham. do you remember, madeline, the conversation which you and i had about him in the library some time since?" "yes," she said, "she remembered it." "and so do i," said the judge, "and have thought much about it since. a very clever fellow is felix graham. there can be no doubt of that." "is he?" said madeline. i am inclined to think that the judge also had lost something of his presence of mind, or, at least, of his usual power of conversation. he had brought his daughter out there with the express purpose of saying to her a special word or two; he had beat very wide about the bush with the view of mentioning a certain name; and now that his daughter was there, and the name had been mentioned, it seemed that he hardly knew how to proceed. "yes, he is clever enough," repeated the judge, "clever enough; and of high principles and an honest purpose. the fault which people find with him is this,--that he is not practical. he won't take the world as he finds it. if he can mend it, well and good; we all ought to do something to mend it; but while we are mending it we must live in it." "yes, we must live in it," said madeline, who hardly knew at the moment whether it would be better to live or die in it. had her father remarked that they must all take wings and fly to heaven, she would have assented. then the judge walked on a few paces in silence, bethinking himself that he might as well speak out at once the words which he had to say. "madeline, my darling," said he, "have you the courage to tell me openly what you think of felix graham?" "what i think of him, papa?" "yes, my child. it may be that you are in some difficulty at this moment, and that i can help you. it may be that your heart is sadder than it would be if you knew all my thoughts and wishes respecting you, and all your mother's. i have never had many secrets from my children, madeline, and i should be pleased now if you could see into my mind and know all my thoughts and wishes as they regard you." "dear papa!" "to see you happy--you and augustus and isabella--that is now our happiness; not to see you rich or great. high position and a plentiful income are great blessings in this world, so that they be achieved without a stain. but even in this world they are not the greatest blessings. there are things much sweeter than them." as he said this, madeline did not attempt to answer him, but she put her arm once more within his, and clung to his side. "money and rank are only good, if every step by which they are gained be good also. i should never blush to see my girl the wife of a poor man whom she loved; but i should be stricken to the core of my heart if i knew that she had become the wife of a rich man whom she did not love." "papa!" she said, clinging to him. she had meant to assure him that that sorrow should never be his, but she could not get beyond the one word. "if you love this man, let him come," said the judge, carried by his feelings somewhat beyond the point to which he had intended to go. "i know no harm of him. i know nothing but good of him. if you are sure of your own heart, let it be so. he shall be to me as another son,--to me and to your mother. tell me, madeline, shall it be so?" she was sure enough of her own heart; but how was she to be sure of that other heart? "it shall be so," said her father. but a man could not be turned into a lover and a husband because she and her father agreed to desire it;--not even if her mother would join in that wish. she had confessed to her mother that she loved this man, and the confession had been repeated to her father. but she had never expressed even a hope that she was loved in return. "but he has never spoken to me, papa," she said, whispering the words ever so softly lest the winds should carry them. "no; i know he has never spoken to you," said the judge. "he told me so himself. i like him the better for that." so then there had been other communications made besides that which she had made to her mother. mr. graham had spoken to her father, and had spoken to him about her. in what way had he done this, and how had he spoken? what had been his object, and when had it been done? had she been indiscreet, and allowed him to read her secret? and then a horrid thought came across her mind. was he to come there and offer her his hand because he pitied and was sorry for her? the friday fastings and the evening church and the sick visits would be better far than that. she could not however muster courage to ask her father any question as to that interview between him and mr. graham. "well, my love," he said, "i know it is impertinent to ask a young lady to speak on such a subject; but fathers are impertinent. be frank with me. i have told you what i think, and your mamma agrees with me. young mr. orme would have been her favourite--" "oh, papa, that is impossible." "so i perceive, my dear, and therefore we will say no more about it. i only mention his name because i want you to understand that you may speak to your mamma quite openly on the subject. he is a fine young fellow, is peregrine orme." "i'm sure he is, papa." "but that is no reason you should marry him if you don't like him." "i could never like him,--in that way." "very well, my dear. there is an end of that, and i'm sorry for him. i think that if i had been a young man at the cleeve, i should have done just the same. and now let us decide this important question. when master graham's ribs, arms, and collar bones are a little stronger, shall we ask him to come back to noningsby?" "if you please, papa." "very well, we'll have him here for the assize week. poor fellow, he'll have a hard job of work on hand just then, and won't have much time for philandering. with chaffanbrass to watch him on his own side, and leatherham on the other, i don't envy him his position. i almost think i should keep my arm in the sling till the assizes were over, by way of exciting a little pity." "is mr. graham going to defend lady mason?" "to help to do so, my dear." "but, papa, she is innocent; don't you feel sure of that?" the judge was not quite so sure as he had been once. however, he said nothing of his doubts to madeline. "mr. graham's task on that account will only be the more trying if it becomes difficult to establish her innocence." "poor lady!" said madeline. "you won't be the judge; will you, papa?" "no, certainly not. i would have preferred to have gone any other circuit than to have presided in a case affecting so near a neighbour, and i may almost say a friend. baron maltby will sit in that court." "and will mr. graham have to do much, papa?" "it will be an occasion of very great anxiety to him, no doubt." and then they began to return home,--madeline forming a little plan in her mind by which mr. furnival and mr. chaffanbrass were to fail absolutely in making out that lady's innocence, but the fact was to be established to the satisfaction of the whole court, and of all the world, by the judicious energy of felix graham. on their homeward journey the judge again spoke of pictures and books, of failures and successes, and madeline listened to him gratefully. but she did not again take much part in the conversation. she could not now express a very fluent opinion on any subject, and to tell the truth, could have been well satisfied to have been left entirely to her own thoughts. but just before they came out again upon the road, her father stopped her and asked a direct question. "tell me, madeline, are you happy now?" [illustration: "tell me, madeline, are you happy now?"] "yes, papa." "that is right. and what you are to understand is this; mr. graham will now be privileged by your mother and me to address you. he has already asked my permission to do so, and i told him that i must consider the matter before i either gave it or withheld it. i shall now give him that permission." whereupon madeline made her answer by a slight pressure upon his arm. "but you may be sure of this, my dear; i shall be very discreet, and commit you to nothing. if he should choose to ask you any question, you will be at liberty to give him any answer that you may think fit." but madeline at once confessed to herself that no such liberty remained to her. if mr. graham should choose to ask her a certain question, it would be in her power to give him only one answer. had he been kept away, had her father told her that such a marriage might not be, she would not have broken her heart. she had already told herself, that under such circumstances, she could live and still live contented. but now,--now if the siege were made, the town would have to capitulate at the first shot. was it not an understood thing that the governor had been recommended by the king to give up the keys as soon as they were asked for? "you will tell your mamma of this my dear," said the judge, as they were entering their own gate. "yes," said madeline. but she felt that, in this matter, her father was more surely her friend than her mother. and indeed she could understand her mother's opposition to poor felix, much better than her father's acquiescence. "do, my dear. what is anything to us in this world, if we are not all happy together? she thinks that you have become sad, and she must know that you are so no longer." "but i have not been sad, papa," said madeline, thinking with some pride of her past heroism. when they reached the hall-door she had one more question to ask; but she could not look in her father's face as she asked. "papa, is that review you were speaking of here at noningsby?" "you will find it on my study table; but remember, madeline, i don't above half go along with him." the judge went into his study before dinner, and found that the review had been taken. chapter lix. no surrender. sir peregrine orme had gone up to london, had had his interview with mr. round, and had failed. he had then returned home, and hardly a word on the subject had been spoken between him and mrs. orme. indeed little or nothing was now said between them as to lady mason or the trial. what was the use of speaking on a subject that was in every way the cause of so much misery? he had made up his mind that it was no longer possible for him to take any active step in the matter. he had become bail for her appearance in court, and that was the last trifling act of friendship which he could show her. how was it any longer possible that he could befriend her? he could not speak up on her behalf with eager voice, and strong indignation against her enemies, as had formerly been his practice. he could give her no counsel. his counsel would have taught her to abandon the property in the first instance, let the result be what it might. he had made his little effort in that direction by seeing the attorney, and his little effort had been useless. it was quite clear to him that there was nothing further for him to do;--nothing further for him, who but a week or two since was so actively putting himself forward and letting the world know that he was lady mason's champion. would he have to go into court as a witness? his mind was troubled much in his endeavour to answer that question. he had been her great friend. for years he had been her nearest neighbour. his daughter-in-law still clung to her. she had lived at his house. she had been chosen to be his wife. who could speak to her character, if he could not do so? and yet, what could he say, if so called on? mr. furnival, mr. chaffanbrass--all those who would have the selection of the witnesses, believing themselves in their client's innocence, as no doubt they did, would of course imagine that he believed in it also. could he tell them that it would not be in his power to utter a single word in her favour? in these days mrs. orme went daily to the farm. indeed, she never missed a day from that on which lady mason left the cleeve up to the time of the trial. it seemed to sir peregrine that his daughter's affection for this woman had grown with the knowledge of her guilt; but, as i have said before, no discussion on the matter now took place between them. mrs. orme would generally take some opportunity of saying that she had been at orley farm; but that was all. sir peregrine during this time never left the house once, except for morning service on sundays. he hung his hat up on its accustomed peg when he returned from that ill-omened visit to mr. round, and did not move it for days, ay, for weeks,--except on sunday mornings. at first his groom would come to him, suggesting to him that he should ride, and the woodman would speak to him about the young coppices; but after a few days they gave up their efforts. his grandson also strove to take him out, speaking to him more earnestly than the servants would do, but it was of no avail. peregrine, indeed, gave up the attempt sooner, for to him his grandfather did in some sort confess his own weakness. "i have had a blow," said he; "peregrine, i have had a blow. i am too old to bear up against it;--too old and too weak." peregrine knew that he alluded in some way to that proposed marriage, but he was quite in the dark as to the manner in which his grandfather had been affected by it. "people think nothing of that now, sir," said he, groping in the dark as he strove to administer consolation. "people will think of it;--and i think of it. but never mind, my boy. i have lived my life, and am contented with it. i have lived my life, and have great joy that such as you are left behind to take my place. if i had really injured you i should have broken my heart--have broken my heart." peregrine of course assured him that let what would come to him the pride which he had in his grandfather would always support him. "i don't know anybody else that i could be so proud of," said peregrine; "for nobody else that i see thinks so much about other people. and i always was, even when i didn't seem to think much about it;--always." poor peregrine! circumstances had somewhat altered him since that day, now not more than six months ago, in which he had pledged himself to abandon the delights of cowcross street. as long as there was a hope for him with madeline staveley all this might be very well. he preferred madeline to cowcross street with all its delights. but when there should be no longer any hope--and indeed, as things went now, there was but little ground for hoping--what then? might it not be that his trial had come on him too early in life, and that he would solace himself in his disappointment, if not with carroty bob, with companionships and pursuits which would be as objectionable, and perhaps more expensive? on three or four occasions his grandfather asked him how things were going at noningsby, striving to interest himself in something as to which the outlook was not altogether dismal, and by degrees learned,--not exactly all the truth--but as much of the truth as peregrine knew. "do as she tells you," said the grandfather, referring to lady staveley's last words. "i suppose i must," said peregrine, sadly. "there's nothing else for it. but if there's anything that i hate in this world, it's waiting." "you are both very young," said his grandfather. "yes; we are what people call young, i suppose. but i don't understand all that. why isn't a fellow to be happy when he's young as well as when he's old?" sir peregrine did not answer him, but no doubt thought that he might alter his opinion in a few years. there is great doubt as to what may be the most enviable time of life with a man. i am inclined to think that it is at that period when his children have all been born but have not yet began to go astray or to vex him with disappointment; when his own pecuniary prospects are settled, and he knows pretty well what his tether will allow him; when the appetite is still good and the digestive organs at their full power; when he has ceased to care as to the length of his girdle, and before the doctor warns him against solid breakfasts and port wine after dinner; when his affectations are over and his infirmities have not yet come upon him; while he can still walk his ten miles, and feel some little pride in being able to do so; while he has still nerve to ride his horse to hounds, and can look with some scorn on the ignorance of younger men who have hardly yet learned that noble art. as regards men, this, i think, is the happiest time of life; but who shall answer the question as regards women? in this respect their lot is more liable to disappointment. with the choicest flowers that blow the sweetest aroma of their perfection lasts but for a moment. the hour that sees them at their fullest glory sees also the beginning of their fall. on one morning before the trial sir peregrine rang his bell and requested that mr. peregrine might be asked to come to him. mr. peregrine was out at the moment, and did not make his appearance much before dark, but the baronet had fully resolved upon having this interview, and ordered that the dinner should be put back for half an hour. "tell mrs. orme, with my compliments," he said, "that if it does not put her to inconvenience we will not dine till seven." it put mrs. orme to no inconvenience; but i am inclined to agree with the cook, who remarked that the compliments ought to have been sent to her. "sit down, peregrine," he said, when his grandson entered his room with his thick boots and muddy gaiters. "i have been thinking of something." "i and samson have been cutting down trees all day," said peregrine. "you've no conception how the water lies down in the bottom there; and there's a fall every yard down to the river. it's a sin not to drain it." "any sins of that kind, my boy, shall lie on your own head for the future. i will wash my hands of them." "then i'll go to work at once," said peregrine, not quite understanding his grandfather. "you must go to work on more than that, peregrine." and then the old man paused. "you must not think that i am doing this because i am unhappy for the hour, or that i shall repent it when the moment has gone by." "doing what?" asked peregrine. "i have thought much of it, and i know that i am right. i cannot get out as i used to do, and do not care to meet people about business." "i never knew you more clear-headed in my life, sir." "well, perhaps not. we'll say nothing about that. what i intend to do is this;--to give up the property into your hands at lady-day. you shall be master of the cleeve from that time forth." "sir?" "the truth is, you desire employment, and i don't. the property is small, and therefore wants the more looking after. i have never had a regular land steward, but have seen to that myself. if you'll take my advice you'll do the same. there is no better employment for a gentleman. so now, my boy, you may go to work and drain wherever you like. about that crutchley bottom i have no doubt you're right. i don't know why it has been neglected." these last words the baronet uttered in a weak, melancholy tone, asking, as it were, forgiveness for his fault; whereas he had spoken out the purport of his great resolution with a clear, strong voice, as though the saying of the words pleased him well. "i could not hear of such a thing as that," said his grandson, after a short pause. "but you have heard it, perry, and you may be quite sure that i should not have named it had i not fully resolved upon it. i have been thinking of it for days, and have quite made up my mind. you won't turn me out of the house, i know." "all the same, i will not hear of it," said the young man, stoutly. "peregrine!" "i know very well what it all means, sir, and i am not at all astonished. you have wished to do something out of sheer goodness of heart, and you have been balked." "we will not talk about that, peregrine." "but i must say a few words about it. all that has made you unhappy, and--and--and--" he wanted to explain that his grandfather was ashamed of his baffled attempt, and for that reason was cowed and down at heart at the present moment; but that in the three or four months when this trial would be over and the wonder passed away, all that would be forgotten, and he would be again as well as ever. but peregrine, though he understood all this, was hardly able to express himself. "my boy," said the old man, "i know very well what you mean. what you say is partly true, and partly not quite true. some day, perhaps, when we are sitting here together over the fire, i shall be better able to talk over all this; but not now, perry. god has been very good to me, and given me so much that i will not repine at this sorrow. i have lived my life, and am content." "oh yes, of course all that's true enough. and if god should choose that you should--die, you know, or i either, some people would be sorry, but we shouldn't complain ourselves. but what i say is this: you should never give up as long as you live. there's a sort of feeling about it which i can't explain. one should always say to oneself, no surrender." and peregrine, as he spoke, stood up from his chair, thrust his hands into his trouser-pockets, and shook his head. [illustration: "no surrender."] sir peregrine smiled as he answered him. "but perry, my boy, we can't always say that. when the heart and the spirit and the body have all surrendered, why should the voice tell a foolish falsehood?" "but it shouldn't be a falsehood," said peregrine. "nobody should ever knock under of his own accord." "you are quite right there, my boy; you are quite right there. stick to that yourself. but, remember, that you are not to knock under to any of your enemies. the worst that you will meet with are folly, and vice, and extravagance." "that's of course," said peregrine, by no means wishing on the present occasion to bring under discussion his future contests with any such enemies as those now named by his grandfather. "and now, suppose you dress for dinner," said the baronet. "i've got ahead of you there you see. what i've told you to-day i have already told your mother." "i'm sure she doesn't think you right." "if she thinks me wrong, she is too kind and well-behaved to say so,--which is more than i can say for her son. your mother, perry, never told me that i was wrong yet, though she has had many occasions;--too many, too many. but, come, go and dress for dinner." "you are wrong in this, sir, if ever you were wrong in your life," said peregrine, leaving the room. his grandfather did not answer him again, but followed him out of the door, and walked briskly across the hall into the drawing-room. "there's peregrine been lecturing me about draining," he said to his daughter-in-law, striving to speak in a half-bantering tone of voice, as though things were going well with him. "lecturing you!" said mrs. orme. "and he's right, too. there's nothing like it. he'll make a better farmer, i take it, than lucius mason. you'll live to see him know the value of an acre of land as well as any man in the county. it's the very thing that he's fit for. he'll do better with the property than ever i did." there was something beautiful in the effort which the old man was making when watched by the eyes of one who knew him as well as did his daughter-in-law. she knew him, and understood all the workings of his mind, and the deep sorrow of his heart. in very truth, the star of his life was going out darkly under a cloud; but he was battling against his sorrow and shame--not that he might be rid of them himself, but that others might not have to share them. that doctrine of "no surrender" was strong within his bosom, and he understood the motto in a finer sense than that in which his grandson had used it. he would not tell them that his heart was broken,--not if he could help it. he would not display his wound if it might be in his power to hide it. he would not confess that lands, and houses, and seignorial functions were no longer of value in his eyes. as far as might be possible he would bear his own load till that and the memory of his last folly might be hidden together in the grave. but he knew that he was no longer fit for a man's work, and that it would be well that he should abandon it. he had made a terrible mistake. in his old age he had gambled for a large stake, and had lost it all. he had ventured to love;--to increase the small number of those who were nearest and dearest to him, to add one to those whom he regarded as best and purest,--and he had been terribly deceived. he had for many years almost worshipped the one lady who had sat at his table, and now in his old age he had asked her to share her place of honour with another. what that other was need not now be told. and the world knew that this woman was to have been his wife! he had boasted loudly that he would give her that place and those rights. he had ventured his all upon her innocence and her purity. he had ventured his all,--and he had lost. i do not say that on this account there was any need that he should be stricken to the ground,--that it behoved him as a man of high feeling to be broken-hearted. he would have been a greater man had he possessed the power to bear up against all this, and to go forth to the world bearing his burden bravely on his shoulders. but sir peregrine orme was not a great man, and possessed few or none of the elements of greatness. he was a man of a singularly pure mind, and endowed with a strong feeling of chivalry. it had been everything to him to be spoken of by the world as a man free from reproach,--who had lived with clean hands and with clean people around him. all manner of delinquencies he could forgive in his dependents which did not tell of absolute baseness; but it would have half killed him had he ever learned that those he loved had become false or fraudulent. when his grandson had come to trouble about the rats, he had acted, not over-cleverly, a certain amount of paternal anger; but had peregrine broken his promise to him, no acting would have been necessary. it may therefore be imagined what were now his feelings as to lady mason. her he could forgive for deceiving him. he had told his daughter-in-law that he would forgive her; and it was a thing done. but he could not forgive himself in that he had been deceived. he could not forgive himself for having mingled with the sweet current of his edith's life the foul waters of that criminal tragedy. he could not now bid her desert lady mason: for was it not true that the woman's wickedness was known to them two, through her resolve not to injure those who had befriended her? but all this made the matter worse rather than better to him. it is all very well to say, "no surrender;" but when the load placed upon the back is too heavy to be borne, the back must break or bend beneath it. his load was too heavy to be borne, and therefore he said to himself that he would put it down. he would not again see lord alston and the old friends of former days. he would attend no more at the magistrates' bench, but would send his grandson out into his place. for the few days that remained to him in this world, he might be well contented to abandon the turmoils and troubles of life. "it will not be for long," he said to himself over and over again. and then he would sit in his arm-chair for hours, intending to turn his mind to such solemn thoughts as might befit a dying man. but, as he sat there, he would still think of lady mason. he would remember her as she had leaned against his breast on that day that he kissed her; and then he would remember her as she was when she spoke those horrid words to him--"yes; i did it; at night, when i was alone." and this was the woman whom he had loved! this was the woman whom he still loved,--if all the truth might be confessed. his grandson, though he read much of his grandfather's mind, had failed to read it all. he did not know how often sir peregrine repeated to himself those words, "no surrender," or how gallantly he strove to live up to them. lands and money and seats of honour he would surrender, as a man surrenders his tools when he has done his work; but his tone of feeling and his principle he would not surrender, though the maintenance of them should crush him with their weight. the woman had been very vile, desperately false, wicked beyond belief, with premeditated villany, for years and years;--and this was the woman whom he had wished to make the bosom companion of his latter days! "samson is happy now, i suppose, that he has got the axe in his hand," he said to his grandson. "pretty well for that, sir, i think." "that man will cut down every tree about the place, if you'll let him." and in that way he strove to talk about the affairs of the property. chapter lx. what rebekah did for her son. every day mrs. orme went up to orley farm and sat for two hours with lady mason. we may say that there was now no longer any secret between them, and that she whose life had been so innocent, so pure, and so good, could look into the inmost heart and soul of that other woman whose career had been supported by the proceeds of one terrible life-long iniquity. and now, by degrees, lady mason would begin to plead for herself, or rather, to put in a plea for the deed she had done, acknowledging, however, that she, the doer of it, had fallen almost below forgiveness through the crime. "was he not his son as much as that other one; and had i not deserved of him that he should do this thing for me?" and again "never once did i ask of him any favour for myself from the day that i gave myself to him, because he had been good to my father and mother. up to the very hour of his death i never asked him to spend a shilling on my own account. but i asked him to do this thing for his child; and when at last he refused me, i told him that i myself would cause it to be done." "you told him so?" "i did; and i think that he believed me. he knew that i was one who would act up to my word. i told him that orley farm should belong to our babe." "and what did he say?" "he bade me beware of my soul. my answer was very terrible, and i will not shock you with it. ah me! it is easy to talk of repentance, but repentance will not come with a word." in these days mrs. orme became gradually aware that hitherto she had comprehended but little of lady mason's character. there was a power of endurance about her, and a courage that was almost awful to the mind of the weaker, softer, and better woman. lady mason, during her sojourn at the cleeve, had seemed almost to sink under her misfortune; nor had there been any hypocrisy, any pretence in her apparent misery. she had been very wretched;--as wretched a human creature, we may say, as any crawling god's earth at that time. but she had borne her load, and, bearing it, had gone about her work, still striving with desperate courage as the ground on which she trod continued to give way beneath her feet, inch by inch. they had known and pitied her misery; they had loved her for misery--as it is in the nature of such people to do;--but they had little known how great had been the cause for it. they had sympathised with the female weakness which had succumbed when there was hardly any necessity for succumbing. had they then known all, they would have wondered at the strength which made a struggle possible under such circumstances. even now she would not yield. i have said that there had been no hypocrisy in her misery during those weeks last past; and i have said so truly. but there had perhaps been some pretences, some acting of a part, some almost necessary pretence as to her weakness. was she not bound to account to those around her for her great sorrow? and was it not above all things needful that she should enlist their sympathy and obtain their aid? she had been obliged to cry to them for help, though obliged also to confess that there was little reason for such crying. "i am a woman, and weak," she had said, "and therefore cannot walk alone, now that the way is stony." but what had been the truth with her? how would she have cried, had it been possible for her to utter the sharp cry of her heart? the waters had been closing over her head, and she had clutched at a hand to save her; but the owner of that hand might not know how imminent, how close was the danger. but in these days, as she sat in her own room with mrs. orme, the owner of that hand might know everything. the secret had been told, and there was no longer need for pretence. as she could now expose to view the whole load of her wretchedness, so also could she make known the strength that was still left for endurance. and these two women who had become endeared to each other under such terrible circumstances, came together at these meetings with more of the equality of friendship than had ever existed at the cleeve. it may seem strange that it should be so--strange that the acknowledged forger of her husband's will should be able to maintain a better claim for equal friendship than the lady who was believed to be innocent and true! but it was so. now she stood on true ground;--now, as she sat there with mrs. orme, she could speak from her heart, pouring forth the real workings of her mind. from mrs. orme she had no longer aught to fear; nor from sir peregrine. everything was known to them, and she could now tell of every incident of her crime with an outspoken boldness that in itself was incompatible with the humble bearing of an inferior in the presence of one above her. and she did still hope. the one point to be gained was this; that her son, her only son, the child on whose behalf this crime had been committed, should never know her shame, or live to be disgraced by her guilt. if she could be punished, she would say, and he left in ignorance of her punishment, she would not care what indignities they might heap upon her. she had heard of penal servitude, of years, terribly long, passed in all the misery of vile companionship; of solitary confinement, and the dull madness which it engenders; of all the terrors of a life spent under circumstances bearable only by the uneducated, the rude, and the vile. but all this was as nothing to her compared with the loss of honour to her son. "i should live," she would say; "but he would die. you cannot ask me to become his murderer!" it was on this point that they differed always. mrs. orme would have had her confess everything to lucius, and strove to make her understand that if he were so told, the blow would fall less heavily than it would do if the knowledge came to him from her conviction at the trial. but the mother would not bring herself to believe that it was absolutely necessary that he should ever know it. "there was the property! yes; but let the trial come, and if she were acquitted, then let some arrangement be made about that. the lawyers might find out some cause why it should be surrendered." but mrs. orme feared that if the trial were over, and the criminal saved from justice, the property would not be surrendered. and then how would that wish of repentance be possible? after all was not that the one thing necessary? i will not say that mrs. orme in these days ever regretted that her sympathy and friendship had been thus bestowed, but she frequently acknowledged to herself that the position was too difficult for her. there was no one whose assistance she could ask; for she felt that she could not in this matter ask counsel from sir peregrine. she herself was good, and pure, and straightminded, and simple in her perception of right and wrong; but lady mason was greater than she in force of character,--a stronger woman in every way, endowed with more force of will, with more power of mind, with greater energy, and a swifter flow of words. sometimes she almost thought it would be better that she should stay away from orley farm; but then she had promised to be true to her wretched friend, and the mother's solicitude for her son still softened the mother's heart. in these days, till the evening came, lucius mason never made his way into his mother's sitting-room, which indeed was the drawing-room of the house,--and he and mrs. orme, as a rule, hardly ever met each other. if he saw her as she entered or left the place, he would lift his hat to her and pass by without speaking. he was not admitted to those councils of his mother's, and would not submit to ask after his mother's welfare or to inquire as to her affairs from a stranger. on no other subject was it possible that he should now speak to the daily visitor and the only visitor at orley farm. all this mrs. orme understood, and saw that the young man was alone and comfortless. he passed his hours below, in his own room, and twice a day his mother found him in the parlour, and then they sat through their silent, miserable meals. she would then leave him, always saying some soft words of motherly love, and putting her hand either upon his shoulder or his arm. on such occasions he was never rough to her, but he would never respond to her caress. she had ill-treated him, preferring in her trouble the assistance of a stranger to his assistance. she would ask him neither for his money nor his counsel, and as she had thus chosen to stand aloof from him, he also would stand aloof from her. not for always,--as he said to himself over and over again; for his heart misgave him when he saw the lines of care so plainly written on his mother's brow. not for always should it be so. the day of the trial would soon be present, and the day of the trial would soon be over; then again would they be friends. poor young man! unfortunate young man! mrs. orme saw all this, and to her it was very terrible. what would be the world to her, if her boy should frown at her, and look black when she caressed him? and she thought that it was the fault of the mother rather than of the son; as indeed was not all that wretchedness the mother's fault? but then again, there was the one great difficulty. how could any step be taken in the right direction till the whole truth had been confessed to him? the two women were sitting together in that up stairs room; and the day of the trial was now not a full week distant from them, when mrs. orme again tried to persuade the mother to intrust her son with the burden of all her misery. on the preceding day mr. solomon aram had been down at orley farm, and had been with lady mason for an hour. "he knows the truth!" lady mason had said to her friend. "i am sure of that." "but did he ask you?" "oh, no, he did not ask me that. he asked of little things that happened at the time; but from his manner i am sure he knows it all. he says--that i shall escape." "did he say escape?" "no; not that word, but it was the same thing. he spoke to lucius, for i saw them on the lawn together." "you do not know what he said to him?" "no; for lucius would not speak to me, and i could not ask him." and then they both were silent, for mrs. orme was thinking how she could bring about that matter that was so near her heart. lady mason was seated in a large old-fashioned arm-chair, in which she now passed nearly all her time. the table was by her side, but she rarely turned herself to it. she sat leaning with her elbow on her arm, supporting her face with her hand; and opposite to her, so close that she might look into her face and watch every movement of her eyes, sat mrs. orme,--intent upon that one thing, that the woman before her should be brought to repent the evil she had done. "and you have not spoken to lucius?" "no," she answered. "no more than i have told you. what could i say to him about the man?" "not about mr. aram. it might not be necessary to speak of him. he has his work to do; and i suppose that he must do it in his own way?" "yes; he must do it, in his own way. lucius would not understand." "unless you told him everything, of course he could not understand." "that is impossible." "no, lady mason, it is not impossible. dear lady mason, do not turn from me in that way. it is for your sake,--because i love you, that i press you to do this. if he knew it all--" "could you tell your son such a tale?" said lady mason, turning upon her sharply, and speaking almost with an air of anger. mrs. orme was for a moment silenced, for she could not at once bring herself to conceive it possible that she could be so circumstanced. but at last she answered. "yes," she said, "i think i could, if--." and then she paused. "if you had done such a deed! ah, you do not know, for the doing of it would be impossible to you. you can never understand what was my childhood, and how my young years were passed. i never loved anything but him;--that is, till i knew you, and--and--." but instead of finishing her sentence she pointed down towards the cleeve. "how, then, can i tell him? mrs. orme, i would let them pull me to pieces, bit by bit, if in that way i could save him." "not in that way," said mrs. orme; "not in that way." but lady mason went on pouring forth the pent-up feelings of her bosom, not regarding the faint words of her companion. "till he lay in my arms i had loved nothing. from my earliest years i had been taught to love money, wealth, and property; but as to myself the teachings had never come home to me. when they bade me marry the old man because he was rich, i obeyed them,--not caring for his riches, but knowing that it behoved me to relieve them of the burden of my support. he was kinder to me than they had been, and i did for him the best i could. but his money and his wealth were little to me. he told me over and over again that when he died i should have the means to live, and that was enough. i would not pretend to him that i cared for the grandeur of his children who despised me. but then came my baby, and the world was all altered for me. what could i do for the only thing that i had ever called my own? money and riches they had told me were everything." "but they had told you wrong," said mrs. orme, as she wiped the tears from her eyes. "they had told me falsely. i had heard nothing but falsehoods from my youth upwards," she answered fiercely. "for myself i had not cared for these things; but why should not he have money and riches and land? his father had them to give over and above what had already made those sons and daughters so rich and proud. why should not this other child also be his father's heir? was he not as well born as they? was he not as fair a child? what did rebekah do, mrs. orme? did she not do worse; and did it not all go well with her? why should my boy be an ishmael? why should i be treated as the bondwoman, and see my little one perish of thirst in this world's wilderness?" "no saviour had lived and died for the world in those days," said mrs. orme. "and no saviour had lived and died for me," said the wretched woman, almost shrieking in her despair. the lines of her face were terrible to be seen as she thus spoke, and an agony of anguish loaded her brow upon which mrs. orme was frightened to look. she fell on her knees before the wretched woman, and taking her by both her hands strove all she could to find some comfort for her. "ah, do not say so. do not say that. whatever may come, that misery--that worst of miseries need not oppress you. if that indeed were true!" "it was true;--and how should it be otherwise?" "but now,--now. it need not be true now. lady mason, for your soul's sake say that it is so now." "mrs. orme," she said, speaking with a singular quiescence of tone after the violence of her last words, "it seems to me that i care more for his soul than for my own. for myself i can bear even that. but if he were a castaway--!" i will not attempt to report the words that passed between them for the next half-hour, for they concerned a matter which i may not dare to handle too closely in such pages as these. but mrs. orme still knelt there at her feet, pressing lady mason's hands, pressing against her knees, as with all the eagerness of true affection she endeavoured to bring her to a frame of mind that would admit of some comfort. but it all ended in this:--let everything be told to lucius, so that the first step back to honesty might be taken,--and then let them trust to him whose mercy can ever temper the wind to the shorn lamb. but, as lady mason had once said to herself, repentance will not come with a word. "i cannot tell him," she said at last. "it is a thing impossible. i should die at his feet before the words were spoken." "i will do it for you," said mrs. orme, offering from pure charity to take upon herself a task perhaps as heavy as any that a human creature could perform. "i will tell him." "no, no," screamed lady mason, taking mrs. orme by both her arms as she spoke. "you will not do so: say that you will not. remember your promise to me. remember why it is that you know it all yourself." "i will not, surely, unless you bid me," said mrs. orme. "no, no; i do not bid you. mind, i do not bid you. i will not have it done. better anything than that, while it may yet be avoided. i have your promise; have i not?" "oh, yes; of course i should not do it unless you told me." and then, after some further short stay, during which but little was said, mrs. orme got up to go. "you will come to me to-morrow," said lady mason. "yes, certainly," said mrs. orme. "because i feared that i had offended you." "oh, no; i will take no offence from you." "you should not, for you know what i have to bear. you know, and no one else knows. sir peregrine does not know. he cannot understand. but you know and understand it all. and, mrs. orme, what you do now will be counted to you for great treasure,--for very great treasure. you are better than the samaritan, for he went on his way. but you will stay till the last. yes; i know you will stay." and the poor creature kissed her only friend;--kissed her hands and her forehead and her breast. then mrs. orme went without speaking, for her heart was full, and the words would not come to her; but as she went she said to herself that she would stay till the last. standing alone on the steps before the front door she found lucius mason all alone, and some feeling moved her to speak a word to him as she passed. "i hope all this does not trouble you much, mr. mason," she said, offering her hand to him. she felt that her words were hypocritical as she was speaking them; but under such circumstances what else could she say to him? "well, mrs. orme, such an episode in one's family history does give one some trouble. i am unhappy,--very unhappy; but not too much so to thank you for your most unusual kindness to my poor mother." and then, having been so far encouraged by her speaking to him, he accompanied her round the house on to the lawn, from whence a path led away through a shrubbery on to the road which would take her by the village of coldharbour to the cleeve. "mr. mason," she said, as they walked for a few steps together before the house, "do not suppose that i presume to interfere between you and your mother." "you have a right to interfere now," he said. "but i think you might comfort her if you would be more with her. would it not be better if you could talk freely together about all this?" "it would be better," he said; "but i fear that that is no longer possible. when this trial is over, and the world knows that she is innocent; when people shall see how cruelly she has been used--" mrs. orme might not tell the truth to him, but she could with difficulty bear to hear him dwell thus confidently on hopes which were so false. "the future is in the hands of god, mr. mason; but for the present--" "the present and the future are both in his hands, mrs. orme. i know my mother's innocence, and would have done a son's part towards establishing it;--but she would not allow me. all this will soon be over now, and then, i trust, she and i will once again understand each other. till then i doubt whether i shall be wise to interfere. good morning, mrs. orme; and pray believe that i appreciate at its full worth all that you are doing for her." then he again lifted his hat and left her. lady mason from her window saw them as they walked together, and her heart for a moment misgave her. could it be that her friend was treacherous to her? was it possible that even now she was telling everything that she had sworn that she would not tell? why were they two together, seeing that they passed each other day by day without intercourse? and so she watched with anxious eyes till they parted, and then she saw that lucius stood idly on the terrace swinging his stick as he looked down the hill towards the orchard below him. he would not have stood thus calmly had he already heard his mother's shame. this she knew, and having laid aside her immediate fears she retreated back to her chair. no; she would not tell him: at any rate till the trial should be over. chapter lxi. the state of public opinion. the day of the trial was now quickly coming on, and the london world, especially the world of lawyers, was beginning to talk much on the subject. men about the inns of court speculated as to the verdict, offering to each other very confident opinions as to the result, and offering, on some occasions, bets as well as opinions. the younger world of barristers was clearly of opinion that lady mason was innocent; but a portion, an unhappy portion, was inclined to fear, that, in spite of her innocence, she would be found guilty. the elder world of barristers was not, perhaps, so demonstrative, but in that world the belief in her innocence was not so strong, and the fear of her condemnation much stronger. the attorneys, as a rule, regarded her as guilty. to the policeman's mind every man not a policeman is a guilty being, and the attorneys perhaps share something of this feeling. but the attorneys to a man expected to see her acquitted. great was their faith in mr. furnival; great their faith in solomon aram; but greater than in all was their faith in mr. chaffanbrass. if mr. chaffanbrass could not pull her through, with a prescription of twenty years on her side, things must be very much altered indeed in our english criminal court. to the outer world, that portion of the world which had nothing to do with the administration of the law, the idea of lady mason having been guilty seemed preposterous. of course she was innocent, and of course she would be found to be innocent. and of course, also, that joseph mason of groby park was, and would be found to be, the meanest, the lowest, the most rapacious of mankind. and then the story of sir peregrine's attachment and proposed marriage, joined as it was to various hints of the manner in which that marriage had been broken off, lent a romance to the whole affair, and added much to lady mason's popularity. everybody had now heard of it, and everybody was also aware, that though the idea of a marriage had been abandoned, there had been no quarrel. the friendship between the families was as close as ever, and sir peregrine,--so it was understood--had pledged himself to an acquittal. it was felt to be a public annoyance that an affair of so exciting a nature should be allowed to come off in the little town of alston. the court-house, too, was very defective in its arrangements, and ill qualified to give accommodation to the great body of would-be attendants at the trial. one leading newspaper went so far as to suggest, that in such a case as this, the antediluvian prejudices of the british grandmother--meaning the constitution--should be set aside, and the trial should take place in london. but i am not aware that any step was taken towards the carrying out of so desirable a project. down at hamworth the feeling in favour of lady mason was not perhaps so strong as it was elsewhere. dockwrath was a man not much respected, but nevertheless many believed in him; and down there, in the streets of hamworth, he was not slack in propagating his view of the question. he had no doubt, he said, how the case would go. he had no doubt, although he was well aware that mr. mason's own lawyers would do all they could to throw over their own client. but he was too strong, he said, even for that. the facts as he would bring them forward would confound round and crook, and compel any jury to find a verdict of guilty. i do not say that all hamworth believed in dockwrath, but his energy and confidence did have its effect, and lady mason's case was not upheld so strongly in her own neighbourhood as elsewhere. the witnesses in these days were of course very important persons, and could not but feel the weight of that attention which the world would certainly pay to them. there would be four chief witnesses for the prosecution; dockwrath himself, who would be prepared to speak as to the papers left behind him by old usbech; the man in whose possession now remained that deed respecting the partnership which was in truth executed by old sir joseph on that fourteenth of july; bridget bolster; and john kenneby. of the manner in which mr. dockwrath used his position we already know enough. the man who held the deed, one torrington, was a relative of martock, sir joseph's partner, and had been one of his executors. it was not much indeed that he had to say, but that little sent him up high in the social scale during those days. he lived at kennington, and he was asked out to dinner in that neighbourhood every day for a week running, on the score of his connection with the great orley farm case. bridget bolster was still down at the hotel in the west of england, and being of a solid, sensible, and somewhat unimaginative turn of mind, probably went through her duties to the last without much change of manner. but the effect of the coming scenes upon poor john kenneby was terrible. it was to him as though for the time they had made of him an atlas, and compelled him to bear on his weak shoulders the weight of the whole world. men did talk much about lady mason and the coming trial; but to him it seemed as though men talked of nothing else. at hubbles and grease's it was found useless to put figures into his hands till all this should be over. indeed it was doubted by many whether he would ever recover his ordinary tone of mind. it seemed to be understood that he would be cross-examined by chaffanbrass, and there were those who thought that john kenneby would never again be equal to a day's work after that which he would then be made to endure. that he would have been greatly relieved could the whole thing have been wiped away from him there can be no manner of doubt; but i fancy that he would also have been disappointed. it is much to be great for a day, even though the day's greatness should cause the shipwreck of a whole life. "i shall endeavour to speak the truth," said john kenneby, solemnly. "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," said moulder. "yes, moulder, that will be my endeavour; and then i may lay my hand upon my bosom and think that i have done my duty by my country." and as kenneby spoke he suited the action to the word. "quite right, john," said mrs. smiley. "them's the sentiments of a man, and i, as a woman having a right to speak where you are concerned, quite approve of them." "they'll get nothing but the truth out of john," said mrs. moulder; "not if he knows it." these last words she added, actuated by admiration of what she had heard of mr. chaffanbrass, and perhaps with some little doubt as to her brother's firmness. "that's where it is," said moulder. "lord bless you, john, they'll turn you round their finger like a bit of red tape. truth! gammon! what do they care for truth?" "but i care, moulder," said kenneby. "i don't suppose they can make me tell falsehoods if i don't wish it." "not if you're the man i take you to be," said mrs. smiley. "gammon!" said moulder. "mr. moulder, that's an objectionable word," said mrs. smiley. "if john kenneby is the man i take him to be,--and who's a right to speak if i haven't, seeing that i am going to commit myself for this world into his hands?"--and mrs. smiley, as she spoke, simpered, and looked down with averted head on the fulness of her irish tabinet--"if he's the man that i take him to be, he won't say on this thrilling occasion no more than the truth, nor yet no less. now that isn't gammon--if i know what gammon is." it will have been already seen that the party in question were assembled at mr. moulder's room in great st. helen's. there had been a little supper party there to commemorate the final arrangements as to the coming marriage, and the four were now sitting round the fire with their glasses of hot toddy at their elbows. moulder was armed with his pipe, and was enjoying himself in that manner which most delighted him. when last we saw him he had somewhat exceeded discretion in his cups, and was not comfortable. but at the present nothing ailed him. the supper had been good, the tobacco was good, and the toddy was good. therefore when the lovely thais sitting beside him,--thais however on this occasion having been provided not for himself but for his brother-in-law,--when thais objected to the use of his favourite word, he merely chuckled down in the bottom of his fat throat, and allowed her to finish her sentence. poor john kenneby had more--much more, on his hands than this dreadful trial. since he had declared that the adriatic was free to wed another, he had found himself devoted and given up to mrs. smiley. for some days after that auspicious evening there had been considerable wrangling between mrs. moulder and mrs. smiley as to the proceeds of the brick-field; and on this question moulder himself had taken a part. the moulder interest had of course desired that all right of management in the brick-field should be vested in the husband, seeing that, according to the usages of this country, brick-fields and their belongings appertain rather to men than to women; but mrs. smiley had soon made it evident that she by no means intended to be merely a sleeping partner in the firm. at one time kenneby had entertained a hope of escape; for neither would the moulder interest give way, nor would the smiley. but two hundred a year was a great stake, and at last the thing was arranged, very much in accordance with the original smiley view. and now at this most trying period of his life, poor kenneby had upon his mind all the cares of a lover as well as the cares of a witness. "i shall do my best," said john. "i shall do my best and then throw myself upon providence." "and take a little drop of something comfortable in your pocket," said his sister, "so as to sperrit you up a little when your name's called." "sperrit him up!" said moulder; "why i suppose he'll be standing in that box the best part of a day. i knowed a man was a witness; it was a case of horse-stealing; and the man who was the witness was the man who'd took the horse." "and he was witness against hisself!" said mrs. smiley. "no; he'd paid for it. that is to say, either he had or he hadn't. that was what they wanted to get out of him, and i'm blessed if he didn't take 'em till the judge wouldn't set there any longer. and then they hadn't got it out of him." "but john kenneby ain't one of that sort," said mrs. smiley. "i suppose that man did not want to unbosom himself," said kenneby. "well; no. the likes of him seldom do like to unbosom themselves," said moulder. "but that will be my desire. if they will only allow me to speak freely whatever i know about this matter, i will give them no trouble." "you mean to act honest, john," said his sister. "i always did, mary anne." "well now, i'll tell you what it is," said moulder. "as mrs. smiley don't like it i won't say anything more about gammon;--not just at present, that is." "i've no objection to gammon, mr. moulder, when properly used," said mrs. smiley, "but i look on it as disrespectful; and seeing the position which i hold as regards john kenneby, anything disrespectful to him is hurtful to my feelings." "all right," said moulder. "and now, john, i'll just tell you what it is. you've no more chance of being allowed to speak freely there than--than--than--no more than if you was in church. what are them fellows paid for if you're to say whatever you pleases out in your own way?" "he only wants to say the truth, m.," said mrs. moulder, who probably knew less than her husband of the general usages of courts of law. "truth be ----," said moulder. "mr. moulder!" said mrs. smiley. "there's ladies by, if you'll please to remember." "to hear such nonsense sets one past oneself," continued he; "as if all those lawyers were brought together there--the cleverest and sharpest fellows in the kingdom, mind you--to listen to a man like john here telling his own story in his own way. you'll have to tell your story in their way; that is, in two different ways. there'll be one fellow'll make you tell it his way first, and another fellow'll make you tell it again his way afterwards; and its odds but what the first 'll be at you again after that, till you won't know whether you stand on your heels or your head." "that can't be right," said mrs. moulder. "and why can't it be right?" said moulder. "they're paid for it; it's their duties; just as it's my duty to sell hubbles and grease's sugar. it's not for me to say the sugar's bad, or the samples not equal to the last. my duty is to sell, and i sell;--and it's their duty to get a verdict." "but the truth, moulder--!" said kenneby. "gammon!" said moulder. "begging your pardon, mrs. smiley, for making use of the expression. look you here, john; if you're paid to bring a man off not guilty, won't you bring him off if you can? i've been at trials times upon times, and listened till i've wished from the bottom of my heart that i'd been brought up a barrister. not that i think much of myself, and i mean of course with education and all that accordingly. it's beautiful to hear them. you'll see a little fellow in a wig, and he'll get up; and there'll be a man in the box before him,--some swell dressed up to his eyes, who thinks no end of strong beer of himself; and in about ten minutes he'll be as flabby as wet paper, and he'll say--on his oath, mind you,--just anything that that little fellow wants him to say. that's power, mind you, and i call it beautiful." "but it ain't justice," said mrs. smiley. "why not? i say it is justice. you can have it if you choose to pay for it, and so can i. if i buy a greatcoat against the winter, and you go out at night without having one, is it injustice because you're perished by the cold while i'm as warm as a toast. i say it's a grand thing to live in a country where one can buy a greatcoat." the argument had got so far, mr. moulder certainly having the best of it, when a ring at the outer door was heard. "now who on earth is that?" said moulder. "snengkeld, i shouldn't wonder," said his wife. "i hope it ain't no stranger," said mrs. smiley. "situated as john and i are now, strangers is so disagreeable." and then the door was opened by the maid-servant, and mr. kantwise was shown into the room. "halloo, kantwise!" said mr. moulder, not rising from his chair, or giving any very decided tokens of welcome. "i thought you were down somewhere among the iron foundries?" "so i was, mr. moulder, but i came up yesterday. mrs. moulder, allow me to have the honour. i hope i see you quite well; but looking at you i need not ask. mr. kenneby, sir, your very humble servant. the day's coming on fast; isn't it, mr. kenneby? ma'am, your very obedient. i believe i haven't the pleasure of being acquainted." "mrs. smiley, mr. kantwise. mr. kantwise, mrs. smiley," said the lady of the house, introducing her visitors to each other in the appropriate way. "quite delighted, i'm sure," said kantwise. "smiley as is, and kenneby as will be this day three weeks," said moulder; and then they all enjoyed that little joke, mrs. smiley by no means appearing bashful in the matter although mr. kantwise was a stranger. "i thought i should find mr. kenneby here," said kantwise, when the subject of the coming nuptials had been sufficiently discussed, "and therefore i just stepped in. no intrusion, i hope, mr. moulder." "all right," said moulder; "make yourself at home. there's the stuff on the table. you know what the tap is." "i've just parted from--mr. dockwrath," said kantwise, speaking in a tone of voice which implied the great importance of the communication, and looking round the table to see the effect of it upon the circle. "then you've parted from a very low-lived party, let me tell you that," said moulder. he had not forgotten dockwrath's conduct in the commercial room at leeds, and was fully resolved that he never would forgive it. "that's as may be," said kantwise. "i say nothing on that subject at the present moment, either one way or the other. but i think you'll all agree as to this: that at the present moment mr. dockwrath fills a conspicuous place in the public eye." "by no means so conspicuous as john kenneby," said mrs. smiley, "if i may be allowed in my position to hold an opinion." "that's as may be, ma'am. i say nothing about that. what i hold by is, that mr. dockwrath does hold a conspicuous place in the public eye. i've just parted with him in gray's inn lane, and he says--that it's all up now with lady mason." "gammon!" said moulder. and on this occasion mrs. smiley did not rebuke him. "what does he know about it more than any one else? will he bet two to one? because, if so, i'll take it;--only i must see the money down." "i don't know what he'll bet, mr. moulder; only he says it's all up with her." "will he back his side, even handed?" "i ain't a betting man, mr. moulder. i don't think it's right. and on such a matter as this, touching the liberty and almost life of a lady whom i've had the honour of seeing, and acquainted as i am with the lady of the other party, mrs. mason that is of groby park, i should rather, if it's no offence to you, decline the subject of--betting." "bother!" "now m., in your own house, you know!" said his wife. "so it is bother. but never mind that. go on, kantwise. what is this you were saying about dockwrath?" "oh, that's about all. i thought you would like to know what they were doing,--particularly mr. kenneby. i do hear that they mean to be uncommonly hard upon him." the unfortunate witness shifted uneasily in his seat, but at the moment said nothing himself. "well, now, i can't understand it," said mrs. smiley, sitting upright in her chair, and tackling herself to the discussion as though she meant to express her opinion, let who might think differently. "how is any one to put words into my mouth if i don't choose to speak then? there's john's waistcoat is silk." upon which they all looked at kenneby's waistcoat, and, with the exception of kantwise, acknowledged the truth of the assertion. "that's as may be," said he, looking round at it from the corner of his eyes. "and do you mean to say that all the barristers in london will make me say that it's made of cloth? it's ridic'lous--nothing short of ridic'lous." "you've never tried, my dear," said moulder. "i don't know about being your dear, mr. moulder--" "nor yet don't i neither, mrs. smiley," said the wife. "mr. kenneby's my dear, and i ain't ashamed to own him,--before men and women. but if he allows hisself to be hocussed in that way, i don't know but what i shall be ashamed. i call it hocussing--just hocussing." "so it is, ma'am," said kantwise, "only this, you know, if i hocus you, why you hocus me in return; so it isn't so very unfair, you know." "unfair!" said moulder. "it's the fairest thing that is. it's the bulwark of the british constitution." "what! being badgered and browbeat?" asked kenneby, who was thinking within himself that if this were so he did not care if he lived somewhere beyond the protection of that blessed Ã�gis. "trial by jury is," said moulder. "and how can you have trial by jury if the witnesses are not to be cross-questioned?" to this position no one was at the moment ready to give an answer, and mr. moulder enjoyed a triumph over his audience. that he lived in a happy and blessed country moulder was well aware, and with those blessings he did not wish any one to tamper. "mother," said a fastidious child to his parent, "the bread is gritty and the butter tastes of turnips." "turnips indeed,--and gritty!" said the mother. "is it not a great thing to have bread and butter at all?" i own that my sympathies are with the child. bread and butter is a great thing; but i would have it of the best if that be possible. after that mr. kantwise was allowed to dilate upon the subject which had brought him there. mr. dockwrath had been summoned to bedford row, and there had held a council of war together with mr. joseph mason and mr. matthew round. according to his own story mr. matthew had quite come round and been forced to acknowledge all that dockwrath had done for the cause. in bedford row there was no doubt whatever as to the verdict. "that woman bolster is quite clear that she only signed one deed," said kantwise. "i shall say nothing--nothing here," said kenneby. "quite right, john," said mrs. smiley. "your feelings on the occasion become you." "i'll lay an even bet she's acquitted," said moulder. "and i'll do it in a ten-p'und note." chapter lxii. what the four lawyers thought about it. i have spoken of the state of public opinion as to lady mason's coming trial, and have explained that for the most part men's thoughts and sympathies took part with her. but i cannot say that such was the case with the thoughts of those who were most closely concerned with her in the matter,--whatever may have been their sympathies. of the state of mr. furnival's mind on the matter enough has been said. but if he had still entertained any shadow of doubt as to his client's guilt or innocence, none whatever was entertained either by mr. aram or by mr. chaffanbrass. from the day on which they had first gone into the real circumstances of the case, looking into the evidence which could be adduced against their client, and looking also to their means of rebutting that evidence, they had never felt a shadow of doubt upon the subject. but yet neither of them had ever said that she was guilty. aram, in discussing with his clerks the work which it was necessary that they should do in the matter, had never expressed such an opinion; nor had chaffanbrass done so in the consultations which he had held with aram. as to the verdict they had very often expressed an opinion--differing considerably. mr. aram was strongly of opinion that lady mason would be acquitted, resting that opinion mainly on his great confidence in the powers of mr. chaffanbrass. but mr. chaffanbrass would shake his head, and sometimes say that things were not now as they used to be. "that may be so in the city," said mr. aram. "but you won't find a city jury down at alston." "it's not the juries, aram. it's the judges. it usedn't to be so, but it is now. when a man has the last word, and will take the trouble to use it, that's everything. if i were asked what point i'd best like to have in my favour i'd say, a deaf judge. or if not that, one regularly tired out. i've sometimes thought i'd like to be a judge myself, merely to have the last word." "that wouldn't suit you at all, mr. chaffanbrass, for you'd be sick of it in a week." "at any rate i'm not fit for it," said the great man meekly. "i'll tell you what, aram, i can look back on life and think that i've done a deal of good in my way. i've prevented unnecessary bloodshed. i've saved the country thousands of pounds in the maintenance of men who've shown themselves well able to maintain themselves. and i've made the crown lawyers very careful as to what sort of evidence they would send up to the old bailey. but my chances of life have been such that they haven't made me fit to be a judge. i know that." "i wish i might see you on the bench to-morrow;--only that we shouldn't know what to do without you," said the civil attorney. it was no more than the fair every-day flattery of the world, for the practice of mr. solomon aram in his profession was quite as surely attained as was that of mr. chaffanbrass. and it could hardly be called flattery, for mr. solomon aram much valued the services of mr. chaffanbrass, and greatly appreciated the peculiar turn of that gentleman's mind. the above conversation took place in mr. solomon aram's private room in bucklersbury. in that much-noted city thoroughfare mr. aram rented the first floor of a house over an eating establishment. he had no great paraphernalia of books and boxes and clerks' desks, as are apparently necessary to attorneys in general. three clerks he did employ, who sat in one room, and he himself sat in that behind it. so at least they sat when they were to be found at the parent establishment; but, as regarded the attorney himself and his senior assistant, the work of their lives was carried on chiefly in the courts of law. the room in which mr. aram was now sitting was furnished with much more attention to comfort than is usual in lawyers' chambers. mr. chaffanbrass was at present lying, with his feet up, on a sofa against the wall, in a position of comfort never attained by him elsewhere till the after-dinner hours had come to him; and mr. aram himself filled an easy lounging-chair. some few law papers there were scattered on the library table, but none of those piles of dusty documents which give to a stranger, on entering an ordinary attorney's room, so terrible an idea of the difficulty and dreariness of the profession. there were no tin boxes with old names labelled on them; there were no piles of letters, and no pigeon-holes loaded with old memoranda. on the whole mr. aram's private room was smart and attractive; though, like himself, it had an air rather of pretence than of steady and assured well-being. [illustration: mr. chaffanbrass and mr. solomon aram.] it is not quite the thing for a barrister to wait upon an attorney, and therefore it must not be supposed that mr. chaffanbrass had come to mr. aram with any view to immediate business; but nevertheless, as the two men understood each other, they could say what they had to say as to this case of lady mason's, although their present positions were somewhat irregular. they were both to meet mr. furnival and felix graham on that afternoon in mr. furnival's chambers with reference to the division of those labours which were to be commenced at alston on the day but one following, and they both thought that it might be as well that they should say a word to each other on the subject before they went there. "i suppose you know nothing about the panel down there, eh?" said chaffanbrass. "well, i have made some inquiries; but i don't think there's anything especial to know;--nothing that matters. if i were you, mr. chaffanbrass, i wouldn't have any hamworth people on the jury, for they say that a prophet is never a prophet in his own country." "but do you know the hamworth people?" "oh, yes; i can tell you as much as that. but i don't think it will matter much who is or is not on the jury." "and why not?" "if those two witnesses break down--that is, kenneby and bolster, no jury can convict her. and if they don't--" "then no jury can acquit her. but let me tell you, aram, that it's not every man put into a jury-box who can tell whether a witness has broken down or not." "but from what i hear, mr. chaffanbrass, i don't think either of these can stand a chance;--that is, if they both come into your hands." "but they won't both come into my hands," said the anxious hero of the old bailey. "ah! that's where it is. that's where we shall fail. mr. furnival is a great man, no doubt." "a very great man,--in his way," said mr. chaffanbrass. "but if he lets one of those two slip through his fingers the thing's over." "you know my opinion," said chaffanbrass. "i think it is all over. if you're right in what you say,--that they're both ready to swear in their direct evidence that they only signed one deed on that day, no vacillation afterwards would have any effect on the judge. it's just possible, you know, that their memory might deceive them." "possible! i should think so. i'll tell you what, mr. chaffanbrass, if the matter was altogether in your hands i should have no fear,--literally no fear." "ah, you're partial, aram." "it couldn't be so managed, could it, mr. chaffanbrass? it would be a great thing; a very great thing." but mr. chaffanbrass said that he thought it could not be managed. the success or safety of a client is a very great thing;--in a professional point of view a very great thing indeed. but there is a matter which in legal eyes is greater even than that. professional etiquette required that the cross-examination of these two most important witnesses should not be left in the hands of the same barrister. and then the special attributes of kenneby and bridget bolster were discussed between them, and it was manifest that aram knew with great accuracy the characters of the persons with whom he had to deal. that kenneby might be made to say almost anything was taken for granted. with him there would be very great scope for that peculiar skill with which mr. chaffanbrass was so wonderfully gifted. in the hands of mr. chaffanbrass it was not improbable that kenneby might be made to swear that he had signed two, three, four--any number of documents on that fourteenth of july, although he had before sworn that he had only signed one. mr. chaffanbrass indeed might probably make him say anything that he pleased. had kenneby been unsupported the case would have been made safe,--so said mr. solomon aram,--by leaving kenneby in the hands of mr. chaffanbrass. but then bridget bolster was supposed to be a witness of altogether a different class of character. to induce her to say exactly the reverse of that which she intended to say might, no doubt, be within the power of man. mr. aram thought that it would be within the power of mr. chaffanbrass. he thought, however, that it would as certainly be beyond the power of mr. furnival; and when the great man lying on the sofa mentioned the name of mr. felix graham, mr. aram merely smiled. the question with him was this:--which would be the safest course?--to make quite sure of kenneby by leaving him with chaffanbrass; or to go for the double stake by handing kenneby over to mr. furnival and leaving the task of difficulty to the great master? "when so much depends upon it, i do detest all this etiquette and precedence," said aram with enthusiasm. "in such a case mr. furnival ought not to think of himself." "my dear aram," said mr. chaffanbrass, "men always think of themselves first. and if we were to go out of the usual course, do you conceive that the gentlemen on the other side would fail to notice it?" "which shall it be then?" "i'm quite indifferent. if the memory of either of these two persons is doubtful,--and after twenty years it may be so,--mr. furnival will discover it." "then on the whole i'm disposed to think that i'd let him take the man." "just as you please, aram. that is, if he's satisfied also." "i'm not going to have my client overthrown, you know," said aram. "and then you'll take dockwrath also, of course. i don't know that it will have much effect upon the case, but i shall like to see dockwrath in your hands; i shall indeed." "i doubt he'll be too many for me." "ha, ha, ha!" aram might well laugh; for when had any one shown himself able to withstand the powers of mr. chaffanbrass? "they say he is a sharp fellow," said mr. chaffanbrass. "well, we must be off. when those gentlemen at the west end get into parliament it does not do to keep them waiting. let one of your fellows get a cab." and then the barrister and the attorney started from bucklersbury for the general meeting of their forces to be held in the old square, lincoln's inn. we have heard how it came to pass that felix graham had been induced to become one of that legal phalanx which was employed on behalf of lady mason. it was now some days since he had left noningsby, and those days with him had been very busy. he had never yet undertaken the defence of a person in a criminal court, and had much to learn,--or perhaps he rather fancied that he had. and then that affair of mary snow's new lover was not found to arrange itself altogether easily. when he came to the details of his dealings with the different parties, every one wanted from him twice as much money as he had expected. the chemist was very willing to have a partner, but then a partnership in his business was, according to his view of the matter, a peculiarly expensive luxury. snow père, moreover, came forward with claims which he rested on various arguments, that graham found it almost impossible to resist them. at first,--that is immediately subsequent to the interview between him and his patron described in a preceding chapter, graham had been visited by a very repulsive attorney who had talked loudly about the cruel wrongs of his ill-used client. this phasis of the affair would have been by far the preferable one; but the attorney and his client probably disagreed. snow wanted immediate money, and as no immediate money was forthcoming through the attorney, he threw himself repentant at graham's feet, and took himself off with twenty shillings. but his penitence, and his wants, and his tears, and the thwarted ambition of his parental mind were endless; and poor felix hardly knew where to turn himself without seeing him. it seemed probable that every denizen of the courts of law in london would be told before long the sad tale of mary snow's injuries. and then mrs. thomas wanted money,--more money than she had a right to want in accordance with the terms of their mutual agreement. "she had been very much put about," she said,--"dreadfully put about. she had had to change her servant three times. there was no knowing the trouble mary snow had given her. she had, in a great measure, been forced to sacrifice her school." poor woman! she thought she was telling the truth while making these false plaints. she did not mean to be dishonest, but it is so easy to be dishonest without meaning it when one is very poor! mary snow herself made no claim on her lost lover, no claim for money or for aught besides. when he parted from her on that day without kissing her, mary snow knew that all that was over. but not the less did graham recognise her claim. the very bonnet which she must wear when she stood before the altar with fitzallen must be paid for out of graham's pocket. that hobby of moulding a young lady is perhaps of all hobbies the most expensive to which a young gentleman can apply himself. and in these days he heard no word from noningsby. augustus staveley was up in town, and once or twice they saw each other. but, as may easily be imagined, nothing was said between them about madeline. as augustus had once declared, a man does not talk to his friend about his own sister. and then hearing nothing--as indeed how could he have heard anything?--graham endeavoured to assure himself that that was all over. his hopes had ran high at that moment when his last interview with the judge had taken place; but after all to what did that amount? he had never even asked madeline to love him. he had been such a fool that he had made no use of those opportunities which chance had thrown in his way. he had been told that he might fairly aspire to the hand of any lady. and yet when he had really loved, and the girl whom he had loved had been close to him, he had not dared to speak to her! how could he now expect that she, in his absence, should care for him? with all these little troubles around him he went to work on lady mason's case, and at first felt thoroughly well inclined to give her all the aid in his power. he saw mr. furnival on different occasions, and did much to charm that gentleman by his enthusiasm in this matter. mr. furnival himself could no longer be as enthusiastic as he had been. the skill of a lawyer he would still give if necessary, but the ardour of the loving friend was waxing colder from day to day. would it not be better, if such might be possible, that the whole affair should be given up to the hands of chaffanbrass who could be energetic without belief, and of graham who was energetic because he believed? so he would say to himself frequently. but then he would think again of her pale face and acknowledge that this was impossible. he must go on till the end. but, nevertheless, if this young man could believe, would it not be well that he should bear the brunt of the battle? that fighting of a battle without belief is, i think, the sorriest task which ever falls to the lot of any man. but, as the day grew nigh, a shadow of unbelief, a dim passing shade--a shade which would pass, and then return, and then pass again--flitted also across the mind of felix graham. his theory had been, and still was, that those two witnesses, kenneby and bolster, were suborned by dockwrath to swear falsely. he had commenced by looking at the matter with a full confidence in his client's innocence, a confidence which had come from the outer world, from his social convictions, and the knowledge which he had of the confidence of others. then it had been necessary for him to reconcile the stories which kenneby and bolster were prepared to tell with this strong confidence, and he could only do so by believing that they were both false and had been thus suborned. but what if they were not false? what if he were judging them wrongfully? i do not say that he had ceased to believe in lady mason; but a shadow of doubt would occasionally cross his mind, and give to the whole affair an aspect which to him was very tragical. he had reached mr. furnival's chambers on this day some few minutes before his new allies, and as he was seated there discussing the matter which was now so interesting to them all, he blurted out a question which nearly confounded the elder barrister. "i suppose there can really be no doubt as to her innocence?" what was mr. furnival to say? mr. chaffanbrass and mr. aram had asked no such question. mr. round had asked no such question when he had discussed the whole matter confidentially with him. it was a sort of question never put to professional men, and one which felix graham should not have asked. nevertheless it must be answered. "eh?" he said. "i suppose we may take it for granted that lady mason is really innocent,--that is, free from all falsehood or fraud in this matter?" "really innocent! oh yes; i presume we take that for granted, as a matter of course." "but you yourself, mr. furnival; you have no doubt about it? you have been concerned in this matter from the beginning, and therefore i have no hesitation in asking you." but that was exactly the reason why he should have hesitated! at least so mr. furnival thought. "who; i? no; i have no doubt; none in the least," said he. and thus the lie, which he had been trying to avoid, was at last told. the assurance thus given was very complete as far as the words were concerned; but there was something in the tone of mr. furnival's voice, which did not quite satisfy felix graham. it was not that he thought that mr. furnival had spoken falsely, but the answer had not been made in a manner to set his own mind at rest. why had not mr. furnival answered him with enthusiasm? why had he not, on behalf of his old friend, shown something like indignation that any such doubt should have been expressed? his words had been words of assurance; but, considering the subject, his tone had contained no assurance. and thus the shadow of doubt flitted backwards and forwards before graham's mind. then the general meeting of the four lawyers was held, and the various arrangements necessary for the coming contest were settled. no such impertinent questions were asked then, nor were there any communications between them of a confidential nature. mr. chaffanbrass and solomon aram might whisper together, as might also mr. furnival and felix graham; but there could be no whispering when all the four were assembled. the programme of their battle was settled, and then they parted with the understanding that they were to meet again in the court-house at alston. chapter lxiii. the evening before the trial. the eve of the trial had now come, and still there had been no confidence between the mother and the son. no words of kindness had been spoken with reference to that terrible event which was so near at hand. lucius had in his manner been courteous to his mother, but he had at the same time been very stern. he had seemed to make no allowance for her sorrows, never saying to her one of those soft words which we all love to hear from those around us when we are suffering. why should she suffer thus? had she chosen to lean upon him, he would have borne on her behalf all this trouble and vexation. as to her being guilty--as to her being found guilty by any twelve jurymen in england,--no such idea ever entered his head. i have said that many people had begun to suspect; but no such suspicions had reached his ears. what man, unless it should be dockwrath, would whisper to the son the possibility of his mother's guilt? dockwrath had done more than whisper it; but the words of such a man could have no avail with him against his mother's character. on that day mrs. orme had been with lady mason for some hours, and had used all her eloquence to induce the mother even then to divulge her secret to her son. mrs. orme had suggested that sir peregrine should tell him; she had offered to tell him herself; she had proposed that lady mason should write to lucius. but all had been of no avail. lady mason had argued, and had argued with some truth, that it was too late to tell him now, with the view of obtaining from him support during the trial. if he were now told, he would not recover from the first shock of the blow in time to appear in court without showing on his brow the perturbation of his spirit. his terrible grief would reveal the secret to every one. "when it is over,"--she had whispered at last, as mrs. orme continued to press upon her the absolute necessity that lucius should give up the property,--"when it is over, you shall do it." with this mrs. orme was obliged to rest contented. she had not the heart to remind lady mason how probable it was that the truth might be told out to all the world during the next two or three days;--that a verdict of guilty might make any further telling unnecessary. and indeed it was not needed that she should do so. in this respect lady mason was fully aware of the nature of the ground on which she stood. mrs. orme had sat with her the whole afternoon, only leaving herself time to be ready for sir peregrine's dinner; and as she left her she promised to be with her early on the following morning to go with her down to the court. mr. aram was also to come to the farm for her, and a closed carriage had been ordered from the inn for the occasion. "you won't let him prevent you?" were the last words she spoke, as mrs. orme then left her. "he will not wish to do so," said mrs. orme. "he has already given me his permission. he never goes back from his word, you know." this had been said in allusion to sir peregrine. when mrs. orme had first proposed to accompany lady mason to the court and to sit by her side during the whole trial, he had been much startled. he had been startled, and for a time had been very unwilling to accede to such a step. the place which she now proposed to fill was one which he had intended to fill himself;--but he had intended to stand by an innocent, injured lady, not a perpetrator of midnight forgery. he had intended to support a spotless being, who would then be his wife,--not a woman who for years had lived on the proceeds of fraud and felony, committed by herself! "edith," he had said, "you know that i am unwilling to oppose you; but i think that in this your feelings are carrying you too far." "no, father," she answered, not giving way at all, or showing herself minded to be turned from her purpose by anything he might say. "do not think so; think of her misery. how could she endure it by herself?" "think of her guilt, edith!" "i will leave others to think of that. but, father, her guilt will not stain me. are we not bound to remember what injury she might have done to us, and how we might still have been ignorant of all this, had not she herself confessed it--for our sakes--for our sakes, father?" and then sir peregrine gave way. when this argument was used to him, he was forced to yield. it was true that, had not that woman been as generous as she was guilty, he would now have been bound to share her shame. the whole of this affair, taken together, had nearly laid him prostrate; but that which had gone the farthest towards effecting this ruin, was the feeling that he owed so much to lady mason. as regarded the outer world, the injury to him would have been much more terrible had he married her; men would then have declared that all was over with him; but as regards the inner man, i doubt whether he would not have borne that better. it was easier for him to sustain an injury than a favour,--than a favour from one whom his judgment compelled him to disown as a friend. but he had given way, and it was understood at the cleeve that mrs. orme was to remain by lady mason's side during the trial. to the general household there was nothing in this that was wonderful. they knew only of the old friendship. to them the question of her guilt was still an open question. as others had begun to doubt, so had they; but no one then presumed that sir peregrine or mrs. orme had any doubt. that they were assured of her innocence was the conviction of all hamworth and its neighbourhood. "he never goes back from his word, you know," mrs. orme had said; and then she kissed lady mason, and went her way. she had never left her without a kiss, had never greeted her without a warm pressure of the hand, since that day on which the secret had been told in sir peregrine's library. it would be impossible to describe how great had been the worth of this affection to lady mason; but it may almost be said that it had kept her alive. she herself had said but little about it, uttering but few thanks; but not the less had she recognised the value of what had been done for her. she had even become more free herself in her intercourse with mrs. orme,--more open in her mode of speech,--had put herself more on an equality with her friend, since there had ceased to be anything hidden between them. previously lady mason had felt, and had occasionally expressed the feeling, that she was hardly fit to associate on equal terms with mrs. orme; but now there was none of this,--now, as they sat together for hours and hours, they spoke, and argued, and lived together as though they were equal. but nevertheless, could she have shown her love by any great deed, there was nothing which lady mason would not have done for mrs. orme. she was now left alone, and according to her daily custom would remain there till the servant told her that mr. lucius was waiting for her in the dining-room. in an early part of this story i have endeavoured to describe how this woman sat alone, with deep sorrow in her heart and deep thought on her mind, when she first learned what terrible things were coming on her. the idea, however, which the reader will have conceived of her as she sat there will have come to him from the skill of the artist, and not from the words of the writer. if that drawing is now near him, let him go back to it. lady mason was again sitting in the same room--that pleasant room, looking out through the verandah on to the sloping lawn, and in the same chair; one hand again rested open on the arm of the chair, while the other supported her face as she leaned upon her elbow; and the sorrow was still in her heart, and the deep thought in her mind. but the lines of her face were altered, and the spirit expressed by it was changed. there was less of beauty, less of charm, less of softness; but in spite of all that she had gone through there was more of strength,--more of the power to resist all that this world could do to her. it would be wrong to say that she was in any degree a hypocrite. a man is no more a hypocrite because his manner and gait when he is alone are different from those which he assumes in company, than he is for wearing a dressing-gown in the morning, whereas he puts on a black coat in the evening. lady mason in the present crisis of her life endeavoured to be true in all her dealings with mrs. orme; but nevertheless mrs. orme had not yet read her character. as she now sat thinking of what the morrow would bring upon her,--thinking of all that the malice of that man dockwrath had brought upon her,--she resolved that she would still struggle on with a bold front. it had been brought home to her that he, her son, the being for whom her soul had been imperilled, and all her hopes for this world destroyed,--that he must be told of his mother's guilt and shame. let him be told, and then let him leave her while his anguish and the feeling of his shame were hot upon him. should she be still a free woman when this trial was over she would move herself away at once, and then let him be told. but still it would be well--well for his sake, that his mother should not be found guilty by the law. it was still worth her while to struggle. the world was very hard to her, bruising her to the very soul at every turn, allowing her no hope, offering to her no drop of cool water in her thirst. but still for him there was some future career; and that career perhaps need not be blotted by the public notice of his mother's guilt. she would still fight against her foes,--still show to that court, and to the world that would then gaze at her, a front on which guilt should not seem to have laid its hideous, defacing hand. there was much that was wonderful about this woman. while she was with those who regarded her with kindness she could be so soft and womanly; and then, when alone, she could be so stern and hard! and it may be said that she felt but little pity for herself. though she recognised the extent of her misery, she did not complain of it. even in her inmost thoughts her plaint was this,--that he, her son, should be doomed to suffer so deeply for her sin! sometimes she would utter to that other mother a word of wailing, in that he would not be soft to her; but even in that she did not mean to complain of him. she knew in her heart of hearts that she had no right to expect such softness. she knew that it was better that it should be as it now was. had he stayed with her from morn till evening, speaking kind words to her, how could she have failed to tell him? in sickness it may irk us because we are not allowed to take the cool drink that would be grateful; but what man in his senses would willingly swallow that by which his very life would be endangered? it was thus she thought of her son, and what his love might have been to her. yes; she would still bear up, as she had borne up at that other trial. she would dress herself with care, and go down into the court with a smooth brow. men, as they looked at her, should not at once say, "behold the face of a guilty woman!" there was still a chance in the battle, though the odds were so tremendously against her. it might be that there was but little to which she could look forward, even though the verdict of the jury should be in her favour; but all that she regarded as removed from her by a great interval. she had promised that lucius should know all after the trial,--that he should know all, so that the property might be restored to its rightful owner; and she was fully resolved that this promise should be kept. but nevertheless there was a long interval. if she could battle through this first danger,--if by the skill of her lawyers she could avert the public declaration of her guilt, might not the chances of war still take some further turn in her favour? and thus, though her face was pale with suffering and thin with care, though she had realised the fact that nothing short of a miracle could save her,--still she would hope for that miracle. but the absolute bodily labour which she was forced to endure was so hard upon her! she would dress herself, and smooth her brow for the trial; but that dressing herself, and that maintenance of a smooth brow would impose upon her an amount of toil which would almost overtask her physical strength. o reader, have you ever known what it is to rouse yourself and go out to the world on your daily business, when all the inner man has revolted against work, when a day of rest has seemed to you to be worth a year of life? if she could have rested now, it would have been worth many years of life,--worth all her life. she longed for rest,--to be able to lay aside the terrible fatigue of being ever on the watch. from the burden of that necessity she had never been free since her crime had been first committed. she had never known true rest. she had not once trusted herself to sleep without the feeling that her first waking thought would be one of horror, as the remembrance of her position came upon her. in every word she spoke, in every trifling action of her life, it was necessary that she should ask herself how that word and action might tell upon her chances of escape. she had striven to be true and honest,--true and honest with the exception of that one deed. but that one deed had communicated its poison to her whole life. truth and honesty,--fair, unblemished truth and open-handed, fearless honesty,--had been impossible to her. before she could be true and honest it would be necessary that she should go back and cleanse herself from the poison of that deed. such cleansing is to be done. men have sinned deep as she had sinned, and, lepers though they have been, they have afterwards been clean. but that task of cleansing oneself is not an easy one;--the waters of that jordan in which it is needful to wash are scalding hot. the cool neighbouring streams of life's pleasant valleys will by no means suffice. since she had been home at orley farm she had been very scrupulous as to going down into the parlour both at breakfast and at dinner, so that she might take her meals with her son. she had not as yet omitted this on one occasion, although sometimes the task of sitting through the dinner was very severe upon her. on the present occasion, the last day that remained to her before the trial--perhaps the last evening on which she would ever watch the sun set from those windows, she thought that she would spare herself. "tell mr. lucius," she said to the servant who came to summon her, "that i would be obliged to him if he would sit down without me. tell him that i am not ill, but that i would rather not go down to dinner!" but before the girl was on the stairs she had changed her mind. why should she now ask for this mercy? what did it matter? so she gathered herself up from the chair, and going forth from the room, stopped the message before it was delivered. she would bear on to the end. she sat through the dinner, and answered the ordinary questions which lucius put to her with her ordinary voice, and then, as was her custom, she kissed his brow as she left the room. it must be remembered that they were still mother and son, and that there had been no quarrel between them. and now, as she went up stairs, he followed her into the drawing-room. his custom had been to remain below, and though he had usually seen her again during the evening, there had seldom or never been any social intercourse between them. on the present occasion, however, he followed her, and closing the door for her as he entered the room, he sat himself down on the sofa, close to her chair. "mother," he said, putting out his hand and touching her arm, "things between us are not as they should be." she shuddered, not at the touch, but at the words. things were not as they should be between them. "no," she said. "but i am sure of this, lucius, that you never had an unkind thought in your heart towards me." "never, mother. how could i,--to my own mother, who has ever been so good to me? but for the last three months we have been to each other nearly as though we were strangers." "but we have loved each other all the same," said she. "but love should beget close social intimacy, and above all close confidence in times of sorrow. there has been none such between us." what could she say to him? it was on her lips to promise him that such love should again prevail between them as soon as this trial should be over; but the words stuck in her throat. she did not dare to give him so false an assurance. "dear lucius," she said, "if it has been my fault, i have suffered for it." "i do not say that it is your fault;--nor will i say that it has been my own. if i have seemed harsh to you, i beg your pardon." "no, lucius, no; you have not been harsh. i have understood you through it all." "i have been grieved because you did not seem to trust me;--but let that pass now. mother, i wish that there may be no unpleasant feeling between us when you enter on this ordeal to-morrow." "there is none;--there shall be none." "no one can feel more keenly,--no one can feel so keenly as i do, the cruelty with which you are treated. the sight of your sorrow has made me wretched." "oh, lucius!" "i know how pure and innocent you are--" "no, lucius, no." "but i say yes; and knowing that, it has cut me to the quick to see them going about a defence of your innocence by quips and quibbles, as though they were struggling for the escape of a criminal." "lucius!" and she put her hands up, praying for mercy, though she could not explain to him how terribly severe were his words. "wait a moment, mother. to me such men as mr. chaffanbrass and his comrades are odious. i will not, and do not believe that their services are necessary to you--" "but, lucius, mr. furnival--" "yes; mr. furnival! it is he that has done it all. in my heart i wish that you had never known mr. furnival;--never known him as a lawyer that is," he added, thinking of his own strong love for the lawyer's daughter. "do not upbraid me now, lucius. wait till it is all over." "upbraid you! no. i have come to you now that we may be friends. as things have gone so far, this plan of defence must of course be carried on. i will say no more about that. but, mother, i will go into the court with you to-morrow. that support i can at any rate give you, and they shall see that there is no quarrel between us." but lady mason did not desire this. she would have wished that he might have been miles away from the court had that been possible. "mrs. orme is to be with me," she said. then again there came a black frown upon his brow,--a frown such as there had often been there of late. "and will mrs. orme's presence make the attendance of your own son improper?" "oh, no; of course not. i did not mean that, lucius." "do you not like to have me near you?" he asked; and as he spoke he rose up, and took her hand as he stood before her. she gazed for a moment into his face while the tears streamed down from her eyes, and then rising from her chair, she threw herself on to his bosom and clasped him in her arms. "my boy! my boy!" she said. "oh, if you could be near me, and away from this--away from this!" she had not intended thus to give way, but the temptation had been too strong for her. when she had seen mrs. orme and peregrine together,--when she had heard peregrine's mother, with words expressed in a joyful tone, affect to complain of the inroads which her son made upon her, she had envied her that joy. "oh, if it could be so with me also!" she always thought; and the words too had more than once been spoken. now at last, in this last moment, as it might be, of her life at home, he had come to her with kindly voice, and she could not repress her yearning. "lucius," she said; "dearest lucius! my own boy!" and then the tears from her eyes streamed hot on to his bosom. "mother," he said, "it shall be so. i will be with you." but she was now thinking of more than this--of much more. was it possible for her to tell him now? as she held him in her arms, hiding her face upon his breast, she struggled hard to speak the word. then in the midst of that struggle, while there was still something like a hope within her that it might be done, she raised her head and looked up into his face. it was not a face pleasant to look at, as was that of peregrine orme. it was hard in its outlines, and perhaps too manly for his age. but she was his mother, and she loved it well. she looked up at it, and raising her hands she stroked his cheeks. she then kissed him again and again, with warm, clinging kisses. she clung to him, holding him close to her, while the sobs which she had so long repressed came forth from her with a violence that terrified him. then again she looked up into his face with one long wishful gaze; and after that she sank upon the sofa and hid her face within her hands. she had made the struggle, but it had been of no avail. she could not tell him that tale with her own voice. "mother," he said, "what does this mean? i cannot understand such grief as this." but for a while she was quite unable to answer. the flood-gates were at length opened, and she could not restrain the torrent of her sobbings. "you do not understand how weak a woman can be," she said at last. but in truth he understood nothing of a woman's strength. he sat down by her, now and then taking her by the hand when she would leave it to him, and in his way endeavoured to comfort her. all comfort, we may say, was out of the question; but by degrees she again became tranquil. "it shall be to-morrow as you will have it. you will not object to her being with me also?" he did object, but he could not say so. he would have much preferred to be the only friend near to her, but he felt that he could not deny her the solace of a woman's aid and a woman's countenance. "oh no," he said, "if you wish it." he would have found it impossible to define even to himself the reason for his dislike to any assistance coming from the family of the ormes; but the feeling was there, strong within his bosom. "and when this is over, mother, we will go away," he said. "if you would wish to live elsewhere, i will sell the property. it will be better perhaps after all that has passed. we will go abroad for a while." she could make no answer to this except pressing his hand. ah, if he had been told--if she had allowed mrs. orme to do that kindness for her, how much better for her would it now have been! sell the property! ah, me! were they not words of fearful sound in her ears,--words of terrible import? "yes, it shall be so," she said, putting aside that last proposition of his. "we will go together to-morrow. mr. aram said that he would sit at my side, but he cannot object to your being there between us." mr. aram's name was odious to lucius mason. his close presence would be odious to him. but he felt that he could urge nothing against an arrangement that had now become necessary. mr. aram, with all his quibbles, had been engaged, and the trial must now be carried through with all the aram tactics. after that lucius left his mother, and took himself out into the dark night, walking up and down on the road between his house and the outer gate, endeavouring to understand why his mother should be so despondent. that she must fear the result of the trial, he thought, was certain, but he could not bring himself to have any such fear. as to any suspicion of her guilt,--no such idea had even for one moment cast a shadow upon his peace of mind. chapter lxiv. the first journey to alston. at that time sir richard leatherham was the solicitor-general, and he had been retained as leading counsel for the prosecution. it was quite understood by all men who did understand what was going on in the world, that this trial had been in truth instituted by mr. mason of groby with the hope of recovering the property which had been left away from him by his father's will. the whole matter had now been so much discussed, that the true bearings of it were publicly known. if on the former trial lady mason had sworn falsely, then there could be no doubt that that will, or the codicil to the will, was an untrue document, and the property would in that case revert to mr. mason, after such further legal exercitations on the subject as the lawyers might find necessary and profitable. as far as the public were concerned, and as far as the masons were concerned, it was known and acknowledged that this was another struggle on the part of the groby park family to regain the orley farm estate. but then the question had become much more interesting than it had been in the days of the old trial, through the allegation which was now made of lady mason's guilt. had the matter gone against her in the former trial, her child would have lost the property, and that would have been all. but the present issue would be very different. it would be much more tragical, and therefore of much deeper interest. as alston was so near to london, sir richard, mr. furnival, mr. chaffanbrass, and others, were able to go up and down by train,--which arrangement was at ordinary assizes a great heartsore to the hotel-keepers and owners of lodging-houses in alston. but on this occasion the town was quite full in spite of this facility. the attorneys did not feel it safe to run up and down in that way, nor did the witnesses. mr. aram remained, as did also mr. mat round. special accommodation had been provided for john kenneby and bridget bolster, and mr. mason of groby had lodgings of his own. mr. mason of groby had suggested to the attorneys in bedford row that his services as a witness would probably be required, but they had seemed to think otherwise. "we shall not call you," mr. round had said, "and i do not suppose that the other side will do so. they can't if they do not first serve you." but in spite of this mr. mason had determined to be at alston. if it were true that this woman had robbed him;--if it could be proved that she had really forged a will, and then by crime of the deepest dye taken from him for years that which was his own, should he not be there to see? should he not be a witness to her disgrace? should he not be the first to know and feel his own tardy triumph? pity! pity for her! when such a word was named to him, it seemed to him as though the speaker were becoming to a certain extent a partner in her guilt. pity! yes; such pity as an englishman who had caught the nana sahib might have felt for his victim. he had complained twenty times since this matter had been mooted of the folly of those who had altered the old laws. that folly had probably robbed him of his property for twenty years, and would now rob him of half his revenge. not that he ever spoke even to himself of revenge. "vengeance is mine, saith the lord." he would have been as able as any man to quote the words, and as willing. justice, outraged justice, was his theme. whom had he ever robbed? to whom had he not paid all that was owing? "all that have i done from my youth upwards." such were his thoughts of himself; and with such thoughts was it possible that he should willingly be absent from alston during such a trial? "i really would stay away if i were you," mat round had said to him. "i will not stay away," he had replied, with a look black as a thundercloud. could there really be anything in those suspicions of dockwrath, that his own lawyer had wilfully thrown him over once, and was now anxious to throw him over again? "i will not stay away," he said; and dockwrath secured his lodgings for him. about this time he was a good deal with mr. dockwrath, and almost regretted that he had not followed that gentleman's advice at the commencement of the trial, and placed the management of the whole concern in his hands. thus alston was quite alive on the morning of the trial, and the doors of the court-house were thronged long before they were opened. they who were personally concerned in the matter, whose presence during the ceremony would be necessary, or who had legal connection with the matter in hand, were of course not driven to this tedious manner of obtaining places. mr. dockwrath, for instance, did not stand waiting at the door, nor did his friend mr. mason. mr. dockwrath was a great man as far as this day was concerned, and could command admittance from the doorkeepers and others about the court. but for the outer world, for men and women who were not lucky enough to be lawyers, witnesses, jurymen, or high sheriff, there was no means of hearing and seeing the events of this stirring day except what might be obtained by exercise of an almost unlimited patience. there had been much doubt as to what arrangement for her attendance at the court it might be best for lady mason to make, and some difficulty too as to who should decide as to these arrangements. mr. aram had been down more than once, and had given a hint that it would be well that something should be settled. it had ended in his settling it himself,--he, with the assistance of mrs. orme. what would sir peregrine have said had he known that on any subject these two had been leagued in council together? "she can go from hence in a carriage--a carriage from the inn," mrs. orme had said. "certainly, certainly; a carriage from the inn; yes. but in the evening, ma'am?" "when the trial is over?" said mrs. orme, inquiring from him his meaning. "we can hardly expect that it shall be over in one day, ma'am. she will continue to be on bail, and can return home. i will see that she is not annoyed as she leaves the town." "annoyed?" said mrs. orme. "by the people i mean." "will there be anything of that, sir?" she asked, turning pale at the idea. "i shall be with her, you know." "through the whole affair, ma'am?" "yes, through the whole affair." "they'll want to have a look at her of course; but,--mrs. orme, we'll see that you are not annoyed. yes; she had better come back home the first day. the expense won't be much; will it?" "oh no," said mrs. orme. "i must return home, you know. how many days will it be, sir?" "well, perhaps two,--perhaps three. it may run on all the week. of course you know, mrs. orme--" "know what?" she asked. "when the trial is over, if--if it should go against us,--then you must return alone." and so the matter had been settled, and mr. aram himself had ordered the carriage from the inn. sir peregrine's carriage would have been at their disposal,--or rather mrs. orme's own carriage; but she had felt that the cleeve arms on the cleeve panels would be out of place in the streets of hamworth on such an occasion. it would of course be impossible that she should not be recognised in the court, but she would do as little as possible to proclaim her own presence. when the morning came, the very morning of the terrible day, mrs. orme came down early from her room, as it was necessary that she should breakfast two hours before the usual time. she had said nothing of this to sir peregrine, hoping that she might have been able to escape in the morning without seeing him. she had told her son to be there; but when she made her appearance in the breakfast parlour, she found that his grandfather was already with him. she sat down and took her cup of tea almost in silence, for they all felt that on such a morning much speech was impossible for them. "edith, my dear," said the baronet, "you had better eat something. think of the day that is before you." "yes, father, i have," said she, and she lifted a morsel of bread to her mouth. "you must take something with you," said he, "or you will be faint in the court. have you thought how many hours you will be there?" "i will see to that," said peregrine, speaking with a stern decision in his voice that was by no means natural to him. "will you be there, perry?" said his mother. "of course i shall. i will see that you have what you want. you will find that i will be near you." "but how will you get in, my boy?" asked his grandfather. "let me alone for that. i have spoken to the sheriff already. there is no knowing what may turn up; so if anything does turn up you may be sure that i am near you." then another slight attempt at eating was made, the cup of tea was emptied, and the breakfast was finished. "is the carriage there, perry?" asked mrs. orme. "yes; it is at the door." "good-bye, father; i am so sorry to have disturbed you." "good-bye, edith; god bless you, and give you strength to bear it. and, edith--" "sir?" and she held his hand as he whispered to her. "say to her a word of kindness from me;--a word of kindness. tell her that i have forgiven her, but tell her also that man's forgiveness will avail her nothing." "yes, father, i will." "teach her where to look for pardon. but tell her all the same that i have forgiven her." and then he handed her into the carriage. peregrine, as he stood aside, had watched them as they whispered, and to his mind also as he followed them to the carriage a suspicion of what the truth might be now made its way. surely there would be no need of all this solemn mourning if she were innocent. had she been esteemed as innocent, sir peregrine was not the man to believe that any jury of his countrymen could find her guilty. had this been the reason for that sudden change,--for that breaking off of the intended marriage? even peregrine, as he went down the steps after his mother, had begun to suspect the truth; and we may say that he was the last within all that household who did so. during the last week every servant at the cleeve had whispered to her fellow-servant that lady mason had forged the will. "i shall be near you, mother," said peregrine as he put his hand into the carriage; "remember that. the judge and the other fellows will go out in the middle of the day to get a glass of wine. i'll have something for both of you near the court." poor mrs. orme as she pressed her son's hand felt much relieved by the assurance. it was not that she feared anything, but she was going to a place that was absolutely new to her,--to a place in which the eyes of many would be fixed on her,--to a place in which the eyes of all would be fixed on the companion with whom she would be joined. her heart almost sank within her as the carriage drove away. she would be alone till she reached orley farm, and there she would take up not only lady mason, but mr. aram also. how would it be with them in that small carriage while mr. aram was sitting opposite to them? mrs. orme by no means regretted this act of kindness which she was doing, but she began to feel that the task was not a light one. as to mr. aram's presence in the carriage, she need have been under no uneasiness. he understood very well when his presence was desirable, and also when it was not desirable. when she arrived at the door of orley farm house she found mr. aram waiting there to receive her. "i am sorry to say," said he, raising his hat, "that lady mason's son is to accompany us." "she did not tell me," said mrs. orme, not understanding why this should make him sorry. "it was arranged between them last night, and it is very unfortunate. i cannot explain this to her; but perhaps--" "why is it unfortunate, sir?" "things will be said which--which--which would drive me mad if they were said about my mother." and immediately there was a touch of sympathy between the high-bred lady and the old bailey jew lawyer. "yes, yes," said mrs. orme. "it will be dreadful." "and then if they find her guilty! it may be so, you know. and how is he to sit there and hear the judge's charge;--and then the verdict, and the sentence. if he is there he cannot escape. i'll tell you what, mrs. orme; he should not be there at all." but what could she do? had it been possible that she should be an hour alone with lady mason, she would have explained all this to her,--or if not all, would have explained much of it. but now, with no minutes to spare, how could she make this understood? "but all that will not come to-day, will it, sir?" "not all,--not the charge or the verdict. but he should not be there even to-day. he should have gone away; or if he remained at home, he should not have shown himself out of the house." but this was too late now, for as they were still speaking lady mason appeared at the door, leaning on her son's arm. she was dressed from head to foot in black, and over her face there was a thick black veil. mr. aram spoke no word further as she stepped up the steps from the hall door to the carriage, but stood back, holding the carriage-door open in his hand. lucius merely bowed to mrs. orme as he assisted his mother to take her place; and then following her, he sat himself down in silence opposite to them. mr. aram, who had carefully arranged his own programme, shut the door, and mounted on to the box beside the driver. mrs. orme had held out her own hand, and lady mason having taken it, still held it after she was seated. then they started, and for the first mile no word was spoken between them. mrs. orme was most anxious to speak, if it might only be for the sake of breaking the horrid stillness of their greeting; but she could think of no word which it would be proper on such an occasion to say, either to lucius, or even before him. had she been alone with lady mason there would have been enough of words that she could have spoken. sir peregrine's message was as a burden upon her tongue till she could deliver it; but she could not deliver it while lucius mason was sitting by her. lady mason herself was the first to speak. "i did not know yesterday that lucius would come," she said, "or i should have told you." "i hope it does not inconvenience you," he said. "oh no; by no means." "i could not let my mother go out without me on such an occasion as this. but i am grateful to you, mrs. orme, for coming also." "i thought it would be better for her to have some lady with her," said mrs. orme. "oh yes, it is better--much better." and then no further word was spoken by any of them till the carriage drove up to the court-house door. it may be hoped that the journey was less painful to mr. aram than to the others, seeing that he solaced himself on the coach-box with a cigar. there was still a great crowd round the front of the court-house when they reached it, although the doors were open, and the court was already sitting. it had been arranged that this case--the great case of the assize--should come on first on this day, most of the criminal business having been completed on that preceding; and mr. aram had promised that his charge should be forthcoming exactly at ten o'clock. exactly at ten the carriage was driven up to the door, and mr. aram jumping from his seat directed certain policemen and sheriff's servants to make a way for the ladies up to the door, and through the hall of the court-house. had he lived in alston all his life, and spent his days in the purlieus of that court, he could not have been more at home or have been more promptly obeyed. "and now i think we may go in," he said, opening the door and letting down the steps with his own hands. at first he took them into a small room within the building, and then bustled away himself into the court. "i shall be back in half a minute," he said; and in half a dozen half-minutes he was back. "we are all ready now, and shall have no trouble about our places. if you have anything to leave,--shawls, or things of that sort,--they will be quite safe here: mrs. hitcham will look after them." and then an old woman who had followed mr. aram into the room on the last occasion curtsied to them. but they had nothing to leave, and their little procession was soon made. lucius at first offered his arm to his mother, and she had taken it till she had gone through the door into the hall. mr. aram also had, with some hesitation, offered his arm to mrs. orme; but she, in spite of that touch of sympathy, had managed, without speaking, to decline it. in the hall, however, when all the crowd of gazers had turned their eyes upon them and was only kept off from pressing on them by the policemen and sheriff's officers, lady mason remembered herself, and suddenly dropping her son's arm, she put out her hand for mrs. orme. mr. aram was now in front of them, and thus they two followed him into the body of the court. the veils of both of them were down; but mrs. orme's veil was not more than ordinarily thick, and she could see everything that was around her. so they walked up through the crowded way, and lucius followed them by himself. they were very soon in their seats, the crowd offering them no impediment. the judge was already on the bench,--not our old acquaintance justice staveley, but his friend and colleague baron maltby. judge staveley was sitting in the other court. mrs. orme and lady mason soon found themselves seated on a bench, with a slight standing desk before them, much as though they were seated in a narrow pew. up above them, on the same seat, were the three barristers employed on lady mason's behalf; nearest to the judge was mr. furnival; then came felix graham, and below him sat mr. chaffanbrass, somewhat out of the line of precedence, in order that he might more easily avail himself of the services of mr. aram. lucius found himself placed next to mr. chaffanbrass, and his mother sat between him and mrs. orme. on the bench below them, immediately facing a large table which was placed in the centre of the court, sat mr. aram and his clerk. [illustration: the court.] mrs. orme as she took her seat was so confused that she could hardly look around her; and it may be imagined that lady mason must have suffered at any rate as much in the same way. but they who were looking at her--and it may be said that every one in the court was looking at her--were surprised to see that she raised her veil as soon as she was seated. she raised her veil, and never lowered it again till she left the court, and repassed out into the hall. she had thought much of this day,--even of the little incidents which would occur,--and she was aware that her identification would be necessary. nobody should tell her to unveil herself, nor would she let it be thought that she was afraid to face her enemies. so there she sat during the whole day, bearing the gaze of the court. she had dressed herself with great care. it may be said of most women who could be found in such a situation, that they would either give no special heed to their dress on such a morning, or that they would appear in garments of sorrow studiously unbecoming and lachrymose, or that they would attempt to outface the world, and have appeared there in bright trappings, fit for happier days. but lady mason had dressed herself after none of these fashions. never had her clothes been better made, or worn with a better grace; but they were all black, from her bonnet-ribbon down to her boot, and were put on without any attempt at finery or smartness. as regards dress, she had never looked better than she did now; and mr. furnival, when his eye caught her as she turned her head round towards the judge, was startled by the grace of her appearance. her face was very pale, and somewhat hard; but no one on looking at it could say that it was the countenance of a woman overcome either by sorrow or by crime. she was perfect mistress of herself, and as she looked round the court, not with defiant gaze, but with eyes half raised, and a look of modest but yet conscious intelligence, those around her hardly dared to think that she could be guilty. as she thus looked her gaze fell on one face that she had not seen for years, and their eyes met. it was the face of joseph mason of groby, who sat opposite to her; and as she looked at him her own countenance did not quail for a moment. her own countenance did not quail; but his eyes fell gradually down, and when he raised them again she had averted her face. chapter lxv. felix graham returns to noningsby. "if you love the man, let him come." it was thus that the judge had declared to his daughter his opinion of what had better be done in that matter of felix graham. then he had gone on to declare that he had given his permission to felix graham to say anything that he had got to say, and finally had undertaken to invite felix graham to spend the assize week at noningsby. of course in the mind of the judge all this amounted to an actual giving away of his daughter. he regarded the thing now as done, looking upon the young people as betrothed, and his reflections mainly ran on the material part of the business. how should graham be made to earn an income, and what allowance must be made to him till he did so? there was a certain sum set apart for madeline's fortune, but that would by no means suffice for the livelihood of a married barrister in london. graham no doubt earned something as it was, but that was done by his pen rather than by his wig, and the judge was inclined to think that the pen must be abandoned before the wig could be made profitable. such were the directions which his thoughts took regarding madeline's lot in life. with him the next week or two, with their events, did not signify much; whereas the coming years did signify a great deal. at that time, on that sunday afternoon, there still remained to madeline the best part of a month to think of it all, before felix should reappear upon the scene. but then she could not think of it by herself in silence. her father had desired her to tell her mother what had passed, and she felt that a great difficulty still lay before her. she knew that her mother did not wish her to marry felix graham. she knew that her mother did wish her to marry peregrine orme. and therefore though no mother and child had ever treated each other with a sweeter confidence, or loved each other with warmer hearts, there was as it were a matter of disunion between them. but nevertheless she must tell her mother, and the dread of this telling weighed heavy upon her as she sat that night in the drawing-room reading the article which felix had written. but she need not have been under any alarm. her father, when he told her to discuss the matter with her mother, had by no means intended to throw on her shoulders the burden of converting lady staveley to the graham interest. he took care to do this himself effectually, so that in fact there should be no burden left for madeline's shoulders. "well, my dear," he said that same sunday evening to his wife, "i have had it all out with madeline this afternoon." "about mr. graham, do you mean?" "yes; about mr. graham. i have promised that he shall come here for the assize week." "oh, dear!" "it's done, my love; and i believe we shall find it all for the best. the bishops' daughters always marry clergymen, and the judges' daughters ought to marry lawyers." "but you can't give him a practice. the bishops have livings to give away." "perhaps i may show him how to make a practice for himself, which would be better. take my word for it that it will be best for her happiness. you would not have liked to be disappointed yourself, when you made up your mind to be married." "no, i should not," said lady staveley. "and she will have a will of her own quite as strong as you had." and then there was silence in the room for some time. "you'll be kind to him when he comes?" said the judge. "oh, yes," said lady staveley, in a voice that was by no means devoid of melancholy. "nobody can be so kind as you when you please. and as it is to be--" "i always did like him," said lady staveley, "although he is so very plain." "you'll soon get used to that, my dear." "and as for poor young mr. orme--" "as for poor young mr. orme, as you call him, he will not die of a broken heart. poor young mr. orme has all the world before him and will soon console himself." "but he is so attached to her. and then the cleeve is so near." "we must give up all that, my dear." "very well," said lady staveley; and from that moment it may be said that she had given in her adhesion to the graham connection. when some time after she gave her orders to baker as to preparing a room for mr. graham, it was made quite clear to that excellent woman by her mistress's manner and anxiety as to the airing of the sheets, that miss madeline was to have her own way in the matter. but long previous to these preparations madeline and her mother had discussed the matter fully. "papa says that mr. graham is to come here for the assize week," said lady staveley. "yes; so he told me," madeline replied, very bashfully. "i suppose it's all for the best." "i hope it is," said madeline. what could she do but hope so? "your papa understands everything so very well that i am sure he would not let him come if it were not proper." "i suppose not," said madeline. "and now i look upon the matter as all settled." "what matter, mamma?" "that he--that he is to come here as your lover." "oh, no, mamma. pray don't imagine that. it is not so at all. what should i do if you were to say anything to make him think so?" "but you told me that you loved him." "so i do, mamma." "and he told your papa that he was desperately in love with you." "i don't know, mamma." "but he did;--your papa told me so, and that's why he asked him to come down here again. he never would have done it without." madeline had her own idea about this, believing that her father had thought more of her wants in the matter than he had of those of felix graham; but as to this she said nothing. "nevertheless, mamma, you must not say that to any one," she answered. "mr. graham has never spoken to me,--not a word. i should of course have told you had he done so." "yes, i am sure of that. but, madeline, i suppose it's all the same. he asked papa for permission to speak to you, and your papa has given it." "i'm sure i don't know, mamma." it was a quarter of an hour after that when lady staveley again returned to the subject. "i am sure mr. graham is very clever, and all that." "papa says that he is very clever indeed." "i'm quite sure he is, and he makes himself very nice in the house, always talking when there are people to dinner. mr. arbuthnot never will talk when there are people to dinner. but mr. arbuthnot has got a very nice place in warwickshire, and they say he'll come in for the county some day." "of course, mamma, if there should be anything of that sort, we should not be rich people, like isabella and mr. arbuthnot." "not at first, dear." "neither first nor last. but i don't care about that. if you and papa will like him, and--and--if it should come to that!--oh, mamma, he is so good, and so clever, and he understands things, and talks about things as though he knew how to make himself master of them. and he is honest and proud. oh, mamma, if it should be so, i do hope you will love him." and then lady staveley promised that she would love him, thinking nevertheless that had things gone differently she would have extended a more motherly warmth of affection to peregrine orme. and about this time peregrine orme made another visit to noningsby. his intention was to see the judge, explaining what steps his grandfather had taken as to the cleeve property, and then once more to have thrown himself at madeline's feet. but circumstances as they turned out prevented this. although he had been at some trouble to ascertain when the judge would be at noningsby, nevertheless, on his arrival, the judge was out. he would be home, the servant said, to dinner, but not before; and therefore he had again seen lady staveley, and after seeing her had not thrown himself at madeline's feet. he had made up his mind to give a systematic and detailed account of his pecuniary circumstances, and had selected nearly the very words in which this should be made, not actuated by any idea that such a process would have any weight with madeline, or by any means assist him with her, but hoping that he might thus procure the judge's permission to press his suit. but all this preparation and all his chosen words were of no use to him. when he saw lady staveley's face he at once knew that she had no comfort to offer to him. "well," he said; "is there any chance for me?" he had intended to speak in a very different tone, but words which have been prepared seldom manage to fit themselves into their appropriate places. "oh, mr. orme," she said, taking him by the hand, and holding it. "i wish it were different; i wish it could be different." "there is no hope then?" and as he spoke there was a sound in his voice as though the tidings would utterly unman him. "i should be wicked to deceive you," she said. "there is no hope." and then as she looked up at the sorrow so plainly written in the lines of his young, handsome face, tears came into her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. how could it be that a daughter of hers should be indifferent to the love of such a suitor as this? but peregrine, when he saw her sorrow, repressed his own. "very well," said he; "i will at any rate know how to take an answer. and for your kindness to me in the matter i am much obliged. i ought to have known myself better than to have supposed she could have cared for me." "i am sure she feels that you have done her great honour." "psha! honour! but never mind--good-bye, lady staveley." "will you not see her?" "no. why should i see her? give her my love--my best love--" "i will--i will." "and tell her that i hope she may be happy, and make some fellow happy who is more fortunate than i am. i shall get out of the way somewhere, so that i shall not make a fool of myself when i see it." and then he took his departure, and rode back again to the cleeve. this happened two days before the commencement of the trial, and the day before that on which graham was to arrive at noningsby. when graham received the judge's note asking him to put up at noningsby for the assize week, he was much astonished. it was very short. dear graham, as you are coming down to alston, special in lady mason's case, you may as well come and stay here. lady staveley bids me say that she will be delighted. your elder brethren will no doubt go back to london each night, so that you will not be expected to remain with them. yours always, &c. what could be the intention of the judge in taking so strange a step as this? the judge had undertaken to see him in three months, having given him some faint idea that there then might be a chance of hope. but now, before one month was over, he was actually sending for him to the house, and inviting him to stay there. what would all the bar world say when they found that a young barrister was living at the judge's house during the assizes? would it not be in every man's mouth that he was a suitor accepted both by the judge's daughter and by the judge? there would be nothing in that to go against the grain with him, if only the fact were so. that the fact should be so he could not venture to hope even on this hint; but he accepted the judge's invitation, sent his grateful thanks to lady staveley;--as to lady staveley's delight, he was sure that the judge must have romanced a little, for he had clearly recognised lady staveley as his enemy;--and then he prepared himself for the chances of war. on the evening before the trial he arrived at noningsby just in time for dinner. he had been obliged to remain an hour or two at alston in conference with mr. aram, and was later than he had expected he would be. he had been afraid to come early in the day, lest by doing so he might have seemed to overstep the margin of his invitation. when he did arrive, the two ladies were already dressing, and he found the judge in the hall. "a pretty fellow you are," said the judge. "it's dinner-time already, and of course you take an hour to dress." "mr. aram--" began felix. "oh, yes, mr. aram! i'll give you fifteen minutes, but not a moment more." and so felix was hurried on up to his bedroom--the old bedroom in which he had passed so many hours, and been so very uneasy. as he entered the room all that conversation with augustus staveley returned upon his memory. he had seen his friend in london, and told him that he was going down to noningsby. augustus had looked grave, but had said nothing about madeline. augustus was not in his father's confidence in this matter, and had nothing to do but to look grave. on that very morning, moreover, some cause had been given to himself for gravity of demeanour. at the door of his room he met mrs. baker, and, hurried though he was by the judge's strict injunction, he could not but shake hands with his old and very worthy friend. "quite strong again," said he, in answer to her tender inquiries. "so you are, i do declare. i will say this, mr. graham, for wholesomeness of flesh you beat anything i ever come nigh. there's a many would have been weeks and weeks before they could have been moved." "it was your good nursing, mrs. baker." "well, i think we did take care of you among us. do you remember the pheasant, mr. graham?" "remember it! i should think so; and how i improved the occasion." "yes; you did improve fast enough. and the sea-kale, mr. graham. laws! the row i had with john gardener about that! and, mr. graham, do you remember how a certain friend used to come and ask after you at the door? dear, dear, dear! i nearly caught it about that." but graham in his present frame of mind could not well endure to discuss his remembrances on that subject with mrs. baker, so he good-humouredly pushed her out of the room, saying that the judge would be mad if he delayed. "that's true, too, mr. graham. and it won't do for you to take up mr. augustus's tricks in the house yet; will it?" and then she left the room. "what does she mean by 'yet'?" felix said to himself as he went through the ceremony of dressing with all the haste in his power. he was in the drawing-room almost within the fifteen minutes, and there he found none but the judge and his wife and daughter. he had at first expected to find augustus there, but had been told by mrs. baker that he was to come down on the following morning. his first greeting from lady staveley was something like that he had already received up stairs, only made in less exuberant language. he was congratulated on his speedy recovery and made welcome by a kind smile. then he shook hands with madeline, and as he did so he observed that the judge was at the trouble to turn away, so that he should not watch the greeting. this he did see, but into madeline's face he hardly ventured to look. he touched her hand, however, and said a word; and she also murmured something about his injury. "and now we'll go to dinner," said the judge. "give your arm that is not broken to lady staveley." and so the meeting was over. "augustus will be in alston to-morrow when the court is opened," said the judge. "that is to say if he finds it possible to get up so soon; but to-day he had some engagements in town." the truth however was that the judge had chosen to be alone with felix after dinner. the dinner was very pleasant, but the judge talked for the whole party. madeline hardly spoke at all, nor did lady staveley say much. felix managed to put in a few words occasionally, as it always becomes a good listener to do, but the brunt of the battle lay with the host. one thing felix observed painfully,--that not a word was spoken about lady mason or orley farm. when he had been last there the judge had spoken of it openly before the whole party, expressing his opinion that she was a woman much injured; but now neither did he say anything nor did lady staveley. he would probably not have observed this had not a feeling crept upon him during the last fortnight, that that thorough conviction which men had felt as to her innocence was giving way. while the ladies were there, however, he did not himself allude to the subject. when they had left the room and the door had been closed behind them, the judge began the campaign--began it, and as far as he was concerned, ended it in a very few minutes. "graham," said he, "i am glad to see you." "thank you, judge," said he. "of course you know, and i know, what that amounts to now. my idea is that you acted as an honest man when you were last here. you are not a rich man--" "anything but that." "and therefore i do not think it would have been well had you endeavoured to gain my daughter's affections without speaking to me,--or to her mother." judge staveley always spoke of his wife as though she were an absolute part of himself. "she and i have discussed the matter now,--and you are at liberty to address yourself to madeline if you please." "my dear judge--" "of course you understand that i am not answering for her?" "oh, of course not." "that's your look out. you must fight your own battle there. what you are allowed to understand is this,--that her father and mother will give their consent to an engagement, if she finds that she can bring herself to give hers. if you are minded to ask her, you may do so." "of course i shall ask her." "she will have five thousand pounds on her marriage, settled upon herself and her children,--and as much more when i die, settled in the same way. now fill your glass." and in his own easy way he turned the subject round and began to talk about the late congress at birmingham. felix felt that it was not open to him at the present moment to say anything further about madeline; and though he was disappointed at this,--for he would have wished to go on talking about her all the evening--perhaps it was better for him. the judge would have said nothing further to encourage him, and he would have gradually been taught to think that his chance with madeline was little, and then less. "he must have been a fool," my readers will say, "not to have known that madeline was now his own." probably. but then modest-minded young men are fools. at last he contrived to bring the conversation round from the birmingham congress to the affairs of his new client; and indeed he contrived to do so in spite of the judge, who was not particularly anxious to speak on the subject. "after all that we said and did at birmingham, it is odd that i should so soon find myself joined with mr. furnival." "not at all odd. of course you must take up your profession as others have taken it up before you. very many young men dream of a themis fit for utopia. you have slept somewhat longer than others, and your dreams have been more vivid." "and now i wake to find myself leagued with the empson and dudley of our latter-day law courts." "fie, graham, fie. do not allow yourself to speak in that tone of men whom you know to be zealous advocates, and whom you do not know to be dishonest opponents." "it is they and such as they that make so many in these days feel the need of some utopia,--as it was in the old days of our history. but i beg your pardon for nicknaming them, and certainly ought not to have done so in your presence." "well; if you repent yourself, and will be more charitable for the future, i will not tell of you." "i have never yet even seen mr. chaffanbrass in court," said felix, after a pause. "the more shame for you, never to have gone to the court in which he practises. a barrister intending to succeed at the common law bar cannot have too wide an experience in such matters." "but then i fear that i am a barrister not intending to succeed." "i am very sorry to hear it," said the judge. and then again the conversation flagged for a minute or two. "have you ever seen him at a country assize town before, judge?" asked felix. "whom? chaffanbrass? i do not remember that i have." "his coming down in this way is quite unusual, i take it." "rather so, i should say. the old bailey is his own ground." "and why should they think it necessary in such a case as this to have recourse to such a proceeding?" "it would be for me to ask you that, seeing that you are one of the counsel." "do you mean to say, judge, that between you and me you are unwilling to give an opinion on such a subject?" "well; you press me hard, and i think i may fairly say that i am unwilling. i would sooner discuss the matter with you after the verdict than before it. come; we will go into the drawing-room." there was not much in this. indeed if it were properly looked at there was nothing in it. but nevertheless graham, as he preceded the judge out of the dining-room, felt that his heart misgave him about lady mason. when first the matter had been spoken of at noningsby, judge staveley had been fully convinced of lady mason's innocence, and had felt no reserve in expressing his opinion. he had expressed such an opinion very openly. why should he now affect so much reticence, seeing that the question had been raised in the presence of them two alone? it was he who had persuaded graham to undertake this work, and now he went back from what he had done, and refused even to speak upon the subject. "it must be that he thinks she is guilty," said graham to himself, as he lay down that night in bed. but there had been something more for him to do before bedtime came. he followed the judge into the drawing-room, and in five minutes perceived that his host had taken up a book with the honest intention of reading it. some reference was made to him by his wife, but he showed at once that he did not regard graham as company, and that he conceived himself to be entitled to enjoy the full luxury of home. "upon my word i don't know," he answered, without taking his eye off the page. and then nobody spoke to him another word. after another short interval lady staveley went to sleep. when felix graham had before been at noningsby, she would have rebelled against nature with all her force rather than have slept while he was left to whisper what he would to her darling. but now he was authorised to whisper, and why should not lady staveley sleep if she wished it? she did sleep, and felix was left alone with his love. [illustration: the drawing-room at noningsby.] and yet he was not altogether alone. he could not say to her those words which he was now bound to say; which he longed to say in order that he might know whether the next stage of his life was to be light or dark. there sat the judge, closely intent no doubt upon his book, but wide awake. there also sat lady staveley, fast asleep certainly; but with a wondrous power of hearing even in her sleep. and yet how was he to talk to his love unless he talked of love? he wished that the judge would help them to converse; he wished that some one else was there; he wished at last that he himself was away. madeline sat perfectly tranquil stitching a collar. upon her there was incumbent no duty of doing anything beyond that. but he was in a measure bound to talk. had he dared to do so he also would have taken up a book; but that he knew to be impossible. "your brother will be down to-morrow," he said at last. "yes; he is to go direct to alston. he will be here in the evening,--to dinner." "ah, yes; i suppose we shall all be late to-morrow." "papa always is late when the assizes are going on," said madeline. "alston is not very far," said felix. "only two miles," she answered. and during the whole of that long evening the conversation between them did not reach a more interesting pitch than that. "she must think me an utter fool," said felix to himself, as he sat staring at the fire. "how well her brother would have made the most of such an opportunity!" and then he went to bed, by no means in a good humour with himself. on the next morning he again met her at breakfast, but on that occasion there was no possible opportunity for private conversation. the judge was all alive, and talked enough for the whole party during the twenty minutes that was allowed to them before they started for alston. "and now we must be off. we'll say half-past seven for dinner, my dear." and then they also made their journey to alston. chapter lxvi. showing how miss furnival treated her lovers. it is a great thing for young ladies to live in a household in which free correspondence by letter is permitted. "two for mamma, four for amelia, three for fanny, and one for papa." when the postman has left his budget they should be dealt out in that way, and no more should be said about it,--except what each may choose to say. papa's letter is about money of course, and interests nobody. mamma's contain the character of a cook and an invitation to dinner, and as they interest everybody, are public property. but fanny's letters and amelia's should be private; and a well-bred mamma of the present day scorns even to look at the handwriting of the addresses. now in harley street things were so managed that nobody did see the handwriting of the addresses of sophia's letters till they came into her own hand,--that is, neither her father nor her mother did so. that both spooner and mrs. ball examined them closely is probable enough. this was well for her now, for she did not wish it to be known as yet that she had accepted an offer from lucius mason, and she did wish to have the privilege of receiving his letters. she fancied that she loved him. she told herself over and over again that she did so. she compared him within her own mind to augustus staveley, and always gave the preference to lucius. she liked augustus also, and could have accepted him as well, had it been the way of the world in england for ladies to have two accepted lovers. such is not the way of the world in england, and she therefore had been under the necessity of choosing one. she had taken the better of the two, she declared to herself very often; but nevertheless was it absolutely necessary that the other should be abandoned altogether? would it not be well at any rate to wait till this trial should be over? but then the young men themselves were in such a hurry! lucius, like an honest man, had proposed to go at once to mr. furnival when he was accepted; but to this sophia had objected, "the peculiar position in which my father stands to your mother at the present moment," said she, "would make it very difficult for him to give you an answer now." lucius did not quite understand the reasoning, but he yielded. it did not occur to him for a moment that either mr. or miss furnival could doubt the validity of his title to the orley farm property. but there was no reason why he should not write to her. "shall i address here?" he had asked. "oh yes," said sophia; "my letters are quite private." and he had written very frequently, and she had answered him. his last letter before the trial i propose to publish, together with sophia's answer, giving it as my opinion that the gentleman's production affords by no means a good type of a lover's letter. but then his circumstances were peculiar. miss furnival's answer was, i think, much better. orley farm, ---- ---- ----. my own sophia, my only comfort--i may really say my only comfort now--is in writing to you. it is odd that at my age, and having begun the world early as i did, i should now find myself so much alone. were it not for you, i should have no friend. i cannot describe to you the sadness of this house, nor the wretched state in which my mother exists. i sometimes think that had she been really guilty of those monstrous crimes which people lay to her charge, she could hardly have been more miserable. i do not understand it; nor can i understand why your father has surrounded her with lawyers whom he would not himself trust in a case of any moment. to me she never speaks on the subject, which makes the matter worse--worse for both of us. i see her at breakfast and at dinner, and sometimes sit with her for an hour in the evening; but even then we have no conversation. the end of it is i trust soon coming, and then i hope that the sun will again be bright. in these days it seems as though there were a cloud over the whole earth. i wish with all my heart that you could have been here with her. i think that your tone and strength of mind would have enabled her to bear up against these troubles with more fortitude. after all, it is but the shadow of a misfortune which has come across her, if she would but allow herself so to think. as it is, mrs. orme is with her daily, and nothing i am sure can be more kind. but i can confess to you, though i could do so to no one else, that i do not willingly see an intimacy kept up between my mother and the cleeve. why was there that strange proposition as to her marriage; and why, when it was once made, was it abandoned? i know that my mother has been not only guiltless, but guileless, in these matters as to which she is accused; but nevertheless her affairs will have been so managed that it will be almost impossible for her to remain in this neighbourhood. when all this is over, i think i shall sell this place. what is there to bind me,--to bind me or you to orley farm? sometimes i have thought that i could be happy here, devoting myself to agriculture,-- "fiddlesticks!" sophia exclaimed, as she read this, --and doing something to lessen the dense ignorance of those around me; but for such work as that a man should be able to extend himself over a larger surface than that which i can influence. my dream of happiness now carries me away from this to other countries,--to the sunny south. could you be happy there? a friend of mine whom i well knew in germany, has a villa on the lake of como,-- "indeed, sir, i'll do no such thing," said sophia to herself, --and there i think we might forget all this annoyance. i shall not write again now till the trial is over. i have made up my mind that i will be in court during the whole proceedings. if my mother will admit it, i will remain there close to her, as her son should do in such an emergency. if she will not have this, still i will be there. no one shall say that i am afraid to see my mother in any position to which fortune can bring her, or that i have ever doubted her innocence. god bless you, my own one. yours, l. m. taking this letter as a whole perhaps we may say that there was not as much nonsense in it as young gentlemen generally put into their love-letters to young ladies; but i am inclined to think that it would have been a better love-letter had there been more nonsense. at any rate there should have been less about himself, and more about the lady. he should have omitted the agriculture altogether, and been more sure of his loved one's tastes before he suggested the sunny south and the como villa. it is true that he was circumstanced as few lovers are, with reference to his mother; but still i think he might have been less lachrymose. sophia's answer, which was sent after the lapse of a day or two, was as follows:-- harley street, ---- ---- ----. my dear lucius, i am not surprised that you should feel somewhat low-spirited at the present moment; but you will find, i have no doubt, that the results of the next week will cure all that. your mother will be herself again when this trial is over, and you will then wonder that it should ever have had so depressing an influence either upon you or upon her. i cannot but suppose that papa has done the best as to her advisers. i know how anxious he is about it, and they say that he is very clever in such matters. pray give your mother my love. i cannot but think she is lucky to have mrs. orme with her. what can be more respectable than a connection at such a time with such people? as to your future residence, do not make up your mind to anything while your spirits are thus depressed. if you like to leave orley farm, why not let it instead of selling it? as for me, if it should be fated that our lots are to go together, i am inclined to think that i should prefer to live in england. in london papa's position might probably be of some service, and i should like no life that was not active. but it is too early in the day to talk thus at present. you must not think me cold hearted if i say that what has as yet been between us must not be regarded as an absolute and positive engagement. i, on my part, hope that it may become so. my heart is not cold, and i am not ashamed to own that i esteem you favourably; but marriage is a very serious thing, and there is so much to be considered! i regard myself as a free agent, and in a great measure independent of my parents on such a matter as that; but still i think it well to make no positive promise without consulting them. when this trial is over i will speak to my father, and then you will come up to london and see us. mind you give my love to your mother; and--if it have any value in your eyes--accept it yourself. your affectionate friend, sophia furnival. i feel very confident that mrs. furnival was right in declining to inquire very closely into the circumstances of her daughter's correspondence. a young lady who could write such a letter to her lover as that requires but little looking after; and in those points as to which she may require it, will--if she be so minded--elude it. such as miss furnival was, no care on her mother's part would, i think, have made her better. much care might have made her worse, as, had she been driven to such resources, she would have received her letters under a false name at the baker's shop round the corner. but the last letter was not written throughout without interruption. she was just declaring how on her part she hoped that her present uncertain tenure of her lover's hand might at some future time become certain, when augustus staveley was announced. sophia, who was alone in the drawing-room, rose from her table, gracefully, slipped her note under the cover of the desk, and courteously greeted her visitor. "and how are they all at dear noningsby?" she asked. [illustration: "and how are they all at noningsby?"] "dear noningsby is nearly deserted. there is no one there but my mother and madeline." "and who more would be wanting to make it still dear,--unless it be the judge? i declare, mr. staveley, i was quite in love with your father when i left. talk of honey falling from people's mouths!--he drops nothing less than champagne and pineapples." "how very difficult of digestion his conversation must be!" "by no means. if the wine be good and the fruit ripe, nothing can be more wholesome. and is everybody else gone? let me see;--mr. graham was still there when i left." "he came away shortly afterwards,--as soon, that is, as his arm would allow him." "what a happy accident that was for him, mr. staveley!" "happy!--breaking three of his ribs, his arm, and his collar-bone! i thought it very unhappy." "ah, that's because your character is so deficient in true chivalry. i call it a very happy accident which gives a gentleman an opportunity of spending six weeks under the same roof with the lady of his love. mr. graham is a man of spirit, and i am by no means sure that he did not break his bones on purpose." augustus for a moment thought of denying the imputation with regard to his sister, but before he had spoken he had changed his mind. he was already aware that his friend had been again invited down to noningsby, and if his father chose to encourage graham, why should he make difficulties? he had conceived some general idea that felix graham was not a guest to be welcomed into a rich man's family as a son-in-law. he was poor and crotchety, and as regards professional matters unsteady. but all that was a matter for his father to consider, not for him. so he held his peace as touching graham, and contrived to change the subject, veering round towards that point of the compass which had brought him into harley street. "perhaps then, miss furnival, it might answer some purpose if i were to get myself run over outside there. i could get one of pickford's vans, or a dray from barclay and perkins', if that might be thought serviceable." "it would be of no use in the world, mr. staveley. those very charitable middle-aged ladies opposite, the miss mac codies, would have you into their house in no time, and when you woke from your first swoon, you would find yourself in their best bedroom, with one on each side of you." "and you in the mean time--" "i should send over every morning at ten o'clock to inquire after you--in mamma's name. 'mrs. furnival's compliments, and hopes mr. staveley will recover the use of his legs.' and the man would bring back word: 'the doctor hopes he may, miss; but his left eye is gone for ever.' it is not everybody that can tumble discreetly. now you, i fancy, would only disfigure yourself." "then i must try what fortune can do for me without the brewer's dray." "fortune has done quite enough for you, mr. staveley; i do not advise you to tempt her any further." "miss furnival, i have come to harley street to-day on purpose to tempt her to the utmost. there is my hand--" "mr. staveley, pray keep your hand for a while longer in your own possession." "undoubtedly i shall do so, unless i dispose of it this morning. when we were at noningsby together, i ventured to tell you what i felt for you--" "did you, mr. staveley? if your feelings were anything beyond the common, i don't remember the telling." "and then," he continued, without choosing to notice her words, "you affected to believe that i was not in earnest in what i said to you." "and you must excuse me if i affect to believe the same thing of you still." augustus staveley had come into harley street with a positive resolve to throw his heart and hand and fortune at the feet of miss furnival. i fear that i shall not raise him in the estimation of my readers by saying so. but then my readers will judge him unfairly. they will forget that they have had a much better opportunity of looking into the character of miss furnival than he had had; and they will also forget that they have had no such opportunity of being influenced by her personal charms. i think i remarked before that miss furnival well understood how best to fight her own battle. had she shown herself from the first anxious to regard as a definite offer the first words tending that way which augustus had spoken to her, he would at once have become indifferent about the matter. as a consequence of her judicious conduct he was not indifferent. we always want that which we can't get easily. sophia had made herself difficult to be gotten, and therefore augustus fancied that he wanted her. since he had been in town he had been frequently in harley street, and had been arguing with himself on the matter. what match could be more discreet or better? not only was she very handsome, but she was clever also. and not only was she handsome and clever, but moreover she was an heiress. what more could his friends want for him, and what more could he want for himself? his mother did in truth regard her as a nasty, sly girl; but then his mother did not know sophia, and in such matters mothers are so ignorant! miss furnival, on his thus repeating his offer, again chose to affect a belief that he was not in earnest. i am inclined to think that she rather liked this kind of thing. there is an excitement in the game; and it is one which may be played without great danger to either party if it be played cautiously and with some skill. as regards augustus at the present moment, i have to say--with some regret--that he abandoned all idea of caution, and that he showed very little skill. "then," said he, "i must beg you to lay aside an affectation which is so very injurious both to my honour and to my hopes of happiness." "your honour, mr. staveley, is quite safe, i am certain." "i wish that my happiness were equally so," said he. "but at any rate you will let me have an answer. sophia--" and now he stood up, looking at her with something really like love in his eyes, and miss furnival began to understand that if she so chose it the prize was really within her reach. but then was it a prize? was not the other thing the better prize? the other thing was the better prize;--if only that affair about the orley farm were settled. augustus staveley was a good-looking handsome fellow, but then there was that in the manner and gait of lucius mason which better suited her taste. there are ladies who prefer worcester ware to real china; and, moreover, the order for the worcester ware had already been given. "sophia, let a man be ever so light-hearted, there will come to him moments of absolute and almost terrible earnestness." "even to you, mr. staveley." "i have at any rate done nothing to deserve your scorn." "fie, now; you to talk of my scorn! you come here with soft words which run easily from your tongue, feeling sure that i shall be proud in heart when i hear them whispered into my ears; and now you pretend to be angry because i do not show you that i am elated. do you think it probable that i should treat with scorn anything of this sort that you might say to me seriously?" "i think you are doing so." "have you generally found yourself treated with scorn when you have been out on this pursuit?" "by heavens! you have no right to speak to me so. in what way shall i put my words to make them sound seriously to you? do you want me to kneel at your feet, as our grandfathers used to do?" "oh, certainly not. our grandmothers were very stupid in desiring that." "if i put my hand on my heart will you believe me better?" "not in the least." "then through what formula shall i go?" "go through no formula, mr. staveley. in such affairs as these very little, as i take it, depends on the words that are uttered. when heart has spoken to heart, or even head to head, very little other speaking is absolutely necessary." "and my heart has not spoken to yours?" "well;--no;--not with that downright plain open language which a heart in earnest always knows how to use. i suppose you think you like me?" "sophia, i love you well enough to make you my wife to-morrow." "yes; and to be tired of your bargain on the next day. has it ever occurred to you that giving and taking in marriage is a very serious thing?" "a very serious thing; but i do not think that on that account it should be avoided." "no; but it seems to me that you are always inclined to play at marriage. do not be angry with me, but for the life of me i can never think you are in earnest." "but i shall be angry--very angry--if i do not get from you some answer to what i have ventured to say." "what, now; to-day;--this morning? if you insist upon that, the answer can only be of one sort. if i am driven to decide this morning on the question that you have asked me, great as the honour is--and coming from you, mr. staveley, it is very great--i must decline it. i am not able, at any rate at the present moment, to trust my happiness altogether in your hands." when we think of the half-written letter which at this moment miss furnival had within her desk, this was not wonderful. and then, without having said anything more that was of note, augustus staveley went his way. as he walked up harley street, he hardly knew whether or no he was to consider himself as bound to miss furnival; nor did he feel quite sure whether or no he wished to be so bound. she was handsome, and clever, and an heiress; but yet he was not certain that she possessed all those womanly charms which are desirable in a wife. he could not but reflect that she had never yet said a soft word to him. chapter lxvii. mr. moulder backs his opinion. as the day of the trial drew nigh, the perturbation of poor john kenneby's mind became very great. moulder had not intended to frighten him, but had thought it well to put him up to what he believed to be the truth. no doubt he would be badgered and bullied. "and," as moulder said to his wife afterwards, "wasn't it better that he should know what was in store for him?" the consequence was, that had it been by any means possible, kenneby would have run away on the day before the trial. but it was by no means possible, for dockwrath had hardly left him alone for an instant. dockwrath at this time had crept into a sort of employment in the case from which matthew round had striven in vain to exclude him. mr. round had declared once or twice that if mr. mason encouraged dockwrath in interfering, he, round, would throw the matter up. but professional men cannot very well throw up their business, and round went on, although dockwrath did interfere, and although mr. mason did encourage him. on the eve of the trial he went down to alston with kenneby and bolster; and mr. moulder, at the express instance of kenneby, accompanied them. "what can i do? i can't stop the fellow's gab," moulder had said. but kenneby pleaded hard that some friend might be near him in the day of his trouble, and moulder at last consented. "i wish it was me," mrs. smiley had said, when they talked the matter over in great st. helens; "i'd let the barrister know what was what when he came to knock me about." kenneby wished it also, with all his heart. mr. mason went down by the same train, but he travelled by the first class. dockwrath, who was now holding his head up, would have gone with him, had he not thought it better to remain with kenneby. "he might jump out of the carriage and destroy himself," he said to mr. mason. "if he had any of the feelings of an englishman within his breast," said mason, "he would be anxious to give assistance towards the punishment of such a criminal as that." "he has only the feelings of a tomtit," said dockwrath. lodgings had been taken for the two chief witnesses together, and moulder and dockwrath shared the accommodation with them. as they sat down to tea together, these two gentlemen doubtless felt that bridget bolster was not exactly fitting company for them. but the necessities of an assize week, and of such a trial as this, level much of these distinctions, and they were both prepared to condescend and become affable. "well, mrs. bolster, and how do you find yourself?" asked dockwrath. bridget was a solid, square-looking woman, somewhat given to flesh, and now not very quick in her movements. but the nature of her past life had given to her a certain amount of readiness, and an absence of that dread of her fellow-creatures, which so terribly afflicted poor kenneby. and then also she was naturally not a stupid woman, or one inclined to be muddle-headed. perhaps it would be too much to say that she was generally intelligent, but what she did understand, she understood thoroughly. "pretty well, i thank you, mr. dockwrath. i sha'n't be sorry to have a bit of something to my tea." bridget bolster perfectly understood that she was to be well fed when thus brought out for work in her country's service. to have everything that she wanted to eat and drink at places of public entertainment, and then to have the bills paid for her behind her back, was to bridget bolster the summit of transitory human bliss. "and you shall have something to your tea," said dockwrath. "what's it to be?" "a steak's as good as anything at these places," suggested moulder. "or some ham and eggs," suggested dockwrath. "kidneys is nice," said bridget. "what do you say, kenneby?" asked dockwrath. "it is nothing to me," said kenneby; "i have no appetite. i think i'll take a little brandy-and-water." mr. moulder possessed the most commanding spirit, and the steak was ordered. they then made themselves as comfortable as circumstances would admit, and gradually fell into a general conversation about the trial. it had been understood among them since they first came together, that as a matter of etiquette the witnesses were not to be asked what they had to say. kenneby was not to divulge his facts in plain language, nor bridget bolster those which belonged to her; but it was open to them all to take a general view of the matter, and natural that at the present moment they should hardly be able to speak of anything else. and there was a very divided opinion on the subject in dispute; dockwrath, of course, expressing a strong conviction in favour of a verdict of guilty, and moulder being as certain of an acquittal. at first moulder had been very unwilling to associate with dockwrath; for he was a man who maintained his animosities long within his breast; but dockwrath on this occasion was a great man, and there was some slight reflection of greatness on the associates of dockwrath; it was only by the assistance of dockwrath that a place could be obtained within the court, and, upon the whole, it became evident to moulder that during such a crisis as this the society of dockwrath must be endured. "they can't do anything to one if one do one's best?" said kenneby, who was sitting apart from the table while the others were eating. "of course they can't," said dockwrath, who wished to inspirit the witnesses on his own side. "it ain't what they do, but what they say," said moulder; "and then everybody is looking at you. i remember a case when i was young on the road; it was at nottingham. there had been some sugars delivered, and the rats had got at it. i'm blessed if they didn't ask me backwards and forwards so often that i forgot whether they was seconds or thirds, though i'd sold the goods myself. and then the lawyer said he'd have me prosecuted for perjury. well, i was that frightened, i could not stand in the box. i ain't so green now by a good deal." "i'm sure you're not, mr. moulder," said bridget, who well understood the class to which moulder belonged. "after that i met that lawyer in the street, and was ashamed to look him in the face. i'm blessed if he didn't come up and shake hands with me, and tell me that he knew all along that his client hadn't a leg to stand on. now i call that beautiful." "beautiful!" said kenneby. "yes, i do. he fought that battle just as if he was sure of winning, though he knew he was going to lose. give me the man that can fight a losing battle. anybody can play whist with four by honours in his own hands." "i don't object to four by honours either," said dockwrath; "and that's the game we are going to play to-morrow." "and lose the rubber after all," said moulder. "no, i'm blessed if we do, mr. moulder. if i know anything of my own profession--" "humph!" ejaculated moulder. "and i shouldn't be here in such a case as this if i didn't;--but if i do, lady mason has no more chance of escape than--than--than that bit of muffin has." and as he spoke the savoury morsel in question disappeared from the fingers of the commercial traveller. for a moment or two moulder could not answer him. the portion of food in question was the last on his plate; it had been considerable in size, and required attention in mastication. then the remaining gravy had to be picked up on the blade of the knife, and the particles of pickles collected and disposed of by the same process. but when all this had been well done, moulder replied-- "that may be your opinion, mr. dockwrath, and i dare say you may know what you're about." "well; i rather think i do, mr. moulder." "mine's different. now when one gentleman thinks one thing and another thinks another, there's nothing for it in my mind but for each gentleman to back his own. that's about the ticket in this country, i believe." "that's just as a gentleman may feel disposed," said dockwrath. "no it ain't. what's the use of a man having an opinion if he won't back it? he's bound to back it, or else he should give way, and confess he ain't so sure about it as he said he was. there's no coming to an end if you don't do that. now there's a ten-pound note," and moulder produced that amount of the root of all evil; "i'll put that in john kenneby's hands, and do you cover it." and then he looked as though there were no possible escape from the proposition which he had made. "i decline to have anything to do with it," said kenneby. "gammon," said moulder; "two ten-pound notes won't burn a hole in your pocket." "suppose i should be asked a question about it to-morrow; where should i be then?" "don't trouble yourself, mr. kenneby," said dockwrath; "i'm not going to bet." "you ain't, ain't you?" said moulder. "certainly not, mr. moulder. if you understood professional matters a little better, you'd know that a professional gentleman couldn't make a bet as to a case partly in his own hands without very great impropriety." and dockwrath gathered himself up, endeavouring to impress a sense of his importance on the two witnesses, even should he fail of doing so upon mr. moulder. moulder repocketed his ten-pound note, and laughed with a long, low chuckle. according to his idea of things, he had altogether got the better of the attorney upon that subject. as he himself put it so plainly, what criterion is there by which a man can test the validity of his own opinion if he be not willing to support it by a bet? a man is bound to do so, or else to give way and apologise. for many years he had insisted upon this in commercial rooms as a fundamental law in the character and conduct of gentlemen, and never yet had anything been said to him to show that in such a theory he was mistaken. during all this bridget bolster sat there much delighted. it was not necessary to her pleasure that she should say much herself. there she was seated in the society of gentlemen and of men of the world, with a cup of tea beside her, and the expectation of a little drop of something warm afterwards. what more could the world offer to her, or what more had the world to offer to anybody? as far as her feelings went she did not care if lady mason were tried every month in the year! not that her feelings towards lady mason were cruel. it was nothing to her whether lady mason should be convicted or acquitted. but it was much to her to sit quietly on her chair and have nothing to do, to eat and drink of the best, and be made much of; and it was very much to her to hear the conversation of her betters. on the following morning dockwrath breakfasted by appointment with mr. mason,--promising, however, that he would return to his friends whom he left behind him, and introduce them into the court in proper time. as i have before hinted, mr. mason's confidence in dockwrath had gone on increasing day by day since they had first met each other at groby park, till he now wished that he had altogether taken the advice of the hamworth attorney and put this matter entirely into his hands. by degrees joseph mason had learned to understand and thoroughly to appreciate the strong points in his own case; and now he was so fully convinced of the truth of those surmises which dockwrath had been the first to make, that no amount of contrary evidence could have shaken him. and why had not round and crook found this out when the matter was before investigated? why had they prevented him from appealing to the lord chancellor when, through their own carelessness, the matter had gone against him in the inferior court? and why did they now, even in these latter days, when they were driven to reopen the case by the clearness of the evidence submitted to them,--why did they even now wound his ears, irritate his temper, and oppose the warmest feelings of his heart by expressing pity for this wicked criminal, whom it was their bounden duty to prosecute to the very utmost? was it not by their fault that orley farm had been lost to him for the last twenty years? and yet young round had told him, with the utmost composure, that it would be useless for him to look for any of those moneys which should have accrued to him during all those years! after what had passed, young round should have been anxious to grind lucius mason into powder, and make money of his very bones! must he not think, when he considered all these things, that round and crook had been wilfully dishonest to him, and that their interest had been on the side of lady mason? he did so think at last, under the beneficent tutelage of his new adviser, and had it been possible would have taken the case out of the hands of round and crook even during the week before the trial. "we mustn't do it now," dockwrath had said, in his triumph. "if we did, the whole thing would be delayed. but they shall be so watched that they shall not be able to throw the thing over. i've got them in a vice, mr. mason; and i'll hold them so tight that they must convict her whether they will or no." and the nature and extent of mr. dockwrath's reward had been already settled. when lucius mason should be expelled from orley farm with ignominy, he, dockwrath, should become the tenant. the very rent was settled with the understanding that it should be remitted for the first year. it would be pleasant to him to have back his two fields in this way;--his two fields, and something else beyond! it may be remembered that lucius mason had once gone to his office insulting him. it would now be his turn to visit lucius mason at his domicile. he was disposed to think that such visit would be made by him with more effect than had attended that other. "well, sir, we're all right," he said, as he shook hands with mr. mason of groby; "there's no screw loose that i can find." "and will that man be able to speak?" mr. mason was alluding to john kenneby. "i think he will, as corroborating the woman bolster. that's all we shall want. we shall put up the woman first; that is, after i have done. i don't think they'll make much of her, mr. mason." "they can't make her say that she signed two deeds if she is willing to tell the truth. there's no danger, you think, that she's been tampered with,--that she has taken money." "no, no; there's been nothing of that." "they'd do anything, you know," said mr. mason. "think of such a man as solomon aram! he's been used to it all his life, you know." "they could not do it, mr. mason; i've been too sharp on them. and i tell you what,--they know it now. there isn't one of them that doesn't know we shall get a verdict." and then for a few minutes there was silence between the two friends. "i'll tell you what, dockwrath," said mr. mason, after a while; "i've so set my heart upon this--upon getting justice at last--that i do think it would kill me if i were to be beaten. i do, indeed. i've known this, you know, all my life; and think what i've felt! for twenty-two years, dockwrath! by ----! in all that i have read i don't think i ever heard of such a hardship! that she should have robbed me for two-and-twenty years!--and now they say that she will be imprisoned for twelve months!" "she'll get more than that, mr. mason." "i know what would have been done to her thirty years ago, when the country was in earnest about such matters. what did they do to fauntleroy?" "things are changed since then, ain't they?" said dockwrath, with a laugh. and then he went to look up his flock, and take them into court. "i'll meet you in the hall, mr. mason, in twenty minutes from this time." and so the play was beginning on each side. chapter lxviii. the first day of the trial. and now the judge was there on the bench, the barristers and the attorneys were collected, the prisoner was seated in their presence, and the trial was begun. as is usual in cases of much public moment, when a person of mark is put upon his purgation, or the offence is one which has attracted notice, a considerable amount of time was spent in preliminaries. but we, who are not bound by the necessities under which the court laboured, will pass over these somewhat rapidly. the prisoner was arraigned on the charge of perjury, and pleaded "not guilty" in a voice which, though low, was audible to all the court. at that moment the hum of voices had stayed itself, and the two small words, spoken in a clear, silver tone, reached the ears of all that then were there assembled. some had surmised it to be possible that she would at the last moment plead guilty, but such persons had not known lady mason. and then by slow degrees a jury was sworn, a considerable number of jurors having been set aside at the instance of lady mason's counsel. mr. aram had learned to what part of the county each man belonged, and upon his instructions those who came from the neighbourhood of hamworth were passed over. the comparative lightness of the offence divested the commencement of the trial of much of that importance and apparent dignity which attach themselves to most celebrated criminal cases. the prisoner was not bidden to look upon the juror, nor the juror to look upon the prisoner, as though a battle for life and death were to be fought between them. a true bill of perjury had come down to the court from the grand jury, but the court officials could not bring themselves on such an occasion to open the case with all that solemnity and deference to the prisoner which they would have exhibited had she been charged with murdering her old husband. nor was it even the same as though she had been accused of forgery. though forgery be not now a capital crime, it was so within our memories, and there is still a certain grandeur in the name. but perjury sounds small and petty, and it was not therefore till the trial had advanced a stage or two that it assumed that importance which it afterwards never lost. that this should be so cut mr. mason of groby to the very soul. even mr. dockwrath had been unable to make him understand that his chance of regaining the property was under the present circumstances much greater than it would have been had lady mason been arraigned for forgery. he would not believe that the act of forgery might possibly not have been proved. could she have been first whipped through the street for the misdemeanour, and then hung for the felony, his spirit would not have been more than sufficiently appeased. the case was opened by one mr. steelyard, the junior counsel for the prosecution; but his work on this occasion was hardly more than formal. he merely stated the nature of the accusation against lady mason, and the issue which the jury were called upon to try. then got up sir richard leatherham, the solicitor-general, and at great length and with wonderful perspicuity explained all the circumstances of the case, beginning with the undoubted will left by sir joseph mason, the will independently of the codicil, and coming down gradually to the discovery of that document in mr. dockwrath's office, which led to the surmise that the signature of those two witnesses had been obtained, not to a codicil to a will, but to a deed of another character. in doing this sir richard did not seem to lean very heavily upon lady mason, nor did he say much as to the wrongs suffered by mr. mason of groby. when he alluded to mr. dockwrath and his part in these transactions, he paid no compliment to the hamworth attorney; but in referring to his learned friend on the other side he protested his conviction that the defence of lady mason would be conducted not only with zeal, but in that spirit of justice and truth for which the gentlemen opposite to him were so conspicuous in their profession. all this was wormwood to joseph mason; but nevertheless, though sir richard was so moderate as to his own side, and so courteous to that opposed to him, he made it very clear before he sat down that if those witnesses were prepared to swear that which he was instructed they would swear, either they must be utterly unworthy of credit--a fact which his learned friends opposite were as able to elicit as any gentlemen who had ever graced the english bar--or else the prisoner now on her trial must have been guilty of the crime of perjury now imputed to her. of all those in court now attending to the proceedings, none listened with greater care to the statement made by sir richard than joseph mason, lady mason herself, and felix graham. to joseph mason it appeared that his counsel was betraying him. sir richard and round were in a boat together and were determined to throw him over yet once again. had it been possible he would have stopped the proceedings, and in this spirit he spoke to dockwrath. to joseph mason it would have seemed right that sir richard should begin by holding up lady mason to the scorn and indignation of the twelve honest jurymen before him. mr. dockwrath, whose intelligence was keener in such matters, endeavoured to make his patron understand that he was wrong; but in this he did not succeed. "if he lets her escape me," said mason, "i think it will be the death of me." to lady mason it appeared as though the man who was now showing to all the crowd there assembled the chief scenes of her past life, had been present and seen everything that she had ever done. he told the jury of all who had been present in the room when that true deed had been signed; he described how old usbech had sat there incapable of action; how that affair of the partnership had been brought to a close; how those two witnesses had thereupon appended their name to a deed; how those witnesses had been deceived, or partially deceived, as to their own signatures when called upon to give their testimony at a former trial; and he told them also that a comparison of the signatures on the codicil with those signatures which were undoubtedly true would lead an expert and professional judge of writing to tell them that the one set of signatures or the other must be forgeries. then he went on to describe how the pretended codicil must in truth have been executed--speaking of the solitary room in which the bad work had been done, of the midnight care and terrible solicitude for secrecy. and then, with apparent mercy, he attempted to mitigate the iniquity of the deed by telling the jury that it had not been done by that lady with any view to self-aggrandisement, but had been brought about by a lamentable, infatuated, mad idea that she might in this way do that justice to her child which that child's father had refused to do at her instance. he also, when he told of this, spoke of rebekah and her son; and mrs. orme when she heard him did not dare to raise her eyes from the table. lucius mason, when he had listened to this, lifted his clenched hand on high, and brought it down with loud violence on the raised desk in front of him. "i know the merits of that young man," said sir richard, looking at him; "i am told that he is a gentleman, good, industrious, and high spirited. i wish he were not here; i wish with all my heart he were not here." and then a tear, an absolute and true drop of briny moisture, stood in the eye of that old experienced lawyer. lucius, when he heard this, for a moment covered his face. it was but for a moment, and then he looked up again, turning his eyes slowly round the entire court, and as he did so grasping his mother by the arm. "he'll look in a different sort of fashion by to-morrow evening, i guess," said dockwrath into his neighbour's ear. during all this time no change came over lady mason's face. when she felt her son's hand upon her arm her muscles had moved involuntarily; but she recovered herself at the moment, and then went on enduring it all with absolute composure. nevertheless it seemed to her as though that man who stood before her, telling his tale so calmly, had read the secrets of her very soul. what chance could there be for her when everything was thus known? to every word that was spoken felix graham gave all his mind. while mr. chaffanbrass sat fidgeting, or reading, or dreaming, caring nothing for all that his learned brother might say, graham listened to every fact that was stated, and to every surmise that was propounded. to him the absolute truth in this affair was matter of great moment, but yet he felt that he dreaded to know the truth. would it not be better for him that he should not know it? but yet he listened, and his active mind, intent on the various points as they were evolved, would not restrain itself from forming opinions. with all his ears he listened, and as he did so mr. chaffanbrass, amidst his dreaming, reading, and fidgeting, kept an attentive eye upon him. to him it was a matter of course that lady mason should be guilty. had she not been guilty, he, mr. chaffanbrass, would not have been required. mr. chaffanbrass well understood that the defence of injured innocence was no part of his mission. then at last sir richard leatherham brought to a close his long tale, and the examination of the witnesses was commenced. by this time it was past two o'clock, and the judge went out of court for a few minutes to refresh himself with a glass of wine and a sandwich. and now young peregrine orme, in spite of all obstacles, made his way up to his mother and led her also out of court. he took his mother's arm, and lady mason followed with her son, and so they made their way into the small outer room which they had first entered. not a word was said between them on the subject which was filling the minds of all of them. lucius stood silent and absorbed while peregrine offered refreshment to both the ladies. lady mason, doing as she was bid, essayed to eat and to drink. what was it to her whether she ate and drank or was a-hungered? to maintain by her demeanour the idea in men's minds that she might still possibly be innocent--that was her work. and therefore, in order that those two young men might still think so, she ate and drank as she was bidden. on their return to court mr. steelyard got up to examine dockwrath, who was put into the box as the first witness. the attorney produced certain documents supposed to be of relevancy, which he had found among his father-in-law's papers, and then described how he had found that special document which gave him to understand that bolster and kenneby had been used as witnesses to a certain signature on that th of july. he had known all the circumstances of the old trial, and hence his suspicions had been aroused. acting upon this he had gone immediately down to mr. mason in yorkshire, and the present trial was the result of his care and intelligence. this was in effect the purport of his direct evidence, and then he was handed over to the tender mercies of the other side. on the other side mr. chaffanbrass rose to begin the battle. mr. furnival had already been engaged in sundry of those preliminary skirmishes which had been found necessary before the fight had been commenced in earnest, and therefore the turn had now come for mr. chaffanbrass. all this, however, had been arranged beforehand, and it had been agreed that if possible dockwrath should be made to fall into the clutches of the old bailey barrister. it was pretty to see the meek way in which mr. chaffanbrass rose to his work; how gently he smiled, how he fidgeted about a few of the papers as though he were not at first quite master of his situation, and how he arranged his old wig in a modest, becoming manner, bringing it well forward over his forehead. his voice also was low and soft;--so low that it was hardly heard through the whole court, and persons who had come far to listen to him began to feel themselves disappointed. and it was pretty also to see how dockwrath armed himself for the encounter,--how he sharpened his teeth, as it were, and felt the points of his own claws. the little devices of mr. chaffanbrass did not deceive him. he knew what he had to expect; but his pluck was good, as is the pluck of a terrier when a mastiff prepares to attack him. let mr. chaffanbrass do his worst; that would all be over in an hour or so. but when mr. chaffanbrass had done his worst, orley farm would still remain. "i believe you were a tenant of lady mason's at one time, mr. dockwrath?" asked the barrister. "i was; and she turned me out. if you will allow me i will tell you how all that happened, and how i was angered by the usage i received." mr. dockwrath was determined to make a clean breast of it, and rather go before his tormentor in telling all that there was to be told, than lag behind as an unwilling witness. "do," said mr. chaffanbrass. "that will be very kind of you. when i have learned all that, and one other little circumstance of the same nature, i do not think i shall want to trouble you any more." and then mr. dockwrath did tell it all;--how he had lost the two fields, how he had thus become very angry, how this anger had induced him at once to do that which he had long thought of doing,--search, namely, among the papers of old mr. usbech, with the view of ascertaining what might be the real truth as regarded that doubtful codicil. "and you found what you searched for, mr. dockwrath?" "i did," said dockwrath. "without very much delay, apparently?" "i was two or three days over the work." "but you found exactly what you wanted?" "i found what i expected to find." "and that, although all those papers had been subjected to the scrutiny of messrs. round and crook at the time of that other trial twenty years ago?" "i was sharper than them, mr. chaffanbrass,--a deal sharper." "so i perceive," said chaffanbrass, and now he had pushed back his wig a little, and his eyes had begun to glare with an ugly red light. "yes," he said, "it will be long, i think, before my old friends round and crook are as sharp as you are, mr. dockwrath." "upon my word i agree with you, mr. chaffanbrass." "yes; round and crook are babies to you, mr. dockwrath;" and now mr. chaffanbrass began to pick at his chin with his finger, as he was accustomed to do when he warmed to his subject. "babies to you! you have had a good deal to do with them, i should say, in getting up this case." "i have had something to do with them." "and very much they must have enjoyed your society, mr. dockwrath! and what wrinkles they must have learned from you! what a pleasant oasis it must have been in the generally somewhat dull course of their monotonous though profitable business! i quite envy round and crook having you alongside of them in their inner council-chamber." "i know nothing about that, sir." "no; i dare say you don't;--but they'll remember it. well, when you'd turned over your father-in-law's papers for three days you found what you looked for?" "yes, i did." "you had been tolerably sure that you would find it before you began, eh?" "well, i had expected that something would turn up." "i have no doubt you did,--and something has turned up. that gentleman sitting next to you there,--who is he?" "joseph mason, esquire, of groby park," said dockwrath. "so i thought. it is he that is to have orley farm, if lady mason and her son should lose it?" "in that case he would be the heir." "exactly. he would be the heir. how pleasant it must be to you to find yourself on such affectionate terms with--the heir! and when he comes into his inheritance, who is to be tenant? can you tell us that?" dockwrath here paused for a moment. not that he hesitated as to telling the whole truth. he had fully made up his mind to do so, and to brazen the matter out, declaring that of course he was to be considered worthy of his reward. but there was that in the manner and eye of chaffanbrass which stopped him for a moment, and his enemy immediately took advantage of this hesitation. "come sir," said he, "out with it. if i don't get it from you, i shall from somebody else. you've been very plain-spoken hitherto. don't let the jury think that your heart is failing you at last." "there is no reason why my heart should fail me," said dockwrath, in an angry tone. "is there not? i must differ from you there, mr. dockwrath. the heart of any man placed in such a position as that you now hold must, i think, fail him. but never mind that. who is to be the tenant of orley farm when my client has been deprived of it?" "i am." "just so. you were turned out from those two fields when young mason came home from germany?" "i was." "you immediately went to work and discovered this document?" "i did." "you put up joseph mason to this trial?" "i told him my opinion." "exactly. and if the result be successful, you are to be put in possession of the land." "i shall become mr. mason's tenant at orley farm." "yes, you will become mr. mason's tenant at orley farm. upon my word, mr. dockwrath, you have made my work to-day uncommonly easy for me,--uncommonly easy. i don't know that i have anything else to ask you." and then mr. chaffanbrass, as he sat down, looked up to the jury with an expression of countenance which was in itself worth any fee that could be paid to him for that day's work. his face spoke as plain as a face could speak, and what his face said was this: "after that, gentlemen of the jury, very little more can be necessary. you now see the motives of our opponents, and the way in which those motives have been allowed to act. we, who are altogether upon the square in what we are doing, desire nothing more than that." all which mr. chaffanbrass said by his look, his shrug, and his gesture, much more eloquently than he could have done by the use of any words. mr. dockwrath, as he left the box and went back to his seat--in doing which he had to cross the table in the middle of the court--endeavoured to look and move as though all were right with him. he knew that the eyes of the court were on him, and especially the eyes of the judge and jury. he knew also how men's minds are unconsciously swayed by small appearances. he endeavoured therefore to seem indifferent; but in doing so he swaggered, and was conscious that he swaggered; and he felt as he gained his seat that mr. chaffanbrass had been too much for him. then one mr. torrington from london was examined by sir richard leatherham, and he proved, apparently beyond all doubt, that a certain deed which he produced was genuine. that deed bore the same date as the codicil which was now questioned, had been executed at orley farm by old sir joseph, and bore the signatures of john kenneby and bridget bolster as witnesses. sir richard, holding the deeds in his hands, explained to the jury that he did not at the present stage of the proceedings ask them to take it as proved that those names were the true signatures of the two persons indicated. ("i should think not," said mr. furnival, in a loud voice.) but he asked them to satisfy themselves that the document as now existing purported to bear those two signatures. it would be for them to judge, when the evidence brought before them should be complete, whether or no that deed were a true document. and then the deed was handed up into the jury-box, and the twelve jurymen all examined it. the statement made by this mr. torrington was very simple. it had become his business to know the circumstances of the late partnership between mason and martock, and these circumstances he explained. then sir richard handed him over to be cross-examined. it was now graham's turn to begin his work; but as he rose to do so his mind misgave him. not a syllable that this torrington had said appeared to him to be unworthy of belief. the man had not uttered a word, of the truth of which graham did not feel himself positively assured; and, more than that,--the man had clearly told all that was within him to tell, all that it was well that the jury should hear in order that they might thereby be assisted in coming to a true decision. it had been hinted in his hearing, both by chaffanbrass and aram, that this man was probably in league with dockwrath, and aram had declared with a sneer that he was a puzzle-pated old fellow. he might be puzzle-pated, and had already shown that he was bashful and unhappy in his present position; but he had shown also, as graham thought, that he was anxious to tell the truth. and, moreover, graham had listened with all his mind to the cross-examination of dockwrath, and he was filled with disgust--with disgust, not so much at the part played by the attorney as at that played by the barrister. as graham regarded the matter, what had the iniquities and greed of dockwrath to do with it? had reason been shown why the statement made by dockwrath was in itself unworthy of belief,--that that statement was in its own essence weak,--then the character of the man making it might fairly affect its credibility. but presuming that statement to be wrong,--presuming that it was corroborated by other evidence, how could it be affected by any amount of villainy on the part of dockwrath? all that chaffanbrass had done or attempted was to prove that dockwrath had had his own end to serve. who had ever doubted it? but not a word had been said, not a spark of evidence elicited, to show that the man had used a falsehood to further those views of his. of all this the mind of felix graham had been full; and now, as he rose to take his own share of the work, his wit was at work rather in opposition to lady mason than on her behalf. this torrington was a little old man, and graham had watched how his hands had trembled when sir richard first addressed him. but sir richard had been very kind,--as was natural to his own witness, and the old man had gradually regained his courage. but now as he turned his face round to the side where he knew that he might expect to find an enemy, that tremor again came upon him, and the stick which he held in his hand was heard as it tapped gently against the side of the witness-box. graham, as he rose to his work, saw that mr. chaffanbrass had fixed his eye upon him, and his courage rose the higher within him as he felt the gaze of the man whom he so much disliked. was it within the compass of his heart to bully an old man because such a one as chaffanbrass desired it of him? by heaven, no! he first asked mr. torrington his age, and having been told that he was over seventy, graham went on to assure him that nothing which could be avoided should be said to disturb his comfort. "and now, mr. torrington," he asked, "will you tell me whether you are a friend of mr. dockwrath's, or have had any acquaintance with him previous to the affairs of this trial?" this question he repeated in various forms, but always in a mild voice, and without the appearance of any disbelief in the answers which were given to him. all these questions torrington answered by a plain negative. he had never seen dockwrath till the attorney had come to him on the matter of that partnership deed. he had never eaten or drunk with him, nor had there ever been between them any conversation of a confidential nature. "that will do, mr. torrington," said graham; and as he sat down, he again turned round and looked mr. chaffanbrass full in the face. after that nothing further of interest was done that day. a few unimportant witnesses were examined on legal points, and then the court was adjourned. chapter lxix. the two judges. felix graham as he left the alston court-house on the close of the first day of the trial was not in a happy state of mind. he did not actually accuse himself of having omitted any duty which he owed to his client; but he did accuse himself of having undertaken a duty for which he felt himself to be manifestly unfit. would it not have been better, as he said to himself, for that poor lady to have had any other possible advocate than himself? then as he passed out in the company of mr. furnival and mr. chaffanbrass, the latter looked at him with a scorn which he did not know how to return. in his heart he could do so; and should words be spoken between them on the subject, he would be well able and willing enough to defend himself. but had he attempted to bandy looks with mr. chaffanbrass, it would have seemed even to himself that he was proclaiming his resolution to put himself in opposition to his colleagues. he felt as though he were engaged to fight a battle in which truth and justice, nay heaven itself must be against him. how can a man put his heart to the proof of an assertion in the truth of which he himself has no belief? that though guilty this lady should be treated with the utmost mercy compatible with the law;--for so much, had her guilt stood forward as acknowledged, he could have pleaded with all the eloquence that was in him. he could still pity her, sympathise with her, fight for her on such ground as that; but was it possible that he, believing her to be false, should stand up before the crowd assembled in that court, and use such intellect as god had given him in making others think that the false and the guilty one was true and innocent, and that those accusers were false and guilty whom he knew to be true and innocent? it had been arranged that baron maltby should stay that night at noningsby. the brother-judges therefore occupied the noningsby carriage together, and graham was driven back in a dog-cart by augustus staveley. "well, old boy," said augustus, "you did not soil your conscience much by bullying that fellow." "no, i did not," said graham; and then he was silent. "chaffanbrass made an uncommonly ugly show of the hamworth attorney," said augustus, after a pause; but to this graham at first made no answer. "if i were on the jury," continued the other, "i would not believe a single word that came from that fellow's mouth, unless it were fully supported by other testimony. nor will the jury believe him." "i tell you what, staveley," said graham, "you will oblige me greatly in this matter if you will not speak to me of the trial till it is over." "i beg your pardon." "no; don't do that. nothing can be more natural than that you and i should discuss it together in all its bearings. but there are reasons, which i will explain to you afterwards, why i would rather not do so." "all right," said augustus. "i'll not say another word." "and for my part, i will get through the work as well as i may." and then they both sat silent in the gig till they came to the corner of noningsby wall. "and is that other subject tabooed also?" said augustus. "what other subject?" "that as to which we said something when you were last here,--touching my sister madeline." graham felt that his face was on fire, but he did not know how to answer. "in that it is for you to decide whether or no there should be silence between us," he said at last. "i certainly do not wish that there should be any secret between us," said augustus. "then there shall be none. it is my intention to make an offer to her before i leave noningsby. i can assure you for your satisfaction, that my hopes do not run very high." "for my satisfaction, felix! i don't know why you should suppose me to be anxious that you should fail." and as he so spoke he stopped his horse at the hall-door, and there was no time for further speech. "papa has been home a quarter of an hour," said madeline, meeting them in the hall. "yes, he had the pull of us by having his carriage ready," said her brother. "we had to wait for the ostler." "he says that if you are not ready in ten minutes he will go to dinner without you. mamma and i are dressed." and as she spoke she turned round with a smile to felix, making him feel that both she and her father were treating him as though he were one of the family. "ten minutes will be quite enough for me," said he. "if the governor only would sit down," said augustus, "it would be all right. but that's just what he won't do. mad, do send somebody to help me to unpack." and then they all bustled away, so that the pair of judges might not be kept waiting for their food. felix graham hurried up stairs, three steps at a time, as though all his future success at noningsby depended on his being down in the drawing-room within the period of minutes stipulated by the judge. as he dressed himself with the utmost rapidity, thinking perhaps not so much as he should have done of his appearance in the eyes of his lady-love, he endeavoured to come to some resolve as to the task which was before him. how was he to find an opportunity of speaking his mind to madeline, if, during the short period of his sojourn at noningsby, he left the house every morning directly after breakfast, and returned to it in the evening only just in time for dinner? when he entered the drawing-room both the judges were there, as was also lady staveley and madeline. augustus alone was wanting. "ring the bell, graham," the judge said, as felix took his place on the corner of the rug. "augustus will be down about supper-time." and then the bell was rung and the dinner ordered. "papa ought to remember," said madeline, "that he got his carriage first at alston." "i heard the wheels of the gig," said the judge. "they were just two minutes after us." "i don't think augustus takes longer than other young men," said lady staveley. "look at graham there. he can't be supposed to have the use of all his limbs, for he broke half a dozen of them a month ago; and yet he's ready. brother maltby, give your arm to lady staveley. graham, if you'll take madeline, i'll follow alone." he did not call her miss staveley, as felix specially remarked, and so remarking, pressed the little hand somewhat closer to his side. it was the first sign of love he had ever given her, and he feared that some mark of anger might follow it. there was no return to his pressure;--not the slightest answer was made with those sweet finger points; but there was no anger. "is your arm quite strong again?" she asked him as they sat down, as soon as the judge's short grace had been uttered. "fifteen minutes to the second," said augustus, bustling into the room, "and i think that an unfair advantage has been taken of me. but what can a juvenile barrister expect in the presence of two judges?" and then the dinner went on, and a very pleasant little dinner-party it was. not a word was said, either then or during the evening, or on the following morning, on that subject which was engrossing so much of the mind of all of them. not a word was spoken as to that trial which was now pending, nor was the name of lady mason mentioned. it was understood even by madeline that no allusion could with propriety be made to it in the presence of the judge before whom the cause was now pending, and the ground was considered too sacred for feet to tread upon it. were it not that this feeling is so general an english judge and english counsellors would almost be forced to subject themselves in such cases to the close custody which jurymen are called upon to endure. but, as a rule, good taste and good feeling are as potent as locks and walls. "do you know, mr. graham," said madeline, in that sort of whisper which a dinner-table allows, "that mrs. baker says you have cut her since you got well." "i! i cut one of my very best friends! how can she say anything so untrue? if i knew where she lived i'd go and pay her a visit after dinner." "i don't think you need do that,--though she has a very snug little room of her own. you were in it on christmas-day when we had the snapdragon,--when you and marion carried away the dishes." "i remember. and she is base enough to say that i have cut her? i did see her for a moment yesterday, and then i spoke to her." "ah, but you should have had a long chat with her. she expects you to go back over all the old ground, how you were brought in helpless, how the doctor came to you, and how you took all the messes she prepared for you like a good boy. i'm afraid, mr. graham, you don't understand old women." "nor young ones either," it was on his tongue to say, but he did not say it. "when i was a young man," said the baron, carrying on some conversation which had been general at the table, "i never had an opportunity of breaking my ribs out hunting." "perhaps if you had," said augustus, "you might have used it with more effect than my friend here, and have deprived the age of one of its brightest lights, and the bench of one of its most splendid ornaments." "hear, hear, hear!" said his father. "augustus is coming out in a new character," said his mother. "i am heartily obliged to him," said the baron. "but, as i was saying before, these sort of things never came in my way. if i remember right, my father would have thought i was mad had i talked of going out hunting. did you hunt, staveley?" when the ladies were gone the four lawyers talked about law, though they kept quite clear of that special trial which was going on at alston. judge staveley, as we know, had been at the birmingham congress; but not so his brother the baron. baron maltby, indeed, thought but little of the birmingham doings, and was inclined to be a little hard upon his brother in that he had taken a part in it. "i think that the matter is one open to discussion," said the host. "well, i hope so," said graham. "at any rate i have heard no arguments which ought to make us feel that our mouths are closed." "arguments on such a matter are worth nothing at all," said the baron. "a man with what is called a logical turn of mind may prove anything or disprove anything; but he never convinces anybody. on any matter that is near to a man's heart, he is convinced by the tenour of his own thoughts as he goes on living, not by the arguments of a logician, or even by the eloquence of an orator. talkers are apt to think that if their listener cannot answer them they are bound to give way; but non-talkers generally take a very different view of the subject." "but does that go to show that a question should not be ventilated?" asked felix. "i don't mean to be uncivil," said the baron, "but of all words in the language there is none which i dislike so much as that word ventilation. a man given to ventilating subjects is worse than a man who has a mission." "bores of that sort, however," said graham, "will show themselves from time to time and are not easily put down. some one will have a mission to reform our courts of law, and will do it too." "i only hope it may not be in my time," said the baron. "i can't go quite so far as that," said the other judge. "but no doubt we all have the same feeling more or less. i know pretty well what my friend graham is driving at." "and in your heart you agree with me," said graham. "if you would carry men's heads with you they would do you more good than their hearts," said the judge. and then as the wine bottles were stationary, the subject was cut short and they went into the drawing-room. graham had no opportunity that evening of telling his tale to madeline staveley. the party was too large for such tale-telling or else not large enough. and then the evening in the drawing-room was over before it had seemed to begin; and while he was yet hoping that there might be some turn in his favour, lady staveley wished him good-night, and madeline of course did the same. as he again pressed her hand he could not but think how little he had said to her since he had been in the house, and yet it seemed to him as though that little had made him more intimate with her than he had ever found himself before. he had made an attempt to separate himself from the company by proposing to go and call on mrs. baker in her own quarters; but madeline had declared it to be too late for such an expedition, explaining that when mrs. baker had no patient on hand she was accustomed to go early to her bed. in the present instance, however, she had been wrong, for when felix reached the door of his own room, mrs. baker was coming out of it. "i was just looking if everything was right," said she. "it seems natural to me to come and look after you, you know." "and it is quite as natural to me to be looked after." "is it though? but the worst of you gentlemen when you get well is that one has done with you. you go away, and then there's no more about it. i always begrudge to see you get well for that reason." "when you have a man in your power you like to keep him there." "that's always the way with the women you know. i hope we shall see one of them tying you by the leg altogether before long." "i don't know anything about that," said felix, sheepishly. "don't you? well, if you don't i suppose nobody don't. but nevertheless i did hear a little bird say--eh! mr. graham." "those little birds are the biggest liars in the world." "are they now? well perhaps they are. and how do you think our miss madeline is looking? she wasn't just well for one short time after you went away." "has she been ill?" "well, not ill; not so that she came into my hands. she's looking herself again now, isn't she?" "she is looking, as she always does, uncommonly well." "do you remember how she used to come and say a word to you standing at the door? dear heart! i'll be bound now i care more for her than you do." "do you?" said graham. "of course i do. and then how angry her ladyship was with me,--as though it were my fault. i didn't do it. did i, mr. graham? but, lord love you, what's the use of being angry? my lady ought to have remembered her own young days, for it was just the same thing with her. she had her own way, and so will miss madeline." and then with some further inquiries as to his fire, his towels, and his sheets, mrs. baker took herself off. felix graham had felt a repugnance to taking the gossiping old woman openly into his confidence, and yet he had almost asked her whether he might in truth count upon madeline's love. such at any rate had been the tenour of his gossiping; but nevertheless he was by no means certified. he had the judge's assurance in allowing him to be there; he had the assurance given to him by augustus in the few words spoken to him at the door that evening; and he ought to have known that he had received sufficient assurance from madeline herself. but in truth he knew nothing of the kind. there are men who are much too forward in believing that they are regarded with favour; but there are others of whom it may be said that they are as much too backward. the world hears most of the former, and talks of them the most, but i doubt whether the latter are not the more numerous. the next morning of course there was a hurry and fuss at breakfast in order that they might get off in time for the courts. the judges were to take their seats at ten, and therefore it was necessary that they should sit down to breakfast some time before nine. the achievement does not seem to be one of great difficulty, but nevertheless it left no time for lovemaking. but for one instant felix was able to catch madeline alone in the breakfast-parlour. "miss staveley," said he, "will it be possible that i should speak to you alone this evening;--for five minutes?" "speak to me alone?" she said, repeating his words; and as she did so she was conscious that her whole face had become suffused with colour. "is it too much to ask?" "oh, no!" "then if i leave the dining-room soon after you have done so--" "mamma will be there, you know," she said. then others came into the room and he was able to make no further stipulation for the evening. madeline, when she was left alone that morning, was by no means satisfied with her own behaviour, and accused herself of having been unnecessarily cold to him. she knew the permission which had been accorded to him, and she knew also--knew well--what answer would be given to his request. in her mind the matter was now fixed. she had confessed to herself that she loved him, and she could not now doubt of his love to her. why then should she have answered him with coldness and doubt? she hated the missishness of young ladies, and had resolved that when he asked her a plain question she would give him a plain answer. it was true that the question had not been asked as yet; but why should she have left him in doubt as to her kindly feeling? "it shall be but for this one day," she said to herself as she sat alone in her room. chapter lxx. how am i to bear it? when the first day's work was over in the court, lady mason and mrs. orme kept their seats till the greater part of the crowd had dispersed, and the two young men, lucius mason and peregrine, remained with them. mr. aram also remained, giving them sundry little instructions in a low voice as to the manner in which they should go home and return the next morning,--telling them the hour at which they must start, and promising that he would meet them at the door of the court. to all this mrs. orme endeavoured to give her best attention, as though it were of the last importance; but lady mason was apparently much the more collected of the two, and seemed to take all mr. aram's courtesies as though they were a matter of course. there she sat, still with her veil up, and though all those who had been assembled there during the day turned their eyes upon her as they passed out, she bore it all without quailing. it was not that she returned their gaze, or affected an effrontery in her conduct; but she was able to endure it without showing that she suffered as she did so. "the carriage is there now," said mr. aram, who had left the court for a minute; "and i think you may get into it quietly." this accordingly they did, making their way through an avenue of idlers who still remained that they might look upon the lady who was accused of having forged her husband's will. [illustration: lady mason leaving the court.] "i will stay with her to-night," whispered mrs. orme to her son as they passed through the court. "do you mean that you will not come to the cleeve at all?" "not to-night; not till the trial be over. do you remain with your grandfather." "i shall be here to-morrow of course to see how you go on." "but do not leave your grandfather this evening. give him my love, and say that i think it best that i should remain at orley farm till the trial be over. and, peregrine, if i were you i would not talk to him much about the trial." "but why not?" "i will tell you when it is over. but it would only harass him at the present moment." and then peregrine handed his mother into the carriage and took his own way back to the cleeve. as he returned he was bewildered in his mind by what he had heard, and he also began to feel something like a doubt as to lady mason's innocence. hitherto his belief in it had been as fixed and assured as that of her own son. indeed it had never occurred to him as possible that she could have done the thing with which she was charged. he had hated joseph mason for suspecting her, and had hated dockwrath for his presumed falsehood in pretending to suspect her. but what was he to think of this question now, after hearing the clear and dispassionate statement of all the circumstances by the solicitor-general? hitherto he had understood none of the particulars of the case; but now the nature of the accusation had been made plain, and it was evident to him that at any rate that far-sighted lawyer believed in the truth of his own statement. could it be possible that lady mason had forged the will,--that this deed had been done by his mother's friend, by the woman who had so nearly become lady orme of the cleeve? the idea was terrible to him as he rode home, but yet he could not rid himself of it. and if this were so, was it also possible that his grandfather suspected it? had that marriage been stopped by any such suspicion as this? was it this that had broken the old man down and robbed him of all his spirit? that his mother could not have any such suspicion seemed to him to be made clear by the fact that she still treated lady mason as her friend. and then why had he been specially enjoined not to speak to his grandfather as to the details of the trial? but it was impossible for him to meet sir peregrine without speaking of the trial. when he entered the house, which he did by some back entrance from the stables, he found his grandfather standing at his own room door. he had heard the sounds of the horse, and was unable to restrain his anxiety to learn. "well," said sir peregrine, "what has happened?" "it is not over as yet. it will last, they say, for three days." "but come in, peregrine;" and he shut the door, anxious rather that the servants should not witness his own anxiety than that they should not hear tidings which must now be common to all the world. "they have begun it?" "oh, yes! they have begun it." "well, how far has it gone?" "sir richard leatherham told us the accusation they make against her, and then they examined dockwrath and one or two others. they have not got further than that." "and the--lady mason--how does she bear it?" "very well i should say. she does not seem to be nearly as nervous now, as she was while staying with us." "ah! indeed. she is a wonderful woman,--a very wonderful woman. so she bears up? and your mother, peregrine?" "i don't think she likes it." "likes it! who could like such a task as that?" "but she will go through with it." "i am sure she will. she will go through with anything that she undertakes. and--and--the judge said nothing--i suppose?" "very little, sir." and sir peregrine again sat down in his arm-chair as though the work of conversation were too much for him. but neither did he dare to speak openly on the subject; and yet there was so much that he was anxious to know. do you think she will escape? that was the question which he longed to ask but did not dare to utter. and then, after a while, they dined together. and peregrine determined to talk of other things; but it was in vain. while the servants were in the room nothing was said. the meat was carved and the plates were handed round, and young orme ate his dinner; but there was a constraint upon them both which they were quite unable to dispel, and at last they gave it up and sat in silence till they were alone. when the door was closed, and they were opposite to each other over the fire, in the way which was their custom when they two only were there, sir peregrine could restrain his desire no longer. it must be that his grandson, who had heard all that had passed in court that day, should have formed some opinion of what was going on,--should have some idea as to the chance of that battle which was being fought. he, sir peregrine, could not have gone into the court himself. it would have been impossible for him to show himself there. but there had been his heart all the day. how had it gone with that woman whom a few weeks ago he had loved so well that he had regarded her as his wife? "was your mother very tired?" he said, again endeavouring to draw near the subject. "she did looked fagged while sitting in court." "it was a dreadful task for her,--very dreadful." "nothing could have turned her from it," said peregrine. "no,--you are right there. nothing would have turned her from it. she thought it to be her duty to that poor lady. but she--lady mason--she bore it better, you say?" "i think she bears it very well,--considering what her position is." "yes, yes. it is very dreadful. the solicitor-general when he opened,--was he very severe upon her?" "i do not think he wished to be severe." "but he made it very strong against her." "the story, as he told it, was very strong against her;--that is, you know, it would be if we were to believe all that he stated." "yes, yes, of course. he only stated what he has been told by others. you could not see how the jury took it?" "i did not look at them. i was thinking more of her and of lucius." "lucius was there?" "yes; he sat next to her. and sir richard said, while he was telling the story, that he wished her son were not there to hear it. upon my word, sir, i almost wished so too." "poor fellow,--poor fellow! it would have been better for him to stay away." "and yet had it been my mother--" "your mother, perry! it could not have been your mother. she could not have been so placed." "if it be lady mason's misfortune, and not her fault--" "ah, well; we will not talk about that. and there will be two days more you say?" "so said aram, the attorney." "god help her;--may god help her! it would be very dreadful for a man, but for a woman the burden is insupportable." then they both sat silent for a while, during which peregrine was engrossed in thinking how he could turn his grandfather from the conversation. "and you heard no one express any opinion?" asked sir peregrine, after a pause. "you mean about lady mason?" and peregrine began to perceive that his mother was right, and that it would have been well if possible to avoid any words about the trial. "do they think that she will--will be acquitted? of course the people there were talking about it?" "yes, sir, they were talking about it. but i really don't know as to any opinion. you see, the chief witnesses have not been examined." "and you, perry, what do you think?" "i, sir! well, i was altogether on her side till i heard sir richard leatherham." "and then--?" "then i did not know what to think. i suppose it's all right; but one never can understand what those lawyers are at. when mr. chaffanbrass got up to examine dockwrath, he seemed to be just as confident on his side as the other fellow had been on the other side. i don't think i'll have any more wine, sir, thank you." but sir peregrine did not move. he sat in his old accustomed way, nursing one leg over the knee of the other, and thinking of the manner in which she had fallen at his feet, and confessed it all. had he married her, and gone with her proudly into the court,--as he would have done,--and had he then heard a verdict of guilty given by the jury;--nay, had he heard such proof of her guilt as would have convinced himself, it would have killed him. he felt, as he sat there, safe over his own fireside, that his safety was due to her generosity. had that other calamity fallen upon him, he could not have survived it. his head would have fallen low before the eyes of those who had known him since they had known anything, and would never have been raised again. in his own spirit, in his inner life, the blow had come to him; but it was due to her effort on his behalf that he had not been stricken in public. when he had discussed the matter with mrs. orme, he had seemed in a measure to forget this. it had not at any rate been the thought which rested with the greatest weight upon his mind. then he had considered how she, whose life had been stainless as driven snow, should bear herself in the presence of such deep guilt. but now,--now as he sat alone, he thought only of lady mason. let her be ever so guilty,--and her guilt had been very terrible,--she had behaved very nobly to him. from him at least she had a right to sympathy. and what chance was there that she should escape? of absolute escape there was no chance whatever. even should the jury acquit her, she must declare her guilt to the world,--must declare it to her son, by taking steps for the restoration of the property. as to that sir peregrine felt no doubt whatever. that joseph mason of groby would recover his right to orley farm was to him a certainty. but how terrible would be the path over which she must walk before this deed of retribution could be done! "ah, me! ah, me!" he said, as he thought of all this,--speaking to himself, as though he were unconscious of his grandson's presence. "poor woman! poor woman!" then peregrine felt sure that she had been guilty, and was sure also that his grandfather was aware of it. "will you come into the other room, sir?" he said. "yes, yes; if you like it." and then the one leg fell from the other, and he rose to do his grandson's bidding. to him now and henceforward one room was much the same as another. in the mean time the party bound for orley farm had reached that place, and to them also came the necessity of wearing through that tedious evening. on the mind of lucius mason not even yet had a shadow of suspicion fallen. to him, in spite of it all, his mother was still pure. but yet he was stern to her, and his manner was very harsh. it may be that had such suspicion crossed his mind he would have been less stern, and his manner more tender. as it was he could understand nothing that was going on, and almost felt that he was kept in the dark at his mother's instance. why was it that a man respected by all the world, such as sir richard leatherham, should rise in court and tell such a tale as that against his mother; and that the power of answering that tale on his mother's behalf should be left to such another man as mr. chaffanbrass? sir richard had told his story plainly, but with terrible force; whereas chaffanbrass had contented himself with brow-beating another lawyer with the lowest quirks of his cunning. why had not some one been in court able to use the language of passionate truth and ready to thrust the lie down the throats of those who told it? tea and supper had been prepared for them, and they sat down together; but the nature of the meal may be imagined. lady mason had striven with terrible effort to support herself during the day, and even yet she did not give way. it was quite as necessary that she should restrain herself before her son as before all those others who had gazed at her in court. and she did sustain herself. she took a knife and fork in her hand and ate a few morsels. she drank her cup of tea, and remembering that there in that house she was still hostess, she made some slight effort to welcome her guest. "surely after such a day of trouble you will eat something," she said to her friend. to mrs. orme it was marvellous that the woman should even be alive,--let alone that she should speak and perform the ordinary functions of her daily life. "and now," she said--lady mason said--as soon as that ceremony was over, "now as we are so tired i think we will go up stairs. will you light our candles for us, lucius?" and so the candles were lit, and the two ladies went up stairs. a second bed had been prepared in lady mason's room, and into this chamber they both went at once. mrs. orme, as soon as she had entered, turned round and held out both her hands in order that she might comfort lady mason by taking hers; but lady mason, when she had closed the door, stood for a moment with her face towards the wall, not knowing how to bear herself. it was but for a moment, and then slowly moving round, with her two hands clasped together, she sank on her knees at mrs. orme's feet, and hid her face in the skirt of mrs. orme's dress. "my friend--my friend!" said lady mason. "yes, i am your friend--indeed i am. but, dear lady mason--" and she endeavoured to think of words by which she might implore her to rise and compose herself. "how is it you can bear with such a one as i am? how is it that you do not hate me for my guilt?" "he does not hate us when we are guilty." "i do not know. sometimes i think that all will hate me,--here and hereafter--except you. lucius will hate me, and how shall i bear that? oh, mrs. orme, i wish he knew it!" "i wish he did. he shall know it now,--to-night, if you will allow me to tell him." "no. it would kill me to bear his looks. i wish he knew it, and was away, so that he might never look at me again." "he too would forgive you if he knew it all." "forgive! how can he forgive?" and as she spoke she rose again to her feet, and her old manner came upon her. "do you think what it is that i have done for him? i,--his mother,--for my only child? and after that, is it possible that he should forgive me?" "you meant him no harm." "but i have ruined him before all the world. he is as proud as your boy; and could he bear to think that his whole life would be disgraced by his mother's crime?" "had i been so unfortunate he would have forgiven me." "we are speaking of what is impossible. it could not have been so. your youth was different from mine." "god has been very good to me, and not placed temptation in my way;--temptation, i mean, to great faults. but little faults require repentance as much as great ones." "but then repentance is easy; at any rate it is possible." "oh, lady mason, is it not possible for you?" "but i will not talk of that now. i will not hear you compare yourself with such a one as i am. do you know i was thinking to-day that my mind would fail me, and that i should be mad before this is over? how can i bear it? how can i bear it?" and rising from her seat, she walked rapidly through the room, holding back her hair from her brows with both her hands. [illustration: "how can i bear it?"] and how was she to bear it? the load on her back was too much for her shoulders. the burden with which she had laden herself was too heavy to be borne. her power of endurance was very great. her strength in supporting the extreme bitterness of intense sorrow was wonderful. but now she was taxed beyond her power. "how am i to bear it?" she said again, as still holding her hair between her fingers, she drew her hands back over her head. "you do not know. you have not tried it. it is impossible," she said in her wildness, as mrs. orme endeavoured to teach her the only source from whence consolation might be had. "i do not believe in the thief on the cross, unless it was that he had prepared himself for that day by years of contrition. i know i shock you," she added, after a while. "i know that what i say will be dreadful to you. but innocence will always be shocked by guilt. go, go and leave me. it has gone so far now that all is of no use." then she threw herself on the bed, and burst into a convulsive passion of tears. once again mrs. orme endeavoured to obtain permission from her to undertake that embassy to her son. had lady mason acceded, or been near acceding, mrs. orme's courage would probably have been greatly checked. as it was she pressed it as though the task were one to be performed without difficulty. mrs. orme was very anxious that lucius should not sit in the court throughout the trial. she felt that if he did so the shock,--the shock which was inevitable,--must fall upon him there; and than that she could conceive nothing more terrible. and then also she believed that if the secret were once made known to lucius, and if he were for a time removed from his mother's side, the poor woman might be brought to a calmer perception of her true position. the strain would be lessened, and she would no longer feel the necessity of exerting so terrible a control over her feelings. "you have acknowledged that he must know it sooner or later," pleaded mrs. orme. "but this is not the time,--not now, during the trial. had he known it before--" "it would keep him away from the court." "yes, and i should never see him again! what will he do when he hears it? perhaps it would be better that he should go without seeing me." "he would not do that." "it would be better. if they take me to the prison, i will never see him again. his eyes would kill me. do you ever watch him and see the pride that there is in his eye? he has never yet known what disgrace means; and now i, his mother, have brought him to this!" it was all in vain as far as that night was concerned. lady mason would give no such permission. but mrs. orme did exact from her a kind of promise that lucius should be told on the next evening, if it then appeared, from what mr. aram should say, that the result of the trial was likely to be against them. lucius mason spent his evening alone; and though he had as yet heard none of the truth, his mind was not at ease, nor was he happy at heart. though he had no idea of his mother's guilt, he did conceive that after this trial it would be impossible that they should remain at orley farm. his mother's intended marriage with sir peregrine, and then the manner in which that engagement had been broken off; the course of the trial, and its celebrity; the enmity of dockwrath; and lastly, his own inability to place himself on terms of friendship with those people who were still his mother's nearest friends, made him feel that in any event it would be well for them to change their residence. what could life do for him there at orley farm, after all that had passed? he had gone to liverpool and bought guano, and now the sacks were lying in his barn unopened. he had begun to drain, and the ugly unfinished lines of earth were lying across his fields. he had no further interest in it, and felt that he could no longer go to work on that ground as though he were in truth its master. but then, as he thought of his future hopes, his place of residence and coming life, there was one other beyond himself and his mother to whom his mind reverted. what would sophia wish that he should do?--his own sophia,--she who had promised him that her heart should be with his through all the troubles of this trial? before he went to bed that night he wrote to sophia, and told her what were his troubles and what his hopes. "this will be over in two days more," he said, "and then i will come to you. you will see me, i trust, the day after this letter reaches you; but nevertheless i cannot debar myself from the satisfaction of writing. i am not happy, for i am dissatisfied with what they are doing for my mother; and it is only when i think of you, and the assurance of your love, that i can feel anything like content. it is not a pleasant thing to sit by and hear one's mother charged with the foulest frauds that practised villains can conceive! yet i have had to bear it, and have heard no denial of the charge in true honest language. to-day, when the solicitor-general was heaping falsehoods on her name, i could hardly refrain myself from rushing at his throat. let me have a line of comfort from you, and then i will be with you on friday." that line of comfort never came, nor did lucius on the friday make his intended visit. miss furnival had determined, some day or two before this, that she would not write to lucius again till this trial was over; and even then it might be a question whether a correspondence with the heir of noningsby would not be more to her taste. chapter lxxi. showing how john kenneby and bridget bolster bore themselves in court. on the next morning they were all in their places at ten o'clock, and the crowd had been gathered outside the doors of the court from a much earlier hour. as the trial progressed the interest in it increased, and as people began to believe that lady mason had in truth forged a will, so did they the more regard her in the light of a heroine. had she murdered her husband after forging his will, men would have paid half a crown apiece to have touched her garments, or a guinea for the privilege of shaking hands with her. lady mason had again taken her seat with her veil raised, with mrs. orme on one side of her and her son on the other. the counsel were again ranged on the seats behind, mr. furnival sitting the nearest to the judge, and mr. aram again occupied the intermediate bench, so placing himself that he could communicate either with his client or with the barristers. these were now their established places, and great as was the crowd, they found no difficulty in reaching them. an easy way is always made for the chief performers in a play. this was to be the great day as regarded the evidence. "it is a case that depends altogether on evidence," one young lawyer said to another. "if the counsel know how to handle the witnesses, i should say she is safe." the importance of this handling was felt by every one, and therefore it was understood that the real game would be played out on this middle day. it had been all very well for chaffanbrass to bully dockwrath and make the wretched attorney miserable for an hour or so, but that would have but little bearing on the verdict. there were two persons there who were prepared to swear that on a certain day they had only signed one deed. so much the solicitor-general had told them, and nobody doubted that it would be so. the question now was this, would mr. furnival and mr. chaffanbrass succeed in making them contradict themselves when they had so sworn? could they be made to say that they had signed two deeds, or that they might have done so? it was again the duty of mr. furnival to come first upon the stage,--that is to say, he was to do so as soon as sir richard had performed his very second-rate part of eliciting the evidence in chief. poor john kenneby was to be the first victim, and he was placed in the box before them all very soon after the judge had taken his seat. why had he not emigrated to australia, and escaped all this,--escaped all this, and mrs. smiley also? that was john kenneby's reflection as he slowly mounted the two steps up into the place of his torture. near to the same spot, and near also to dockwrath who had taken these two witnesses under his special charge, sat bridget bolster. she had made herself very comfortable that morning with buttered toast and sausages; and when at dockwrath's instance kenneby had submitted to a slight infusion of dutch courage,--a bottle of brandy would not have sufficed for the purpose,--bridget also had not refused the generous glass. "not that i wants it," said she, meaning thereby to express an opinion that she could hold her own, even against the great chaffanbrass, without any such extraneous aid. she now sat quite quiet, with her hands crossed on her knees before her, and her eyes immovably fixed on the table which stood in the centre of the court. in that position she remained till her turn came; and one may say that there was no need for fear on account of bridget bolster. and then sir richard began. what would be the nature of kenneby's direct evidence the reader pretty well knows. sir richard took a long time in extracting it, for he was aware that it would be necessary to give his witness some confidence before he came to his main questions. even to do this was difficult, for kenneby would speak in a voice so low that nobody could hear him; and on the second occasion of the judge enjoining him to speak out, he nearly fainted. it is odd that it never occurs to judges that a witness who is naturally timid will be made more so by being scolded. when i hear a judge thus use his authority, i always wish that i had the power of forcing him to some very uncongenial employment,--jumping in a sack, let us say; and then when he jumped poorly, as he certainly would, i would crack my whip and bid him go higher and higher. the more i so bade him, the more he would limp; and the world looking on, would pity him and execrate me. it is much the same thing when a witness is sternly told to speak louder. but john kenneby at last told his plain story. he remembered the day on which he had met old usbech and bridget bolster and lady mason in sir joseph's chamber. he had then witnessed a signature by sir joseph, and had only witnessed one on that day;--of that he was perfectly certain. he did not think that old usbech had signed the deed in question, but on that matter he declined to swear positively. he remembered the former trial. he had not then been able to swear positively whether usbech had or had not signed the deed. as far as he could remember, that was the point to which his cross-examination on that occasion had chiefly been directed. so much john kenneby did at last say in language that was sufficiently plain. and then mr. furnival arose. the reader is acquainted with the state of his mind on the subject of this trial. the enthusiasm on behalf of lady mason, which had been aroused by his belief in her innocence, by his old friendship, by his ancient adherence to her cause, and by his admiration for her beauty, had now greatly faded. it had faded much when he found himself obliged to call in such fellow-labourers as chaffanbrass and aram, and had all but perished when he learned from contact with them to regard her guilt as certain. but, nevertheless, now that he was there, the old fire returned to him. he had wished twenty times that he had been able to shake the matter from him and leave his old client in the hands of her new advisers. it would be better for her, he had said to himself. but on this day--on these three days--seeing that he had not shaken the matter off, he rose to his work as though he still loved her, as though all his mind was still intent on preserving that ill-gotten inheritance for her son. it may almost be doubted whether at moments during these three days he did not again persuade himself that she was an injured woman. aram, as may be remembered, had felt misgivings as to mr. furnival's powers for such cross-examination; but chaffanbrass had never doubted it. he knew that mr. furnival could do as much as himself in that way; the difference being this,--that mr. furnival could do something else besides. "and now, mr. kenneby, i'll ask you a few questions," he said; and kenneby turned round to him. the barrister spoke in a mild low voice, but his eye transfixed the poor fellow at once; and though kenneby was told a dozen times to look at the jury and speak to the jury, he never was able to take his gaze away from mr. furnival's face. "you remember the old trial," he said; and as he spoke he held in his hand what was known to be an account of that transaction. then there arose a debate between him and sir richard, in which chaffanbrass, and graham, and mr. steelyard all took part, as to whether kenneby might be examined as to his former examination; and on this point graham pleaded very volubly, bringing up precedents without number,--striving to do his duty to his client on a point with which his own conscience did not interfere. and at last it was ruled by the judge that this examination might go on;--whereupon both sir richard and mr. steelyard sat down as though they were perfectly satisfied. kenneby, on being again asked, said that he did remember the old trial. "it is necessary, you know, that the jury should hear you, and if you look at them and speak to them, they would stand a better chance." kenneby for a moment allowed his eye to travel up to the jury box, but it instantly fell again, and fixed itself on the lawyer's face. "you do remember that trial?" "yes, sir, i remember it," whispered kenneby. "do you remember my asking you then whether you had been in the habit of witnessing sir joseph mason's signature?" "did you ask me that, sir?" "that is the question which i put to you. do you remember my doing so?" "i dare say you did, sir." "i did, and i will now read your answer. we shall give to the jury a copy of the proceedings of that trial, my lord, when we have proved it,--as of course we intend to do." and then there was another little battle between the barristers. but as lady mason was now being tried for perjury, alleged to have been committed at that other trial, it was of course indispensable that all the proceedings of that trial should be made known to the jury. "you said on that occasion," continued furnival, "that you were sure you had witnessed three signatures of sir joseph's that summer,--that you had probably witnessed three in july, that you were quite sure you had witnessed three in one week in july, that you were nearly sure you had witnessed three in one day, that you could not tell what day that might have been, and that you had been used as a witness so often that you really did not remember anything about it. can you say whether that was the purport of the evidence you gave then?" "if it's down there--" said john kenneby, and then he stopped himself. "it is down here; i have read it." "i suppose it's all right," said kenneby. "i must trouble you to speak out," said the judge; "i cannot hear you, and it is impossible that the jury should do so." the judge's words were not uncivil, but his voice was harsh, and the only perceptible consequence of the remonstrance was to be seen in the thick drops of perspiration standing on john kenneby's brow. "that is the evidence which you gave on the former trial? may the jury presume that you then spoke the truth to the best of your knowledge?" "i tried to speak the truth, sir." "you tried to speak the truth? but do you mean to say that you failed?" "no, i don't think i failed." "when, therefore, you told the jury that you were nearly sure that you had witnessed three signatures of sir joseph's in one day, that was truth?" "i don't think i ever did." "ever did what?" "witness three papers in one day." "you don't think you ever did?" "i might have done, to be sure." "but then, at that trial, about twelve months after the man's death, you were nearly sure you had done so." "was i?" "so you told the jury." "then i did, sir." "then you did what?" "did witness all those papers." "you think then now that it is probable you witnessed three signatures on the same day?" "no, i don't think that." "then what do you think?" "it is so long ago, sir, that i really don't know." "exactly. it is so long ago that you cannot depend on your memory." "i suppose i can't, sir." "but you just now told the gentleman who examined you on the other side, that you were quite sure you did not witness two deeds on the day he named,--the th of july. now, seeing that you doubt your own memory, going back over so long a time, do you wish to correct that statement?" "i suppose i do." "what correction do you wish to make?" "i don't think i did." "don't think you did what?" "i don't think i signed two--" "i really cannot hear the witness," said the judge "you must speak out louder," said mr. furnival, himself speaking very loudly. "i mean to do it as well as i can," said kenneby. "i believe you do," said furnival; "but in so meaning you must be very careful to state nothing as a certainty, of the certainty of which you are not sure. are you certain that on that day you did not witness two deeds?" "i think so." "and yet you were not certain twenty years ago, when the fact was so much nearer to you?" "i don't remember." "you don't remember whether you were certain twelve months after the occurrence, but you think you are certain now." "i mean, i don't think i signed two." "it is, then, only a matter of thinking?" "no;--only a matter of thinking." "and you might have signed the two?" "i certainly might have done so." "what you mean to tell the jury is this: that you have no remembrance of signing twice on that special day, although you know that you have acted as witness on behalf of sir joseph mason more than twice on the same day?" "yes." "that is the intended purport of your evidence?" "yes, sir." and then mr. furnival travelled off to that other point of mr. usbech's presence and alleged handwriting. on that matter kenneby had not made any positive assertion, though he had expressed a very strong opinion. mr. furnival was not satisfied with this, but wished to show that kenneby had not on that matter even a strong opinion. he again reverted to the evidence on the former trial, and read various questions with their answers; and the answers as given at that time certainly did not, when so taken, express a clear opinion on the part of the person who gave them; although an impartial person on reading the whole evidence would have found that a very clear opinion was expressed. when first asked, kenneby had said that he was nearly sure that mr. usbech had not signed the document. but his very anxiety to be true had brought him into trouble. mr. furnival on that occasion had taken advantage of the word "nearly," and had at last succeeded in making him say that he was not sure at all. evidence by means of torture,--thumbscrew and suchlike,--we have for many years past abandoned as barbarous, and have acknowledged that it is of its very nature useless in the search after truth. how long will it be before we shall recognise that the other kind of torture is equally opposed both to truth and civilization? "but mr. usbech was certainly in the room on that day?" continued mr. furnival. "yes, he was there." "and knew what you were all doing, i suppose?" "yes, i suppose he knew." "i presume it was he who explained to you the nature of the deed you were to witness?" "i dare say he did." "as he was the lawyer, that would be natural." "i suppose it would." "and you don't remember the nature of that special deed, as explained to you on the day when bridget bolster was in the room?" "no, i don't." "it might have been a will?" "yes, it might. i did sign one or two wills for sir joseph, i think." "and as to this individual document, mr. usbech might have signed it in your presence, for anything you know to the contrary?" "he might have done so." "now, on your oath, kenneby, is your memory strong enough to enable you to give the jury any information on this subject upon which they may firmly rely in convicting that unfortunate lady of the terrible crime laid to her charge." then for a moment kenneby glanced round and fixed his eyes upon lady mason's face. "think a moment before you answer; and deal with her as you would wish another should deal with you if you were so situated. can you say that you remember that usbech did not sign it?" "well, sir, i don't think he did." "but he might have done so?" "oh, yes; he might." "you do not remember that he did do so?" "certainly not." "and that is about the extent of what you mean to say?" "yes, sir." "let me understand," said the judge--and then the perspiration became more visible on poor kenneby's face;--"do you mean to say that you have no memory on the matter whatever?--that you simply do not remember whether usbech did or did not sign it?" "i don't think he signed it." "but why do you think he did not, seeing that his name is there?" "i didn't see him." "do you mean," continued the judge, "that you didn't see him, or that you don't remember that you saw him?" "i don't remember that i saw him." "but you may have done so? he may have signed, and you may have seen him do so, only you don't remember it?" "yes, my lord." and then kenneby was allowed to go down. as he did so, joseph mason, who sat near to him, turned upon him a look black as thunder. mr. mason gave him no credit for his timidity, but believed that he had been bought over by the other side. dockwrath, however, knew better. "they did not quite beat him about his own signature," said he; "but i knew all along that we must depend chiefly upon bolster." then bridget bolster was put into the box, and she was examined by mr. steelyard. she had heard kenneby instructed to look up, and she therefore fixed her eyes upon the canopy over the judge's seat. there she fixed them, and there she kept them till her examination was over, merely turning them for a moment on to mr. chaffanbrass, when that gentleman became particularly severe in his treatment of her. what she said in answer to mr. steelyard, was very simple. she had never witnessed but one signature in her life, and that she had done in sir joseph's room. the nature of the document had been explained to her. "but," as she said, "she was young and giddy then, and what went in at one ear went out at another." she didn't remember mr. usbech signing, but he might have done so. she thought he did not. as to the two signatures purporting to be hers, she could not say which was hers and which was not. but this she would swear positively, that they were not both hers. to this she adhered firmly, and mr. steelyard handed her over to mr. chaffanbrass. [illustration: bridget bolster in court.] then mr. chaffanbrass rose from his seat, and every one knew that his work was cut out for him. mr. furnival had triumphed. it may be said that he had demolished his witness; but his triumph had been very easy. it was now necessary to demolish bridget bolster, and the opinion was general that if anybody could do it mr. chaffanbrass was the man. but there was a doggedness about bridget bolster which induced many to doubt whether even chaffanbrass would be successful. mr. aram trusted greatly; but the bar would have preferred to stake their money on bridget. chaffanbrass as he rose pushed back his small ugly wig from his forehead, thrusting it rather on one side as he did so, and then, with his chin thrown forward, and a wicked, ill-meaning smile upon his mouth, he looked at bridget for some moments before he spoke to her. she glanced at him, and instantly fixed her eyes back upon the canopy. she then folded her hands one on the other upon the rail before her, compressed her lips, and waited patiently. "i think you say you're--a chambermaid?" that was the first question which chaffanbrass asked, and bridget bolster gave a little start as she heard his sharp, angry, disagreeable voice. "yes, i am, sir, at palmer's imperial hotel, plymouth, devonshire; and have been for nineteen years, upper and under." "upper and under! what do upper and under mean?" "when i was under, i had another above me; and now, as i'm upper, why there's others under me." so she explained her position at the hotel, but she never took her eyes from the canopy. "you hadn't begun being--chambermaid, when you signed these documents?" "i didn't sign only one of 'em." "well, one of them. you hadn't begun being chambermaid then?" "no, i hadn't; i was housemaid at orley farm." "were you upper or under there?" "well, i believe i was both; that is, the cook was upper in the house." "oh, the cook was upper. why wasn't she called to sign her name?" "that i can't say. she was a very decent woman,--that i can say,--and her name was martha mullens." so far mr. chaffanbrass had not done much; but that was only the preliminary skirmish, as fencers play with their foils before they begin. "and now, bridget bolster, if i understand you," he said, "you have sworn that on the th of july you only signed one of these documents." "i only signed once, sir. i didn't say nothing about the th of july, because i don't remember." "but when you signed the one deed, you did not sign any other?" "neither then nor never." "do you know the offence for which that lady is being tried--lady mason?" "well, i ain't sure; it's for doing something about the will." "no, woman, it is not." and then, as mr. chaffanbrass raised his voice, and spoke with savage earnestness, bridget again started, and gave a little leap up from the floor. but she soon settled herself back in her old position. "no one has dared to accuse her of that," continued mr. chaffanbrass, looking over at the lawyers on the other side. "the charge they have brought forward against her is that of perjury--of having given false evidence twenty years ago in a court of law. now look here, bridget bolster; look at me, i say." she did look at him for a moment, and then turned her eyes back to the canopy. "as sure as you're a living woman, you shall be placed there and tried for the same offence,--for perjury,--if you tell me a falsehood respecting this matter." "i won't say nothing but what's right," said bridget. "you had better not. now look at these two signatures;" and he handed to her two deeds, or rather made one of the servants of the court hold them for him; "which of those signatures is the one which you did not sign?" "i can't say, sir." "did you write that further one,--that with your hand on it?" "i can't say, sir." "look at it, woman, before you answer me." bridget looked at it, and then repeated the same words-- "i can't say, sir." "and now look at the other." and she again looked down for a moment. "did you write that?" "i can't say, sir." "will you swear that you wrote either?" "i did write one once." "don't prevaricate with me, woman. were either of those signatures there written by you?" "i suppose that one was." "will you swear that you wrote either the one or the other?" "i'll swear i did write one, once." "will you swear you wrote one of those you have before you? you can read, can't you?" "oh yes, i can read." "then look at them." again she turned her eyes on them for half a moment. "will you swear that you wrote either of those?" "not if there's another anywhere else," said bridget, at last. "another anywhere else," said chaffanbrass, repeating her words; "what do you mean by another?" "if you've got another that anybody else has done, i won't say which of the three is mine. but i did one, and i didn't do no more." mr. chaffanbrass continued at it for a long time, but with very indifferent success. that affair of the signatures, which was indeed the only point on which evidence was worth anything, he then abandoned, and tried to make her contradict herself about old usbech. but on this subject she could say nothing. that usbech was present she remembered well, but as to his signing the deed, or not signing it, she would not pretend to say anything. "i know he was cram full of gout," she said; "but i don't remember nothing more." but it may be explained that mr. chaffanbrass had altogether altered his intention and the very plan of his campaign with reference to this witness, as soon as he saw what was her nature and disposition. he discovered very early in the affair that he could not force her to contradict herself and reduce her own evidence to nothing, as furnival had done with the man. nothing would flurry this woman, or force her to utter words of which she herself did not know the meaning. the more he might persevere in such an attempt, the more dogged and steady she would become. he therefore soon gave that up. he had already given it up when he threatened to accuse her of perjury, and resolved that as he could not shake her he would shake the confidence which the jury might place in her. he could not make a fool of her, and therefore he would make her out to be a rogue. her evidence would stand alone, or nearly alone; and in this way he might turn her firmness to his own purpose, and explain that her dogged resolution to stick to one plain statement arose from her having been specially instructed so to do, with the object of ruining his client. for more than half an hour he persisted in asking her questions with this object; hinting that she was on friendly terms with dockwrath; asking her what pay she had received for her evidence; making her acknowledge that she was being kept at free quarters, and on the fat of the land. he even produced from her a list of the good things she had eaten that morning at breakfast, and at last succeeded in obtaining information as to that small but indiscreet glass of spirits. it was then, and then only, that poor bridget became discomposed. beefsteaks, sausages, and pigs' fry, though they were taken three times a day, were not disgraceful in her line of life; but that little thimble of brandy, taken after much pressing and in the openness of good fellowship, went sorely against the grain with her. "when one has to be badgered like this, one wants a drop of something more than ordinary," she said at last. and they were the only words which she did say which proved any triumph on the part of mr. chaffanbrass. but nevertheless mr. chaffanbrass was not dissatisfied. triumph, immediate triumph over a poor maid-servant could hardly have been the object of a man who had been triumphant in such matters for the last thirty years. would it not be practicable to make the jury doubt whether that woman could be believed? that was the triumph he desired. as for himself, mr. chaffanbrass knew well enough that she had spoken nothing but the truth. but had he so managed that the truth might be made to look like falsehood,--or at any rate to have a doubtful air? if he had done that, he had succeeded in the occupation of his life, and was indifferent to his own triumph. chapter lxxii. mr. furnival's speech. all this as may be supposed disturbed felix graham not a little. he perceived that each of those two witnesses had made a great effort to speak the truth;--an honest, painful effort to speak the truth, and in no way to go beyond it. his gall had risen within him while he had listened to mr. furnival, and witnessed his success in destroying the presence of mind of that weak wretch who was endeavouring to do his best in the cause of justice. and again, when mr. chaffanbrass had seized hold of that poor dram, and used all his wit in deducing from it a self-condemnation from the woman before him;--when the practised barrister had striven to show that she was an habitual drunkard, dishonest, unchaste, evil in all her habits, graham had felt almost tempted to get up and take her part. no doubt he had evinced this, for chaffanbrass had understood what was going on in his colleague's mind, and had looked round at him from time to time with an air of scorn that had been almost unendurable. and then it had become the duty of the prosecutors to prove the circumstances of the former trial. this was of course essentially necessary, seeing that the offence for which lady mason was now on her defence was perjury alleged to have been committed at that trial. and when this had been done at considerable length by sir richard leatherham,--not without many interruptions from mr. furnival and much assistance from mr. steelyard,--it fell upon felix graham to show by cross-examination of crook the attorney, what had been the nature and effect of lady mason's testimony. as he arose to do this, mr. chaffanbrass whispered into his ear, "if you feel yourself unequal to it i'll take it up. i won't have her thrown over for any etiquette,--nor yet for any squeamishness." to this graham vouchsafed no answer. he would not even reply by a look, but he got up and did his work. at this point his conscience did not interfere with him, for the questions which he asked referred to facts which had really occurred. lady mason's testimony at that trial had been believed by everybody. the gentleman who had cross-examined her on the part of joseph mason, and who was now dead, had failed to shake her evidence. the judge who tried the case had declared to the jury that it was impossible to disbelieve her evidence. that judge was still living, a poor old bedridden man, and in the course of this latter trial his statement was given in evidence. there could be no doubt that at the time lady mason's testimony was taken as worthy of all credit. she had sworn that she had seen the three witnesses sign the codicil, and no one had then thrown discredit on her. the upshot of all was this, that the prosecuting side proved satisfactorily that such and such things had been sworn by lady mason; and felix graham on the side of the defence proved that, when she had so sworn, her word had been considered worthy of credence by the judge and by the jury, and had hardly been doubted even by the counsel opposed to her. all this really had been so, and felix graham used his utmost ingenuity in making clear to the court how high and unassailed had been the position which his client then held. all this occupied the court till nearly four o'clock, and then as the case was over on the part of the prosecution, the question arose whether or no mr. furnival should address the jury on that evening, or wait till the following day. "if your lordship will sit till seven o'clock," said mr. furnival, "i think i can undertake to finish what remarks i shall have to make by that time." "i should not mind sitting till nine for the pleasure of hearing mr. furnival," said the judge, who was very anxious to escape from alston on the day but one following. and thus it was decided that mr. furnival should commence his speech. i have said that in spite of some previous hesitation his old fire had returned to him when he began his work in court on behalf of his client. if this had been so when that work consisted in the cross-examination of a witness, it was much more so with him now when he had to exhibit his own powers of forensic eloquence. when a man knows that he can speak with ease and energy, and that he will be listened to with attentive ears, it is all but impossible that he should fail to be enthusiastic, even though his cause be a bad one. it was so with him now. all his old fire came back upon him, and before he had done he had almost brought himself again to believe lady mason to be that victim of persecution as which he did not hesitate to represent her to the jury. "gentlemen of the jury," he said, "i never rose to plead a client's cause with more confidence than i now feel in pleading that of my friend lady mason. twenty years ago i was engaged in defending her rights in this matter, and i then succeeded. i little thought at that time that i should be called on after so long an interval to renew my work. i little thought that the pertinacity of her opponent would hold out for such a period. i compliment him on the firmness of his character, on that equable temperament which has enabled him to sit through all this trial, and to look without dismay on the unfortunate lady whom he has considered it to be his duty to accuse of perjury. i did not think that i should live to fight this battle again. but so it is; and as i had but little doubt of victory then,--so have i none now. gentlemen of the jury, i must occupy some of your time and of the time of the court in going through the evidence which has been adduced by my learned friend against my client; but i almost feel that i shall be detaining you unnecessarily, so sure i am that the circumstances, as they have been already explained to you, could not justify you in giving a verdict against her." as mr. furnival's speech occupied fully three hours, i will not trouble my readers with the whole of it. he began by describing the former trial, and giving his own recollections as to lady mason's conduct on that occasion. in doing this, he fully acknowledged on her behalf that she did give as evidence that special statement which her opponents now endeavoured to prove to have been false. "if it were the case," he said, "that that codicil--or that pretended codicil, was not executed by old sir joseph mason, and was not witnessed by usbech, kenneby, and bridget bolster,--then, in that case, lady mason has been guilty of perjury." mr. furnival, as he made this acknowledgement, studiously avoided the face of lady mason. but as he made this assertion, almost everybody in the court except her own counsel did look at her. joseph mason opposite and dockwrath fixed their gaze closely upon her. sir richard leatherham and mr. steelyard turned their eyes towards her, probably without meaning to do so. the judge looked over his spectacles at her. even mr. aram glanced round at her surreptitiously; and lucius turned his face upon his mother's, almost with an air of triumph. but she bore it all without flinching;--bore it all without flinching, though the state of her mind at that moment must have been pitiable. and mrs. orme, who held her hand all the while, knew that it was so. the hand which rested in hers was twitched as it were convulsively, but the culprit gave no outward sign of her guilt. mr. furnival then read much of the evidence given at the former trial, and especially showed how the witnesses had then failed to prove that usbech had not been required to write his name. it was quite true, he said, that they had been equally unable to prove that he had done so; but that amounted to nothing; the "onus probandi" lay with the accusing side. there was the signature, and it was for them to prove that it was not that which it pretended to be. lady mason had proved that it was so; and because that had then been held to be sufficient, they now, after twenty years, took this means of invalidating her testimony. from that he went to the evidence given at the present trial, beginning with the malice and interested motives of dockwrath. against three of them only was it needful that he should allege anything, seeing that the statements made by the others were in no way injurious to lady mason,--if the statements made by those three were not credible. torrington, for instance, had proved that other deed; but what of that, if on the fatal th of july sir joseph mason had executed two deeds? as to dockwrath,--that his conduct had been interested and malicious there could be no doubt; and he submitted to the jury that he had shown himself to be a man unworthy of credit. as to kenneby,--that poor weak creature, as mr. furnival in his mercy called him,--he, mr. furnival, could not charge his conscience with saying that he believed him to have been guilty of any falsehood. on the contrary, he conceived that kenneby had endeavoured to tell the truth. but he was one of those men whose minds were so inconsequential that they literally did not know truth from falsehood. he had not intended to lie when he told the jury that he was not quite sure he had never witnessed two signatures by sir joseph mason on the same day, nor did he lie when he told them again that he had witnessed three. he had meant to declare the truth; but he was, unfortunately, a man whose evidence could not be of much service in any case of importance, and could be of no service whatever in a criminal charge tried, as was done in this instance, more than twenty years after the alleged commission of the offence. with regard to bridget bolster, he had no hesitation whatever in telling the jury that she was a woman unworthy of belief,--unworthy of that credit which the jury must place in her before they could convict any one on her unaided testimony. it must have been clear to them all that she had come into court drilled and instructed to make one point-blank statement, and to stick to that. she had refused to give any evidence as to her own signature. she would not even look at her own name as written by herself; but had contented herself with repeating over and over again those few words which she had been instructed so to say;--the statement namely, that she had never put her hand to more than one deed. then he addressed himself, as he concluded his speech, to that part of the subject which was more closely personal to lady mason herself. "and now, gentlemen of the jury," he said, "before i can dismiss you from your weary day's work, i must ask you to regard the position of the lady who has been thus accused, and the amount of probability of her guilt which you may assume from the nature of her life. i shall call no witnesses as to her character, for i will not submit her friends to the annoyance of those questions which the gentlemen opposite might feel it their duty to put to them. circumstances have occurred--so much i will tell you, and so much no doubt you all personally know, though it is not in evidence before you;--circumstances have occurred which would make it cruel on my part to place her old friend sir peregrine orme in that box. the story, could i tell it to you, is one full of romance, but full also of truth and affection. but though sir peregrine orme is not here, there sits his daughter by lady mason's side,--there she has sat through this tedious trial, giving comfort to the woman that she loves,--and there she will sit till your verdict shall have made her further presence here unnecessary. his lordship and my learned friend there will tell you that you cannot take that as evidence of character. they will be justified in so telling you; but i, on the other hand, defy you not to take it as such evidence. let us make what laws we will, they cannot take precedence of human nature. there too sits my client's son. you will remember that at the beginning of this trial the solicitor-general expressed a wish that he were not here. i do not know whether you then responded to that wish, but i believe i may take it for granted that you do not do so now. had any woman dear to either of you been so placed through the malice of an enemy, would you have hesitated to sit by her in her hour of trial? had you doubted of her innocence you might have hesitated; for who could endure to hear announced in a crowded court like this the guilt of a mother or a wife? but he has no doubt. nor, i believe, has any living being in this court,--unless it be her kinsman opposite, whose life for the last twenty years has been made wretched by a wicked longing after the patrimony of his brother. "gentlemen of the jury, there sits my client with as loving a friend on one side as ever woman had, and with her only child on the other. during the incidents of this trial the nature of the life she has led during the last twenty years,--since the period of that terrible crime with which she is charged,--has been proved before you. i may fearlessly ask you whether so fair a life is compatible with the idea of guilt so foul? i have known her intimately during all those years,--not as a lawyer, but as a friend,--and i confess that the audacity of this man dockwrath, in assailing such a character with such an accusation, strikes me almost with admiration. what! forgery!--for that, gentlemen of the jury, is the crime with which she is substantially charged. look at her, as she sits there! that she, at the age of twenty, or not much more,--she who had so well performed the duties of her young life, that she should have forged a will,--have traced one signature after another in such a manner as to have deceived all those lawyers who were on her track immediately after her husband's death! for, mark you, if this be true, with her own hand she must have done it! there was no accomplice there. look at her! was she a forger? was she a woman to deceive the sharp bloodhounds of the law? could she, with that young baby on her bosom, have wrested from such as him"--and as he spoke he pointed with his finger, but with a look of unutterable scorn, to joseph mason, who was sitting opposite to him--"that fragment of his old father's property which he coveted so sorely? where had she learned such skilled artifice? gentlemen, such ingenuity in crime as that has never yet been proved in a court of law, even against those who have spent a life of wretchedness in acquiring such skill; and now you are asked to believe that such a deed was done by a young wife, of whom all that you know is that her conduct in every other respect had been beyond all praise! gentlemen, i might have defied you to believe this accusation had it even been supported by testimony of a high character. even in such case you would have felt that there was more behind than had been brought to your knowledge. but now, having seen, as you have, of what nature are the witnesses on whose testimony she has been impeached, it is impossible that you should believe this story. had lady mason been a woman steeped in guilt from her infancy, had she been noted for cunning and fraudulent ingenuity, had she been known as an expert forger, you would not have convicted her on this indictment, having had before you the malice and greed of dockwrath, the stupidity--i may almost call it idiocy, of kenneby, and the dogged resolution to conceal the truth evinced by the woman bolster. with strong evidence you could not have believed such a charge against so excellent a lady. with such evidence as you have had before you, you could not have believed the charge against a previously convicted felon. "and what has been the object of this terrible persecution,--of the dreadful punishment which has been inflicted on this poor lady? for remember, though you cannot pronounce her guilty, her sufferings have been terribly severe. think what it must have been for a woman with habits such as hers, to have looked forward for long, long weeks to such a martyrdom as this! think what she must have suffered in being dragged here and subjected to the gaze of all the county as a suspected felon! think what must have been her feelings when i told her, not knowing how deep an ingenuity might be practised against her, that i must counsel her to call to her aid the unequalled talents of my friend mr. chaffanbrass"--"unequalled no longer, but far surpassed," whispered chaffanbrass, in a voice that was audible through all the centre of the court. "her punishment has been terrible," continued mr. furnival. "after what she has gone through, it may well be doubted whether she can continue to reside at that sweet spot which has aroused such a feeling of avarice in the bosom of her kinsman. you have heard that sir joseph mason had promised his eldest son that orley farm should form a part of his inheritance. it may be that the old man did make such a promise. if so, he thought fit to break it. but is it not wonderful that a man wealthy as is mr. mason--for his fortune is large; who has never wanted anything that money can buy; a man for whom his father did so much,--that he should be stirred up by disappointed avarice to carry in his bosom for twenty years so bitter a feeling of rancour against those who are nearest to him by blood and ties of family! gentlemen, it has been a fearful lesson; but it is one which neither you nor i will ever forget! "and now i shall leave my client's case in your hands. as to the verdict which you will give, i have no apprehension. you know as well as i do that she has not been guilty of this terrible crime. that you will so pronounce i do not for a moment doubt. but i do hope that that verdict will be accompanied by some expression on your part which may show to the world at large how great has been the wickedness displayed in the accusation." and yet as he sat down he knew that she had been guilty! to his ear her guilt had never been confessed; but yet he knew that it was so, and, knowing that, he had been able to speak as though her innocence were a thing of course. that those witnesses had spoken truth he also knew, and yet he had been able to hold them up to the execration of all around them as though they had committed the worst of crimes from the foulest of motives! and more than this, stranger than this, worse than this,--when the legal world knew--as the legal world soon did know--that all this had been so, the legal world found no fault with mr. furnival, conceiving that he had done his duty by his client in a manner becoming an english barrister and an english gentleman. chapter lxxiii. mrs. orme tells the story. it was late when that second day's work was over, and when mrs. orme and lady mason again found themselves in the hamworth carriage. they had sat in court from ten in the morning till past seven, with a short interval of a few minutes in the middle of the day, and were weary to the very soul when they left it. lucius again led out his mother, and as he did so he expressed to her in strong language his approval of mr. furnival's speech. at last some one had spoken out on his mother's behalf in that tone which should have been used from the first. he had been very angry with mr. furnival, thinking that the barrister had lost sight of his mother's honour, and that he was playing with her happiness. but now he was inclined to forgive him. now at last the truth had been spoken in eloquent words, and the persecutors of his mother had been addressed in language such as it was fitting that they should hear. to him the last two hours had been two hours of triumph, and as he passed through the hall of the court he whispered in his mother's ear that now, at last, as he hoped, her troubles were at an end. and another whisper had been spoken as they passed through that hall. mrs. orme went out leaning on the arm of her son, but on the other side of her was mr. aram. he had remained in his seat till they had begun to move, and then he followed them. mrs. orme was already half way across the court when he made his way up to her side and very gently touched her arm. "sir?" said she, looking round. "do not let her be too sure," he said. "do not let her be over confident. all that may go for nothing with a jury." then he lifted his hat and left her. all that go for nothing with a jury! she hardly understood this, but yet she felt that it all should go for nothing if right were done. her mind was not argumentative, nor yet perhaps was her sense of true justice very acute. when sir peregrine had once hinted that it would be well that the criminal should be pronounced guilty, because in truth she had been guilty, mrs. orme by no means agreed with him. but now, having heard how those wretched witnesses had been denounced, knowing how true had been the words they had spoken, knowing how false were those assurances of innocence with which mr. furnival had been so fluent, she felt something of that spirit which had actuated sir peregrine, and had almost thought that justice demanded a verdict against her friend. "do not let her be over-confident," mr. aram had said. but in truth mrs. orme, as she had listened to mr. furnival's speech, had become almost confident that lady mason would be acquitted. it had seemed to her impossible that any jury should pronounce her to be guilty after that speech. the state of her mind as she listened to it had been very painful. lady mason's hand had rested in her own during a great portion of it; and it would have been natural that she should give some encouragement to her companion by a touch, by a slight pressure, as the warm words of praise fell from the lawyer's mouth. but how could she do so, knowing that the praise was false? it was not possible to her to show her friendship by congratulating her friend on the success of a lie. lady mason also had, no doubt, felt this, for after a while her hand had been withdrawn, and they had both listened in silence, giving no signs to each other as to their feelings on the subject. but as they sat together in the carriage lucius did give vent to his feelings. "i cannot understand why all that should not have been said before, and said in a manner to have been as convincing as it was to-day." "i suppose there was no opportunity before the trial," said mrs. orme, feeling that she must say something, but feeling also how impossible it was to speak on the subject with any truth in the presence both of lady mason and her son. "but an occasion should have been made," said lucius. "it is monstrous that my mother should have been subjected to this accusation for months and that no one till now should have spoken out to show how impossible it is that she should have been guilty." "ah! lucius, you do not understand," said his mother. "and i hope i never may," said he. "why did not the jury get up in their seats at once and pronounce their verdict when mr. furnival's speech was over? why should they wait there, giving another day of prolonged trouble, knowing as they must do what their verdict will be? to me all this is incomprehensible, seeing that no good can in any way come from it." and so he went on, striving to urge his companions to speak upon a subject which to them did not admit of speech in his presence. it was very painful to them, for in addressing mrs. orme he almost demanded from her some expression of triumph. "you at least have believed in her innocence," he said at last, "and have not been ashamed to show that you did so." "lucius," said his mother, "we are very weary; do not speak to us now. let us rest till we are at home." then they closed their eyes and there was silence till the carriage drove up to the door of orley farm house. the two ladies immediately went up stairs, but lucius, with more cheerfulness about him than he had shown for months past, remained below to give orders for their supper. it had been a joy to him to hear joseph mason and dockwrath exposed, and to listen to those words which had so clearly told the truth as to his mother's history. all that torrent of indignant eloquence had been to him an enumeration of the simple facts,--of the facts as he knew them to be,--of the facts as they would now be made plain to all the world. at last the day had come when the cloud would be blown away. he, looking down from the height of his superior intellect on the folly of those below him, had been indignant at the great delay;--but that he would now forgive. they had not been long in the house, perhaps about fifteen minutes, when mrs. orme returned down stairs and gently entered the dining-room. he was still there, standing with his back to the fire and thinking over the work of the day. "your mother will not come down this evening, mr. mason." "not come down?" "no; she is very tired,--very tired indeed. i fear you hardly know how much she has gone through." "shall i go to her?" said lucius. "no, mr. mason, do not do that. i will return to her now. and--but;--in a few minutes, mr. mason, i will come back to you again, for i shall have something to say to you." "you will have tea here?" "i don't know. i think not. when i have spoken to you i will go back to your mother. i came down now in order that you might not wait for us." and then she left the room and again went up stairs. it annoyed him that his mother should thus keep away from him, but still he did not think that there was any special reason for it. mrs. orme's manner had been strange; but then everything around them in these days was strange, and it did not occur to him that mrs. orme would have aught to say in her promised interview which would bring to him any new cause for sorrow. lady mason, when mrs. orme returned to her, was sitting exactly in the position in which she had been left. her bonnet was off and was lying by her side, and she was seated in a large arm-chair, again holding both her hands to the sides of her head. no attempt had been made to smooth her hair or to remove the dust and soil which had come from the day's long sitting in the court. she was a woman very careful in her toilet, and scrupulously nice in all that touched her person. but now all that had been neglected, and her whole appearance was haggard and dishevelled. "you have not told him?" she said. "no; i have not told him yet; but i have bidden him expect me. he knows that i am coming to him." "and how did he look?" "i did not see his face." and then there was silence between them for a few minutes, during which mrs. orme stood at the back of lady mason's chair with her hand on lady mason's shoulder. "shall i go now, dear?" said mrs. orme. "no; stay a moment; not yet. oh, mrs. orme!" "you will find that you will be stronger and better able to bear it when it has been done." "stronger! why should i wish to be stronger? how will he bear it?" "it will be a blow to him, of course." "it will strike him to the ground, mrs. orme. i shall have murdered him. i do not think that he will live when he knows that he is so disgraced." "he is a man, and will bear it as a man should do. shall i do anything for you before i go?" "stay a moment. why must it be to-night?" "he must not be in the court to-morrow. and what difference will one day make? he must know it when the property is given up." then there was a knock at the door, and a girl entered with a decanter, two wine-glasses, and a slice or two of bread and butter. "you must drink that," said mrs. orme, pouring out a glass of wine. "and you?" "yes, i will take some too. there. i shall be stronger now. nay, lady mason, you shall drink it. and now if you will take my advice you will go to bed." "you will come to me again?" "yes; directly it is over. of course i shall come to you. am i not to stay here all night?" "but him;--i will not see him. he is not to come." "that will be as he pleases." "no. you promised that. i cannot see him when he knows what i have done for him." "not to hear him say that he forgives you?" "he will not forgive me. you do not know him. could you bear to look at your boy if you had disgraced him for ever?" "whatever i might have done he would not desert me. nor will lucius desert you. shall i go now?" "ah, me! would that i were in my grave!" then mrs. orme bent over her and kissed her, pressed both her hands, then kissed her again, and silently creeping out of the room made her way once more slowly down the stairs. mrs. orme, as will have been seen, was sufficiently anxious to perform the task which she had given herself, but yet her heart sank within her as she descended to the parlour. it was indeed a terrible commission, and her readiness to undertake it had come not from any feeling on her own part that she was fit for the work and could do it without difficulty, but from the eagerness with which she had persuaded lady mason that the thing must be done by some one. and now who else could do it? in sir peregrine's present state it would have been a cruelty to ask him; and then his feelings towards lucius in the matter were not tender as were those of mrs. orme. she had been obliged to promise that she herself would do it, or otherwise she could not have urged the doing. and now the time had come. immediately on their return to the house mrs. orme had declared that the story should be told at once; and then lady mason, sinking into the chair from which she had not since risen, had at length agreed that it should be so. the time had now come, and mrs. orme, whose footsteps down the stairs had not been audible, stood for a moment with the handle of the door in her hand. had it been possible she also would now have put it off till the morrow,--would have put it off till any other time than that which was then present. all manner of thoughts crowded on her during those few seconds. in what way should she do it? what words should she use? how should she begin? she was to tell this young man that his mother had committed a crime of the very blackest dye, and now she felt that she should have prepared herself and resolved in what fashion this should be done. might it not be well, she asked herself for one moment, that she should take the night to think of it and then see him in the morning? the idea, however, only lasted her for a moment, and then, fearing lest she might allow herself to be seduced into some weakness, she turned the handle and entered the room. he was still standing with his back to the fire, leaning against the mantelpiece, and thinking over the occurrences of the day that was past. his strongest feeling now was one of hatred to joseph mason,--of hatred mixed with thorough contempt. what must men say of him after such a struggle on his part to ruin the fame of a lady and to steal the patrimony of a brother! "is she still determined not to come down?" he said as soon as he saw mrs. orme. "no; she will not come down to-night, mr. mason. i have something that i must tell you." "what! is she ill? has it been too much for her?" "mr. mason," she said, "i hardly know how to do what i have undertaken." and he could see that she actually trembled as she spoke to him. "what is it, mrs. orme? is it anything about the property? i think you need hardly be afraid of me. i believe i may say i could bear anything of that kind." "mr. mason--" and then again she stopped herself. how was she to speak this horrible word? "is it anything about the trial?" he was now beginning to be frightened, feeling that something terrible was coming; but still of the absolute truth he had no suspicion. "oh! mr. mason, if it were possible that i could spare you i would do so. if there were any escape,--any way in which it might be avoided." "what is it?" said he. and now his voice was hoarse and low, for a feeling of fear had come upon him. "i am a man and can bear it, whatever it is." "you must be a man then, for it is very terrible. mr. mason, that will, you know--" "you mean the codicil?" "the will that gave you the property--" "yes." "it was not done by your father." "who says so?" "it is too sure. it was not done by him,--nor by them,--those other people who were in the court to-day." "but who says so? how is it known? if my father did not sign it, it is a forgery; and who forged it? those wretches have bought over some one and you have been deceived, mrs. orme. it is not of the property i am thinking, but of my mother. if it were as you say, my mother must have known it?" "ah! yes." "and you mean that she did know it; that she knew it was a forgery?" "oh! mr. mason." "heaven and earth! let me go to her. if she were to tell me so herself i would not believe it of her. ah! she has told you?" "yes; she has told me." "then she is mad. this has been too much for her, and her brain has gone with it. let me go to her, mrs. orme." "no, no; you must not go to her." and mrs. orme put herself directly before the door. "she is not mad,--not now. then, at that time, we must think she was so. it is not so now." "i cannot understand you." and he put his left hand up to his forehead as though to steady his thoughts. "i do not understand you. if the will be a forgery, who did it?" this question she could not answer at the moment. she was still standing against the door, and her eyes fell to the ground. "who did it?" he repeated. "whose hand wrote my father's name?" "you must be merciful, mr. mason." "merciful;--to whom?" "to your mother." "merciful to my mother! mrs. orme, speak out to me. if the will was forged, who forged it? you cannot mean to tell me that she did it!" she did not answer him at the moment in words, but coming close up to him she took both his hands in hers, and then looked steadfastly up into his eyes. his face had now become almost convulsed with emotion, and his brow was very black. "do you wish me to believe that my mother forged the will herself?" then again he paused, but she said nothing. "woman, it's a lie," he exclaimed; and then tearing his hands from her, shaking her off, and striding away with quick footsteps, he threw himself on a sofa that stood in the furthest part of the room. she paused for a moment and then followed him very gently. she followed him and stood over him in silence for a moment, as he lay with his face from her. "mr. mason," she said at last, "you told me that you would bear this like a man." but he made her no answer, and she went on. "mr. mason, it is, as i tell you. years and years ago, when you were a baby, and when she thought that your father was unjust to you--for your sake,--to remedy that injustice, she did this thing." "what; forged his name! it must be a lie. though an angel came to tell me so, it would be a lie! what; my mother!" and now he turned round and faced her, still however lying on the sofa. "it is true, mr. mason. oh, how i wish that it were not! but you must forgive her. it is years ago, and she has repented of it, sir peregrine has forgiven her,--and i have done so." and then she told him the whole story. she told him why the marriage had been broken off, and described to him the manner in which the truth had been made known to sir peregrine. it need hardly be said, that in doing so, she dealt as softly as was possible with his mother's name; but yet she told him everything. "she wrote it herself, in the night." "what all; all the names herself?" "yes, all." "mrs. orme, it cannot be so. i will not believe it. to me it is impossible. that you believe it i do not doubt, but i cannot. let me go to her. i will go to her myself. but even should she say so herself, i will not believe it." but she would not let him go up stairs even though he attempted to move her from the door, almost with violence. "no; not till you say that you will forgive her and be gentle with her. and it must not be to-night. we will be up early in the morning, and you can see her before we go;--if you will be gentle to her." he still persisted that he did not believe the story, but it became clear to her, by degrees, that the meaning of it all had at last sunk into his mind, and that he did believe it. over and over again she told him all that she knew, explaining to him what his mother had suffered, making him perceive why she had removed herself out of his hands, and had leant on others for advice. and she told him also that though they still hoped that the jury might acquit her, the property must be abandoned. "i will leave the house this night if you wish it," he said. "when it is all over, when she has been acquitted and shall have gone away, then let it be done. mr. mason, you will go with her; will you not?" and then again there was a pause. "mrs. orme, it is impossible that i should say now what i may do. it seems to me as though i could not live through it. i do not believe it. i cannot believe it." as soon as she had exacted a promise from him that he would not go to his mother, at any rate without further notice, she herself went up stairs and found lady mason lying on her bed. at first mrs. orme thought that she was asleep, but no such comfort had come to the poor woman. "does he know it?" she asked. mrs. orme's task for that night was by no means yet done. after remaining for a while with lady mason she again returned to lucius, and was in this way a bearer of messages between them. there was at last no question as to doubting the story. he did believe it. he could not avoid the necessity for such belief. "yes," he said, when mrs. orme spoke again of his leaving the place, "i will go and hide myself; and as for her--" "but you will go with her,--if the jury do not say that she was guilty--" "oh, mrs. orme!" "if they do, you will come back for her, when the time of her punishment is over? she is still your mother, mr. mason." at last the work of the night was done, and the two ladies went to their beds. the understanding was that lucius should see his mother before they started in the morning, but that he should not again accompany them to the court. mrs. orme's great object had been,--her great object as regarded the present moment,--to prevent his presence in court when the verdict should be given. in this she had succeeded. she could now wish for an acquittal with a clear conscience; and could as it were absolve the sinner within her own heart, seeing that there was no longer any doubt as to the giving up of the property. whatever might be the verdict of the jury joseph mason of groby would, without doubt, obtain the property which belonged to him. "good-night, mr. mason," mrs. orme said at last, as she gave him her hand. "good-night. i believe that in my madness i spoke to you to-night like a brute." "no, no. it was nothing. i did not think of it." "when you think of how it was with me, you will forgive me." she pressed his hand and again told him that she had not thought of it. it was nothing. and indeed it had been as nothing to her. there may be moments in a man's life when any words may be forgiven, even though they be spoken to a woman. when mrs. orme was gone, he stood for a while perfectly motionless in the dining-room, and then coming out into the hall he opened the front door, and taking his hat, went out into the night. it was still winter, but the night, though cold and very dark, was fine, and the air was sharp with the beginning frost. leaving the door open he walked forth, and passing out on to the road went down from thence to the gate. it had been his constant practice to walk up and down from his own hall door to his own gate on the high road, perhaps comforting himself too warmly with the reflection that the ground on which he walked was all his own. he had no such comfort now, as he made his way down the accustomed path and leaned upon the gate, thinking over what he had heard. [illustration: lucius mason, as he leaned on the gate that was no longer his own.] a forger! at some such hour as this, with patient premeditated care, she had gone to work and committed one of the vilest crimes known to man. and this was his mother! and he, he, lucius mason, had been living for years on the fruit of this villainy;--had been so living till this terrible day of retribution had come upon him! i fear that at that moment he thought more of his own misery than he did of hers, and hardly considered, as he surely should have done, that mother's love which had led to all this guilt. and for a moment he resolved that he would not go back to the house. his head, he said to himself, should never again rest under a roof which belonged of right to joseph mason. he had injured joseph mason;--had injured him innocently, indeed, as far as he himself was concerned; but he had injured him greatly, and therefore now hated him all the more. "he shall have it instantly," he said, and walked forth into the high road as though he would not allow his feet to rest again on his brother's property. but he was forced to remember that this could not be so. his mother's trial was not yet over, and even in the midst of his own personal trouble he remembered that the verdict to her was still a matter of terrible import. he would not let it be known that he had abandoned the property, at any rate till that verdict had been given. and then as he moved back to the house he tried to think in what way it would become him to behave to his mother. "she can never be my mother again," he said to himself. they were terrible words;--but then was not his position very terrible? and when at last he had bolted the front door, going through the accustomed task mechanically, and had gone up stairs to his own room, he had failed to make up his mind on this subject. perhaps it would be better that he should not see her. what could he say to her? what word of comfort could he speak? it was not only that she had beggared him! nay; it was not that at all! but she had doomed him to a life of disgrace which no effort of his own could wipe away. and then as he threw himself on his bed he thought of sophia furnival. would she share his disgrace with him? was it possible that there might be solace there? quite impossible, we should say, who know her well. chapter lxxiv. young lochinvar. judge staveley, whose court had not been kept sitting to a late hour by any such eloquence as that of mr. furnival, had gone home before the business of the other court had closed. augustus, who was his father's marshal, remained for his friend, and had made his way in among the crowd, so as to hear the end of the speech. "don't wait dinner for us," he had said to his father. "if you do you will be hating us all the time; and we sha'n't be there till between eight and nine." "i should be sorry to hate you," said the judge, "and so i won't." when therefore felix graham escaped from the court at about half-past seven, the two young men were able to take their own time and eat their dinner together comfortably, enjoying their bottle of champagne between them perhaps more thoroughly than they would have done had the judge and mrs. staveley shared it with them. but felix had something of which to think besides the champagne--something which was of more consequence to him even than the trial in which he was engaged. madeline had promised that she would meet him that evening;--or rather had not so promised. when asked to do so she had not refused, but even while not refusing had reminded him that her mother would be there. her manner to him had, he thought, been cold, though she had not been ungracious. upon the whole, he could not make up his mind to expect success. "then he must have been a fool!" the reader learned in such matters will say. the reader learned in such matters is, i think, right. in that respect he was a fool. "i suppose we must give the governor the benefit of our company over his wine," said augustus, as soon as their dinner was over. "i suppose we ought to do so." "and why not? is there any objection?" "to tell the truth," said graham, "i have an appointment which i am very anxious to keep." "an appointment? where? here at noningsby, do you mean?" "in this house. but yet i cannot say that it is absolutely an appointment. i am going to ask your sister what my fate is to be." "and that is the appointment! very well, my dear fellow; and may god prosper you. if you can convince the governor that it is all right, i shall make no objection. i wish, for madeline's sake, that you had not such a terrible bee in your bonnet." "and you will go to the judge alone?" "oh, yes. i'll tell him--. what shall i tell him?" "the truth, if you will. good-bye, old fellow. you will not see me again to-night, nor yet to-morrow in this house, unless i am more fortunate than i have any right to hope to be." "faint heart never won fair lady, you know," said augustus. "my heart is faint enough then; but nevertheless i shall say what i have got to say." and then he got up from the table. "if you don't come down to us," said augustus, "i shall come up to you. but may god speed you. and now i'll go to the governor." felix made his way from the small breakfast-parlour in which they had dined across the hall into the drawing-room, and there he found lady staveley alone. "so the trial is not over yet, mr. graham?" she said. "no; there will be another day of it." "and what will be the verdict? is it possible that she really forged the will?" "ah! that i cannot say. you know that i am one of her counsel, lady staveley?" "yes; i should have remembered that, and been more discreet. if you are looking for madeline, mr. graham, i think that she is in the library." "oh! thank you;--in the library." and then felix got himself out of the drawing-room into the hall again not in the most graceful manner. he might have gone direct from the drawing-room to the library, but this he did not remember. it was very odd, he thought, that lady staveley, of whose dislike to him he had felt sure, should have thus sent him direct to her daughter, and have become a party, as it were, to an appointment between them. but he had not much time to think of this before he found himself in the room. there, sure enough, was madeline waiting to listen to his story. she was seated when he entered, with her back to him; but as she heard him she rose, and, after pausing for a moment, she stepped forward to meet him. "you and augustus were very late to-day," she said. "yes. i was kept there, and he was good enough to wait for me." "you said you wanted to--speak to me," she said, hesitating a little, but yet very little; "to speak to me alone; and so mamma said i had better come in here. i hope you are not vexed that i should have told her." "certainly not, miss staveley." "because i have no secrets from mamma." "nor do i wish that anything should be secret. i hate all secrecies. miss staveley, your father knows of my intention." on this point madeline did not feel it to be necessary to say anything. of course her father knew of the intention. had she not received her father's sanction for listening to mr. graham she would not have been alone with him in the library. it might be that the time would come in which she would explain all this to her lover, but that time had not come yet. so when he spoke of her father she remained silent, and allowing her eyes to fall to the ground she stood before him, waiting to hear his question. "miss staveley," he said;--and he was conscious himself of being very awkward. much more so, indeed, than there was any need, for madeline was not aware that he was awkward. in her eyes he was quite master of the occasion, and seemed to have everything his own way. he had already done all that was difficult in the matter, and had done it without any awkwardness. he had already made himself master of her heart, and it was only necessary now that he should enter in and take possession. the ripe fruit had fallen, as miss furnival had once chosen to express it, and there he was to pick it up,--if only he considered it worth his trouble to do so. that manner of the picking would not signify much, as madeline thought. that he desired to take it into his garner and preserve it for his life's use was everything to her, but the method of his words at the present moment was not much. he was her lord and master. he was the one man who had conquered and taken possession of her spirit; and as to his being awkward, there was not much in that. nor do i say that he was awkward. he spoke his mind in honest, plain terms, and i do not know he could have done better. "miss staveley," he said, "in asking you to see me alone, i have made a great venture. i am indeed risking all that i most value." and then he paused, as though he expected that she would speak. but she still kept her eyes upon the ground, and still stood silent before him. "i cannot but think you must guess my purpose," he said, "though i acknowledge that i have had nothing that can warrant me in hoping for a favourable answer. there is my hand; if you can take it you need not doubt that you have my heart with it." and then he held out to her his broad, right hand. madeline still stood silent before him and still fixed her eyes upon the ground, but very slowly she raised her little hand and allowed her soft slight fingers to rest upon his open palm. it was as though she thus affixed her legal signature and seal to the deed of gift. she had not said a word to him; not a word of love or a word of assent; but no such word was now necessary. "madeline, my own madeline," he said; and then taking unfair advantage of the fingers which she had given him he drew her to his breast and folded her in his arms. it was nearly an hour after this when he returned to the drawing-room. "do go in now," she said. "you must not wait any longer; indeed you must go." "and you--; you will come in presently." "it is already nearly eleven. no, i will not show myself again to-night. mamma will soon come up to me, i know. good-night, felix. do you go now, and i will follow you." and then after some further little ceremony he left her. when he entered the drawing-room lady staveley was there, and the judge with his teacup beside him, and augustus standing with his back to the fire. felix walked up to the circle, and taking a chair sat down, but at the moment said nothing. "you didn't get any wine after your day's toil, master graham," said the judge. "indeed i did, sir. we had some champagne." "champagne, had you? then i ought to have waited for my guest, for i got none. you had a long day of it in court." "yes, indeed, sir." "and i am afraid not very satisfactory." to this graham made no immediate answer, but he could not refrain from thinking that the day, taken altogether, had been satisfactory to him. and then baker came into the room, and going close up to lady staveley, whispered something in her ear. "oh, ah, yes," said lady staveley. "i must wish you good night, mr. graham." and she took his hand, pressing it very warmly. but though she wished him good night then, she saw him again before he went to bed. it was a family in which all home affairs were very dear, and a new son could not be welcomed into it without much expression of affection. "well, sir! and how have you sped since dinner?" the judge asked as soon as the door was closed behind his wife. "i have proposed to your daughter and she has accepted me." and as he said so he rose from the chair in which he had just now seated himself. "then, my boy, i hope you will make her a good husband;" and the judge gave him his hand. "i will try to do so. i cannot but feel, however, how little right i had to ask her, seeing that i am likely to be so poor a man." "well, well, well--we will talk of that another time. at present we will only sing your triumphs-- "so faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, there never was knight like the young lochinvar." "felix, my dear fellow, i congratulate you with all my heart," said augustus. "but i did not know you were good as a warrior." "ah, but he is though," said the judge. "what do you think of his wounds? and if all that i hear be true, he has other battles on hand. but we must not speak about that till this poor lady's trial is over." "i need hardly tell you, sir," said graham, with that sheep-like air which a man always carries on such occasions, "that i regard myself as the most fortunate man in the world." "quite unnecessary," said the judge. "on such occasions that is taken as a matter of course." and then the conversation between them for the next ten minutes was rather dull and flat. up stairs the same thing was going on, in a manner somewhat more animated, between the mother and daughter,--for ladies on such occasions can be more animated than men. "oh, mamma, you must love him," madeline said. "yes, my dear; of course i shall love him now. your papa says that he is very clever." "i know papa likes him. i knew that from the very first. i think that was the reason why--" "and i suppose clever people are the best,--that is to say, if they are good." "and isn't he good?" "well--i hope so. indeed, i'm sure he is. mr. orme was a very good young man too;--but it's no good talking about him now." "mamma, that never could have come to pass." "very well, my dear. it's over now, and of course all that i looked for was your happiness." "i know that, mamma; and indeed i am very happy. i'm sure i could not ever have liked any one else since i first knew him." lady staveley still thought it very odd, but she had nothing else to say. as regarded the pecuniary considerations of the affair she left them altogether to her husband, feeling that in this way she could relieve herself from misgivings which might otherwise make her unhappy. "and after all i don't know that his ugliness signifies," she said to herself. and so she made up her mind that she would be loving and affectionate to him, and sat up till she heard his footsteps in the passage, in order that she might speak to him, and make him welcome to the privileges of a son-in-law. "mr. graham," she said, opening her door as he passed by. "of course she has told you," said felix. "oh yes, she has told me. we don't have many secrets in this house. and i'm sure i congratulate you with all my heart; and i think you have got the very best girl in all the world. of course i'm her mother; but i declare, if i was to talk of her for a week, i could not say anything of her but good." "i know how fortunate i am." "yes, you are fortunate. for there is nothing in the world equal to a loving wife who will do her duty. and i'm sure you'll be good to her." "i will endeavour to be so." "a man must be very bad indeed who would be bad to her,--and i don't think that of you. and it's a great thing, mr. graham, that madeline should have loved a man of whom her papa is so fond. i don't know what you have done to the judge, i'm sure." this she said, remembering in the innocence of her heart that mr. arbuthnot had been a son-in-law rather after her own choice, and that the judge always declared that his eldest daughter's husband had seldom much to say for himself. "and i hope that madeline's mother will receive me as kindly as madeline's father," said he, taking lady staveley's hand and pressing it. "indeed i will. i will love you very dearly if you will let me. my girls' husbands are the same to me as sons." then she put up her face and he kissed it, and so they wished each other good night. he found augustus in his own room, and they two had hardly sat themselves down over the fire, intending to recall the former scenes which had taken place in that very room, when a knock was heard at the door, and mrs. baker entered. "and so it's all settled, mr. felix," said she. "yes," said he; "all settled." "well now! didn't i know it from the first?" "then what a wicked old woman you were not to tell," said augustus. "that's all very well, master augustus. how would you like me to tell of you;--for i could, you know?" "you wicked old woman, you couldn't do anything of the kind." "oh, couldn't i? but i defy all the world to say a word of miss madeline but what's good,--only i did know all along which way the wind was blowing. lord love you, mr. graham, when you came in here all of a smash like, i knew it wasn't for nothing." "you think he did it on purpose then," said staveley. "did it on purpose? what; make up to miss madeline? why, of course he did it on purpose. he's been a-thinking of it ever since christmas night, when i saw you, master augustus, and a certain young lady when you came out into the dark passage together." "that's a downright falsehood, mrs. baker." "oh--very well. perhaps i was mistaken. but now, mr. graham, if you don't treat our miss madeline well--" "that's just what i've been telling him," said her brother. "if he uses her ill, as he did his former wife--breaks her heart as he did with that one--" "his former wife!" said mrs. baker. "haven't you heard of that? why, he's had two already." "two wives already! oh now, master augustus, what an old fool i am ever to believe a word that comes out of your mouth." then having uttered her blessing, and having had her hand cordially grasped by this new scion of the staveley family, the old woman left the young men to themselves, and went to her bed. "now that it is done--," said felix. "you wish it were undone." "no, by heaven! i think i may venture to say that it will never come to me to wish that. but now that it is done, i am astonished at my own impudence almost as much as at my success. why should your father have welcomed me to his house as his son-in-law, seeing how poor are my prospects?" "just for that reason; and because he is so different from other men. i have no doubt that he is proud of madeline for having liked a man with an ugly face and no money." "if i had been beautiful like you, i shouldn't have had a chance with him." "not if you'd been weighted with money also. now, as for myself, i confess i'm not nearly so magnanimous as my father, and, for mad's sake, i do hope you will get rid of your vagaries. an income, i know, is a very commonplace sort of thing; but when a man has a family there are comforts attached to it." "i am at any rate willing to work," said graham somewhat moodily. "yes, if you may work exactly in your own way. but men in the world can't do that. a man, as i take it, must through life allow himself to be governed by the united wisdom of others around him. he cannot take upon himself to judge as to every step by his own lights. if he does, he will be dead before he has made up his mind as to the preliminaries." and in this way augustus staveley from the depth of his life's experience spoke words of worldly wisdom to his future brother-in-law. on the next morning before he started again for alston and his now odious work, graham succeeded in getting madeline to himself for five minutes. "i saw both your father and mother last night," said he, "and i shall never forget their goodness to me." "yes, they are good." "it seems like a dream to me that they should have accepted me as their son-in-law." "but it is no dream to me, felix;--or if so, i do not mean to wake any more. i used to think that i should never care very much for anybody out of my own family;--but now--" and she then pressed her little hand upon his arm. "and felix," she said, as he prepared to leave her, "you are not to go away from noningsby when the trial is over. i wanted mamma to tell you, but she said i'd better do it." chapter lxxv. the last day. mrs. orme was up very early on that last morning of the trial, and had dressed herself before lady mason was awake. it was now march, but yet the morning light was hardly sufficient for her as she went through her toilet. they had been told to be in the court very punctually at ten, and in order to do so they must leave orley farm at nine. before that, as had been arranged over night, lucius was to see his mother. "you haven't told him! he doesn't know!" were the first words which lady mason spoke as she raised her head from the pillow. but then she remembered. "ah! yes," she said, as she again sank back and hid her face, "he knows it all now." "yes, dear; he knows it all; and is it not better so? he will come and see you, and when that is over you will be more comfortable than you have been for years past." lucius also had been up early, and when he learned that mrs. orme was dressed, he sent up to her begging that he might see her. mrs. orme at once went to him, and found him seated at the breakfast-table with his head resting on his arm. his face was pale and haggard, and his hair was uncombed. he had not been undressed that night, and his clothes hung on him as they always do hang on a man who has passed a sleepless night in them. to mrs. orme's inquiry after himself he answered not a word, nor did he at first ask after his mother. "that was all true that you told me last night?" "yes, mr. mason; it was true." "and she and i must be outcasts for ever. i will endeavour to bear it, mrs. orme. as i did not put an end to my life last night i suppose that i shall live and bear it. does she expect to see me?" "i told her that you would come to her this morning." "and what shall i say? i would not condemn my own mother; but how can i not condemn her?" "tell her at once that you will forgive her." "but it will be a lie. i have not forgiven her. i loved my mother and esteemed her as a pure and excellent woman. i was proud of my mother. how can i forgive her for having destroyed such feelings as those?" "there should be nothing that a son would not forgive his mother." "ah! that is so easily spoken. men talk of forgiveness when their anger rankles deepest in their hearts. in the course of years i shall forgive her. i hope i shall. but to say that i can forgive her now would be a farce. she has broken my heart, mrs. orme." "and has not she suffered herself? is not her heart broken?" "i have been thinking of that all night. i cannot understand how she should have lived for the last six months. well; is it time that i should go to her?" mrs. orme again went up stairs, and after another interval of half an hour returned to fetch him. she almost regretted that she had undertaken to bring them together on that morning, thinking that it might have been better to postpone the interview till the trial should be over. she had expected that lucius would have been softer in his manner. but it was too late for any such thought. "you will find her dressed now, mr. mason," said she; "but i conjure you, as you hope for mercy yourself, to be merciful to her. she is your mother, and though she has injured you by her folly, her heart has been true to you through it all. go now, and remember that harshness to any woman is unmanly." "i can only act as i think best," he replied in that low stern voice which was habitual to him; and then with slow steps he went up to his mother's room. when he entered it she was standing with her eyes fixed upon the door and her hands clasped together. so she stood till he had closed the door behind him, and had taken a few steps on towards the centre of the room. then she rushed forward, and throwing herself on the ground before him clasped him round the knees with her arms. "my boy, my boy!" she said. and then she lay there bathing his feet with her tears. "oh! mother, what is this that she has told me?" but lady mason at the moment spoke no further words. it seemed as though her heart would have burst with sobs, and when for a moment she lifted up her face to his, the tears were streaming down her cheeks. had it not been for that relief she could not have borne the sufferings which were heaped upon her. "mother, get up," he said. "let me raise you. it is dreadful that you should lie there. mother, let me lift you." but she still clung to his knees, grovelling on the ground before him. "lucius, lucius," she said, and she then sank away from him as though the strength of her muscles would no longer allow her to cling to him. she sank away from him and lay along the ground hiding her face upon the floor. "mother," he said, taking her gently by the arm as he knelt at her side, "if you will rise i will speak to you." "your words will kill me," she said. "i do not dare to look at you. oh! lucius, will you ever forgive me?" and yet she had done it all for him. she had done a rascally deed, an hideous cut-throat deed, but it had been done altogether for him. no thought of her own aggrandisement had touched her mind when she resolved upon that forgery. as rebekah had deceived her lord and robbed esau, the first-born, of his birthright, so had she robbed him who was as esau to her. how often had she thought of that, while her conscience was pleading hard against her! had it been imputed as a crime to rebekah that she had loved her own son well, and loving him had put a crown upon his head by means of her matchless guile? did she love lucius, her babe, less than rebekah had loved jacob? and had she not striven with the old man, struggling that she might do this just thing without injustice, till in his anger he had thrust her from him. "i will not break my promise for the brat," the old man had said;--and then she did the deed. but all that was as nothing now. she felt no comfort now from that bible story which had given her such encouragement before the thing was finished. now the result of evil-doing had come full home to her, and she was seeking pardon with a broken heart, while burning tears furrowed her cheeks,--not from him whom she had thought to injure, but from the child of her own bosom, for whose prosperity she had been so anxious. then she slowly arose and allowed him to place her upon the sofa. "mother," he said, "it is all over here." "ah! yes." "whither we had better go, i cannot yet say,--or when. we must wait till this day is ended." "lucius, i care nothing for myself,--nothing. it is nothing to me whether or no they say that i am guilty. it is of you only that i am thinking." "our lot, mother, must still be together. if they find you guilty you will be imprisoned, and then i will go, and come back when they release you. for you and me the future world will be very different from the past." "it need not be so,--for you, lucius. i do not wish to keep you near me now." "but i shall be near you. where you hide your shame there will i hide mine. in this world there is nothing left for us. but there is another world before you,--if you can repent of your sin." this too he said very sternly, standing somewhat away from her, and frowning the while with those gloomy eyebrows. sad as was her condition he might have given her solace, could he have taken her by the hand and kissed her. peregrine orme would have done so, or augustus staveley, could it have been possible that they should have found themselves in that position. though lucius mason could not do so, he was not less just than they, and, it may be, not less loving in his heart. he could devote himself for his mother's sake as absolutely as could they. but to some is given and to some is denied that cruse of heavenly balm with which all wounds can be assuaged and sore hearts ever relieved of some portion of their sorrow. of all the virtues with which man can endow himself surely none other is so odious as that justice which can teach itself to look down upon mercy almost as a vice! "i will not ask you to forgive me," she said, plaintively. "mother," he answered, "were i to say that i forgave you my words would be a mockery. i have no right either to condemn or to forgive. i accept my position as it has been made for me, and will endeavour to do my duty." it would have been almost better for her that he should have upbraided her for her wickedness. she would then have fallen again prostrate before him, if not in body at least in spirit, and her weakness would have stood for her in place of strength. but now it was necessary that she should hear his words and bear his looks,--bear them like a heavy burden on her back without absolutely sinking. it had been that necessity of bearing and never absolutely sinking which, during years past, had so tried and tested the strength of her heart and soul. seeing that she had not sunk, we may say that her strength had been very wonderful. and then she stood up and came close to him. "but you will give me your hand, lucius?" "yes, mother; there is my hand. i shall stand by you through it all." but he did not offer to kiss her; and there was still some pride in her heart which would not allow her to ask him for an embrace. "and now," he said, "it is time that you should prepare to go. mrs. orme thinks it better that i should not accompany you." "no, lucius, no; you must not hear them proclaim my guilt in court." "that would make but little difference. but nevertheless i will not go. had i known this before i should not have gone there. it was to testify my belief in your innocence; nay, my conviction--" "oh, lucius, spare me!" "well, i will speak of it no more. i shall be here to-night when you come back." "but if they say that i am guilty they will take me away." "if so i will come to you,--in the morning if they will let me. but, mother, in any case i must leave this house to-morrow." then again he gave her his hand, but he left her without touching her with his lips. when the two ladies appeared in court together without lucius mason there was much question among the crowd as to the cause of his absence. both dockwrath and joseph mason looked at it in the right light, and accepted it as a ground for renewed hope. "he dare not face the verdict," said dockwrath. and yet when they had left the court on the preceding evening, after listening to mr. furnival's speech, their hopes had not been very high. dockwrath had not admitted with words that he feared defeat, but when mason had gnashed his teeth as he walked up and down his room at alston, and striking the table with his clenched fist had declared his fears, "by heavens they will escape me again!" dockwrath had not been able to give him substantial comfort. "the jury are not such fools as to take all that for gospel," he had said. but he had not said it with that tone of assured conviction which he had always used till mr. furnival's speech had been made. there could have been no greater attestation to the power displayed by mr. furnival than mr. mason's countenance as he left the court on that evening. "i suppose it will cost me hundreds of pounds," he said to dockwrath that evening. "orley farm will pay for it all," dockwrath had answered; but his answer had shown no confidence. and, if we think well of it, joseph mason was deserving of pity. he wanted only what was his own; and that orley farm ought to be his own he had no smallest doubt. mr. furnival had not in the least shaken him; but he had made him feel that others would be shaken. "if it could only be left to the judge," thought mr. mason to himself. and then he began to consider whether this british palladium of an unanimous jury had not in it more of evil than of good. young peregrine orme again met his mother at the door of the court, and at her instance gave his arm to lady mason. mr. aram was also there; but mr. aram had great tact, and did not offer his arm to mrs. orme, contenting himself with making a way for her and walking beside her. "i am glad that her son has not come to-day," he said, not bringing his head suspiciously close to hers, but still speaking so that none but she might hear him. "he has done all the good that he could do, and as there is only the judge's charge to hear, the jury will not notice his absence. of course we hope for the best, mrs. orme, but it is doubtful." as felix graham took his place next to chaffanbrass, the old lawyer scowled at him, turning his red old savage eyes first on him and then from him, growling the while, so that the whole court might notice it. the legal portion of the court did notice it and were much amused. "good morning, mr. chaffanbrass," said graham quite aloud as he took his seat; and then chaffanbrass growled again. considering the lights with which he had been lightened, there was a species of honesty about mr. chaffanbrass which certainly deserved praise. he was always true to the man whose money he had taken, and gave to his customer, with all the power at his command, that assistance which he had professed to sell. but we may give the same praise to the hired bravo who goes through with truth and courage the task which he has undertaken. i knew an assassin in ireland who professed that during twelve years of practice in tipperary he had never failed when he had once engaged himself. for truth and honesty to their customers--which are great virtues--i would bracket that man and mr. chaffanbrass together. and then the judge commenced his charge, and as he went on with it he repeated all the evidence that was in any way of moment, pulling the details to pieces, and dividing that which bore upon the subject from that which did not. this he did with infinite talent and with a perspicuity beyond all praise. but to my thinking it was remarkable that he seemed to regard the witnesses as a dissecting surgeon may be supposed to regard the subjects on which he operates for the advancement of science. with exquisite care he displayed what each had said and how the special saying of one bore on that special saying of another. but he never spoke of them as though they had been live men and women who were themselves as much entitled to justice at his hands as either the prosecutor in this matter or she who was being prosecuted; who, indeed, if anything, were better entitled unless he could show that they were false and suborned; for unless they were suborned or false they were there doing a painful duty to the public, for which they were to receive no pay and from which they were to obtain no benefit. of whom else in that court could so much be said? the judge there had his ermine and his canopy, his large salary and his seat of honour. and the lawyers had their wigs, and their own loud voices, and their places of precedence. the attorneys had their seats and their big tables, and the somewhat familiar respect of the tipstaves. the jury, though not much to be envied, were addressed with respect and flattery, had their honourable seats, and were invariably at least called gentlemen. but why should there be no seat of honour for the witnesses? to stand in a box, to be bawled after by the police, to be scowled at and scolded by the judge, to be browbeaten and accused falsely by the barristers, and then to be condemned as perjurers by the jury,--that is the fate of the one person who during the whole trial is perhaps entitled to the greatest respect, and is certainly entitled to the most public gratitude. let the witness have a big arm-chair, and a canopy over him, and a man behind him with a red cloak to do him honour and keep the flies off; let him be gently invited to come forward from some inner room where he can sit before a fire. then he will be able to speak out, making himself heard without scolding, and will perhaps be able to make a fair fight with the cocks who can crow so loudly on their own dunghills. the judge in this case did his work with admirable skill, blowing aside the froth of mr. furnival's eloquence, and upsetting the sophistry and false deductions of mr. chaffanbrass. the case for the jury, as he said, hung altogether upon the evidence of kenneby and the woman bolster. as far as he could see, the evidence of dockwrath had little to do with it; and alleged malice and greed on the part of dockwrath could have nothing to do with it. the jury might take it as proved that lady mason at the former trial had sworn that she had been present when her husband signed the codicil and had seen the different signatures affixed to it. they might also take it as proved, that that other deed,--the deed purporting to close a partnership between sir joseph mason and mr. martock,--had been executed on the th of july, and that it had been signed by sir joseph, and also by those two surviving witnesses, kenneby and bolster. the question, therefore, for the consideration of the jury had narrowed itself to this: had two deeds been executed by sir joseph mason, both bearing the same date? if this had not been done, and if that deed with reference to the partnership were a true deed, then must the other be false and fraudulent; and if false and fraudulent, then must lady mason have sworn falsely, and been guilty of that perjury with which she was now charged. there might, perhaps, be one loophole to this argument by which an escape was possible. though both deeds bore the date of th july, there might have been error in this. it was possible, though no doubt singular, that that date should have been inserted in the partnership deed, and the deed itself be executed afterwards. but then the woman bolster told them that she had been called to act as witness but once in her life, and if they believed her in that statement, the possibility of error as to the date would be of little or no avail on behalf of lady mason. for himself, he could not say that adequate ground had been shown for charging bolster with swearing falsely. no doubt she had been obstinate in her method of giving her testimony, but that might have arisen from an honest resolution on her part not to allow herself to be shaken. the value of her testimony must, however, be judged by the jury themselves. as regarded kenneby, he must say that the man had been very stupid. no one who had heard him would accuse him for a moment of having intended to swear falsely, but the jury might perhaps think that the testimony of such a man could not be taken as having much value with reference to circumstances which happened more than twenty years since. the charge took over two hours, but the substance of it has been stated. then the jury retired to consider their verdict, and the judge, and the barristers, and some other jury proceeded to the business of some other and less important trial. lady mason and mrs. orme sat for a while in their seats--perhaps for a space of twenty minutes--and then, as the jury did not at once return into court, they retired to the sitting-room in which they had first been placed. here mr. aram accompanied them, and here they were of course met by peregrine orme. "his lordship's charge was very good--very good, indeed," said mr. aram. "was it?" asked peregrine. "and very much in our favour," continued the attorney. "you think then," said mrs. orme, looking up into his face, "you think that--" but she did not know how to go on with her question. "yes, i do. i think we shall have a verdict; i do, indeed. i would not say so before lady mason if my opinion was not very strong. the jury may disagree. that is not improbable. but i cannot anticipate that the verdict will be against us." there was some comfort in this; but how wretched was the nature of the comfort! did not the attorney, in every word which he spoke, declare his own conviction of his client's guilt. even peregrine orme could not say out boldly that he felt sure of an acquittal because no other verdict could be justly given. and then why was not mr. furnival there, taking his friend by the hand and congratulating her that her troubles were so nearly over? mr. furnival at this time did not come near her; and had he done so, what could he have said to her? he and sir richard leatherham left the court together, and the latter went at once back to london without waiting to hear the verdict. mr. chaffanbrass also, and felix graham retired from the scene of their labours, and as they did so, a few words were spoken between them. "mr. graham," said the ancient hero of the old bailey, "you are too great for this kind of work i take it. if i were you, i would keep out of it for the future." "i am very much of the same way of thinking, mr. chaffanbrass," said the other. "if a man undertakes a duty, he should do it. that's my opinion, though i confess it's a little old fashioned; especially if he takes money for it, mr. graham." and then the old man glowered at him with his fierce eyes, and nodded his head and went on. what could graham say to him? his answer would have been ready enough had there been time or place in which to give it. but he had no answer ready which was fit for the crowded hall of the court-house, and so mr. chaffanbrass went on his way. he will now pass out of our sight, and we will say of him, that he did his duty well according to his lights. there, in that little room, sat lady mason and mrs. orme till late in the evening, and there, with them, remained peregrine. some sort of refreshment was procured for them, but of the three days they passed in the court, that, perhaps, was the most oppressive. there was no employment for them, and then the suspense was terrible! that suspense became worse and worse as the hours went on, for it was clear that at any rate some of the jury were anxious to give a verdict against her. "they say that there's eight and four," said mr. aram, at one of the many visits which he made to them; "but there's no saying how true that may be." "eight and four!" said peregrine. "eight to acquit, and four for guilty," said aram. "if so, we're safe, at any rate, till the next assizes." but it was not fated that lady mason should be sent away from the court in doubt. at eight o'clock mr. aram came to them, hot with haste, and told them that the jury had sent for the judge. the judge had gone home to his dinner, but would return to court at once when he heard that the jury had agreed. "and must we go into court again?" said mrs. orme. "lady mason must do so." "then of course i shall go with her. are you ready now, dear?" lady mason was unable to speak, but she signified that she was ready, and then they went into court. the jury were already in the box, and as the two ladies took their seats, the judge entered. but few of the gas-lights were lit, so that they in the court could hardly see each other, and the remaining ceremony did not take five minutes. "not guilty, my lord," said the foreman. then the verdict was recorded, and the judge went back to his dinner. joseph mason and dockwrath were present and heard the verdict. i will leave the reader to imagine with what an appetite they returned to their chamber. chapter lxxvi. i love her still. it was all over now, and as lucius had said to his mother, there was nothing left for them but to go and hide themselves. the verdict had reached him before his mother's return, and on the moment of his hearing it he sat down and commenced the following letter to mr. furnival:-- orley farm, march --, --. dear sir, i beg to thank you, in my mother's name, for your great exertions in the late trial. i must acknowledge that i have been wrong in thinking that you gave her bad advice, and am now convinced that you acted with the best judgment on her behalf. may i beg that you will add to your great kindness by inducing the gentlemen who undertook the management of the case as my mother's attorneys to let me know as soon as possible in what sum i am indebted to them? i believe i need trouble you with no preamble as to my reasons when i tell you that i have resolved to abandon immediately any title that i may have to the possession of orley farm, and to make over the property at once, in any way that may be most efficacious, to my half-brother, mr. joseph mason, of groby park. i so strongly feel the necessity of doing this at once, without even a day's delay, that i shall take my mother to lodgings in london to-morrow, and shall then decide on what steps it may be best that we shall take. my mother will be in possession of about £ a year, subject to such deduction as the cost of the trial may make from it. i hope that you will not think that i intrude upon you too far when i ask you to communicate with my brother's lawyers on the subject of this surrender. i do not know how else to do it; and of course you will understand that i wish to screen my mother's name as much as may be in my power with due regard to honesty. i hope i need not insist on the fact,--for it is a fact,--that nothing will change my purpose as to this. if i cannot have it done through you, i must myself go to mr. round. i am, moreover, aware that in accordance with strict justice my brother should have upon me a claim for the proceeds of the estate since the date of our father's death. if he wishes it i will give him such claim, making myself his debtor by any form that may be legal. he must, however, in such case be made to understand that his claim will be against a beggar; but, nevertheless, it may suit his views to have such a claim upon me. i cannot think that, under the circumstances, i should be justified in calling on my mother to surrender her small income; but should you be of a different opinion, it shall be done. i write thus to you at once as i think that not a day should be lost. i will trouble you with another line from london, to let you know what is our immediate address. pray believe me to be yours, faithfully and obliged, lucius mason. t. furnival, esq., old square, lincoln's inn fields. as soon as he had completed this letter, which was sufficiently good for its purpose, and clearly explained what was the writer's will on the subject of it, he wrote another, which i do not think was equally efficacious. the second was addressed to miss furnival, and being a love letter, was not so much within the scope of the writer's peculiar powers. dearest sophia, i hardly know how to address you; or what i should tell you or what conceal. were we together, and was that promise renewed which you once gave me, i should tell you all;--but this i cannot do by letter. my mother's trial is over, and she is acquitted; but that which i have learned during the trial has made me feel that i am bound to relinquish to my brother-in-law all my title to orley farm, and i have already taken the first steps towards doing so. yes, sophia, i am now a beggar on the face of the world. i have nothing belonging to me, save those powers of mind and body which god has given me; and i am, moreover, a man oppressed with a terribly heavy load of grief. for some short time i must hide myself with my mother; and then, when i shall have been able to brace my mind to work, i shall go forth and labour in whatever field may be open to me. but before i go, sophia, i wish to say a word of farewell to you, that i may understand on what terms we part. of course i make no claim. i am aware that that which i now tell you must be held as giving you a valid excuse for breaking any contract that there may have been between us. but, nevertheless, i have hope. that i love you very dearly i need hardly now say; and i still venture to think that the time may come when i shall again prove myself to be worthy of your hand. if you have ever loved me you cannot cease to do so merely because i am unfortunate; and if you love me still, perhaps you will consent to wait. if you will do so,--if you will say that i am rich in that respect,--i shall go to my banishment not altogether a downcast man. may i say that i am still your own lucius mason? no; he decidedly might not say so. but as the letter was not yet finished when his mother and mrs. orme returned, i will not anticipate matters by giving miss furnival's reply. mrs. orme came back that night to orley farm, but without the intention of remaining there. her task was over, and it would be well that she should return to the cleeve. her task was over; and as the hour must come in which she would leave the mother in the hands of her son, the present hour would be as good as any. they again went together to the room which they had shared for the last night or two, and there they parted. they had not been there long when the sound of wheels was heard on the gravel, and mrs. orme got up from her seat. "there is peregrine with the carriage," said she. "and you are going?" said lady mason. "if i could do you good, i would stay," said mrs. orme. "no, no; of course you must go. oh, my darling, oh, my friend," and she threw herself into the other's arms. "of course i will write to you," said mrs. orme. "i will do so regularly." "may god bless you for ever. but it is needless to ask for blessings on such as you. you are blessed." "and you too;--if you will turn to him you will be blessed." "ah me. well, i can try now. i feel that i can at any rate try." "and none who try ever fail. and now, dear, good-bye." "good-bye, my angel. but, mrs. orme, i have one word i must first say; a message that i must send to him. tell him this, that never in my life have i loved any man as well as i have loved him and as i do love him. that on my knees i beg his pardon for the wrong i have done him." "but he knows how great has been your goodness to him." "when the time came i was not quite a devil to drag him down with me to utter destruction!" "he will always remember what was your conduct then." "but tell him, that though i loved him, and though i loved you with all my heart,--with all my heart, i knew through it all, as i know now, that i was not a fitting friend for him or you. no; do not interrupt me, i always knew it; and though it was so sweet to me to see your faces, i would have kept away; but that he would not have it. i came to him to assist me because he was great and strong, and he took me to his bosom with his kindness, till i destroyed his strength; though his greatness nothing can destroy." "no, no; he does not think that you have injured him." "but tell him what i say; and tell him that a poor bruised, broken creature, who knows at least her own vileness, will pray for him night and morning. and now good-bye. of my heart towards you i cannot speak." "good-bye then, and, lady mason, never despair. there is always room for hope; and where there is hope there need not be unhappiness." then they parted, and mrs. orme went down to her son. "mother, the carriage is here," he said. "yes, i heard it. where is lucius? good-bye, mr. mason." "god bless you, mrs. orme. believe me i know how good you have been to us." as she gave him her hand, she spoke a few words to him. "my last request to you, mr. mason, is to beg that you will be tender to your mother." "i will do my best, mrs. orme." "all her sufferings and your own, have come from her great love for you." "that i know and feel, but had her ambition for me been less it would have been better for both of us." and there he stood bare-headed at the door while peregrine orme handed his mother into the carriage. thus mrs. orme took her last leave of orley farm, and was parted from the woman she had loved with so much truth and befriended with so much loyalty. very few words were spoken in the carriage between peregrine and his mother while they were being taken back through hamworth to the cleeve. to peregrine the whole matter was unintelligible. he knew that the verdict had been in favour of lady mason, and yet there had been no signs of joy at orley farm, or even of contentment. he had heard also from lucius, while they had been together for a few minutes, that orley farm was to be given up. "you'll let it i suppose," peregrine had asked. "it will not be mine to let. it will belong to my brother," lucius had answered. then peregrine had asked no further question; nor had lucius offered any further information. but his mother, as he knew, was worn out with the work she had done, and at the present moment he felt that the subject was one which would hardly bear questions. so he sat by her side in silence; and before the carriage had reached the cleeve his mind had turned away from the cares and sorrows of lady mason, and was once more at noningsby. after all, as he said to himself, who could be worse off than he was. he had nothing to hope. they found sir peregrine standing in the hall to receive them, and mrs. orme, though she had been absent only three days, could not but perceive the havoc which this trial had made upon him. it was not that the sufferings of those three days had broken him down, but that now, after that short absence, she was able to perceive how great had been upon him the effect of his previous sufferings. he had never held up his head since the day on which lady mason had made to him her first confession. up to that time he had stood erect, and though as he walked his steps had shown that he was no longer young, he had walked with a certain air of strength and manly bearing. till lady mason had come to the cleeve no one would have said that sir peregrine looked as though his energy and life had passed away. but now, as he put his arm round his daughter's waist, and stooped down to kiss her cheek, he was a worn-out, tottering old man. during these three days he had lived almost altogether alone, and had been ashamed to show to those around him the intense interest which he felt in the result of the trial. his grandson had on each day breakfasted alone, and had left the house before his grandfather was out of his room; and on each evening he had returned late,--as he now returned with his mother,--and had dined alone. then he had sat with his grandfather for an hour or two, and had been constrained to talk over the events of the day without being allowed to ask sir peregrine's opinion as to lady mason's innocence or to express his own. these three days had been dreadful to sir peregrine. he had not left the house, but had crept about from room to room, ever and again taking up some book or paper and putting it down unread, as his mind reverted to the one subject which now for him bore any interest. on the second of these three days a note had been brought to him from his old friend lord alston. "dear orme," the note had run, "i am not quite happy as i think of the manner in which we parted the other day. if i offended in any degree, i send this as a peacemaker, and beg to shake your hand heartily. let me have a line from you to say that it is all right between us. neither you nor i can afford to lose an old friend at our time of life. yours always, alston." but sir peregrine had not answered it. lord alston's servant had been dismissed with a promise that an answer should be sent, but at the end of the three days it had not yet been written. his mind indeed was still sore towards lord alston. the counsel which his old friend had given him was good and true, but it had been neglected, and its very truth and excellence now made the remembrance of it unpalatable. he had, nevertheless, intended to write; but the idea of such exertion from hour to hour had become more distressing to him. he had of course heard of lady mason's acquittal; and indeed tidings of the decision to which the jury had come went through the country very quickly. there is a telegraphic wire for such tidings which has been very long in use, and which, though always used, is as yet but very little understood. how is it that information will spread itself quicker than men can travel, and make its way like water into all parts of the world? it was known all through the country that night that lady mason was acquitted; and before the next night it was as well known that she had acknowledged her guilt by giving up the property. little could be said as to the trial while peregrine remained in the room with his mother and his grandfather; but this he had the tact to perceive, and soon left them together. "i shall see you, mother, up stairs before you go to bed," he said as he sauntered out. "but you must not keep her up," said his grandfather. "remember all that she has gone through." with this injunction he went off, and as he sat alone in his mother's room he tried to come to some resolution as to noningsby. he knew he had no ground for hope;--no chance, as he would have called it. and if so, would it not be better that he should take himself off? nevertheless he would go to noningsby once more. he would not be such a coward but that he would wish her good-bye before he went, and hear the end of it all from her own lips. when he had left the room lady mason's last message was given to sir peregrine. "poor soul, poor soul!" he said, as mrs. orme began her story. "her son knows it all then now." "i told him last night,--with her consent; so that he should not go into the court to-day. it would have been very bad, you know, if they had--found her guilty." "yes, yes; very bad--very bad indeed. poor creature! and so you told him. how did he bear it?" "on the whole, well. at first he would not believe me." "as for me, i could not have done it. i could not have told him." "yes, sir, you would;--you would, if it had been required of you." "i think it would have killed me. but a woman can do things for which a man's courage would never be sufficient. and he bore it manfully." "he was very stern." "yes;--and he will be stern. poor soul!--i pity her from my very heart. but he will not desert her; he will do his duty by her." "i am sure he will. in that respect he is a good young man." "yes, my dear. he is one of those who seem by nature created to bear adversity. no trouble or sorrow would i think crush him. but had prosperity come to him, it would have made him odious to all around him. you were not present when they met?" "no--i thought it better to leave them." "yes, yes. and he will give up the place at once." "to-morrow he will do so. in that at any rate he has true spirit. to-morrow early they will go to london, and she i suppose will never see orley farm again." and then mrs. orme gave sir peregrine that last message.--"i tell you everything as she told me," mrs. orme said, seeing how deeply he was affected. "perhaps i am wrong." "no, no, no," he said. "coming at such a moment, her words seemed to be almost sacred." "they are sacred. they shall be sacred. poor soul, poor soul!" "she did a great crime." "yes, yes." "but if a crime can be forgiven,--can be excused on account of its motives--" "it cannot, my dear. nothing can be forgiven on that ground." "no; we know that; we all feel sure of that. but yet how can one help loving her? for myself, i shall love her always." "and i also love her." and then the old man made his confession. "i loved her well;--better than i had ever thought to love any one again, but you and perry. i loved her very dearly, and felt that i should have been proud to have called her my wife. how beautiful she was in her sorrow, when we thought that her life had been pure and good!" "and it had been good,--for many years past." "no; for the stolen property was still there. but yet how graceful she was, and how well her sorrows sat upon her! what might she not have done had the world used her more kindly, and not sent in her way that sore temptation! she was a woman for a man to have loved to madness." "and yet how little can she have known of love!" "i loved her." and as the old man said so he rose to his feet with some show of his old energy. "i loved her,--with all my heart! it is foolish for an old man so to say; but i did love her; nay, i love her still. but that i knew that it would be wrong,--for your sake, and for perry's--" and then he stopped himself, as though he would fain hear what she might say to him. "yes; it is all over now," she said in the softest, sweetest, lowest voice. she knew that she was breaking down a last hope, but she knew also that that hope was vain. and then there was silence in the room for some ten minutes' space. "it is all over," he then said, repeating her last words. "but you have us still,--perry and me. can any one love you better than we do?" and she got up and went over to him and stood by him, and leaned upon him. "edith, my love, since you came to my house there has been an angel in it watching over me. i shall know that always; and when i turn my face to the wall, as i soon shall, that shall be my last earthly thought." and so in tears they parted for that night. but the sorrow that was bringing him to his grave came from the love of which he had spoken. it is seldom that a young man may die from a broken heart; but if an old man have a heart still left to him, it is more fragile. chapter lxxvii. john kenneby's doom. on the evening but one after the trial was over mr. moulder entertained a few friends to supper at his apartments in great st. helen's, and it was generally understood that in doing so he intended to celebrate the triumph of lady mason. through the whole affair he had been a strong partisan on her side, had expressed a very loud opinion in favour of mr. furnival, and had hoped that that scoundrel dockwrath would get all that he deserved from the hands of mr. chaffanbrass. when the hour of mr. dockwrath's punishment had come he had been hardly contented, but the inadequacy of kenneby's testimony had restored him to good humour, and the verdict had made him triumphant. "didn't i know it, old fellow?" he had said, slapping his friend snengkeld on the back. "when such a low scoundrel as dockwrath is pitted against a handsome woman like lady mason he'll not find a jury in england to give a verdict in his favour." then he asked snengkeld to come to his little supper; and kantwise also he invited, though kantwise had shown dockwrath tendencies throughout the whole affair;--but moulder was fond of kantwise as a butt for his own sarcasm. mrs. smiley, too, was asked, as was natural, seeing that she was the betrothed bride of one of the heroes of the day; and moulder, in the kindness of his heart, swore that he never was proud, and told bridget bolster that she would be welcome to take a share of what was going. "laws, m.," said mrs. moulder, when she was told of this. "a chambermaid from an inn! what will mrs. smiley say?" "i ain't going to trouble myself with what mother smiley may say or think about my friends. if she don't like it, she may do the other thing. what was she herself when you first knew her?" "yes, moulder; but then money do make a difference, you know." bridget bolster, however, was invited, and she came in spite of the grandeur of mrs. smiley. kenneby also of course was there, but he was not in a happy frame of mind. since that wretched hour in which he had heard himself described by the judge as too stupid to be held of any account by the jury he had become a melancholy, misanthropic man. the treatment which he received from mr. furnival had been very grievous to him, but he had borne with that, hoping that some word of eulogy from the judge would set him right in the public mind. but no such word had come, and poor john kenneby felt that the cruel hard world was too much for him. he had been with his sister that morning, and words had dropped from him which made her fear that he would wish to postpone his marriage for another space of ten years or so. "brick-fields!" he had said. "what can such a one as i have to do with landed property? i am better as i am." mrs. smiley, however, did not at all seem to think so, and welcomed john kenneby back from alston very warmly in spite of the disgrace to which he had been subjected. it was nothing to her that the judge had called her future lord a fool; nor indeed was it anything to any one but himself. according to moulder's views it was a matter of course that a witness should be abused. for what other purpose was he had into the court? but deep in the mind of poor kenneby himself the injurious words lay festering. he had struggled hard to tell the truth, and in doing so had simply proved himself to be an ass. "i ain't fit to live with anybody else but myself," he said to himself, as he walked down bishopsgate street. at this time mrs. smiley was not yet there. bridget had arrived, and had been seated in a chair at one corner of the fire. mrs. moulder occupied one end of a sofa opposite, leaving the place of honour at the other end for mrs. smiley. moulder sat immediately in front of the fire in his own easy chair, and snengkeld and kantwise were on each side of him. they were of course discussing the trial when mrs. smiley was announced; and it was well that she made a diversion by her arrival, for words were beginning to run high. "a jury of her countrymen has found her innocent," moulder had said with much heat; "and any one who says she's guilty after that is a libeller and a coward, to my way of thinking. if a jury of her countrymen don't make a woman innocent, what does?" "of course she's innocent," said snengkeld; "from the very moment the words was spoken by the foreman. if any newspaper was to say she wasn't she'd have her action." "that's all very well," said kantwise, looking up to the ceiling with his eyes nearly shut. "but you'll see. what'll you bet me, mr. moulder, that joseph mason don't get the property?" "gammon!" answered moulder. "well, it may be gammon; but you'll see." "gentlemen, gentlemen!" said mrs. smiley, sailing into the room; "upon my word one hears all you say ever so far down the street." "and i didn't care if they heard it right away to the mansion house," said moulder. "we ain't talking treason, nor yet highway robbery." then mrs. smiley was welcomed;--her bonnet was taken from her and her umbrella, and she was encouraged to spread herself out over the sofa. "oh, mrs. bolster; the witness!" she said, when mrs. moulder went through some little ceremony of introduction. and from the tone of her voice it appeared that she was not quite satisfied that mrs. bolster should be there as a companion for herself. "yes, ma'am. i was the witness as had never signed but once," said bridget, getting up and curtsying. then she sat down again, folding her hands one over the other on her lap. "oh, indeed!" said mrs. smiley. "but where's the other witness, mrs. moulder? he's the one who is a deal more interesting to me. ha, ha, ha! but as you all know it here, what's the good of not telling the truth? ha, ha, ha!" "john's here," said mrs. moulder. "come, john, why don't you show yourself?" "he's just alive, and that's about all you can say for him," said moulder. "why, what's there been to kill him?" said mrs. smiley. "well, john, i must say you're rather backward in coming forward, considering what there's been between us. you might have come and taken my shawl, i'm thinking." "yes, i might," said kenneby gloomily. "i hope i see you pretty well, mrs. smiley." "pretty bobbish, thank you. only i think it might have been maria between friends like us." "he's sadly put about by this trial," whispered mrs. moulder. "you know he is so tender-hearted that he can't bear to be put upon like another." "but you didn't want her to be found guilty; did you, john?" "that i'm sure he didn't," said moulder. "why it was the way he gave his evidence that brought her off." "it wasn't my wish to bring her off," said kenneby; "nor was it my wish to make her guilty. all i wanted was to tell the truth and do my duty. but it was no use. i believe it never is any use." "i think you did very well," said moulder. "i'm sure lady mason ought to be very much obliged to you," said kantwise. "nobody needn't care for what's said to them in a court," said snengkeld. "i remember when once they wanted to make out that i'd taken a parcel of teas--" "stolen, you mean, sir," suggested mrs. smiley. "yes; stolen. but it was only done by the opposite side in court, and i didn't think a halfporth of it. they knew where the teas was well enough." "speaking for myself," said kenneby, "i must say i don't like it." "but the paper as we signed," said bridget, "wasn't the old gentleman's will,--no more than this is;" and she lifted up her apron. "i'm rightly sure of that." then again the battle raged hot and furious, and moulder became angry with his guest, bridget bolster. kantwise finding himself supported in his views by the principal witness at the trial took heart against the tyranny of moulder and expressed his opinion, while mrs. smiley, with a woman's customary dislike to another woman, sneered ill-naturedly at the idea of lady mason's innocence. poor kenneby had been forced to take the middle seat on the sofa between his bride and sister; but it did not appear that the honour of his position had any effect in lessening his gloom or mitigating the severity of the judgment which had been passed on him. "wasn't the old gentleman's will!" said moulder, turning on poor bridget in his anger with a growl. "but i say it was the old gentleman's will. you never dared say as much as that in court." "i wasn't asked," said bridget. "you weren't asked! yes, you was asked often enough." "i'll tell you what it is," said kantwise, "mrs. bolster's right in what she says as sure as your name's moulder." "then as sure as my name's moulder she's wrong. i suppose we're to think that a chap like you knows more about it than the jury! we all know who your friend is in the matter. i haven't forgot our dinner at leeds, nor sha'n't in a hurry." "now, john," said mrs. smiley, "nobody can know the truth of this so well as you do. you've been as close as wax, as was all right till the lady was out of her troubles. that's done and over, and let us hear among friends how the matter really was." and then there was silence among them in order that his words might come forth freely. "come, my dear," said mrs. smiley with a tone of encouraging love. "there can't be any harm now; can there?" "out with it, john," said moulder. "you're honest, anyways." "there ain't no gammon about you," said snengkeld. "mr. kenneby can speak if he likes, no doubt," said kantwise; "though maybe it mayn't be very pleasant to him to do so after all that's come and gone." "there's nothing that's come and gone that need make our john hold his tongue," said mrs. moulder. "he mayn't be just as bright as some of those lawyers, but he's a deal more true-hearted." "but he can't say as how it was the old gentleman's will as we signed. i'm well assured of that," said bridget. but kenneby, though thus called upon by the united strength of the company to solve all their doubts, still remained silent. "come, lovey," said mrs. smiley, putting forth her hand and giving his arm a tender squeeze. "if you've anything to say to clear that woman's character," said moulder, "you owe it to society to say it; because she is a woman, and because her enemies is villains." and then again there was silence while they waited for him. "i think it will go with him to his grave," said mrs. smiley, very solemnly. "i shouldn't wonder," said snengkeld. "then he must give up all idea of taking a wife," said moulder. "he won't do that i'm sure," said mrs. smiley. "that he won't. will you, john?" said his sister. "there's no knowing what may happen to me in this world," said kenneby, "but sometimes i almost think i ain't fit to live in it, along with anybody else." "you'll make him fit, won't you, my dear?" said mrs. moulder. "i don't exactly know what to say about it," said mrs. smiley. "if mr. kenneby ain't willing, i'm not the woman to bind him to his word, because i've had his promise over and over again, and could prove it by a number of witnesses before any jury in the land. i'm an independent woman as needn't be beholden to any man, and i should never think of damages. smiley left me comfortable before all the world, and i don't know but what i'm a fool to think of changing. anyways if mr. kenneby--" "come, john. why don't you speak to her?" said mrs. moulder. "and what am i to say?" said kenneby, thrusting himself forth from between the ample folds of the two ladies' dresses. "i'm a blighted man; one on whom the finger of scorn has been pointed. his lordship said that i was--stupid; and perhaps i am." "she don't think nothing of that, john." "certainly not," said mrs. smiley. "as long as a man can pay twenty shillings in the pound and a trifle over, what does it matter if all the judges in the land was to call him stupid?" said snengkeld. "stupid is as stupid does," said kantwise. "stupid be d----," said moulder. "mr. moulder, there's ladies present," said mrs. smiley. "come, john, rouse yourself a bit," said his sister. "nobody here thinks the worse of you for what the judge said." "certainly not," said mrs. smiley. "and as it becomes me to speak, i'll say my mind. i'm accustomed to speak freely before friends, and as we are all friends here, why should i be ashamed?" "for the matter of that nobody says you are," said moulder. "and i don't mean, mr. moulder. why should i? i can pay my way, and do what i like with my own, and has people to mind me when i speak, and needn't mind nobody else myself;--and that's more than everybody can say. here's john kenneby and i, is engaged as man and wife. he won't say as it's not so, i'll be bound." "no," said kenneby, "i'm engaged i know." "when i accepted john kenneby's hand and heart,--and well i remember the beauteous language in which he expressed his feelings, and always shall,--i told him, that i respected him as a man that would do his duty by a woman, though perhaps he mightn't be so cute in the way of having much to say for himself as some others. 'what's the good,' said i, 'of a man's talking, if so be he's ashamed to meet the baker at the end of the week?' so i listened to the vows he made me, and have considered that he and i was as good as one. now that he's been put upon by them lawyers, i'm not the woman to turn my back upon him." "that you're not," said moulder. "no i ain't, mr. moulder, and so, john, there's my hand again, and you're free to take it if you like." and so saying she put forth her hand almost into his lap. "take it, john!" said mrs. moulder. but poor kenneby himself did not seem to be very quick in availing himself of the happiness offered to him. he did raise his right arm slightly; but then he hesitated, and allowed it to fall again between him and his sister. "come, john, you know you mean it," said mrs. moulder. and then with both her hands she lifted his, and placed it bodily within the grasp of mrs. smiley's, which was still held forth to receive it. "i know i'm engaged," said kenneby. "there's no mistake about it," said moulder. "there needn't be none," said mrs. smiley, softly blushing; "and i will say this of myself--as i have been tempted to give a promise, i'm not the woman to go back from my word. there's my hand, john; and i don't care though all the world hears me say so." and then they sat hand in hand for some seconds, during which poor kenneby was unable to escape from the grasp of his bride elect. one may say that all chance of final escape for him was now gone by. "but he can't say as how it was the old gentlemen's will as we signed," said bridget, breaking the silence which ensued. "and now, ladies and gentlemen," said kantwise, "as mrs. bolster has come back to that matter, i'll tell you something that will surprise you. my friend mr. moulder here, who is as hospitable a gentleman as i know anywhere wouldn't just let me speak before." "that's gammon, kantwise. i never hindered you from speaking." "how i do hate that word. if you knew my aversion, mr. moulder--" "i can't pick my words for you, old fellow." "but what were you going to tell us, mr. kantwise?" said mrs. smiley. "something that will make all your hairs stand on end, i think." and then he paused and looked round upon them all. it was at this moment that kenneby succeeded in getting his hand once more to himself. "something that will surprise you all, or i'm very much mistaken. lady mason has confessed her guilt." he had surprised them all. "you don't say so," exclaimed mrs. moulder. "confessed her guilt," said mrs. smiley. "but what guilt, mr. kantwise?" "she forged the will," said kantwise. "i knew that all along," said bridget bolster. "i'm d---- if i believe it," said moulder. "you can do as you like about that," said kantwise; "but she has. and i'll tell you what's more: she and young mason have already left orley farm and given it all up into joseph mason's hands." "but didn't she get a verdict?" asked snengkeld. "yes, she got a verdict. there's no doubt on earth about that." "then it's my opinion she can't make herself guilty if she wished it; and as for the property, she can't give it up. the jury has found a verdict, and nobody can go beyond that. if anybody tries she'll have her action against 'em." that was the law as laid down by snengkeld. "i don't believe a word of it," said moulder. "dockwrath has told him. i'll bet a hat that kantwise got it from dockwrath." it turned out that kantwise had received his information from dockwrath; but nevertheless, there was that in his manner, and in the nature of the story as it was told to them, that did produce belief. moulder for a long time held out, but it became clear at last that even he was shaken; and now, even kenneby acknowledged his conviction that the signature to the will was not his own. "i know'd very well that i never did it twice," said bridget bolster triumphantly, as she sat down to the supper table. i am inclined to think, that upon the whole the company in great st. helen's became more happy as the conviction grew upon them that a great and mysterious crime had been committed, which had baffled two courts of law, and had at last thrust itself forth into the open daylight through the workings of the criminal's conscience. when kantwise had completed his story, the time had come in which it behoved mrs. moulder to descend to the lower regions, and give some aid in preparation of the supper. during her absence the matter was discussed in every way, and on her return, when she was laden with good things, she found that all the party was contented except moulder and her brother. "it's a very terrible thing," said mrs. smiley, later in the evening, as she sat with her steaming glass of rum and water before her. "very terrible indeed; ain't it, john? i do wish now i'd gone down and see'd her, i do indeed. don't you, mrs. moulder?" "if all this is true i should like just to have had a peep at her." "at any rate we shall have pictures of her in all the papers," said mrs. smiley. chapter lxxviii. the last of the lawyers. "i should have done my duty by you, mr. mason, which those men have not, and you would at this moment have been the owner of orley farm." it will easily be known that these words were spoken by mr. dockwrath, and that they were addressed to joseph mason. the two men were seated together in mr. mason's lodgings at alston, late on the morning after the verdict had been given, and mr. dockwrath was speaking out his mind with sufficient freedom. on the previous evening he had been content to put up with the misery of the unsuccessful man, and had not added any reproaches of his own. he also had been cowed by the verdict, and the two had been wretched and crestfallen together. but the attorney since that had slept upon the matter, and had bethought himself that he at any rate would make out his little bill. he could show that mr. mason had ruined their joint affairs by his adherence to those london attorneys. had mr. mason listened to the advice of his new adviser all would have been well. so at least dockwrath was prepared to declare, finding that by so doing he would best pave the way for his own important claim. but mr. mason was not a man to be bullied with tame endurance. "the firm bears the highest name in the profession, sir," he said; "and i had just grounds for trusting them." "and what has come of your just grounds, mr. mason? where are you? that's the question. i say that round and crook have thrown you over. they have been hand and glove with old furnival through the whole transaction; and i'll tell you what's more, mr. mason. i told you how it would be from the beginning." "i'll move for a new trial." "a new trial; and this a criminal prosecution! she's free of you now for ever, and orley farm will belong to that son of hers till he chooses to sell it. it's a pity; that's all. i did my duty by you in a professional way, mr. mason; and you won't put the loss on my shoulders." "i've been robbed;--damnably robbed, that's all that i know." "there's no mistake on earth about that, mr. mason; you have been robbed; and the worst of it is, the costs will be so heavy! you'll be going down to yorkshire soon i suppose, sir." "i don't know where i shall go!" said the squire of groby, not content to be cross-questioned by the attorney from hamworth. "because it's as well, i suppose, that we should settle something about the costs before you leave. i don't want to press for my money exactly now, but i shall be glad to know when i'm to get it." "if you have any claim on me, mr. dockwrath, you can send it to mr. round." "if i have any claim! what do you mean by that, sir? and i shall send nothing in to mr. round. i have had quite enough of mr. round already. i told you from the beginning, mr. mason, that i would have nothing to do with this affair as connected with mr. round. i have devoted myself entirely to this matter since you were pleased to engage my services at groby park. it is not by my fault that you have failed. i think, mr. mason, you will do me the justice to acknowledge that." and then dockwrath was silent for a moment, as though waiting for an answer. "i have nothing to say upon the subject, mr. dockwrath," said mason. "but, by heaven, something must be said. that won't do at all, mr. mason. i presume you do not think that i have been working like a slave for the last four months for nothing." mr. mason was in truth an honest man, and did not wish that any one should work on his account for nothing;--much less did he wish that such a one as dockwrath should do so. but then, on the other side, in his present frame of mind he was by no means willing to yield anything to any one. "i neither deny nor allow your claim, mr. dockwrath," said he. "but i shall pay nothing except through my regular lawyers. you can send your account to me if you please, but i shall send it on to mr. round without looking at it." "oh, that's to be the way, is it? that's your gratitude. very well, mr. mason; i shall now know what to do. and i think you'll find--" here mr. dockwrath was interrupted by the lodging-house servant, who brought in a note for mr. mason. it was from mr. furnival, and the girl who delivered it said that the gentleman's messenger was waiting for an answer. "sir," said the note, a communication has been made to me this morning on the part of your brother, mr. lucius mason, which may make it desirable that i should have an interview with you. if not inconvenient to you, i would ask you to meet me to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock at the chambers of your own lawyer, mr. round, in bedford row. i have already seen mr. round, and find that he can meet us. i am, sir, your very obedient servant, thomas furnival. j. mason, esq., j.p. (of groby park). mr. furnival when he wrote this note had already been over to orley farm, and had seen lucius mason. he had been at the farm almost before daylight, and had come away with the assured conviction that the property must be abandoned by his client. "we need not talk about it, mr. furnival," lucius had said. "it must be so." "you have discussed the matter with your mother?" "no discussion is necessary, but she is quite aware of my intention. she is prepared to leave the place--for ever." "but the income--" "belongs to my brother joseph. mr. furnival, i think you may understand that the matter is one in which it is necessary that i should act, but as to which i trust i may not have to say many words. if you cannot arrange this for me, i must go to mr. round." of course mr. furnival did understand it all. his client had been acquitted, and he had triumphed; but he had known for many a long day that the estate did belong of right to mr. mason of groby; and though he had not suspected that lucius would have been so told, he could not be surprised at the result of such telling. it was clear to him that lady mason had confessed, and that restitution would therefore be made. "i will do your bidding," said he. "and, mr. furnival,--if it be possible, spare my mother." then the meeting was over, and mr. furnival returning to hamworth wrote his note to mr. joseph mason. mr. dockwrath had been interrupted by the messenger in the middle of his threat, but he caught the name of furnival as the note was delivered. then he watched mr. mason as he read it and read it again. "if you please, sir, i was to wait for an answer," said the girl. mr. mason did not know what answer it would behove him to give. he felt that he was among philistines while dealing with all these lawyers, and yet he was at a loss in what way to reply to one without leaning upon another. "look at that," he said, sulkily handing the note to dockwrath. "you must see mr. furnival, by all means," said dockwrath. "but--" "but what?" "in your place i should not see him in the presence of mr. round,--unless i was attended by an adviser on whom i could rely." mr. mason, having given a few moments' consideration to the matter, sat himself down and wrote a line to mr. furnival, saying that he would be in bedford row at the appointed time. "i think you are quite right," said dockwrath. "but i shall go alone," said mr. mason. "oh, very well; you will of course judge for yourself. i cannot say what may be the nature of the communication to be made; but if it be anything touching the property, you will no doubt jeopardise your own interests by your imprudence." "good morning, mr. dockwrath," said mr. mason. "oh, very well. good morning, sir. you shall hear from me very shortly, mr. mason; and i must say that, considering everything, i do not know that i ever came across a gentleman who behaved himself worse in a peculiar position than you have done in yours." and so they parted. punctually at eleven o'clock on the following day mr. mason was in bedford row. "mr. furnival is with mr. round," said the clerk, "and will see you in two minutes." then he was shown into the dingy office waiting-room, where he sat with his hat in his hand, for rather more than two minutes. at that moment mr. round was describing to mr. furnival the manner in which he had been visited some weeks since by sir peregrine orme. "of course, mr. furnival, i knew which way the wind blew when i heard that." "she must have told him everything." "no doubt, no doubt. at any rate he knew it all." "and what did you say to him?" "i promised to hold my tongue;--and i kept my promise. mat knows nothing about it to this day." the whole history thus became gradually clear to mr. furnival's mind, and he could understand in what manner that marriage had been avoided. mr. round also understood it, and the two lawyers confessed together, that though the woman had deserved the punishment which had come upon her, her character was one which might have graced a better destiny. "and now, i suppose, my fortunate client may come in," said mr. round. whereupon the fortunate client was released from his captivity, and brought into the sitting-room of the senior partner. "mr. mason, mr. furnival," said the attorney, as soon as he had shaken hands with his client. "you know each other very well by name, gentlemen." mr. mason was very stiff in his bearing and demeanour, but remarked that he had heard of mr. furnival before. "all the world has heard of him," said mr. round. "he hasn't hid his light under a bushel." whereupon mr. mason bowed, not quite understanding what was said to him. "mr. mason," began the barrister, "i have a communication to make to you, very singular in its nature, and of great importance. it is one which i believe you will regard as being of considerable importance to yourself, and which is of still higher moment to my--my friend, lady mason." "lady mason, sir--" began the other; but mr. furnival stopped him. "allow me to interrupt you, mr. mason. i think it will be better that you should hear me before you commit yourself to any expression as to your relative." "she is no relative of mine." "but her son is. however,--if you will allow me, i will go on. having this communication to make, i thought it expedient for your own sake that it should be done in the presence of your own legal adviser and friend." "umph!" grunted the disappointed litigant. "i have already explained to mr. round that which i am about to explain to you, and he was good enough to express himself as satisfied with the step which i am taking." "quite so, mr. mason. mr. furnival is behaving, and i believe has behaved throughout, in a manner becoming the very high position which he holds in his profession." "i suppose he has done his best on his side," said mason. "undoubtedly i have,--as i should have done on yours, had it so chanced that i had been honoured by holding a brief from your attorneys. but the communication which i am going to make now i make not as a lawyer but as a friend. mr. mason, my client lady mason, and her son lucius mason, are prepared to make over to you the full possession of the estate which they have held under the name of orley farm." the tidings, as so given, were far from conveying to the sense of the hearer the full information which they bore. he heard the words, and at the moment conceived that orley farm was intended to come into his hands by some process to which it was thought desirable that he should be brought to agree. he was to be induced to buy it, or to be bought over from further opposition by some concession of an indefinitely future title. but that the estate was to become his at once, without purchase, and by the mere free will of his hated relatives, was an idea that he did not realise. "mr. furnival," he said, "what future steps i shall take i do not yet know. that i have been robbed of my property i am as firmly convinced now as ever. but i tell you fairly, and i tell mr. round so too, that i will have no dealings with that woman." "your father's widow, sir," said mr. furnival, "is an unhappy lady, who is now doing her best to atone for the only fault of which i believe her to have been guilty. if you were not unreasonable as well as angry, you would understand that the proposition which i am now making to you is one which should force you to forgive any injury which she may hitherto have done to you. your half-brother lucius mason has instructed me to make over to you the possession of orley farm." these last words mr. furnival uttered very slowly, fixing his keen grey eyes full upon the face of joseph mason as he did so, and then turning round to the attorney he said, "i presume your client will understand me now." "the estate is yours, mr. mason," said round. "you have nothing to do but to take possession of it." "what do you mean?" said mason, turning round upon furnival. "exactly what i say. your half-brother lucius surrenders to you the estate." "without payment?" "yes; without payment. on his doing so you will of course absolve him from all liability on account of the proceeds of the property while in his hands." "that will be a matter of course," said mr. round. "then she has robbed me," said mason, jumping up to his feet. "by ----, the will was forged after all." "mr. mason," said mr. round, "if you have a spark of generosity in you, you will accept the offer made to you without asking any question. by no such questioning can you do yourself any good,--nor can you do that poor lady any harm." "i knew it was so," he said loudly, and as he spoke he twice walked the length of the room. "i knew it was so;--twenty years ago i said the same. she forged the will. i ask you, as my lawyer, mr. round,--did she not forge the will herself?" "i shall answer no such question, mr. mason." "then by heavens i'll expose you. if i spend the whole value of the estate in doing it i'll expose you, and have her punished yet. the slippery villain! for twenty years she has robbed me." "mr. mason, you are forgetting yourself in your passion," said mr. furnival. "what you have to look for now is the recovery of the property." but here mr. furnival showed that he had not made himself master of joseph mason's character. "no," shouted the angry man;--"no, by heaven. what i have first to look to is her punishment, and that of those who have assisted her. i knew she had done it,--and dockwrath knew it. had i trusted him, she would now have been in gaol." mr. furnival and mr. round were both desirous of having the matter quietly arranged, and with this view were willing to put up with much. the man had been ill used. when he declared for the fortieth time that he had been robbed for twenty years, they could not deny it. when with horrid oaths he swore that that will had been a forgery, they could not contradict him. when he reviled the laws of his country, which had done so much to facilitate the escape of a criminal, they had no arguments to prove that he was wrong. they bore with him in his rage, hoping that a sense of his own self-interest might induce him to listen to reason. but it was all in vain. the property was sweet, but that sweetness was tasteless when compared to the sweetness of revenge. "nothing shall make me tamper with justice;--nothing," said he. "but even if it were as you say, you cannot do anything to her," said round. "i'll try," said mason. "you have been my attorney, and what you know in the matter you are bound to tell. and i'll make you tell, sir." "upon my word," said round, "this is beyond bearing. mr. mason, i must trouble you to walk out of my office." and then he rang the bell. "tell mr. mat i want to see him." but before that younger partner had joined his father joseph mason had gone. "mat," said the old man, "i don't interfere with you in many things, but on this i must insist. as long as my name is in the firm mr. joseph mason of groby shall not be among our customers." "the man's a fool," said mr. furnival. "the end of all that will be that two years will go by before he gets his property; and, in the meantime, the house and all about it will go to ruin." in these days there was a delightful family concord between mr. furnival and his wife, and perhaps we may be allowed to hope that the peace was permanent. martha biggs had not been in harley street since we last saw her there, and was now walking round red lion square by the hour with some kindred spirit, complaining bitterly of the return which had been made for her friendship. "what i endured, and what i was prepared to endure for that woman, no breathing creature can ever know," said martha biggs, to that other martha; "and now--" "i suppose the fact is he don't like to see you there," said the other. "and is that a reason?" said our martha. "had i been in her place i would not have put my foot in his house again till i was assured that my friend should be as welcome there as myself. but then, perhaps, my ideas of friendship may be called romantic." but though there were heart-burnings and war in red lion square, there was sweet peace in harley street. mrs. furnival had learned that beyond all doubt lady mason was an unfortunate woman on whose behalf her husband was using his best energies as a lawyer; and though rumours had begun to reach her that were very injurious to the lady's character, she did not on that account feel animosity against her. had lady mason been guilty of all the sins in the calendar except one, mrs. furnival could find it within her heart to forgive her. but sophia was now more interested about lady mason than was her mother, and during those days of the trial was much more eager to learn the news as it became known. she had said nothing to her mother about lucius, nor had she said anything as to augustus staveley. miss furnival was a lady who on such subjects did not want the assistance of a mother's counsel. then, early on the morning that followed the trial, they heard the verdict and knew that lady mason was free. "i am so glad," said mrs. furnival; "and i am sure it was your papa's doing." "but we will hope that she was really innocent," said sophia. "oh, yes; of course; and so i suppose she was. i am sure i hope so. but, nevertheless, we all know that it was going very much against her." "i believe papa never thought she was guilty for a moment." "i don't know, my dear; your papa never talks of the clients for whom he is engaged. but what a thing it is for lucius! he would have lost every acre of the property." "yes; it's a great thing for him, certainly." and then she began to consider whether the standing held by lucius mason in the world was not even yet somewhat precarious. it was on the same day--in the evening--that she received her lover's letter. she was alone when she read it, and she made herself quite master of its contents before she sat herself to think in what way it would be expedient that she should act. "i am bound to relinquish to my brother-in-law my title to orley farm." why should he be so bound, unless--? and then she also came to that conclusion which mr. round had reached, and which joseph mason had reached, when they heard that the property was to be given up. "yes, sophia, i am a beggar," the letter went on to say. she was very sorry, deeply sorry;--so, at least, she said to herself. as she sat there alone, she took out her handkerchief and pressed it to her eyes. then, having restored it to her pocket, after moderate use, she refolded her letter, and put that into the same receptacle. "papa," said she, that evening, "what will mr. lucius mason do now? will he remain at orley farm?" "no, my dear. he will leave orley farm, and, i think, will go abroad with his mother." "and who will have orley farm?" "his brother joseph, i believe." "and what will lucius have?" "i cannot say. i do not know that he will have anything. his mother has an income of her own, and he, i suppose, will go into some profession." "oh, indeed. is not that very sad for him, poor fellow?" in answer to which her father made no remark. that night, in her own room, she answered her lover's letter, and her answer was as follows:-- harley street, march, --. my dear mr. mason, i need hardly tell you that i was grieved to the heart by the tidings conveyed in your letter. i will not ask you for that secret which you withhold from me, feeling that i have no title to inquire into it; nor will i attempt to guess at the cause which induces you to give up to your brother the property which you were always taught to regard as your own. that you are actuated by noble motives i am sure; and you may be sure of this, that i shall respect you quite as highly in your adversity as i have ever done in your prosperity. that you will make your way in the world, i shall never doubt; and it may be that the labour which you will now encounter will raise you to higher standing than any you could have achieved, had the property remained in your possession. i think you are right in saying, with reference to our mutual regard for each other, that neither should be held as having any claim upon the other. under present circumstances, any such claim would be very silly. nothing would hamper you in your future career so much as a long marriage engagement; and for myself, i am aware that the sorrow and solicitude thence arising would be more than i could support. apart from this, also, i feel certain that i should never obtain my father's sanction for such an engagement, nor could i make it, unless he sanctioned it. i feel so satisfied that you will see the truth of this, that i need not trouble you, and harass my own heart by pursuing the subject any further. my feelings of friendship for you--of affectionate friendship--will be as true as ever. i shall look to your future career with great hope, and shall hear of your success with the utmost satisfaction. and i trust that the time may come, at no very distant date, when we may all welcome your return to london, and show you that our regard for you has never been diminished. may god bless and preserve you in the trials which are before you, and carry you through them with honour and safety. wherever you may be i shall watch for tidings of you with anxiety, and always hear them with gratification. i need hardly bid you remember that you have no more affectionate friend than yours always most sincerely, sophia furnival. p.s.--i believe that a meeting between us at the present moment would only cause pain to both of us. it might drive you to speak of things which should be wrapped in silence. at any rate, i am sure that you will not press it on me. lucius, when he received this letter, was living with his mother in lodgings near finsbury circus, and the letter had been redirected from hamworth to a post-office in that neighbourhood. it was his intention to take his mother with him to a small town on one of the rivers that feed the rhine, and there remain hidden till he could find some means by which he might earn his bread. he was sitting with her in the evening, with two dull tallow candles on the table between them, when his messenger brought the letter to him. he read it in silence very deliberately, then crushed it in his hand, and threw it from him with violence into the fire. "i hope there is nothing further to distress you, lucius," said his mother, looking up into his face as though she were imploring his confidence. "no, nothing; nothing that matters. it is an affair quite private to myself." sir peregrine had spoken with great truth when he declared that lucius mason was able to bear adversity. this last blow had now come upon him, but he made no wailings as to his misery, nor did he say a word further on the subject. his mother watched the paper as the flame caught it and reduced it to an ash; but she asked no further question. she knew that her position with him did not permit of her asking, or even hoping, for his confidence. "i had no right to expect it would be otherwise," he said to himself. but even to himself he spoke no word of reproach against miss furnival. he had realised the circumstances by which he was surrounded, and had made up his mind to bear their result. as for miss furnival, we may as well declare here that she did not become mrs. staveley. our old friend augustus conceived that he had received a sufficient answer on the occasion of his last visit to harley street, and did not repeat it immediately. such little scenes as that which took place there had not been uncommon in his life; and when in after months he looked back upon the affair, he counted it up as one of those miraculous escapes which had marked his career. chapter lxxix. farewell. "that letter you got this morning, my dear, was it not from lady mason?" "it was from lady mason, father; they go on thursday." "on thursday; so soon as that." and then sir peregrine, who had asked the question, remained silent for a while. the letter, according to the family custom, had been handed to mrs. orme over the breakfast-table; but he had made no remark respecting it till they were alone together and free from the servants. it had been a farewell letter, full of love and gratitude, and full also of repentance. lady mason had now been for three weeks in london, and once during that time mrs. orme had gone up to visit her. she had then remained with her friend for hours, greatly to lady mason's comfort, and now this letter had come, bringing a last adieu. [illustration: farewell!] "you may read it, sir, if you like," said mrs. orme, handing him the letter. it was evident, by his face, that he was gratified by the privilege; and he read it, not once only, but over and over again. as he did so, he placed himself in the shade, and sat with his back to mrs. orme; but nevertheless she could see that from time to time he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, and gradually raised his handkerchief to his face. "thank you, dearest," he said, as he gave the letter back to her. "i think that we may forgive her now, even all that she has done," said mrs. orme. "yes--yes--yes," he answered. "for myself, i forgave her from the first." "i know you did. but as regards the property,--it has been given up now." and then again they were silent. "edith," he said, after a while, "i have forgiven her altogether. to me she is the same as though she had never done that deed. are we not all sinners?" "surely, father." "and can i say because she did one startling thing that the total of her sin is greater than mine? was i ever tempted as she was tempted? was my youth made dangerous for me as was hers? and then she did nothing for herself; she did it all for another. we may think of that now." "i have thought of it always." "it did not make the sin the less; but among her fellow-mortals--" and then he stopped himself, wanting words to express his meaning. the sin, till it was repented, was damning; but now that it was repented, he could almost love the sinner for the sin. "edith," he said, again. and he looked at her so wishfully! she knew well what was the working of his heart, and she knew also that she did not dare to encourage him. "i trust," said mrs. orme, "that she will bear her present lot for a few years; and then, perhaps--" "ah! then i shall be in my grave. a few months will do that." "oh, sir!" "why should i not save her from such a life as that?" "from that which she had most to fear she has been saved." "had she not so chosen it herself, she could now have demanded from me a home. why should i not give it to her now?" "a home here, sir?" "yes;--why not? but i know what you would say. it would be wrong,--to you and perry." "it would be wrong to yourself, sir. think of it, father. it is the fact that she did that thing. we may forgive her, but others will not do so on that account. it would not be right that you should bring her here." sir peregrine knew that it would not be right. though he was old, and weak in body, and infirm in purpose, his judgment had not altogether left him. he was well aware that he would offend all social laws if he were to do that which he contemplated, and ask the world around him to respect as lady orme--as his wife, the woman who had so deeply disgraced herself. but yet he could hardly bring himself to confess that it was impossible. he was as a child who knows that a coveted treasure is beyond his reach, but still covets it, still longs for it, hoping against hope that it may yet be his own. it seemed to him that he might yet regain his old vitality if he could wind his arm once more about her waist, and press her to his side, and call her his own. it would be so sweet to forgive her; to make her sure that she was absolutely forgiven; to teach her that there was one at least who would not bring up against her her past sin, even in his memory. as for his grandson, the property should be abandoned to him altogether. 'twas thus he argued with himself; but yet, as he argued, he knew that it could not be so. "i was harsh to her when she told me," he said, after another pause--"cruelly harsh." "she does not think so." "no. if i had spurned her from me with my foot, she would not have thought so. she had condemned herself, and therefore i should have spared her." "but you did spare her. i am sure she feels that from the first to the last your conduct to her has been more than kind." "and i owed her more than kindness, for i loved her;--yes, i loved her, and i do love her. though i am a feeble old man, tottering to my grave, yet i love her--love her as that boy loves the fair girl for whom he longs. he will overcome it, and forget it, and some other one as fair will take her place. but for me it is all over." what could she say to him? in truth, it was all over,--such love at least as that of which his old heart was dreaming in its dotage. there is no medea's caldron from which our limbs can come out young and fresh; and it were well that the heart should grow old as does the body. "it is not all over while we are with you," she said, caressing him. but she knew that what she said was a subterfuge. "yes, yes; i have you, dearest," he answered. but he also knew that that pretence at comfort was false and hollow. "and she starts on thursday," he said; "on next thursday." "yes, on thursday. it will be much better for her to be away from london. while she is there she never ventures even into the street." "edith, i shall see her before she goes." "will that be wise, sir?" "perhaps not. it may be foolish,--very foolish; but still i shall see her. i think you forget, edith, that i have never yet bidden her farewell. i have not spoken to her since that day when she behaved so generously." "i do not think that she expects it, father." "no; she expects nothing for herself. had it been in her nature to expect such a visit, i should not have been anxious to make it. i will go to-morrow. she is always at home you say?" "yes, she is always at home." "and, lucius--" "you will not find him there in the daytime." "i shall go to-morrow, dear. you need not tell peregrine." mrs. orme still thought that he was wrong, but she had nothing further to say. she could not hinder his going, and therefore, with his permission she wrote a line to lady mason, telling her of his purpose. and then, with all the care in her power, and with infinite softness of manner, she warned him against the danger which she so much feared. what might be the result, if, overcome by tenderness, he should again ask lady mason to become his wife? mrs. orme firmly believed that lady mason would again refuse; but, nevertheless, there would be danger. "no," said he, "i will not do that. when i have said so you may accept my word." then she hastened to apologise to him, but he assured her with a kiss that he was in nowise angry with her. he held by his purpose, and on the following day he went up to london. there was nothing said on the matter at breakfast, nor did she make any further endeavour to dissuade him. he was infirm, but still she knew that the actual fatigue would not be of a nature to injure him. indeed her fear respecting him was rather in regard to his staying at home than to his going abroad. it would have been well for him could he have been induced to think himself fit for more active movement. lady mason was alone when he reached the dingy little room near finsbury circus, and received him standing. she was the first to speak, and this she did before she had even touched his hand. she stood to meet him, with her eyes turned to the ground, and her hands tightly folded together before her. "sir peregrine," she said, "i did not expect from you this mark of your--kindness." "of my esteem and affection, lady mason," he said. "we have known each other too well to allow of our parting without a word. i am an old man, and it will probably be for ever." then she gave him her hand, and gradually lifted her eyes to his face. "yes," she said; "it will be for ever. there will be no coming back for me." "nay, nay; we will not say that. that's as may be hereafter. but it will not be at once. it had better not be quite at once. edith tells me that you go on thursday." "yes, sir; we go on thursday." she had still allowed her hand to remain in his, but now she withdrew it, and asked him to sit down. "lucius is not here," she said. "he never remains at home after breakfast. he has much to settle as to our journey; and then he has his lawyers to see." sir peregrine had not at all wished to see lucius mason, but he did not say so. "you will give him my regards," he said, "and tell him that i trust that he may prosper." "thank you. i will do so. it is very kind of you to think of him." "i have always thought highly of him as an excellent young man." "and he is excellent. where is there any one who could suffer without a word as he suffers? no complaint ever comes from him; and yet--i have ruined him." "no, no. he has his youth, his intellect, and his education. if such a one as he cannot earn his bread in the world--ay, and more than his bread--who can do so? nothing ruins a young man but ignorance, idleness, and depravity." "nothing;--unless those of whom he should be proud disgrace him before the eyes of the world. sir peregrine, i sometimes wonder at my own calmness. i wonder that i can live. but, believe me, that never for a moment do i forget what i have done. i would have poured out for him my blood like water, if it would have served him; but instead of that i have given him cause to curse me till the day of his death. though i still live, and eat, and sleep, i think of that always. the remembrance is never away from me. they bid those who repent put on sackcloth, and cover themselves with ashes. that is my sackcloth, and it is very sore. those thoughts are ashes to me, and they are very bitter between my teeth." he did not know with what words to comfort her. it all was as she said, and he could not bid her even try to free herself from that sackcloth and from those ashes. it must be so. were it not so with her, she would not have been in any degree worthy of that love which he felt for her. "god tempers the wind to the shorn lamb," he said. "yes," she said, "for the shorn lamb--" and then she was silent again. but could that bitter, biting wind be tempered for the she-wolf who, in the dead of night, had broken into the fold, and with prowling steps and cunning clutch had stolen the fodder from the sheep? that was the question as it presented itself to her; but she sat silent, and refrained from putting it into words. she sat silent, but he read her heart. "for the shorn lamb--" she had said, and he had known her thoughts, as they followed, quick, one upon another, through her mind. "mary," he said, seating himself now close beside her on the sofa, "if his heart be as true to you as mine, he will never remember these things against you." "it is my memory, not his, that is my punishment," she said. why could he not take her home with him, and comfort her, and heal that festering wound, and stop that ever-running gush of her heart's blood? but he could not. he had pledged his word and pawned his honour. all the comfort that could be his to bestow must be given in those few minutes that remained to him in that room. and it must be given, too, without falsehood. he could not bring himself to tell her that the sackcloth need not be sore to her poor lacerated body, nor the ashes bitter between her teeth. he could not tell her that the cup of which it was hers to drink might yet be pleasant to the taste, and cool to the lips! what could he tell her? of the only source of true comfort others, he knew, had spoken,--others who had not spoken in vain. he could not now take up that matter, and press it on her with available strength. for him there was but one thing to say. he had forgiven her; he still loved her; he would have cherished her in his bosom had it been possible. he was a weak, old, foolish man; and there was nothing of which he could speak but of his own heart. "mary," he said, again taking her hand, "i wish--i wish that i could comfort you." "and yet on you also have i brought trouble, and misery--and--all but disgrace!" "no, my love, no; neither misery nor disgrace,--except this misery, that i shall be no longer near to you. yes, i will tell you all now. were i alone in the world, i would still beg you to go back with me." "it cannot be; it could not possibly be so." "no; for i am not alone. she who loves you so well, has told me so. it must not be. but that is the source of my misery. i have learned to love you too well, and do not know how to part with you. if this had not been so, i would have done all that an old man might to comfort you." "but it has been so," she said. "i cannot wash out the past. knowing what i did of myself, sir peregrine, i should never have put my foot over your threshold." "i wish i might hear its step again upon my floors. i wish i might hear that light step once again." "never, sir peregrine. no one again ever shall rejoice to hear either my step or my voice, or to see my form, or to grasp my hand. the world is over for me, and may god soon grant me relief from my sorrow. but to you--in return for your goodness--" "for my love." "in return for your love, what am i to say? i could have loved you with all my heart had it been so permitted. nay, i did do so. had that dream been carried out, i should not have sworn falsely when i gave you my hand. i bade her tell you so from me, when i parted with her." "she did tell me." "i have known but little love. he--sir joseph--was my master rather than my husband. he was a good master, and i served him truly--except in that one thing. but i never loved him. but i am wrong to talk of this, and i will not talk of it longer. may god bless you, sir peregrine! it will be well for both of us now that you should leave me." "may god bless you, mary, and preserve you, and give back to you the comforts of a quiet spirit, and a heart at rest! till you hear that i am under the ground you will know that there is one living who loves you well." then he took her in his arms, twice kissed her on the forehead, and left the room without further speech on either side. [illustration: farewell!] lady mason, as soon as she was alone, sat herself down, and her thoughts ran back over the whole course of her life. early in her days, when the world was yet beginning to her, she had done one evil deed, and from that time up to those days of her trial she had been the victim of one incessant struggle to appear before the world as though that deed had not been done,--to appear innocent of it before the world, but, beyond all things, innocent of it before her son. for twenty years she had striven with a labour that had been all but unendurable; and now she had failed, and every one knew her for what she was. such had been her life; and then she thought of the life which might have been hers. in her earlier days she had known what it was to be poor, and had seen and heard those battles after money which harden our hearts, and quench the poetry of our natures. but it had not been altogether so with her. had things gone differently with her it might afterwards have been said that she had gone through the fire unscathed. but the beast had set his foot upon her, and when the temptation came it was too much for her. not for herself would she have sinned, or have robbed that old man, who had been to her a kind master. but when a child was born to her, her eyes were blind, and she could not see that wealth ill gotten for her child would be as sure a curse as wealth ill gotten for herself. she remembered rebekah, and with the cunning of a second rebekah she filched a world's blessing for her baby. now she thought of all this as pictures of that life which might have been hers passed before her mind's eye. and they were pleasant pictures, had they not burnt into her very soul as she looked at them. how sweet had been that drawing-room at the cleeve, as she sat there in luxurious quiet with her new friend! how sweet had been that friendship with a woman pure in all her thoughts, graceful to the eye, and delicate in all her ways! she knew now, as she thought of this, that to her had been given the power to appreciate such delights as these. how full of charm to her would have been that life, in which there had been so much of true, innocent affection;--had the load ever been absent from her shoulders! and then she thought of sir peregrine, with his pleasant, ancient manner and truth of heart, and told herself that she could have been happy with the love of even so old a man as that,--had that burden been away from her! but the burden had never been away--never could be away. then she thought once more of her stern but just son, and as she bowed her head and kissed the rod, she prayed that her release might come to her soon. and now we will say farewell to her, and as we do so the chief interest of our tale will end. i may, perhaps be thought to owe an apology to my readers in that i have asked their sympathy for a woman who had so sinned as to have placed her beyond the general sympathy of the world at large. if so, i tender my apology, and perhaps feel that i should confess a fault. but as i have told her story that sympathy has grown upon myself till i have learned to forgive her, and to feel that i too could have regarded her as a friend. of her future life i will not venture to say anything. but no lesson is truer than that which teaches us to believe that god does temper the wind to the shorn lamb. to how many has it not seemed, at some one period of their lives, that all was over for them, and that to them in their afflictions there was nothing left but to die! and yet they have lived to laugh again, to feel that the air was warm and the earth fair, and that god in giving them ever-springing hope had given everything. how many a sun may seem to set on an endless night, and yet rising again on some morrow-- "he tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore flames in the forehead of the morning sky!" for lady mason let us hope that the day will come in which she also may once again trick her beams in some modest, unassuming way, and that for her the morning may even yet be sweet with a glad warmth. for us, here in these pages, it must be sufficient to say this last kindly farewell. as to lucius mason and the arrangement of his affairs with his step-brother a very few concluding words will suffice. when joseph mason left the office of messrs. round and crook he would gladly have sacrificed all hope of any eventual pecuniary benefit from the possession of orley farm could he by doing so have secured the condign punishment of her who had so long kept him out of his inheritance. but he soon found that he had no means of doing this. in the first place he did not know where to turn for advice. he had quarrelled absolutely with dockwrath, and though he now greatly distrusted the rounds, he by no means put implicit trust in him of hamworth. of the rounds he suspected that they were engaged to serve his enemy, of dockwrath he felt sure that he was anxious only to serve himself. under these circumstances he was driven into the arms of a third attorney, and learned from him, after a delay that cut him to the soul, that he could take no further criminal proceeding against lady mason. it would be impossible to have her even indicted for the forgery,--seeing that two juries, at the interval of twenty years, had virtually acquitted her,--unless new evidence which should be absolute and positive in its kind should be forthcoming. but there was no new evidence of any kind. the offer made to surrender the property was no evidence for a jury whatever it might be in the mind of the world at large. "and what am i to do?" asked mason. "take the goods the gods provide you," said the attorney. "accept the offer which your half-brother has very generously made you." "generously!" shouted mason of groby. "well, on his part it is generous. it is quite within his power to keep it; and were he to do so no one would say he was wrong. why should he judge his mother?" then mr. joseph mason went to another attorney; but it was of no avail. the time was passing away, and he learned that lady mason and lucius had actually started for germany. in his agony for revenge he had endeavoured to obtain some legal order that should prevent her departure;--"ne exeat regno," as he repeated over and over again to his advisers learned in the law. but it was of no avail. lady mason had been tried and acquitted, and no judge would interfere. "we should soon have her back again, you know, if we had evidence of forgery," said the last attorney. "then, by ----! we will have her back again," said mason. but the threat was vain; nor could he get any one even to promise him that she could be prosecuted and convicted. and by degrees the desire for vengeance slackened as the desire for gain resumed its sway. many men have threatened to spend a property upon a lawsuit who have afterwards felt grateful that their threats were made abortive. and so it was with mr. mason. after remaining in town over a month he took the advice of the first of those new lawyers and allowed that gentleman to put himself in communication with mr. furnival. the result was that by the end of six months he again came out of yorkshire to take upon himself the duties and privileges of the owner of orley farm. and then came his great fight with dockwrath, which in the end ruined the hamworth attorney, and cost mr. mason more money than he ever liked to confess. dockwrath claimed to be put in possession of orley farm at an exceedingly moderate rent, as to the terms of which he was prepared to prove that mr. mason had already entered into a contract with him. mr. mason utterly ignored such contract, and contended that the words contained in a certain note produced by dockwrath amounted only to a proposition to let him the land in the event of certain circumstances and results--which circumstances and results never took place. this lawsuit mr. joseph mason did win, and mr. samuel dockwrath was, as i have said, ruined. what the attorney did to make it necessary that he should leave hamworth i do not know; but miriam, his wife, is now the mistress of that lodging-house to which her own mahogany furniture was so ruthlessly removed. chapter lxxx. showing how affairs settled themselves at noningsby. we must now go back to noningsby for one concluding chapter, and then our work will be completed. "you are not to go away from noningsby when the trial is over, you know. mamma said that i had better tell you so." it was thus that madeline had spoken to felix graham as he was going out to the judge's carriage on the last morning of the celebrated great orley farm case, and as she did so she twisted one of her little fingers into one of his buttonholes. this she did with a prettiness of familiarity, and the assumption of a right to give him orders and hold him to obedience, which was almost intoxicating in its sweetness. and why should she not be familiar with him? why should she not hold him to obedience by his buttonhole? was he not her own? had she not chosen him and taken him up to the exclusion of all other such choosings and takings? "i shall not go till you send me," he said, putting up his hand as though to protect his coat, and just touching her fingers as he did so. "mamma says it will be stupid for you in the mornings, but it will not be worse for you than for augustus. he stays till after easter." "and i shall stay till after whitsuntide unless i am turned out." "oh! but you will be turned out. i am not going to make myself answerable for any improper amount of idleness. papa says you have got all the law courts to reform." "there must be a double hercules for such a set of stables as that," said felix; and then with the slight ceremony to which i have before adverted he took his leave for the day. "i suppose there will be no use in delaying it," said lady staveley on the same morning as she and her daughter sat together in the drawing-room. they had already been talking over the new engagement by the hour, together; but that is a subject on which mothers with marriageable daughters never grow tired, as all mothers and marriageable daughters know full well. "oh! mamma, i think it must be delayed." "but why, my love? mr. graham has not said so?" "you must call him felix, mamma. i'm sure it's a nice name." "very well, my dear, i will." "no; he has said nothing yet. but of course he means to wait till,--till it will be prudent." "men never care for prudence of that kind when they are really in love;--and i'm sure he is." "is he, mamma?" "he will marry on anything or nothing. and if you speak to him he tells you of how the young ravens were fed. but he always forgets that he's not a young raven himself." "now you're only joking, mamma." "indeed i'm quite in earnest. but i think your papa means to make up an income for you,--only you must not expect to be rich." "i do not want to be rich. i never did." "i suppose you will live in london, and then you can come down here when the courts are up. i do hope he won't ever want to take a situation in the colonies." "who, felix? why should he go to the colonies?" "they always do,--the clever young barristers who marry before they have made their way. that would be very dreadful. i really think it would kill me." "oh! mamma, he sha'n't go to any colony." "to be sure there are the county courts now, and they are better. i suppose you wouldn't like to live at leeds or merthyr-tydvil?" "of course i shall live wherever he goes; but i don't know why you should send him to merthyr-tydvil." "those are the sort of places they do go to. there is young mrs. bright newdegate,--she had to go to south shields, and her babies are all dreadfully delicate. she lost two, you know. i do think the lord chancellor ought to think about that. reigate, or maidstone, or anywhere about great marlow would not be so bad." and in this way they discussed the coming event and the happy future, while felix himself was listening to the judge's charge and thinking of his client's guilt. then there were two or three days passed at noningsby of almost unalloyed sweetness. it seemed that they had all agreed that prudence should go by the board, and that love with sweet promises, and hopes bright as young trees in spring, should have it all her own way. judge staveley was a man who on such an occasion--knowing with whom he had to deal--could allow ordinary prudence to go by the board. there are men, and excellent men too, from whose minds the cares of life never banish themselves, who never seem to remember that provision is made for the young ravens. they toil and spin always, thinking sternly of the worst and rarely hoping for the best. they are ever making provision for rainy days, as though there were to be no more sunshine. so anxious are they for their children that they take no pleasure in them, and their fear is constant that the earth will cease to produce her fruits. of such was not the judge. "dulce est desipere in locis," he would say, "and let the opportunities be frequent and the occasions many." such a love-making opportunity as this surely should be one. so graham wandered about through the dry march winds with his future bride by his side, and never knew that the blasts came from the pernicious east. and she would lean on his arm as though he had been the friend of her earliest years, listening to and trusting him in all things. that little finger, as they stood together, would get up to his buttonhole, and her bright frank eyes would settle themselves on his, and then her hand would press closely upon his arm, and he knew that she was neither ashamed nor afraid of her love. her love to her was the same as her religion. when it was once acknowledged by her to be a thing good and trustworthy, all the world might know it. was it not a glory to her that he had chosen her, and why should she conceal her glory? had it been that some richer, greater man had won her love,--some one whose titles were known and high place in the world approved,--it may well be that then she would have been less free with him. "papa would like it best if you would give up your writing, and think of nothing but the law," she said to him. in answer to which he told her, with many compliments to the special fox in question, that story of the fox who had lost his tail and thought it well that other foxes should dress themselves as he was dressed. "at any rate papa looks very well without his tail," said madeline with somewhat of a daughter's pride. "but you shall wear yours all the same, if you like it," she added with much of a young maiden's love. as they were thus walking near the house on the afternoon of the third or fourth day after the trial, one of the maids came to them and told madeline that a gentleman was in the house who wished to see her. "a gentleman!" said madeline. "mr. orme, miss. my lady told me to ask you up if you were anywhere near." "i suppose i must go," said madeline, from whom all her pretty freedom of manner and light happiness of face departed on the moment. she had told felix everything as to poor peregrine in return for that story of his respecting mary snow. to her it seemed as though that had made things equal between them,--for she was too generous to observe that though she had given nothing to her other lover, felix had been engaged for many months to marry his other love. but girls, i think, have no objection to this. they do not desire first fruits, or even early fruits, as men do. indeed, i am not sure whether experience on the part of a gentleman in his use of his heart is not supposed by most young ladies to enhance the value of the article. madeline was not in the least jealous of mary snow; but with great good nature promised to look after her, and patronise her when she should have become mrs. albert fitzallen. "but i don't think i should like that mrs. thomas," she said. "you would have mended the stockings for her all the same." "o yes, i would have done that;--and so did miss snow. but i would have kept my box locked. she should never have seen my letters." it was now absolutely necessary that she should return to the house, and say to peregrine orme what words of comfort might be possible for her. if she could have spoken simply with her heart, she would have said much that was friendly, even though it might not be comfortable. but it was necessary that she should express herself in words, and she felt that the task was very difficult. "will you come in?" she said to felix. "no, i think not. but he's a splendid fellow, and to me was a stanch friend. if i can catch him as he comes out i will speak to him." and then madeline, with hesitating steps, with her hat still on her head, and her gloves on her hands, walked through the hall into the drawing-room. there she found her mother seated on the sofa, and peregrine orme standing before her. madeline walked up to him with extended hand and a kindly welcome, though she felt that the colour was high in her cheeks. of course it would be impossible to come out from such an interview as this without having confessed her position, or hearing it confessed by her mother in her presence. that, however, had been already done, and peregrine knew that the prize was gone. "how do you do, miss staveley?" said he. "as i am going to leave the cleeve for a long time, i have come over to say good-bye to lady staveley--and to you." "are you going away, mr. orme?" "yes, i shall go abroad,--to central africa, i think. it seems a wild sort of place with plenty of animals to kill." "but isn't it very dangerous?" "no, i don't think so. the people always come back alive. i've a sort of idea that nothing will kill me. at any rate i couldn't stay here." "madeline, dear, i've told mr. orme that you have accepted mr. graham. with a friend such as he is i know that you will not be anxious to keep this a secret." "no, mamma." "i was sure of that; and now that your papa has consented to it, and that it is quite fixed, i am sure that it is better that he should know it. we shall always look upon him as a very dear friend--if he will allow us." then it was necessary that peregrine should speak, which he did as follows, holding madeline's hand for the first three or four seconds of the time:--"miss staveley, i will say this of myself, that if ever a fellow loved a girl truly, i loved you;--and i do so now as well or better than ever. it is no good my pretending to be contented, and all that sort of thing. i am not contented, but very unhappy. i have never wished for but one thing in my life; and for that i would have given all that i have in the world. i know that i cannot have it, and that i am not fit to have it." "oh, mr. orme, it is not that." "but it is that. i knew you before graham did, and loved you quite as soon. i believe--though of course i don't mean to ask any questions--but i believe i told you so before he ever did." "marriages, they say, are planned in heaven," said lady staveley. "perhaps they are. i only wish this one had not been planned there. i cannot help it,--i cannot express my satisfaction, though i will heartily wish for your happiness. i knew from the first how it would be, and was always sure that i was a fool to love you. i should have gone away when i first thought of it, for i used to feel that you never cared to speak to me." "oh, indeed i did," said poor madeline. "no, you did not. and why should you when i had nothing to say for myself? i ought to have fallen in love with some foolish chit with as little wit about her as i have myself." "i hope you will fall in love with some very nice girl," said lady staveley; "and that we shall know her and love her very much." "oh, i dare say i shall marry some day. i feel now as though i should like to break my neck, but i don't suppose i shall. good-bye, lady staveley." "good-bye, mr. orme; and may god send that you may be happy." "good-bye, madeline. i shall never call you so again,--except to myself. i do wish you may be happy,--i do indeed. as for him,--he has been before me, and taken away all that i wanted to win." by this time the tears were in his eyes, and his voice was not free from their effect. of this he was aware, and therefore, pressing her hand, he turned upon his heel and abruptly left the room. he had been unable to say that he wished also that felix might be happy; but this omission was forgiven him by both the ladies. poor madeline, as he went, muttered a kind farewell, but her tears had mastered her also, so that she could hardly speak. he went directly to the stables, there got upon his horse, and then walked slowly down the avenue towards the gate. he had got the better of that tear-compelling softness as soon as he found himself beyond the presence of the girl he loved, and was now stern in his mood, striving to harden his heart. he had confessed himself a fool in comparison with felix graham; but yet,--he asked himself,--in spite of that, was it not possible that he would have made her a better husband than the other? it was not to his title or his estate that he trusted as he so thought, but to a feeling that he was more akin to her in circumstances, in ways of life, and in tenderness of heart. as all this was passing through his mind, felix graham presented himself to him in the road. "orme," said he, "i heard that you were in the house, and have come to shake hands with you. i suppose you have heard what has taken place. will you not shake hands with me?" "no," said peregrine, "i will not." "i am sorry for that, for we were good friends, and i owe you much for your kindness. it was a fair stand-up fight, and you should not be angry." "i am angry, and i don't want your friendship. go and tell her that i say so, if you like." "no, i will not do that." "i wish with all my heart that we had both killed ourselves at that bank." "for shame, orme, for shame!" "very well, sir; let it be for shame." and then he passed on, meaning to go through the gate, and leaving graham on the grass by the road-side. but before he had gone a hundred yards down the road his better feelings came back upon him, and he returned. "i am unhappy," he said, "and sore at heart. you must not mind what words i spoke just now." "no, no; i am sure you did not mean them," said felix, putting his hand on the horse's mane. "i did mean them then, but i do not mean them now. i won't say anything about wishes. of course you will be happy with her. anybody would be happy with her. i suppose you won't die, and give a fellow another chance." "not if i can help it," said graham. "well, if you are to live, i don't wish you any evil. i do wish you hadn't come to noningsby, that's all. good-bye to you." and he held out his hand, which graham took. "we shall be good friends yet, for all that is come and gone," said graham; and then there were no more words between them. peregrine did as he said, and went abroad, extending his travels to many wild countries, in which, as he used to say, any one else would have been in danger. no danger ever came to him,--so at least he frequently wrote word to his mother. gorillas he slew by scores, lions by hundreds, and elephants sufficient for an ivory palace. the skins, and bones, and other trophies, he sent home in various ships; and when he appeared in london as a lion, no man doubted his word. but then he did not write a book, nor even give lectures; nor did he presume to know much about the huge brutes he had slain, except that they were pervious to powder and ball. sir peregrine had endeavoured to keep him at home by giving up the property into his hands; but neither for grandfather, nor for mother, nor for lands and money would he remain in the neighbourhood of noningsby. "no, mother," he said; "it will be better for me to be away." and away he went. the old baronet lived to see him return, though with plaintive wail he often declared to his daughter-in-law that this was impossible. he lived, but he never returned to that living life which had been his before he had taken up the battle for lady mason. he would sometimes allow mrs. orme to drive him about the grounds, but otherwise he remained in the house, sitting solitary over his fire,--with a book, indeed, open before him, but rarely reading. he was waiting patiently, as he said, till death should come to him. mrs. orme kept her promise, and wrote constantly to lady mason,--hearing from her as constantly. when lucius had been six months in germany, he decided on going to australia, leaving his mother for the present in the little german town in which they were staying. for her, on the whole, the change was for the better. as to his success in a thriving colony, there can be but little doubt. felix graham was soon married to madeline; and as yet i have not heard of any banishment either to patagonia or to merthyr-tydvil. and now i may say, farewell. loewenstein, m.d. the kellys and the o'kellys by anthony trollope contents i. the trial ii. the two heiresses iii. morrison's hotel iv. the dunmore inn v. a loving brother vi. the escape vii. mr barry lynch makes a morning call viii. mr martin kelly returns to dunmore ix. mr daly, the attorney x. dot blake's advice xi. the earl of cashel xii. fanny wyndham xiii. father and son xiv. the countess xv. handicap lodge xvi. brien boru xvii. martin kelly's courtship xviii. an attorney's office in connaught xix. mr daly visits the dunmore inn xx. very liberal xxi. lord ballindine at home xxii. the hunt xxiii. dr colligan xxiv. anty lynch's bed-side; scene the first xxv. anty lynch's bed-side; scene the second xxvi. love's ambassador xxvii. mr lynch's last resource xxviii. fanny wyndham rebels xxix. the countess of cashell in trouble xxx. lord kilcullen obeys his father xxxi. the two friends xxxii. how lord kilcullen fares in his wooing xxxiii. lord kilcullen makes another visit to the book-room xxxiv. the doctor makes a clean breast of it xxxv. mr lynch bids farewell to dunmore xxxvi. mr armstrong visits grey abbey on a delicate mission xxxvii. veni; vidi; vici xxxviii. wait till i tell you xxxix. it never rains but it pours xl. conclusion i. the trial during the first two months of the year , the greatest possible excitement existed in dublin respecting the state trials, in which mr o'connell, [ ] his son, the editors of three different repeal newspapers, tom steele, the rev. mr tierney--a priest who had taken a somewhat prominent part in the repeal movement--and mr ray, the secretary to the repeal association, were indicted for conspiracy. those who only read of the proceedings in papers, which gave them as a mere portion of the news of the day, or learned what was going on in dublin by chance conversation, can have no idea of the absorbing interest which the whole affair created in ireland, but more especially in the metropolis. every one felt strongly, on one side or on the other. every one had brought the matter home to his own bosom, and looked to the result of the trial with individual interest and suspense. [footnote : the historical events described here form a backdrop to the novel. daniel o'connell ( - ) came from a wealthy irish catholic family. he was educated in the law, which he practiced most successfully, and developed a passion for religious and political liberty. in , together with lalor sheil and thomas wyse, he organized the catholic association, whose major goal was catholic emancipation. this was achieved by act of parliament the following year. o'connell served in parliament in the 's and was active in the passage of bills emancipating the jews and outlawing slavery. in he formed the repeal association, whose goal was repeal of the act of union which joined ireland to great britain. in , after serving a year as lord mayor of dublin, o'connell challenged the british government by announcing that he intended to achieve repeal within a year. though he openly opposed violence, prime minister peel's government considered him a threat and arrested o'connell and his associates in on trumped-up charges of conspiracy, sedition, and unlawfule assembly. they were tried in , and all but one were convicted, although the conviction was later overturned in the house of lords. o'connell did serve some time in jail and was considered a martyr to the cause of irish independence.] even at this short interval irishmen can now see how completely they put judgment aside, and allowed feeling and passion to predominate in the matter. many of the hottest protestants, of the staunchest foes to o'connell, now believe that his absolute imprisonment was not to be desired, and that whether he were acquitted or convicted, the government would have sufficiently shown, by instituting his trial, its determination to put down proceedings of which they did not approve. on the other hand, that class of men who then styled themselves repealers are now aware that the continued imprisonment of their leader--the persecution, as they believed it to be, of "the liberator" [ ]--would have been the one thing most certain to have sustained his influence, and to have given fresh force to their agitation. nothing ever so strengthened the love of the irish for, and the obedience of the irish to o'connell, as his imprisonment; nothing ever so weakened his power over them as his unexpected enfranchisement [ ]. the country shouted for joy when he was set free, and expended all its enthusiasm in the effort. [footnote : the irish often referred to daniel o'connell as "the liberator."] [footnote : enfranchisement--being set free. this is a political observation by trollope.] at the time, however, to which i am now referring, each party felt the most intense interest in the struggle, and the most eager desire for success. every repealer, and every anti-repealer in dublin felt that it was a contest, in which he himself was, to a certain extent, individually engaged. all the tactics of the opposed armies, down to the minutest legal details, were eagerly and passionately canvassed in every circle. ladies, who had before probably never heard of "panels" in forensic phraseology, now spoke enthusiastically on the subject; and those on one side expressed themselves indignant at the fraudulent omission of certain names from the lists of jurors; while those on the other were capable of proving the legality of choosing the jury from the names which were given, and stated most positively that the omissions were accidental. "the traversers" [ ] were in everybody's mouth--a term heretofore confined to law courts, and lawyers' rooms. the attorney-general, the commander-in-chief of the government forces, was most virulently assailed; every legal step which he took was scrutinised and abused; every measure which he used was base enough of itself to hand down his name to everlasting infamy. such were the tenets of the repealers. and o'connell and his counsel, their base artifices, falsehoods, delays, and unprofessional proceedings, were declared by the saxon party to be equally abominable. [footnote : traversers--trollope repeatedly refers to the defendants as "traversers." the term probably comes from the legal term "to traverse," which is to deny the charges against one in a common law proceeding. thus, the traversers would have been those who pled innocent.] the whole irish bar seemed, for the time, to have laid aside the habitual _sang froid_ [ ] and indifference of lawyers, and to have employed their hearts as well as their heads on behalf of the different parties by whom they were engaged. the very jurors themselves for a time became famous or infamous, according to the opinions of those by whom their position was discussed. their names and additions were published and republished; they were declared to be men who would stand by their country and do their duty without fear or favour--so said the protestants. by the roman catholics, they were looked on as perjurors determined to stick to the government with blind indifference to their oaths. their names are now, for the most part, forgotten, though so little time has elapsed since they appeared so frequently before the public. [footnote : sang froid--(french) coolness in a trying situation, lack of excitability] every day's proceedings gave rise to new hopes and fears. the evidence rested chiefly on the reports of certain short-hand writers, who had been employed to attend repeal meetings, and their examinations and cross-examinations were read, re-read, and scanned with the minutest care. then, the various and long speeches of the different counsel, who, day after day, continued to address the jury; the heat of one, the weary legal technicalities of another, the perspicuity of a third, and the splendid forensic eloquence of a fourth, were criticised, depreciated and admired. it seemed as though the chief lawyers of the day were standing an examination, and were candidates for some high honour, which each was striving to secure. the dublin papers were full of the trial; no other subject, could, at the time, either interest or amuse. i doubt whether any affair of the kind was ever, to use the phrase of the trade, so well and perfectly reported. the speeches appeared word for word the same in the columns of newspapers of different politics. for four-fifths of the contents of the paper it would have been the same to you whether you were reading the evening mail, or the freeman. every word that was uttered in the court was of importance to every one in dublin; and half-an-hour's delay in ascertaining, to the minutest shade, what had taken place in court during any period, was accounted a sad misfortune. the press round the four courts [ ], every morning before the doors were open, was very great: and except by the favoured few who were able to obtain seats, it was only with extreme difficulty and perseverance, that an entrance into the body of the court could be obtained. [footnote : the four courts was a landmark courthouse in dublin named for the four divisions of the irish judicial system: common pleas, chancery, exchequer, and king's bench.] it was on the eleventh morning of the proceedings, on the day on which the defence of the traversers was to be commenced, that two young men, who had been standing for a couple of hours in front of the doors of the court, were still waiting there, with what patience was left to them, after having been pressed and jostled for so long a time. richard lalor sheil, however, was to address the jury on behalf of mr john o'connell--and every one in dublin knew that that was a treat not to be lost. the two young men, too, were violent repealers. the elder of them was a three-year-old denizen of dublin, who knew the names of the contributors to the "nation", who had constantly listened to the indignation and enthusiasm of o'connell, smith o'brien, and o'neill daunt, in their addresses from the rostrum of the conciliation hall [ ]; who had drank much porter at jude's, who had eaten many oysters at burton bindon's, who had seen and contributed to many rows in the abbey street theatre; who, during his life in dublin, had done many things which he ought not to have done, and had probably made as many omissions of things which it had behoved him to do. he had that knowledge of the persons of his fellow-citizens, which appears to be so much more general in dublin than in any other large town; he could tell you the name and trade of every one he met in the streets, and was a judge of the character and talents of all whose employments partook, in any degree, of a public nature. his name was kelly; and, as his calling was that of an attorney's clerk, his knowledge of character would be peculiarly valuable in the scene at which he and his companion were so anxious to be present. [footnote : conciliation hall, dublin, was built in as a meeting place for o'connell's repeal association.] the younger of the two brothers, for such they were, was a somewhat different character. though perhaps a more enthusiastic repealer than his brother, he was not so well versed in the details of repeal tactics, or in the strength and weakness of the repeal ranks. he was a young farmer, of the better class, from the county mayo, where he held three or four hundred wretchedly bad acres under lord ballindine, and one or two other small farms, under different landlords. he was a good-looking young fellow, about twenty-five years of age, with that mixture of cunning and frankness in his bright eye, which is so common among those of his class in ireland, but more especially so in connaught. the mother of these two young men kept an inn in the small town of dunmore, and though from the appearance of the place, one would be led to suppose that there could not be in dunmore much of that kind of traffic which innkeepers love, mrs kelly was accounted a warm, comfortable woman. her husband had left her for a better world some ten years since, with six children; and the widow, instead of making continual use, as her chief support, of that common wail of being a poor, lone woman, had put her shoulders to the wheel, and had earned comfortably, by sheer industry, that which so many of her class, when similarly situated, are willing to owe to compassion. she held on the farm, which her husband rented from lord ballindine, till her eldest son was able to take it. he, however, was now a gauger [ ] in the north of ireland. her second son was the attorney's clerk; and the farm had descended to martin, the younger, whom we have left jostling and jostled at one of the great doors of the four courts, and whom we must still leave there for a short time, while a few more of the circumstances of his family are narrated. [footnote : gauger--a british revenue officer often engaged in the collection of duties on distilled spirits.] mrs kelly had, after her husband's death, added a small grocer's establishment to her inn. people wondered where she had found the means of supplying her shop: some said that old mick kelly must have had money when he died, though it was odd how a man who drank so much could ever have kept a shilling by him. others remarked how easy it was to get credit in these days, and expressed a hope that the wholesale dealer in pill lane might be none the worse. however this might be, the widow kelly kept her station firmly and constantly behind her counter, wore her weeds and her warm, black, stuff dress decently and becomingly, and never asked anything of anybody. at the time of which we are writing, her two elder sons had left her, and gone forth to make their own way, and take the burden of the world on their own shoulders. martin still lived with his mother, though his farm lay four miles distant, on the road to ballindine, and in another county--for dunmore is in county galway, and the lands of toneroe, as martin's farm was called, were in the county mayo. one of her three daughters had lately been married to a shop-keeper in tuam, and rumour said that he had got £ with her; and pat daly was not the man to have taken a wife for nothing. the other two girls, meg and jane, still remained under their mother's wing, and though it was to be presumed that they would soon fly abroad, with the same comfortable plumage which had enabled their sister to find so warm a nest, they were obliged, while sharing their mother's home, to share also her labours, and were not allowed to be too proud to cut off pennyworths of tobacco, and mix dandies of punch for such of their customers as still preferred the indulgence of their throats to the blessing of father mathew. mrs. kelly kept two ordinary in-door servants to assist in the work of the house; one, an antiquated female named sally, who was more devoted to her tea-pot than ever was any bacchanalian to his glass. were there four different teas in the inn in one evening, she would have drained the pot after each, though she burst in the effort. sally was, in all, an honest woman, and certainly a religious one;--she never neglected her devotional duties, confessed with most scrupulous accuracy the various peccadillos of which she might consider herself guilty; and it was thought, with reason, by those who knew her best, that all the extra prayers she said,--and they were very many,--were in atonement for commissions of continual petty larceny with regard to sugar. on this subject did her old mistress quarrel with her, her young mistress ridicule her; of this sin did her fellow-servant accuse her; and, doubtless, for this sin did her priest continually reprove her; but in vain. though she would not own it, there was always sugar in her pocket, and though she declared that she usually drank her tea unsweetened, those who had come upon her unawares had seen her extracting the pinches of moist brown saccharine from the huge slit in her petticoat, and could not believe her. kate, the other servant, was a red-legged lass, who washed the potatoes, fed the pigs, and ate her food nobody knew when or where. kates, particularly irish kates, are pretty by prescription; but mrs. kelly's kate had been excepted, and was certainly a most positive exception. poor kate was very ugly. her hair had that appearance of having been dressed by the turkey-cock, which is sometimes presented by the heads of young women in her situation; her mouth extended nearly from ear to ear; her neck and throat, which were always nearly bare, presented no feminine charms to view; and her short coarse petticoat showed her red legs nearly to the knee; for, except on sundays, she knew not the use of shoes and stockings. but though kate was ungainly and ugly, she was useful, and grateful--very fond of the whole family, and particularly attached to the two young ladies, in whose behalf she doubtless performed many a service, acceptable enough to them, but of which, had she known of them, the widow would have been but little likely to approve. such was mrs. kelly's household at the time that her son martin left connaught to pay a short visit to the metropolis, during the period of o'connell's trial. but, although martin was a staunch repealer, and had gone as far as galway, and athlone, to be present at the monster repeal meetings which had been held there, it was not political anxiety alone which led him to dublin. his landlord; the young lord ballindine, was there; and, though martin could not exactly be said to act as his lordship's agent--for lord ballindine had, unfortunately, a legal agent, with whose services his pecuniary embarrassments did not allow him to dispense--he was a kind of confidential tenant, and his attendance had been requested. martin, moreover, had a somewhat important piece of business of his own in hand, which he expected would tend greatly to his own advantage; and, although he had fully made up his mind to carry it out if possible, he wanted, in conducting it, a little of his brother's legal advice, and, above all, his landlord's sanction. this business was nothing less than an intended elopement with an heiress belonging to a rank somewhat higher than that in which martin kelly might be supposed to look, with propriety, for his bride; but martin was a handsome fellow, not much burdened with natural modesty, and he had, as he supposed, managed to engage the affections of anastasia lynch, a lady resident near dunmore. all particulars respecting martin's intended--the amount of her fortune--her birth and parentage--her age and attractions--shall, in due time, be made known; or rather, perhaps, be suffered to make themselves known. in the mean time we will return to the two brothers, who are still anxiously waiting to effect an entrance into the august presence of the law. martin had already told his brother of his matrimonial speculations, and had received certain hints from that learned youth as to the proper means of getting correct information as to the amount of the lady's wealth,--her power to dispose of it by her own deed,--and certain other particulars always interesting to gentlemen who seek money and love at the same time. john did not quite approve of the plan; there might have been a shade of envy at his brother's good fortune; there might be some doubt as to his brother's power of carrying the affair through successfully; but, though he had not encouraged him, he gave him the information he wanted, and was as willing to talk over the matter as martin could desire. as they were standing in the crowd, their conversation ran partly on repeal and o'connell, and partly on matrimony and anty lynch, as the lady was usually called by those who knew her best. "tear and 'ouns misther lord chief justice!" exclaimed martin, "and are ye niver going to opin them big doors?" "and what'd be the good of his opening them yet," answered john, "when a bigger man than himself an't there? dan and the other boys isn't in it yet, and sure all the twelve judges couldn't get on a peg without them." "well, dan, my darling!" said the other, "you're thought more of here this day than the lot of 'em, though the place in a manner belongs to them, and you're only a prisoner." "faix and that's what he's not, martin; no more than yourself, nor so likely, may-be. he's the traverser, as i told you before, and that's not being a prisoner. if he were a prisoner, how did he manage to tell us all what he did at the hall yesterday?" "av' he's not a prisoner, he's the next-door to it; it's not of his own free will and pleasure he'd come here to listen to all the lies them thundhering saxon ruffians choose to say about him." "and why not? why wouldn't he come here and vindicate himself? when you hear sheil by and by, you'll see then whether they think themselves likely to be prisoners! no--no; they never will be, av' there's a ghost of a conscience left in one of them protesthant raps, that they've picked so carefully out of all dublin to make jurors of. they can't convict 'em! i heard ford, the night before last, offer four to one that they didn't find the lot guilty; and he knows what he's about, and isn't the man to thrust a protestant half as far as he'd see him." "isn't tom steele a protesthant himself, john?" "well, i believe he is. so's gray, and more of 'em too; but there's a difference between them and the downright murdhering tory set. poor tom doesn't throuble the church much; but you'll be all for protesthants now, martin, when you've your new brother-in-law. barry used to be one of your raal out-and-outers!" "it's little, i'm thinking, i and barry'll be having to do together, unless it be about the brads; and the law about them now, thank god, makes no differ for roman and protesthant. anty's as good a catholic as ever breathed, and so was her mother before her; and when she's mrs kelly, as i mane to make her, master barry may shell out the cash and go to heaven his own way for me." "it ain't the family then, you're fond of, martin! and i wondher at that, considering how old sim loved us all." "niver mind sim, john! he's dead and gone; and av' he niver did a good deed before, he did one when he didn't lave all his cash to that precious son of his, barry lynch." "you're prepared for squalls with barry, i suppose?" "he'll have all the squalling on his own side, i'm thinking, john. i don't mane to squall, for one. i don't see why i need, with £ a-year in my pocket, and a good wife to the fore." "the £ a-year's good enough, av' you touch it, certainly," said the man of law, thinking of his own insufficient guinea a-week, "and you must look to have some throuble yet afore you do that. but as to the wife--why, the less said the better--eh, martin? "av' it's not asking too much, might i throuble you, sir, to set anywhere else but on my shouldher?" this was addressed to a very fat citizen, who was wheezing behind martin, and who, to escape suffocation in the crowd, was endeavouring to raise himself on his neighbour's shoulders. "and why the less said the better?--i wish yourself may never have a worse." "i wish i mayn't, martin, as far as the cash goes; and a man like me might look a long time in dublin before he got a quarter of the money. but you must own anty's no great beauty, and she's not over young, either." "av' she's no beauty, she's not downright ugly, like many a girl that gets a good husband; and av' she's not over young, she's not over old. she's not so much older than myself, after all. it's only because her own people have always made nothing of her; that's what has made everybody else do the same." "why, martin, i know she's ten years older than barry, and barry's older than you!" "one year; and anty's not full ten years older than him. besides, what's ten years between man and wife?" "not much, when it's on the right side. but it's the wrong side with you, martin!" "well, john, now, by virtue of your oath, as you chaps say, wouldn't you marry a woman twice her age, av' she'd half the money?--begad you would, and leap at it!" "perhaps i would. i'd a deal sooner have a woman eighty than forty. there'd be some chance then of having the money after the throuble was over! anty's neither ould enough nor young enough." "she's not forty, any way; and won't be yet for five years and more; and, as i hope for glory, john--though i know you won't believe me--i wouldn't marry her av' she'd all sim lynch's ill-gotten property, instead of only half, av' i wasn't really fond of her, and av' i didn't think i'd make her a good husband." "you didn't tell mother what you're afther, did you?" "sorrow a word! but she's so 'cute she partly guesses; and i think meg let slip something. the girls and anty are thick as thiefs since old sim died; though they couldn't be at the house much since barry came home, and anty daren't for her life come down to the shop." "did mother say anything about the schame?" "faix, not much; but what she did say, didn't show she'd much mind for it. since sim lynch tried to get toneroe from her, when father died, she'd never a good word for any of them. not but what she's always a civil look for anty, when she sees her." "there's not much fear she'll look black on the wife, when you bring the money home with her. but where'll you live, martin? the little shop at dunmore'll be no place for mrs kelly, when there's a lady of the name with £ a-year of her own." "'deed then, john, and that's what i don't know. may-be i'll build up the ould house at toneroe; some of the o'kellys themselves lived there, years ago." "i believe they did; but it was years ago, and very many years ago, too, since they lived there. why you'd have to pull it all down, before you began to build it up!" "may-be i'd build a new house, out and out. av' i got three new lifes in the laise, i'd do that; and the lord wouldn't be refusing me, av' i asked him." "bother the lord, martin; why you'd be asking anything of any lord, and you with £ a-year of your own? give up toneroe, and go and live at dunmore house at once." "what! along with barry--when i and anty's married? the biggest house in county galway wouldn't hould the three of us." "you don't think barry lynch'll stay at dunmore afther you've married his sisther?" "and why not?" "why not! don't you know barry thinks himself one of the raal gentry now? any ways, he wishes others to think so. why, he'd even himself to lord ballindine av' he could! didn't old sim send him to the same english school with the lord on purpose?--tho' little he got by it, by all accounts! and d'you think he'll remain in dunmore, to be brother-in-law to the son of the woman that keeps the little grocer's shop in the village?--not he! he'll soon be out of dunmore when he hears what his sister's afther doing, and you'll have dunmore house to yourselves then, av' you like it." "i'd sooner live at toneroe, and that's the truth; and i'd not give up the farm av' she'd double the money! but, john, faith, here's the judges at last. hark, to the boys screeching!" "they'd not screech that way for the judges, my boy. it's the traversers--that's dan and the rest of 'em. they're coming into court. thank god, they'll soon be at work now!" "and will they come through this way? faith, av' they do, they'll have as hard work to get in, as they'll have to get out by and by." "they'll not come this way--there's another way in for them: tho' they are traversers now, they didn't dare but let them go in at the same door as the judges themselves." "hurrah, dan! more power to you! three cheers for the traversers, and repale for ever! success to every mother's son of you, my darlings! you'll be free yet, in spite of john jason rigby and the rest of 'em! the prison isn't yet built that'd hould ye, nor won't be! long life to you, sheil--sure you're a right honourable repaler now, in spite of greenwich hospital and the board of trade! more power, gavan duffy; you're the boy that'll settle 'em at last! three cheers more for the lord mayor, god bless him! well, yer reverence, mr tierney!--never mind, they could come to no good when they'd be parsecuting the likes of you! bravo, tom--hurrah for tom steele!" such, and such like, were the exclamations which greeted the traversers, and their _cortège_, as they drew up to the front of the four courts. dan o'connell was in the lord mayor's state carriage, accompanied by that high official; and came up to stand his trial for conspiracy and sedition, in just such a manner as he might be presumed to proceed to take the chair at some popular municipal assembly; and this was just the thing qualified to please those who were on his own side, and mortify the feelings of the party so bitterly opposed to him. there was a bravado in it, and an apparent contempt, not of the law so much as of the existing authorities of the law, which was well qualified to have this double effect. and now the outer doors of the court were opened, and the crowd--at least as many as were able to effect an entrance--rushed in. martin and john kelly were among those nearest to the door, and, in reward of their long patience, got sufficiently into the body of the court to be in a position to see, when standing on tiptoe, the noses of three of the four judges, and the wigs of four of the numerous counsel employed. the court was so filled by those who had a place there by right, or influence enough to assume that they had so, that it was impossible to obtain a more favourable situation. but this of itself was a great deal--quite sufficient to justify martin in detailing to his connaught friends every particular of the whole trial. they would probably be able to hear everything; they could positively see three of the judges, and if those two big policemen, with high hats, could by any possibility be got to remove themselves, it was very probable that they would be able to see sheil's back, when he stood up. john soon began to show off his forensic knowledge. he gave a near guess at the names of the four counsel whose heads were visible, merely from the different shades and shapes of their wigs. then he particularised the inferior angels of that busy elysium. "that's ford--that's gartlan--that's peirce mahony," he exclaimed, as the different attorneys for the traversers, furiously busy with their huge bags, fidgetted about rapidly, or stood up in their seats, telegraphing others in different parts of the court. "there's old kemmis," as they caught a glimpse of the crown agent; "he's the boy that doctored the jury list. fancy, a jury chosen out of all dublin, and not one catholic! as if that could be fair!" and then he named the different judges. "look at that big-headed, pig-faced fellow on the right--that's pennefather! he's the blackest sheep of the lot--and the head of them! he's a thoroughbred tory, and as fit to be a judge as i am to be a general. that queer little fellow, with the long chin, he's burton--he's a hundred if he's a day--he was fifty when he was called, seventy when they benched him, and i'm sure he's a judge thirty years! but he's the sharpest chap of the whole twelve, and no end of a boy afther the girls. if you only saw him walking in his robes--i'm sure he's not three feet high! that next, with the skinny neck, he's crampton--he's one of father mathews lads, an out and out teetotaller, and he looks it; he's a desperate cross fellow, sometimes! the other one, you can't see, he's perrin. there, he's leaning over--you can just catch the side of his face--he's perrin. it's he'll acquit the traversers av' anything does--he's a fair fellow, is perrin, and not a red-hot thorough-going tory like the rest of 'em." here john was obliged to give over the instruction of his brother, being enjoined so to do by one of the heavy-hatted policemen in his front, who enforced his commands for silence, with a backward shove of his wooden truncheon, which came with rather unnecessary violence against the pit of john's stomach. the fear of being turned out made him for the nonce refrain from that vengeance of abuse which his education as a dublin jackeen well qualified him to inflict. but he put down the man's face in his retentive memory, and made up his mind to pay him off. and now the business of the day commenced. after some official delays and arrangements sheil arose, and began his speech in defence of john o'connell. it would be out of place here to give either his words or his arguments; besides, they have probably before this been read by all who would care to read them. when he commenced, his voice appeared, to those who were not accustomed to hear him, weak, piping, and most unfit for a popular orator; but this effect was soon lost in the elegance of his language and the energy of his manner; and, before he had been ten minutes on his legs, the disagreeable tone was forgotten, though it was sounding in the eager ears of every one in the court. his speech was certainly brilliant, effective, and eloquent; but it satisfied none that heard him, though it pleased all. it was neither a defence of the general conduct and politics of the party, such as o'connell himself attempted in his own case, nor did it contain a chain of legal arguments to prove that john o'connell, individually, had not been guilty of conspiracy, such as others of the counsel employed subsequently in favour of their own clients. sheil's speech was one of those numerous anomalies with which this singular trial was crowded; and which, together, showed the great difficulty of coming to a legal decision on a political question, in a criminal court. of this, the present day gave two specimens, which will not be forgotten; when a privy councillor, a member of a former government, whilst defending his client as a barrister, proposed in court a new form of legislation for ireland, equally distant from that adopted by government, and that sought to be established by him whom he was defending; and when the traverser on his trial rejected the defence of his counsel, and declared aloud in court, that he would not, by his silence, appear to agree in the suggestions then made. this spirit of turning the court into a political debating arena extended to all present. in spite of the vast efforts made by them all, only one of the barristers employed has added much to his legal reputation by the occasion. imputations were made, such as i presume were never before uttered by one lawyer against another in a court of law. an attorney-general sent a challenge from his very seat of office; and though that challenge was read in court, it was passed over by four judges with hardly a reprimand. if any seditious speech was ever made by o'connell, that which he made in his defence was especially so, and he was, without check, allowed to use his position as a traverser at the bar, as a rostrum from which to fulminate more thoroughly and publicly than ever, those doctrines for uttering which he was then being tried; and, to crown it all, even the silent dignity of the bench was forgotten, and the lawyers pleading against the crown were unhappily alluded to by the chief justice as the "gentlemen on the _other_ side." martin and john patiently and enduringly remained standing the whole day, till four o'clock; and then the latter had to effect his escape, in order to keep an appointment which he had made to meet lord ballindine. as they walked along the quays they both discussed the proceedings of the day, and both expressed themselves positively certain of the result of the trial, and of the complete triumph of o'connell and his party. to these pleasant certainties martin added his conviction, that repeal must soon follow so decided a victory, and that the hopes of ireland would be realised before the close of . john was neither so sanguine nor so enthusiastic; it was the battle, rather than the thing battled for, that was dear to him; the strife, rather than the result. he felt that it would be dull times in dublin, when they should have no usurping government to abuse, no saxon parliament to upbraid, no english laws to ridicule, and no established church to curse. the only thing which could reconcile him to immediate repeal, would be the probability of having then to contend for the election of an irish sovereign, and the possible dear delight which might follow, of ireland going to war with england, in a national and becoming manner. discussing these important measures, they reached the dublin brother's lodgings, and martin turned in to wash his face and hands, and put on clean boots, before he presented himself to his landlord and patron, the young lord ballindine. ii. the two heiresses francis john mountmorris o'kelly, lord viscount ballindine, was twenty-four years of age when he came into possession of the ballindine property, and succeeded to an irish peerage as the third viscount; and he is now twenty-six, at this time of o'connell's trial. the head of the family had for many years back been styled "the o'kelly", and had enjoyed much more local influence under that denomination than their descendants had possessed, since they had obtained a more substantial though not a more respected title. the o'kellys had possessed large tracts of not very good land, chiefly in county roscommon, but partly in mayo and galway. their property had extended from dunmore nearly to roscommon, and again on the other side to castlerea and ballyhaunis. but this had been in their palmy days, long, long ago. when the government, in consideration of past services, in the year , converted "the o'kelly" into viscount ballindine, the family property consisted of the greater portion of the land lying between the villages of dunmore and ballindine. their old residence, which the peer still kept up, was called kelly's court, and is situated in that corner of county roscommnon which runs up between mayo and galway. the first lord lived long enough to regret his change of title, and to lament the increased expenditure with which he had thought it necessary to accompany his more elevated rank. his son succeeded, and showed in his character much more of the new-fangled viscount than of the ancient o'kelly. his whole long life was passed in hovering about the english court. from the time of his father's death, he never once put his foot in ireland. he had been appointed, at different times from his youth upwards, page, gentleman in waiting, usher of the black rod, deputy groom of the stole, chief equerry to the princess royal, (which appointment only lasted till the princess was five years old), lord gold stick, keeper of the royal robes; till, at last, he had culminated for ten halcyon years in a lord of the bedchamber. in the latter portion of his life he had grown too old for this, and it was reported at ballindine, dunmore, and kelly's court,--with how much truth i don't know,--that, since her majesty's accession, he had been joined with the spinster sister of a scotch marquis, and an antiquated english countess, in the custody of the laces belonging to the queen dowager. this nobleman, publicly useful as his life had no doubt been, had done little for his own tenants, or his own property. on his father's death, he had succeeded to about three thousand a-year, and he left about one; and he would have spent or mortgaged this, had he not, on his marriage, put it beyond his own power to do so. it was not only by thriftless extravagance that he thus destroyed a property which, with care, and without extortion, would have doubled its value in the thirty-five years during which it was in his hands; but he had been afraid to come to ireland, and had been duped by his agent. when he came to the title, simeon lynch had been recommended to him as a fit person to manage his property, and look after his interests; and simeon had managed it well in that manner most conducive to the prosperity of the person he loved best in the world; and that was himself. when large tracts of land fell out of lease, sim had represented that tenants could not be found--that the land was not worth cultivating--that the country was in a state which prevented the possibility of letting; and, ultimately put himself into possession, with a lease for ever, at a rent varying from half a crown to five shillings an acre. the courtier lord had one son, of whom he made a soldier, but who never rose to a higher rank than that of captain. about a dozen years before the date of my story, the honourable captain o'kelly, after numerous quarrels with the right honourable lord of the bedchamber, had, at last, come to some family settlement with him; and, having obtained the power of managing the property himself, came over to live at his paternal residence of kelly's court. a very sorry kind of court he found it,--neglected, dirty, and out of repair. one of the first retainers whom he met was jack kelly, the family fool. jack was not such a fool as those who, of yore, were valued appendages to noble english establishments. he resembled them in nothing but his occasional wit. he was a dirty, barefooted, unshorn, ragged ruffian, who ate potatoes in the kitchen of the court, and had never done a day's work in his life. such as he was, however, he was presented to captain o'kelly, as "his honour the masther's fool." "so, you're my fool, jack, are ye?" said the captain. "faix, i war the lord's fool ance; but i'll no be anybody's fool but sim lynch's, now. i and the lord are both sim's fools now. not but i'm the first of the two, for i'd never be fool enough to give away all my land, av' my father'd been wise enough to lave me any." captain o'kelly soon found out the manner in which the agent had managed his father's affairs. simeon lynch was dismissed, and proceedings at common law were taken against him, to break such of the leases as were thought, by clever attorneys, to have the ghost of a flaw in them. money was borrowed from a dublin house, for the purpose of carrying on the suit, paying off debts, and making kelly's court habitable; and the estate was put into their hands. simeon lynch built himself a large staring house at dunmore, defended his leases, set up for a country gentleman on his own account, and sent his only son, barry, to eton,--merely because young o'kelly was also there, and he was determined to show, that he was as rich and ambitious as the lord's family, whom he had done so much to ruin. kelly's court was restored to such respectability as could ever belong to so ugly a place. it was a large red stone mansion, standing in a demesne of very poor ground, ungifted by nature with any beauty, and but little assisted by cultivation or improvement. a belt of bald-looking firs ran round the demesne inside the dilapidated wall; but this was hardly sufficient to relieve the barren aspect of the locality. fine trees there were none, and the race of o'kellys had never been great gardeners. captain o'kelly was a man of more practical sense, or of better education, than most of his family, and he did do a good deal to humanise the place. he planted, tilled, manured, and improved; he imported rose-trees and strawberry-plants, and civilised kelly's court a little. but his reign was not long. he died about five years after he had begun his career as a country gentleman, leaving a widow and two daughters in ireland; a son at school at eton; and an expensive lawsuit, with numerous ramifications, all unsettled. francis, the son, went to eton and oxford, was presented at court by his grandfather, and came hack to ireland at twenty-two, to idle away his time till the old lord should die. till this occurred, he could neither call himself the master of the place, nor touch the rents. in the meantime, the lawsuits were dropped, both parties having seriously injured their resources, without either of them obtaining any benefit. barry lynch was recalled from his english education, where he had not shown off to any great credit; and both he and his father were obliged to sit down prepared to make the best show they could on eight hundred pounds a-year, and to wage an underhand internecine war with the o'kellys. simeon and his son, however, did not live altogether alone. anastasia lynch was barry's sister, and older than him by about ten years. their mother had been a roman catholic, whereas sim was a protestant; and, in consequence, the daughter had been brought up in the mother's, and the son in the father's religion. when this mother died, simeon, no doubt out of respect to the memory of the departed, tried hard to induce his daughter to prove her religious zeal, and enter a nunnery; but this, anty, though in most things a docile creature, absolutely refused to do. her father advised, implored, and threatened; but in vain; and the poor girl became a great thorn in the side of both father and son. she had neither beauty, talent, nor attraction, to get her a husband; and her father was determined not to encumber his already diminished property with such a fortune as would make her on that ground acceptable to any respectable suitor. poor anty led a miserable life, associating neither with superiors nor inferiors, and her own position was not sufficiently declared to enable her to have any equals. she was slighted by her father and the servants, and bullied by her brother; and was only just enabled, by humble, unpresuming disposition, to carry on her tedious life from year to year without grumbling. in the meantime, the _ci-devant_ [ ] black rod, gold stick, royal equerry, and lord of the bedchamber, was called away from his robes and his finery, to give an account of the manner in which he had renounced the pomps and vanities of this wicked world; and frank became lord ballindine, with, as i have before said, an honourable mother, two sisters, a large red house, and a thousand a-year. he was not at all a man after the pattern of his grandfather, but he appeared as little likely to redeem the old family acres. he seemed to be a reviving chip of the old block of the o'kellys. during the two years he had been living at kelly's court as frank o'kelly, he had won the hearts of all the tenants--of all those who would have been tenants if the property had not been sold, and who still looked up to him as their "raal young masther"--and of the whole country round. the "thrue dhrop of the ould blood", was in his veins; and, whatever faults he might have, he wasn't likely to waste his time and his cash with furs, laces, and hangings. [footnote : ci-devant--(french) former, previous] this was a great comfort to the neighbourhood, which had learned heartily to despise the name of lord ballindine; and frank was encouraged in shooting, hunting, racing--in preparing to be a thorough irish gentleman, and in determining to make good the prophecies of his friends, that he would be, at last, one more "raal o'kelly to brighten the counthry." and if he could have continued to be frank o'kelly, or even "the o'kelly", he would probably have done well enough, for he was fond of his mother and sisters, and he might have continued to hunt, shoot, and farm on his remaining property without further encroaching on it. but the title was sure to be his ruin. when he felt himself to be a lord, he could not be content with the simple life of a country gentleman; or, at any rate, without taking the lead in the country. so, as soon as the old man was buried, he bought a pack of harriers, and despatched a couple of race-horses to the skilful hands of old jack igoe, the curragh trainer. frank was a very handsome fellow, full six feet high, with black hair, and jet-black silky whiskers, meeting under his chin;--the men said he dyed them, and the women declared he did not. i am inclined, myself, to think he must have done so, they were so very black. he had an eye like a hawk, round, bright, and bold; a mouth and chin almost too well formed for a man; and that kind of broad forehead which conveys rather the idea of a generous, kind, open-hearted disposition, than of a deep mind or a commanding intellect. frank was a very handsome fellow, and he knew it; and when he commenced so many ill-authorised expenses immediately on his grandfather's death, he consoled himself with the idea, that with his person and rank, he would soon be able, by some happy matrimonial speculation, to make up for what he wanted in wealth. and he had not been long his own master, before he met with the lady to whom he destined the honour of doing so. he had, however, not properly considered his own disposition, when he determined upon looking out for great wealth; and on disregarding other qualifications in his bride, so that he obtained that in sufficient quantity. he absolutely fell in love with fanny wyndham, though her twenty thousand pounds was felt by him to be hardly enough to excuse him in doing so,--certainly not enough to make his doing so an accomplishment of his prudential resolutions. what would twenty thousand pounds do towards clearing the o'kelly property, and establishing himself in a manner and style fitting for a lord ballindine! however, he did propose to her, was accepted, and the match, after many difficulties, was acceded to by the lady's guardian, the earl of cashel. it was stipulated, however, that the marriage should not take place till the lady was of age; and at the time of the bargain, she wanted twelve months of that period of universal discretion. lord cashel had added, in his prosy, sensible, aristocratic lecture on the subject to lord ballindine, that he trusted that, during the interval, considering their united limited income, his lordship would see the wisdom of giving up his hounds, or at any rate of withdrawing from the turf. frank pooh-poohed at the hounds, said that horses cost nothing in connaught, and dogs less, and that he could not well do there without them; but promised to turn in his mind what lord cashel had said about the turf; and, at last, went so far as to say that when a good opportunity offered of backing out, he would part with finn m'coul and granuell--as the two nags at igoe's were patriotically denominated. they continued, however, appearing in the curragh lists in lord ballindine's name, as a part of igoe's string; and running for queen's whips, wellingtons and madrids, sometimes with good and sometimes with indifferent success. while their noble owner, when staying at grey abbey, lord cashel's magnificent seat near kilcullen, spent too much of his time (at least so thought the earl and fanny wyndham) in seeing them get their gallops, and in lecturing the grooms, and being lectured by mr igoe. nothing more, however, could be done; and it was trusted that when the day of the wedding should come, he would be found minus the animals. what, however, was lord cashel's surprise, when, after an absence of two months from grey abbey, lord ballindine declared, in the earl's presence, with an air of ill-assumed carelessness, that he had been elected one of the stewards of the curragh, in the room of walter blake, esq., who had retired in rotation from that honourable office! the next morning the earl's chagrin was woefully increased by his hearing that that very valuable and promising derby colt, brien boru, now two years old, by sir hercules out of eloisa, had been added to his lordship's lot. lord cashel felt that he could not interfere, further than by remarking that it appeared his young friend was determined to leave the turf with éclat; and fanny wyndham could only be silent and reserved for one evening. this occurred about four months before the commencement of my tale, and about five before the period fixed for the marriage; but, at the time at which lord ballindine will be introduced in person to the reader, he had certainly made no improvement in his manner of going on. he had, during this period, received from lord cashel a letter intimating to him that his lordship thought some further postponement advisable; that it was as well not to fix any day; and that, though his lordship would always be welcome at grey abbey, when his personal attendance was not required at the curragh, it was better that no correspondence by letter should at present be carried on between him and miss wyndham; and that miss wyndham herself perfectly agreed in the propriety of these suggestions. now grey abbey was only about eight miles distant from the curragh, and lord ballindine had at one time been in the habit of staying at his friend's mansion, during the period of his attendance at the race-course; but since lord cashel had shown an entire absence of interest in the doings of finn m'coul, and fanny had ceased to ask after granuell's cough, he had discontinued doing so, and had spent much of his time at his friend walter blake's residence at the curragh. now, handicap lodge offered much more dangerous quarters for him than did grey abbey. in the meantime, his friends in connaught were delighted at the prospect of his bringing home a bride. fanny's twenty thousand were magnified to fifty, and the capabilities even of fifty were greatly exaggerated; besides, the connection was so good a one, so exactly the thing for the o'kellys! lord cashel was one of the first resident noblemen in ireland, a representative peer, a wealthy man, and possessed of great influence; not unlikely to be a cabinet minister if the whigs came in, and able to shower down into connaught a degree of patronage, such as had never yet warmed that poor unfriended region. and fanny wyndham was not only his lordship's ward, but his favourite niece also! the match was, in every way, a good one, and greatly pleasing to all the kellys, whether with an o or without, for "shure they were all the one family." old simeon lynch and his son barry did not participate in the general joy. they had calculated that their neighbour was on the high road to ruin, and that he would soon have nothing but his coronet left. they could not, therefore, bear the idea of his making so eligible a match. they had, moreover, had domestic dissensions to disturb the peace of dunmore house. simeon had insisted on barry's taking a farm into his own hands, and looking after it. barry had declared his inability to do so, and had nearly petrified the old man by expressing a wish to go to paris. then, barry's debts had showered in, and simeon had pledged himself not to pay them. simeon had threatened to disinherit barry; and barry had called his father a d----d obstinate old fool. these quarrels had got to the ears of the neighbours, and it was being calculated that, in the end, barry would get the best of the battle; when, one morning, the war was brought to an end by a fit of apoplexy, and the old man was found dead in his chair. and then a terrible blow fell upon the son; for a recent will was found in the old man's desk, dividing his property equally, and without any other specification, between barry and anty. this was a dreadful blow to barry. he consulted with his friend molloy, the attorney of tuam, as to the validity of the document and the power of breaking it; but in vain. it was properly attested, though drawn up in the old man's own hand-writing; and his sister, whom he looked upon but as little better than a head main-servant, had not only an equal right to all the property, but was equally mistress of the house, the money at the bank, the wine in the cellar, and the very horses in the stable. this was a hard blow; but barry was obliged to bear it. at first, he showed his ill-humour plainly enough in his treatment of his sister; but he soon saw that this was folly, and that, though her quiet disposition prevented her from resenting it, such conduct would drive her to marry some needy man. then he began, with an ill grace, to try what coaxing would do. he kept, however, a sharp watch on all her actions; and on once hearing that, in his absence, the two kelly girls from the hotel had been seen walking with her, he gave her a long lecture on what was due to her own dignity, and the memory of her departed parents. he made many overtures to her as to the division of the property; but, easy and humble as anty was, she was careful enough to put her name to nothing that could injure her rights. they had divided the money at the banker's, and she had once rather startled barry by asking him for his moiety towards paying the butcher's bill; and his dismay was completed shortly afterwards by being informed, by a steady old gentleman in dunmore, whom he did not like a bit too well, that he had been appointed by miss lynch to manage her business and receive her rents. as soon as it could be decently done, after his father's burial, barry took himself off to dublin, to consult his friends there as to what he should do; but he soon returned, determined to put a bold face on it, and come to some understanding with his sister. he first proposed to her to go and live in dublin, but she said she preferred dunmore. he then talked of selling the house, and to this she agreed. he next tried to borrow money for the payment of his debts; on which she referred him to the steady old man. though apparently docile and obedient, she would not put herself in his hands, nor would her agent allow him to take any unfair advantage of her. whilst this was going on, our friend martin kelly had set his eye upon the prize, and, by means of his sister's intimacy with anty, and his own good looks, had succeeded in obtaining from her half a promise to become his wife. anty had but little innate respect for gentry; and, though she feared her brother's displeasure, she felt no degradation at the idea of uniting herself to a man in martin kelly's rank. she could not, however, be brought to tell her brother openly, and declare her determination; and martin had, at length, come to the conclusion that he must carry her off, before delay and unforeseen changes might either alter her mind, or enable her brother to entice her out of the country. thus matters stood at dunmore when martin kelly started for dublin, and at the time when he was about to wait on his patron at morrison's hotel. both martin and lord ballindine (and they were related in some distant degree, at least so always said the kellys, and i never knew that the o'kellys denied it)--both the young men were, at the time, anxious to get married, and both with the same somewhat mercenary views; and i have fatigued the reader with the long history of past affairs, in order to imbue him, if possible, with some interest in the ways and means which they both adopted to accomplish their objects. iii. morrison's hotel at about five o'clock on the evening of the day of sheil's speech, lord ballindine and his friend, walter blake, were lounging on different sofas in a room at morrison's hotel, before they went up to dress for dinner. walter blake was an effeminate-looking, slight-made man, about thirty or thirty-three years of age; good looking, and gentlemanlike, but presenting quite a contrast in his appearance to his friend lord ballindine. he had a cold quiet grey eye, and a thin lip; and, though he was in reality a much cleverer, he was a much less engaging man. yet blake could be very amusing; but he rather laughed at people than with them, and when there were more than two in company, he would usually be found making a butt of one. nevertheless, his society was greatly sought after. on matters connected with racing, his word was infallible. he rode boldly, and always rode good horses; and, though he was anything but rich, he managed to keep up a comfortable snuggery at the curragh, and to drink the very best claret that dublin could procure. walter blake was a finished gambler, and thus it was, that with about six hundred a year, he managed to live on equal terms with the richest around him. his father, laurence blake of castleblakeney, in county galway, was a very embarrassed man, of good property, strictly entailed, and, when walter came of age, he and his father, who could never be happy in the same house, though possessing in most things similar tastes, had made such a disposition of the estate, as gave the father a clear though narrowed income, and enabled the son at once to start into the world, without waiting for his father's death; though, by so doing, he greatly lessened the property which he must otherwise have inherited. blake was a thorough gambler, and knew well how to make the most of the numerous chances which the turf afforded him. he had a large stud of horses, to the training and working of which he attended almost as closely as the person whom he paid for doing so. but it was in the betting-ring that he was most formidable. it was said, in kildare street, that no one at tattersall's could beat him at a book. he had latterly been trying a wider field than the curragh supplied him and had, on one or two occasions, run a horse in england with such success, as had placed him, at any rate, quite at the top of the irish sporting tree. he was commonly called "dot blake", in consequence of his having told one of his friends that the cause of his, the friend's, losing so much money on the turf, was, that he did not mind "the dot and carry on" part of the business; meaning thereby, that he did not attend to the necessary calculations. for a short time after giving this piece of friendly caution, he had been nick-named, "dot and carry on"; but that was too long to last, and he had now for some years been known to every sporting man in ireland as "dot" blake. this man was at present lord ballindine's most intimate friend, and he could hardly have selected a more dangerous one. they were now going down together to handicap lodge, though there was nothing to be done in the way of racing for months to come. yet blake knew his business too well to suppose that his presence was necessary only when the horses were running; and he easily persuaded his friend that it was equally important that he should go and see that it was all right with the derby colt. they were talking almost in the dark, on these all-absorbing topics, when the waiter knocked at the door and informed them that a young man named kelly wished to see lord ballindine. "show him up," said frank. "a tenant of mine, dot; one of the respectable few of that cattle, indeed, almost the only one that i've got; a sort of subagent, and a fifteenth cousin, to boot, i believe. i am going to put him to the best use i know for such respectable fellows, and that is, to get him to borrow money for me." "and he'll charge you twice as much for it, and make three times as much bother about it, as the fellows in the next street who have your title-deeds. when i want lawyer's business done, i go to a lawyer; and when i want to borrow money, i go to my own man of business; he makes it his business to find money, and he daren't rob me more than is decent, fitting, and customary, because he has a character to lose." "those fellows at guinness's make such a fuss about everything; and i don't put my nose into that little back room, but what every word i say, by some means or other, finds its way down to grey abbey." "well, frank, you know your own affairs best; but i don't think you'll make money by being afraid of your agent; or your wife's guardian, if she is to be your wife." "afraid, man? i'm as much afraid of lord cashel as you are. i don't think i've shown myself much afraid; but i don't choose to make him my guardian, just when he's ceasing to be hers; nor do i wish, just now, to break with grey abbey altogether." "do you mean to go over there from the curragh next week?" "i don't think i shall. they don't like me a bit too well, when i've the smell of the stables on me." "there it is, again, frank! what is it to you what lord cashel likes? if you wish to see miss wyndham, and if the heavy-pated old don doesn't mean to close his doors against you, what business has he to inquire where you came from? i suppose he doesn't like me a bit too well; but you're not weak enough to be afraid to say that you've been at handicap lodge?" "the truth is, dot, i don't think i'll go to grey abbey at all, till fanny's of age. she only wants a month of it now; and then i can meet lord cashel in a business way, as one man should meet another." "i can't for the life of me," said blake, "make out what it is that has set that old fellow so strong against horses. he won the oaks twice himself, and that not so very long ago; and his own son, kilcullen, is deeper a good deal on the turf than i am, and, by a long chalk less likely to pull through, as i take it. but here's the connaught man on the stairs,--i could swear to galway by the tread of his foot!"--and martin knocked at the door, and walked in. "well, kelly," said lord ballindine, "how does dublin agree with you?" and, "i hope i see your lordship well, my lord?" said martin. "how are they all at dunmore and kelly's court?" "why thin, they're all well, my lord, except sim lynch--and he's dead. but your lordship'll have heard that." "what, old simeon lynch dead!" said blake, "well then, there's promotion. peter mahon, that was the agent at castleblakeney, is now the biggest rogue alive in connaught." "don't swear to that," said lord ballindine. "there's some of sim's breed still left at dunmore. it wouldn't be easy to beat barry, would it, kelly?" "why then, i don't know; i wouldn't like to be saying against the gentleman's friend that he spoke of; and doubtless his honour knows him well, or he wouldn't say so much of him." "indeed i do," said blake. "i never give a man a good character till i know he deserves it. well, frank, i'll go and dress, and leave you and mr. kelly to your business," and he left the room. "i'm sorry to hear you speak so hard agin mr. barry, my lord," began martin. "may-be he mayn't be so bad. not but that he's a cross-grained piece of timber to dale with." "and why should you be sorry i'd speak against him? there's not more friendship, i suppose, between you and barry lynch now, than there used to be?" "why, not exactly frindship, my lord; but i've my rasons why i'd wish you not to belittle the lynches. your lordship might forgive them all, now the old man's dead." "forgive them!--indeed i can, and easily. i don't know i ever did any of them an injury, except when i thrashed barry at eton, for calling himself the son of a gentleman. but what makes you stick up for them? you're not going to marry the daughter, are you?" martin blushed up to his forehead as his landlord thus hit the nail on the head; but, as it was dark, his blushes couldn't be seen. so, after dangling his hat about for a minute, and standing first on one foot, and then on the other, he took courage, and answered. "well, mr. frank, that is, your lordship, i mane--i b'lieve i might do worse." "body and soul, man!" exclaimed the other, jumping from his recumbent position on the sofa, "you don't mean to tell me you're going to marry anty lynch?" "in course not," answered martin; "av' your lordship objects." "object, man!--how the devil can i object? why, she's six hundred a year, hasn't she?" "about four, my lord, i think's nearest the mark." "four hundred a year! and i don't suppose you owe a penny in the world!" "not much unless the last gale [ ] to your lordship and we never pay that till next may." [footnote : gale--rent payment. gale day was the day on which rent was due.] "and so you're going to marry anty lynch!" again repeated frank, as though he couldn't bring himself to realise the idea; "and now, martin, tell me all about it,--how the devil you managed it--when it's to come off--and how you and barry mean to hit it off together when you're brothers. i suppose i'll lose a good tenant any way?" "not av' i'm a good one, you won't, with my consent, my lord." "ah! but it'll be anty's consent, now, you know. she mayn't like toneroe. but tell me all about it. what put it into your head?" "why, my lord, you run away so fast; one can't tell you anything. i didn't say i was going to marry her--at laist, not for certain;--i only said i might do worse." "well then; are you going to marry her, or rather, is she going to marry you, or is she not?" "why, i don't know. i'll tell your lordship just how it is. you know when old sim died, my lord?" "of course i do. why, i was at kelly's court at the time." "so you were, my lord; i was forgetting. but you went away again immediately, and didn't hear how barry tried to come round his sisther, when he heard how the will went; and how he tried to break the will and to chouse her out of the money." "why, this is the very man you wouldn't let me call a rogue, a minute or two ago!" "ah, my lord! that was just before sthrangers; besides, it's no use calling one's own people bad names. not that he belongs to me yet, and may-be never will. but, between you and i, he is a rogue, and his father's son every inch of him." "well, martin, i'll remember. i'll not abuse him when he's your brother-in-law. but how did you get round the sister?--that's the question." "well, my lord, i'll tell you. you know there was always a kind of frindship between anty and the girls at home, and they set her up to going to old moylan--he that receives the rents on young barron's property, away at strype. moylan's uncle to flaherty, that married mother's sister. well, she went to him--he's a kind of office at dunmore, my lord." "oh, i know him and his office! he knows the value of a name at the back of a bit of paper, as well as any one." "may-be he does, my lord; but he's an honest old fellow, is moylan, and manages a little for mother." "oh, of course he's honest, martin, because he belongs to you. you know barry's to be an honest chap, then." "and that's what he niver will be the longest day he lives! but, however, moylan got her to sign all the papers; and, when barry was out, he went and took an inventhory to the house, and made out everything square and right, and you may be sure barry'd have to get up very 'arly before he'd come round him. well, after a little, the ould chap came to me one morning, and asked me all manner of questions--whether i knew anty lynch? whether we didn't used to be great friends? and a lot more. i never minded him much; for though i and anty used to speak, and she'd dhrank tay on the sly with us two or three times before her father's death, i'd never thought much about her." "nor wouldn't now, martin, eh? if it wasn't for the old man's will." "in course i wouldn't, my lord. i won't be denying it. but, on the other hand, i wouldn't marry her now for all her money, av' i didn't mane to trate her well. well, my lord, after beating about the bush for a long time, the ould thief popped it out, and told me that he thought anty'd be all the betther for a husband; and that, av' i was wanting a wife, he b'lieved i might suit myself now. well, i thought of it a little, and tould him i'd take the hint. the next day he comes to me again, all the way down to toneroe, where i was walking the big grass-field by myself, and began saying that, as he was anty's agent, of course he wouldn't see her wronged. 'quite right, mr. moylan,' says i; 'and, as i mane to be her husband, i won't see her wronged neither.' 'ah! but,' says he, 'i mane that i must see her property properly settled.' 'why not?' says i, 'and isn't the best way for her to marry? and then, you know, no one can schame her out of it. there's lots of them schamers about now,' says i. 'that's thrue for you,' says he, 'and they're not far to look for,'--and that was thrue, too, my lord, for he and i were both schaming about poor anty's money at that moment. 'well,' says he, afther walking on a little, quite quiet, 'av' you war to marry her.'--'oh, i've made up my mind about that, mr. moylan,' says i. 'well, av' it should come to pass that you do marry her--of course you'd expect to have the money settled on herself?' 'in course i would, when i die,' says i. 'no, but,' says he, 'at once: wouldn't it be enough for you to have a warm roof over your head, and a leg of mutton on the table every day, and no work to do for it?' and so, my lord, it came out that the money was to be settled on herself, and that he was to be her agent." "well, martin, after that, i think you needn't go to sim lynch, or barry, for the biggest rogues in connaught--to be settling the poor girl's money between you that way!" "well, but listen, my lord. i gave in to the ould man; that is, i made no objection to his schame. but i was determined, av' i ever did marry anty lynch, that i would be agent and owner too, myself, as long as i lived; though in course it was but right that they should settle it so that av' i died first, the poor crature shouldn't be out of her money. but i didn't let on to him about all that; for, av' he was angered, the ould fool might perhaps spoil the game; and i knew av' anty married me at all, it'd be for liking; and av' iver i got on the soft side of her, i'd soon be able to manage matthers as i plazed, and ould moylan'd soon find his best game'd be to go asy." "upon my soul, martin, i think you seem to have been the sharpest rogue of the two! is there an honest man in connaught at all, i wonder?" "i can't say rightly, just at present, my lord; but there'll be two, plaze god, when i and your lordship are there." "thank ye, kelly, for the compliment, and especially for the good company. but let me hear how on earth you ever got face enough to go up and ask anty lynch to marry you." "oh!--a little soft sawther did it! i wasn't long in putting my com'ether on her when i once began. well, my lord, from that day out--from afther moylan's visit, you know--i began really to think of it. i'm sure the ould robber meant to have asked for a wapping sum of money down, for his good will in the bargain; but when he saw me he got afeard." "he was another honest man, just now!" "only among sthrangers, my lord. i b'lieve he's a far-off cousin of your own, and i wouldn't like to spake ill of the blood." "god forbid! but go on, kelly." "well, so, from that out, i began to think of it in arnest. the lord forgive me! but my first thoughts was how i'd like to pull down barry lynch; and my second that i'd not demane myself by marrying the sisther of such an out-and-out ruffian, and that it wouldn't become me to live on the money that'd been got by chating your lordship's grandfather." "my lordship's grandfather ought to have looked after that himself. if those are all your scruples they needn't stick in your throat much." "i said as much as that to myself, too. so i soon went to work. i was rather shy about it at first; but the girls helped me. they put it into her head, i think, before i mentioned it at all. however, by degrees, i asked her plump, whether she'd any mind to be mrs. kelly? and, though she didn't say 'yes,' she didn't say 'no.'" "but how the devil, man, did you manage to get at her? i'm told barry watches her like a dragon, ever since he read his father's will." "he couldn't watch her so close, but what she could make her way down to mother's shop now and again. or, for the matter of that, but what i could make my way up to the house." "that's true, for what need she mind barry, now? she may marry whom she pleases, and needn't tell him, unless she likes, until the priest has his book ready." "ah, my lord! but there's the rub. she is afraid of barry; and though she didn't say so, she won't agree to tell him, or to let me tell him, or just to let the priest walk into the house without telling him. she's fond of barry, though, for the life of me, i can't see what there is in him for anybody to be fond of. he and his father led her the divil's own life mewed up there, because she wouldn't be a nun. but still is both fond and afraid of him; and, though i don't think she'll marry anybody else--at laist not yet awhile, i don't think she'll ever get courage to marry me--at any rate, not in the ordinary way." "why then, martin, you must do something extraordinary, i suppose." "that's just it, my lord; and what i wanted was, to ask your lordship's advice and sanction, like." "sanction! why i shouldn't think you'd want anybody's sanction for marrying a wife with four hundred a-year. but, if that's anything to you, i can assure you i approve of it." "thank you, my lord. that's kind." "to tell the truth," continued lord ballindine, "i've a little of your own first feeling. i'd be glad of it, if it were only for the rise it would take out of my schoolfellow, barry. not but that i think you're a deal too good to be his brother-in-law. and you know, kelly, or ought to know, that i'd be heartily glad of anything for your own welfare. so, i'd advise you to hammer away while the iron's hot, as the saying is." "that's just what i'm coming to. what'd your lordship advise me to do?" "advise you? why, you must know best yourself how the matter stands. talk her over, and make her tell barry." "divil a tell, my lord, in her. she wouldn't do it in a month of sundays." "then do you tell him, at once. i suppose you're not afraid of him?" "she'd niver come to the scratch, av' i did. he'd bully the life out of her, or get her out of the counthry some way." "then wait till his back's turned for a month or so. when he's out, let the priest walk in, and do the matter quietly that way." "well, i thought of that myself, my lord; but he's as wary as a weazel, and i'm afeard he smells something in the wind. there's that blackguard moylan, too, he'd be telling barry--and would, when he came to find things weren't to be settled as he intended." "then you must carry her off, and marry her up here, or in galway or down in connemara, or over at liverpool, or any where you please." "now you've hit it, my lord. that's just what i'm thinking myself. unless i take her off gretna green fashion, i'll never get her." "then why do you want my advice, if you've made up your mind to that? i think you're quite right; and what's more, i think you ought to lose no time in doing it. will she go, do you think?" "why, with a little talking, i think she will." "then what are you losing your time for, man? hurry down, and off with her! i think dublin's probably your best ground." "then you think, my lord, i'd betther do it at once?" "of course, i do! what is there to delay you?" "why, you see, my lord, the poor girl's as good as got no friends, and i wouldn't like it to be thought in the counthry, i'd taken her at a disadvantage. it's thrue enough in one way, i'm marrying her for the money; that is, in course, i wouldn't marry her without it. and i tould her, out open, before her face, and before the girls, that, av' she'd ten times as much, i wouldn't marry her unless i was to be masther, as long as i lived, of everything in my own house, like another man; and i think she liked me the betther for it. but, for all that, i wouldn't like to catch her up without having something fair done by the property." "the lawyers, martin, can manage that, afterwards. when she's once mrs kelly, you can do what you like about the fortune." "that's thrue, my lord. but i wouldn't like the bad name i'd get through the counthry av' i whisked her off without letting her settle anything. they'd be saying i robbed her, whether i did or no: and when a thing's once said, it's difficult to unsay it. the like of me, my lord, can't do things like you noblemen and gentry. besides, mother'd never forgive me. they think, down there, that poor anty's simple like; tho' she's cute enough, av' they knew her. i wouldn't, for all the money, wish it should be said that martin kelly ran off with a fool, and robbed her. barry 'd be making her out a dale more simple than she is; and, altogether, my lord, i wouldn't like it." "well, martin, perhaps you're right. at any rate you're on the right side. what is it then you think of doing?" "why, i was thinking, my lord, av' i could get some lawyer here to draw up a deed, just settling all anty's property on herself when i die, and on her children, av' she has any,--so that i couldn't spend it you know; she could sign it, and so could i, before we started; and then i'd feel she'd been traited as well as tho' she'd all the friends in connaught to her back." "and a great deal better, probably. well, martin, i'm no lawyer, but i should think there'd not be much difficulty about that. any attorney could do it." "but i'd look so quare, my lord, walking into a sthranger's room and explaining what i wanted--all about the running away and everything. to be sure there's my brother john's people; they're attorneys; but it's about robberies, and hanging, and such things they're most engaged; and i was thinking, av' your lordship wouldn't think it too much throuble to give me a line to your own people; or, may-be, you'd say a word to them explaining what i want. it'd be the greatest favour in life." "i'll tell you what i'll do, kelly. i'll go with you, to-morrow, to mr blake's lawyers--that's my friend that was sitting here--and i've no doubt we'll get the matter settled. the guinnesses, you know, do all my business, and they're not lawyers." "long life to your lordship, and that's just like yourself! i knew you'd stick by me. and shall i call on you to-morrow, my lord? and at what time?" "wait! here's mr blake. i'll ask him, and you might as well meet me there. grey and forrest's the name; it's in clare street, i think." here mr blake again entered the room. "what!" said he; "isn't your business over yet, ballindine? i suppose i'm _de trop_ then. only mind, dinner's ordered for half past six, and it's that now, and you're not dressed yet!" "you're not _de trop_, and i was just wanting you. we're all friends here, kelly, you know; and you needn't mind my telling mr blake. here's this fellow going to elope with an heiress from connaught, and he wants a decently honest lawyer first." "i should have thought," said blake, "that an indecently dishonest clergyman would have suited him better under those circumstances." "may-be he'll want that, too, and i've no doubt you can recommend one. but at present he wants a lawyer; and, as i have none of my own, i think forrest would serve his turn." "i've always found mr forrest ready to do anything in the way of his profession--for money." "no, but--he'd draw up a deed, wouldn't he, blake? it's a sort of a marriage settlement." "oh, he's quite at home at that work! he drew up five, for my five sisters, and thereby ruined my father's property, and my prospects." "well, he'd see me to-morrow, wouldn't he?" said lord ballindine. "of course he would. but mind, we're to be off early. we ought to be at the curragh, by three." "i suppose i could see him at ten?" said his lordship. it was then settled that blake should write a line to the lawyer, informing him that lord ballindine wished to see him, at his office, at ten o'clock the next morning; it was also agreed that martin should meet him there at that hour; and kelly took his leave, much relieved on the subject nearest his heart. "well, frank," said blake, as soon as the door was closed, "and have you got the money you wanted?" "indeed i've not, then." "and why not? if your protégé is going to elope with an heiress, he ought to have money at command." "and so he will, and it'll be a great temptation to me to know where i can get it so easily. but he was telling me all about this woman before i thought of my own concerns--and i didn't like to be talking to him of what i wanted myself, when he'd been asking a favour of me. it would be too much like looking for payment." "there, you're wrong; fair barter is the truest and honestest system, all the world over.--'ca me, ca thee,' as the scotch call it, is the best system to go by. i never do, or ask, _a favour_; that is, for whatever i do, i expect a return; and for whatever i get, i intend to make one." "i'll get the money from guinness. after all, that'll be the best, and as you say, the cheapest." "there you're right. his business is to lend money, and he'll lend it you as long as you've means to repay it; and i'm sure no connaught man will do more--that is, if i know them." "i suppose he will, but heaven only knows how long that'll be!" and the young lord threw himself back on the sofa, as if he thought a little meditation would do him good. however, very little seemed to do for him, for he soon roused himself, and said, "i wonder how the devil, dot, you do without borrowing? my income's larger than yours, bad as it is; i've only three horses in training, and you've, i suppose, above a dozen; and, take the year through, i don't entertain half the fellows at kelly's court that you do at handicap lodge; and yet, i never hear of your borrowing money." "there's many reasons for that. in the first place, i haven't an estate; in the second, i haven't a mother; in the third, i haven't a pack of hounds; in the fourth, i haven't a title; and, in the fifth, no one would lend me money, if i asked it." "as for the estate, it's devilish little i spend on it; as for my mother, she has her own jointure; as for the hounds, they eat my own potatoes; and as for the title, i don't support it. but i haven't your luck, dot. you'd never want for money, though the mint broke." "very likely i mayn't when it does; but i'm likely to be poor enough till that happy accident occurs. but, as far as luck goes, you've had more than me; you won nearly as much, in stakes, as i did, last autumn, and your stable expenses weren't much above a quarter what mine were. but, the truth is, i manage better; i know where my money goes to, and you don't; i work hard, and you don't; i spend my money on what's necessary to my style of living, you spend yours on what's not necessary. what the deuce have the fellows in mayo and roscommon done for you, that you should mount two or three rascals, twice a-week, to show them sport, when you're not there yourself two months in the season? i suppose you don't keep the horses and men for nothing, if you do the dogs; and i much doubt whether they're not the dearest part of the bargain." "of course they cost something; but it's the only thing i can do for the country; and there were always hounds at kelly's court till my grandfather got the property, and they looked upon him as no better than an old woman, because he gave them up. besides, i suppose i shall be living at kelly's court soon, altogether, and i could never get on then without hounds. it's bad enough, as it is." "i haven't a doubt in the world it's bad enough. i know what castleblakeney is. but i doubt your living there. i've no doubt you'll try; that is, if you _do_ marry miss wyndham; but she'll be sick of it in three months, and you in six, and you'll go and live at paris, florence, or naples, and there'll be another end of the o'kellys, for thirty or forty years, as far as ireland's concerned. you'll never do for a poor country lord; you're not sufficiently proud, or stingy. you'd do very well as a country gentleman, and you'd make a decent nobleman with such a fortune as lord cashel's. but your game, if you lived on your own property, would be a very difficult one, and one for which you've neither tact nor temper." "well, i hope i'll never live out of ireland. though i mayn't have tact to make one thousand go as far as five, i've sense enough to see that a poor absentee landlord is a great curse to his country; and that's what i hope i never shall be." "my dear lord ballindine; all poor men are curses, to themselves or some one else." "a poor absentee's the worst of all. he leaves nothing behind, and can leave nothing. he wants all he has for himself; and, if he doesn't give his neighbours the profit which must arise somewhere, from his own consumption, he can give nothing. a rich man can afford to leave three or four thousand a year behind him, in the way of wages for labour." "my gracious, frank! you should put all that in a pamphlet, and not inflict it on a poor devil waiting for his dinner. at present, give your profit to morrison, and come and consume some mock-turtle; and i'll tell you what sheil's going to do for us all." lord ballindine did as he was bid, and left the room to prepare for dinner. by the time that he had eaten his soup, and drank a glass of wine, he had got rid of the fit of blue devils which the thoughts of his poverty had brought on, and he spent the rest of the evening comfortably enough, listening to his friend's comical version of shell's speech; receiving instruction from that great master of the art as to the manner in which he should treat his derby colt, and being flattered into the belief that he would be a prominent favourite for that great race. when they had finished their wine, they sauntered into the kildare street club. blake was soon busy with his little betting-book, and lord ballindine followed his example. brien boru was, before long, in great demand. blake took fifty to one, and then talked the horse up till he ended by giving twenty-five. he was soon ranked the first of the irish lot; and the success of the hibernians had made them very sanguine of late. lord ballindine found himself the centre of a little sporting circle, as being the man with the crack nag of the day. he was talked of, courted, and appealed to; and, i regret to say, that before he left the club he was again nearly forgetting kelly's court and miss wyndham, had altogether got rid of his patriotic notions as to the propriety of living on his own estate, had determined forthwith to send brien boru over to scott's english stables; and then, went to bed, and dreamed that he was a winner of the derby, and was preparing for the glories of newmarket with five or six thousand pounds in his pocket. martin kelly dined with his brother at jude's, and spent his evening equally unreasonably; at least, it may be supposed so from the fact that at one o'clock in the morning he was to be seen standing on one of the tables at burton bindon's oyster-house, with a pewter pot, full of porter, in his hand, and insisting that every one in the room should drink the health of anty lynch, whom, on that occasion, he swore to be the prettiest and the youngest girl in connaught. it was lucky he was so intoxicated, that no one could understand him; and that his hearers were so drunk that they could understand nothing; as, otherwise, the publicity of his admiration might have had the effect of preventing the accomplishment of his design. he managed, however, to meet his patron the next morning at the lawyer's, though his eyes were very red, and his cheeks pale; and, after being there for some half hour, left the office, with the assurance that, whenever he and the lady might please to call there, they should find a deed prepared for their signature, which would adjust the property in the manner required. that afternoon lord ballindine left dublin, with his friend, to make instant arrangements for the exportation of brien boru; and, at two o'clock the next day, martin left, by the boat, for ballinaslie, having evinced his patriotism by paying a year's subscription in advance to the "nation" newspaper, and with his mind fully made up to bring anty away to dublin with as little delay as possible. iv. the dunmore inn anty lynch was not the prettiest, or the youngest girl in connaught; nor would martin have affirmed her to be so, unless he had been very much inebriated indeed. however young she might have been once, she was never pretty; but, in all ireland, there was not a more single-hearted, simple-minded young woman. i do not use the word simple as foolish; for, though uneducated, she was not foolish. but she was unaffected, honest, humble, and true, entertaining a very lowly idea of her own value, and unelated by her newly acquired wealth. she had been so little thought of all her life by others, that she had never learned to think much of herself; she had had but few acquaintances, and no friends, and had spent her life, hitherto, so quietly and silently, that her apparent apathy was attributable rather to want of subjects of excitement, than to any sluggishness of disposition. her mother had died early; and, since then, the only case in which anty had been called on to exercise her own judgment, was in refusing to comply with her father's wish that she should become a nun. on this subject, though often pressed, she had remained positive, always pleading that she felt no call to the sacred duties which would be required, and innocently assuring her father, that, if allowed to remain at home, she would cause him no trouble, and but little expense. so she had remained at home, and had inured herself to bear without grumbling, or thinking that she had cause for grumbling, the petulance of her father, and the more cruel harshness and ill-humour of her brother. in all the family schemes of aggrandisement she had been set aside, and barry had been intended by the father as the scion on whom all the family honours were to fall. his education had been expensive, his allowance liberal, and his whims permitted; while anty was never better dressed than a decent english servant, and had been taught nothing save the lessons she had learnt from her mother, who died when she was but thirteen. mrs lynch had died before the commencement of sim's palmy days. they had seen no company in her time,--for they were then only rising people; and, since that, the great friends to whom sim, in his wealth, had attached himself, and with whom alone he intended that barry should associate, were all of the masculine gender. he gave bachelor dinner-parties to hard-drinking young men, for whom anty was well contented to cook; and when they--as they often, from the effect of their potations, were perforce obliged to do--stayed the night at dunmore house, anty never showed herself in the breakfast parlour, but boiled the eggs, made the tea, and took her own breakfast in the kitchen. it was not wonderful, therefore, that no one proposed for anty; and, though all who knew the lynches, knew that sim had a daughter, it was very generally given out that she was not so wise as her neighbours; and the father and brother took no pains to deny the rumour. the inhabitants of the village knew better; the lynches were very generally disliked, and the shameful way "miss anty was trated," was often discussed in the little shops; and many of the townspeople were ready to aver that, "simple or no, anty lynch was the best of the breed, out-and-out." matters stood thus at dunmore, when the quarrel before alluded to, occurred, and when sim made his will, dividing his property and died before destroying it, as he doubtless would have done, when his passion was over. great was the surprise of every one concerned, and of many who were not at all concerned, when it was ascertained that anty lynch was an heiress, and that she was now possessed of four hundred pounds a-year in her own right; but the passion of her brother, it would be impossible to describe. he soon, however, found that it was too literally true, and that no direct means were at hand, by which he could deprive his sister of her patrimony. the lawyer, when he informed anty of her fortune and present station, made her understand that she had an equal right with her brother in everything in the house; and though, at first, she tacitly acquiesced in his management, she was not at all simple enough to be ignorant of the rights of possession, or weak enough to relinquish them. barry soon made up his mind that, as she had and must have the property, all he could now do was to take care that it should revert to him as her heir; and the measure of most importance in effecting this, would be to take care that she did not marry. in his first passion, after his father's death, he had been rough and cruel to her; but he soon changed his conduct, and endeavoured to flatter her into docility at one moment, and to frighten her into obedience in the next. he soon received another blow which was also a severe one. moylan, the old man who proposed the match to martin, called on him, and showed him that anty had appointed him her agent, and had executed the necessary legal documents for the purpose. upon this subject he argued for a long time with his sister,--pointing out to her that the old man would surely rob her--offering to act as her agent himself--recommending others as more honest and fitting--and, lastly, telling her that she was an obstinate fool, who would soon be robbed of every penny she had, and that she would die in a workhouse at last. but anty, though she dreaded her brother, was firm. wonderful as it may appear, she even loved him. she begged him not to quarrel with her,--promised to do everything to oblige him, and answered his wrath with gentleness; but it was of no avail. barry knew that her agent was a plotter--that he would plot against his influence--though he little guessed then what would be the first step moylan would take, or how likely it would be, if really acted on, to lead to his sister's comfort and happiness. after this, barry passed two months of great misery and vexation. he could not make up his mind what to do, or what final steps to take, either about the property, his sister, or himself. at first, he thought of frightening moylan and his sister, by pretending that he would prove anty to be of weak mind, and not fit to manage her own affairs, and that he would indict the old man for conspiracy; but he felt that moylan was not a man to be frightened by such bugbears. then, he made up his mind to turn all he had into money, to leave his sister to the dogs, or any one who might choose to rob her, and go and live abroad. then he thought, if his sister should die, what a pity it would be, he should lose it all, and how he should blame himself, if she were to die soon after having married some low adventurer; and he reflected; how probable such a thing would be--how likely that such a man would soon get rid of her; and then his mind began to dwell on her death, and to wish for it. he found himself constantly thinking of it, and ruminating on it, and determining that it was the only event which could set him right. his own debts would swallow up half his present property; and how could he bring himself to live on the pitiful remainder, when that stupid idiot, as he called her to himself, had three times more than she could possibly want? morning after morning, he walked about the small grounds round the house, with his hat over his eyes, and his hands tossing about the money in his pockets, thinking of this,--cursing his father, and longing--almost praying for his sister's death. then he would have his horse, and flog the poor beast along the roads without going anywhere, or having any object in view, but always turning the same thing over and over in his mind. and, after dinner, he would sit, by the hour, over the fire, drinking, longing for his sister's money, and calculating the probabilities of his ever possessing it. he began to imagine all the circumstances which might lead to her death; he thought of all the ways in which persons situated as she was, might, and often did, die. he reflected, without knowing that he was doing so, on the probability of robbers breaking into the house, if she were left alone in it, and of their murdering her; he thought of silly women setting their own clothes on fire--of their falling out of window--drowning themselves--of their perishing in a hundred possible but improbable ways. it was after he had been drinking a while, that these ideas became most vivid before his eyes, and seemed like golden dreams, the accomplishment of which he could hardly wish for. and, at last, as the fumes of the spirit gave him courage, other and more horrible images would rise to his imagination, and the drops of sweat would stand on his brow as he would invent schemes by which, were he so inclined, he could accelerate, without detection, the event for which he so ardently longed. with such thoughts would he turn into bed; and though in the morning he would try to dispel the ideas in which he had indulged overnight, they still left their impression on his mind;--they added bitterness to his hatred--and made him look on himself as a man injured by his father and sister, and think that he owed it to himself to redress his injuries by some extraordinary means. it was whilst barry lynch was giving way to such thoughts as these, and vainly endeavouring to make up his mind as to what he would do, that martin made his offer to anty. to tell the truth, it was martin's sister meg who had made the first overture; and, as anty had not rejected it with any great disdain, but had rather shown a disposition to talk about it as a thing just possible, martin had repeated it in person, and had reiterated it, till anty had at last taught herself to look upon it as a likely and desirable circumstance. martin had behaved openly and honourably with regard to the money part of the business; telling his contemplated bride that it was, of course, her fortune which had first induced him to think of her; but adding, that he would also value her and love her for herself, if she would allow him. he described to her the sort of settlement he should propose, and ended by recommending an early day for the wedding. anty had sense enough to be pleased at his straightforward and honest manner; and, though she did not say much to himself, she said a great deal in his praise to meg, which all found its way to martin's ears. but still, he could not get over the difficulty which he had described to lord ballindine. anty wanted to wait till her brother should go out of the country, and martin was afraid that he would not go; and things were in this state when he started for dublin. the village of dunmore has nothing about it which can especially recommend it to the reader. it has none of those beauties of nature which have taught irishmen to consider their country as the "first flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea". it is a dirty, ragged little town, standing in a very poor part of the country, with nothing about it to induce the traveller to go out of his beaten track. it is on no high road, and is blessed with no adventitious circumstances to add to its prosperity. it was once the property of the o'kellys; but, in those times the landed proprietors thought but little of the towns; and now it is parcelled out among different owners, some of whom would think it folly to throw away a penny on the place, and others of whom have not a penny to throw away. it consists of a big street, two little streets, and a few very little lanes. there is a court-house, where the barrister sits twice a year; a barrack, once inhabited by soldiers, but now given up to the police; a large slated chapel, not quite finished; a few shops for soft goods; half a dozen shebeen-houses [ ], ruined by father mathew; a score of dirty cabins offering "lodging and enthertainment", as announced on the window-shutters; mrs. kelly's inn and grocery-shop; and, last though not least, simeon lynch's new, staring house, built just at the edge of the town, on the road to roscommon, which is dignified with the name of dunmore house. the people of most influence in the village were mrs. kelly of the inn, and her two sworn friends, the parish priest and his curate. the former, father geoghegan, lived about three miles out of dunmore, near toneroe; and his curate, father pat connel, inhabited one of the small houses in the place, very little better in appearance than those which offered accommodation to travellers and trampers. [footnote : shebeen-houses--unlicensed drinking houses, where un-taxed ("moonshine") liquor was often served] such was, and is, the town of dunmore in the county of galway; and i must beg the reader to presume himself to be present there with me on the morning on which the two young kellys went to hear sheil's speech. at about ten o'clock, the widow kelly and her daughters were busy in the shop, which occupied the most important part of the ground-floor of the inn. it was a long, scrambling, ugly-looking house. next to the shop, and opening out of it, was a large drinking-room, furnished with narrow benches and rickety tables; and here the more humble of mrs. kelly's guests regaled themselves. on the other side of this, was the hall, or passage of the house; and, next to that again, a large, dingy, dark kitchen, over which sally reigned with her teapot dynasty, and in which were always congregated a parcel of ragged old men, boys, and noisy women, pretending to be busy, but usually doing but little good, and attracted by the warmth of the big fire, and the hopes of some scraps of food and drink. "for the widow kelly--god bless her! was a thrue christhian, and didn't begrudge the poor--more power to her--like some upstarts who might live to be in want yet, glory be to the almighty!" the difference of the english and irish character is nowhere more plainly discerned than in their respective kitchens. with the former, this apartment is probably the cleanest, and certainly the most orderly, in the house. it is rarely intruded into by those unconnected, in some way, with its business. everything it contains is under the vigilant eye of its chief occupant, who would imagine it quite impossible to carry on her business, whether of an humble or important nature, if her apparatus was subjected to the hands of the unauthorised. an irish kitchen is devoted to hospitality in every sense of the word. its doors are open to almost all loungers and idlers; and the chances are that billy bawn, the cripple, or judy molloy, the deaf old hag, are more likely to know where to find the required utensil than the cook herself. it is usually a temple dedicated to the goddess of disorder; and, too often joined with her, is the potent deity of dirt. it is not that things are out of their place, for they have no place. it isn't that the floor is not scoured, for you cannot scour dry mud into anything but wet mud. it isn't that the chairs and tables look filthy, for there are none. it isn't that the pots, and plates, and pans don't shine, for you see none to shine. all you see is a grimy, black ceiling, an uneven clay floor, a small darkened window, one or two unearthly-looking recesses, a heap of potatoes in the corner, a pile of turf against the wall, two pigs and a dog under the single dresser, three or four chickens on the window-sill, an old cock moaning on the top of a rickety press, and a crowd of ragged garments, squatting, standing, kneeling, and crouching, round the fire, from which issues a babel of strange tongues, not one word of which is at first intelligible to ears unaccustomed to such eloquence. and yet, out of these unfathomable, unintelligible dens, proceed in due time dinners, of which the appearance of them gives no promise. such a kitchen was mrs. kelly's; and yet, it was well known and attested by those who had often tried the experiment, that a man need think it no misfortune to have to get his dinner, his punch, and his bed, at the widow's. above stairs were two sitting-rooms and a colony of bed-rooms, occupied indiscriminately by the family, or by such customers as might require them. if you came back to dine at the inn, after a day's shooting on the bogs, you would probably find miss jane's work-box on the table, or miss meg's album on the sofa; and, when a little accustomed to sojourn at such places, you would feel no surprise at discovering their dresses turned inside out, and hanging on the pegs in your bed-room; or at seeing their side-combs and black pins in the drawer of your dressing-table. on the morning in question, the widow and her daughters were engaged in the shop, putting up pen'norths of sugar, cutting bits of tobacco, tying bundles of dip candles, attending to chance customers, and preparing for the more busy hours of the day. it was evident that something had occurred at the inn, which had ruffled the even tenor of its way. the widow was peculiarly gloomy. though fond of her children, she was an autocrat in her house, and accustomed, as autocrats usually are, to scold a good deal; and now she was using her tongue pretty freely. it wasn't the girls, however, she was rating, for they could answer for themselves;--and did, when they thought it necessary. but now, they were demure, conscious, and quiet. mrs. kelly was denouncing one of the reputed sins of the province to which she belonged, and describing the horrors of "schaming." "them underhand ways," she declared, "niver come to no good. av' it's thrue what father connel's afther telling me, there'll harum come of it before it's done and over. schaming, schaming, and schaming for iver! the back of my hand to such doings! i wish the tongue had been out of moylan's mouth, the ould rogue, before he put the thing in his head. av' he wanted the young woman, and she was willing, why not take her in a dacent way, and have done with it. i'm sure she's ould enough. but what does he want with a wife like her?--making innimies for himself. i suppose he'll be sitting up for a gentleman now--bad cess to them for gentry; not but that he's as good a right as some, and a dale more than others, who are ashamed to put their hand to a turn of work. i hate such huggery muggery work up in a corner. it's half your own doing; and a nice piece of work it'll be, when he's got an ould wife and a dozen lawsuits!--when he finds his farm gone, and his pockets empty; for it'll be a dale asier for him to be getting the wife than the money--when he's got every body's abuse, and nothing else, by his bargain!" it was very apparent that martin's secret had not been well kept, and that the fact of his intended marriage with anty lynch was soon likely to be known to all dunmore. the truth was, that moylan had begun to think himself overreached in the matter--to be afraid that, by the very measure he had himself proposed, he would lose all share in the great prize he had put in martin's way, and that he should himself be the means of excluding his own finger from the pie. it appeared to him that if he allowed this, his own folly would only be equalled by the young man's ingratitude; and he determined therefore, if possible, to prevent the match. whereupon he told the matter as a secret, to those whom he knew would set it moving. in a very short space of time it reached the ears of father connel; and he lost none in stepping down to learn the truth of so important a piece of luck to one of his parishioners, and to congratulate the widow. here, however, he was out in his reckoning, for she declared she did not believe it,--that it wasn't, and couldn't be true; and it was only after his departure that she succeeded in extracting the truth from her daughters. the news, however, quickly reached the kitchen and its lazy crowd; and the inn door and its constant loungers; and was readily and gladly credited in both places. crone after crone, and cripple after cripple, hurried into the shop, to congratulate the angry widow on "masther martin's luck; and warn't he worthy of it, the handsome jewel--and wouldn't he look the gintleman, every inch of him?" and sally expatiated greatly on it in the kitchen, and drank both their healths in an extra pot of tea, and kate grinned her delight, and jack the ostler, who took care of martin's horse, boasted loudly of it in the street, declaring that "it was a good thing enough for anty lynch, with all her money, to get a husband at all out of the kellys, for the divil a know any one knowed in the counthry where the lynchs come from; but every one knowed who the kellys wor--and martin wasn't that far from the lord himself." there was great commotion, during the whole day, at the inn. some said martin had gone to town to buy furniture; others, that he had done so to prove the will. one suggested that he'd surely have to fight barry, and another prayed that "if he did, he might kill the blackguard, and have all the fortin to himself, out and out, god bless him!" v. a loving brother the great news was not long before it reached the ears of one not disposed to receive the information with much satisfaction, and this was barry lynch, the proposed bride's amiable brother. the medium through which he first heard it was not one likely to add to his good humour. jacky, the fool, had for many years been attached to the kelly's court family; that is to say, he had attached himself to it, by getting his food in the kitchen, and calling himself the lord's fool. but, latterly, he had quarrelled with kelly's court, and had insisted on being sim lynch's fool, much to the chagrin of that old man; and, since his death, he had nearly maddened barry by following him through the street, and being continually found at the house-door when he went out. jack's attendance was certainly dictated by affection rather than any mercenary views, for he never got a scrap out of the dunmore house kitchen, or a halfpenny from his new patron. but still, he was barry's fool; and, like other fools, a desperate annoyance to his master. on the day in question, as young mr. lynch was riding out of the gate, about three in the afternoon, there, as usual, was jack. "now yer honour, mr. barry, darling, shure you won't forget jacky to-day. you'll not forget your own fool, mr. barry?" barry did not condescend to answer this customary appeal, but only looked at the poor ragged fellow as though he'd like to flog the life out of him. "shure your honour, mr. barry, isn't this the time then to open yer honour's hand, when miss anty, god bless her, is afther making sich a great match for the family?--glory be to god!" "what d'ye mean, you ruffian?" "isn't the kellys great people intirely, mr. barry? and won't it be a great thing for miss anty, to be sib to a lord? shure yer honour'd not be refusing me this blessed day." "what the d---- are you saying about miss lynch?" said barry, his attention somewhat arrested by the mention of his sister's name. "isn't she going to be married then, to the dacentest fellow in dunmore? martin kelly, god bless him! ah! there'll be fine times at dunmore, then. he's not the boy to rattle a poor divil out of the kitchen into the cold winther night! the kellys was always the right sort for the poor." barry was frightened in earnest, now. it struck him at once that jack couldn't have made the story out of his own head; and the idea that there was any truth in it, nearly knocked him off his horse. he rode on, however, trying to appear to be regardless of what had been said to him; and, as he trotted off, he heard the fool's parting salutation. "and will yer honour be forgething me afther the news i've brought yer? well, hard as ye are, misther barry, i've hot yer now, any way." and, in truth, jack had hit him hard. of all things that could happen to him, this would be about the worst. he had often thought, with dread, of his sister's marrying, and of his thus being forced to divide everything--all his spoil, with some confounded stranger. but for her to marry a shopkeeper's son, in the very village in which he lived, was more than he could bear. he could never hold up his head in the county again. and then, he thought of his debts, and tried to calculate whether he might get over to france without paying them, and be able to carry his share of the property with him; and so he went on, pursuing his wretched, uneasy, solitary ride, sometimes sauntering along at a snail's pace, and then again spurring the poor brute, and endeavouring to bring his mind to some settled plan. but, whenever he did so, the idea of his sister's death was the only one which seemed to present either comfort or happiness. he made up his mind, at last, to put a bold face on the matter; to find out from anty herself whether there was any truth in the story; and, if there should be,--for he felt confident she would not be able to deceive him,--to frighten her and the whole party of the kellys out of what he considered a damnable conspiracy to rob him of his father's property, he got off his horse, and stalked into the house. on inquiry, he found that anty was in her own room. he was sorry she was not out; for, to tell the truth, he was rather anxious to put off the meeting, as he did not feel himself quite up to the mark, and was ashamed of seeming afraid of her. he went into the stable, and abused the groom; into the kitchen, and swore at the maid; and then into the garden. it was a nasty, cold, february day, and he walked up and down the damp muddy walks till he was too tired and cold to walk longer, and then turned into the parlour, and remained with his back to the fire, till the man came in to lay the cloth, thinking on the one subject that occupied all his mind--occasionally grinding his teeth, and heaping curses on his father and sister, who, together, had inflicted such grievous, such unexpected injuries upon him. if, at this moment, there was a soul in all ireland over whom satan had full dominion--if there was a breast unoccupied by one good thought--if there was a heart wishing, a brain conceiving, and organs ready to execute all that was evil, from the worst motives, they were to be found in that miserable creature, as he stood there urging himself on to hate those whom he should have loved--cursing those who were nearest to him--fearing her, whom he had ill-treated all his life--and striving to pluck up courage to take such measures as might entirely quell her. money was to him the only source of gratification. he had looked forward, when a boy, to his manhood, as a period when he might indulge, unrestrained, in pleasures which money would buy; and, when a man, to his father's death, as a time when those means would be at his full command. he had neither ambition, nor affection, in his nature; his father had taught him nothing but the excellence of money, and, having fully imbued him with this, had cut him off from the use of it. he was glad when he found that dinner was at hand, and that he could not now see his sister until after he had fortified himself with drink. anty rarely, if ever, dined with him; so he sat down, and swallowed his solitary meal. he did not eat much, but he gulped down three or four glasses of wine; and, immediately on having done so, he desired the servant, with a curse, to bring him hot water and sugar, and not to keep him waiting all night for a tumbler of punch, as he did usually. before the man had got into the kitchen, he rang the bell again; and when the servant returned breathless, with the steaming jug, he threatened to turn him out of the house at once, if he was not quicker in obeying the orders given him. he then made a tumbler of punch, filling the glass half full of spirits, and drinking it so hot as to scald his throat; and when that was done he again rang the bell, and desired the servant to tell miss anty that he wanted to speak to her. when the door was shut, he mixed more drink, to support his courage during the interview, and made up his mind that nothing should daunt him from preventing the marriage, in one way or another. when anty opened the door, he was again standing with his back to the fire, his hands in his pockets, the flaps of his coat hanging over his arms, his shoulders against the mantel-piece, and his foot on the chair on which he had been sitting. his face was red, and his eyes were somewhat blood-shot; he had always a surly look, though, from his black hair, and large bushy whiskers, many people would have called him good looking; but now there was a scowl in his restless eyes, which frightened anty when she saw it; and the thick drops of perspiration on his forehead did not add benignity to his face. "were you wanting me, barry?" said anty, who was the first to speak. "what do you stand there for, with the door open?" replied her brother, "d' you think i want the servants to hear what i've got to say?" "'deed i don't know," said anty, shutting the door; "but they'll hear just as well now av' they wish, for they'll come to the kay-hole." "will they, by g----!" said barry, and he rushed to the door, which he banged open; finding no victim outside on whom to exercise his wrath--"let me catch 'em!" and he returned to his position by the fire. anty had sat down on a sofa that stood by the wall opposite the fireplace, and barry remained for a minute, thinking how he'd open the campaign. at last he began: "anty, look you here, now. what scheme have you got in your head?--you'd better let me know, at once." "what schame, barry?" "well--what schame, if you like that better." "i've no schame in my head, that i know of--at laist--" and then anty blushed. it would evidently be easy enough to make the poor girl tell her own secret. "well, go on--at laist--" "i don't know what you mane, barry. av' you're going to be badgering me again, i'll go away." "it's evident you're going to do something you're ashamed of, when you're afraid to sit still, and answer a common question. but you must answer me. i'm your brother, and have a right to know. what's this you're going to do?' he didn't like to ask her at once whether she was going to get married. it might not be true, and then he would only be putting the idea into her head. 'well,--why don't you answer me? what is it you're going to do?" "is it about the property you mane, barry?" "what a d----d hypocrite you are! as if you didn't know what i mean! as for the property, i tell you there'll be little left the way you're going on. and as to that, i'll tell you what i'm going to do; so, mind, i warn you beforehand. you're not able--that is, you're too foolish and weak-headed to manage it yourself; and i mean, as your guardian, to put it into the hands of those that shall manage it for you. i'm not going to see you robbed and duped, and myself destroyed by such fellows as moylan, and a crew of huxtering blackguards down in dunmore. and now, tell me at once, what's this i hear about you and the kellys?" "what kellys?" said anty, blushing deeply, and half beside herself with fear--for barry's face was very red, and full of fierce anger, and his rough words frightened her. "what kellys! did you ever hear of martin kelly? d----d young robber that he is!" anty blushed still deeper--rose a little way from the sofa, and then sat down again. "look you here, anty--i'll have the truth out of you. i'm not going to be bamboozled by such an idiot as you. you got an old man, when he was dying, to make a will that has robbed me of what was my own, and now you think you'll play your own low game; but you're mistaken! you've lived long enough without a husband to do without one now; and i can tell you i'm not going to see my property carried off by such a low, paltry blackguard as martin kelly." "how can he take your property, barry?" sobbed forth the poor creature, who was, by this time, far gone in tears. "then the long and the short of it is, he shan't have what you call yours. tell me, at once, will you--is it true, that you've promised to marry him?" anty replied nothing, but continued sobbing violently. "cease your nonsense, you blubbering fool! a precious creature you are to take on yourself to marry any man! are you going to answer me, anty?" and he walked away from the fire, and came and stood opposite to her as she sat upon the sofa. "are you going to answer me or not?" he continued, stamping on the floor. "i'll not stop here--and be trated this way--barry--i'm sure--i do all i--i can for you--and you're always--bullying me because father divided the property." and anty continued sobbing more violently than ever. "i won't stop in the room any more," and she got up to go to the door. barry, however, rushed before her, and prevented her. he turned the lock, and put the key in his pocket; and then he caught her arm, as she attempted to get to the bell, and dragged her back to the sofa. "you're not off so easy as that, i can tell you. why, d' you think you're to marry whom you please, without even telling me of it? what d'you think the world would say of me, if i were to let such an idiot as you be caught up by the first sharper that tried to rob you of your money? now, look here," and he sat down beside her, and laid his hand violently on her arm, as he spoke, "you don't go out of this room, alive, until you've given me your solemn promise, and sworn on the cross, that you'll never marry without my consent; and you'll give me that in writing, too." anty at first turned very pale when she felt his heavy hand on her arm, and saw his red, glaring eyes so near her own. but when he said she shouldn't leave the room alive, she jumped from the sofa, and shrieked, at the top of her shrill voice,--"oh, barry! you'll not murdher me! shure you wouldn't murdher your own sisther!" barry was rather frightened at the noise, and, moreover, the word "murder" quelled him. but when he found, after a moment's pause, that the servants had not heard, or had not heeded his sister, he determined to carry on his game, now that he had proceeded so far. he took, however, a long drink out of his tumbler, to give him fresh courage, and then returned to the charge. "who talked of murdering you? but, if you bellow in that way, i'll gag you. it's a great deal i'm asking, indeed--that, when i'm your only guardian, my advice should be asked for before you throw away your money on a low ruffian. you're more fit for a mad-house than to be any man's wife; and, by heaven, that's where i'll put you, if you don't give me the promise i ask! will you swear you'll marry no one without my leave?" poor anty shook with fear as she sate, with her eyes fixed on her brother's face. he was nearly drunk now, and she felt that he was so,--and he looked so hot and so fierce--so red and cruel, that she was all but paralysed. nevertheless, she mustered strength to say, "let me go, now, barry, and, to-morrow, i'll tell you everything--indeed i will--and i'll thry to do all you'd have me; indeed, and indeed, i will! only do let me go now, for you've frighted me." "you're likely to be more frighted yet, as you call it! and be tramping along the roads, i suppose, with martin kelly, before the morning. no! i'll have an answer from you, any way. i've a right to that!" "oh, barry!--what is it you want?--pray let me go--pray, pray, for the love of the blessed jesus, let me go." "i'll tell you where you'll go, and that's into ballinasloe mad-house! now, mark me--so help me--i'll set off with you this night, and have you there in the morning--as an idiot as you are, if you won't make the promise i'm telling you!" by this time anty's presence of mind had clean left her. indeed, all the faculties of her reason had vanished; and, as she saw her brother's scowling face so near her own, and heard him threatening to drag her to a mad-house, she put her hands before her eyes, and made one rush to escape from him--to the door--to the window--anywhere to get out of his reach. barry was quite drunk now. had he not been so, even he would hardly have done what he then did. as she endeavoured to rush by him, he raised his fist, and struck her on the face, with all his force. the blow fell upon her hands, as they were crossed over her face; but the force of the blow knocked her down, and she fell upon the floor, senseless, striking the back of her head against the table. "confound her," muttered the brute, between his teeth, as she fell, "for an obstinate, pig-headed fool! what the d----l shall i do now? anty, get up!--get up, will you!--what ails you?"--and then again to himself, "the d----l seize her! what am i to do now?" and he succeeded in dragging her on to the sofa. the man-servant and the cook although up to this point, they had considered it would be ill manners to interrupt the brother and sister in their family interview, were nevertheless at the door; and though they could see nothing, and did not succeed in hearing much, were not the less fully aware that the conversation was of a somewhat stormy nature on the part of the brother. when they heard the noise which followed the blow, though not exactly knowing what had happened, they became frightened, and began to think something terrible was being done. "go in, terry, avich," whispered the woman,--"knock, man, and go in--shure he's murdhering her!" "what 'ud he do to me thin, av' he'd strick a woman, and she his own flesh and blood! he'll not murdher her--but, faix, he's afther doing something now! knock, biddy, knock, i say, and screech out that you're afther wanting miss anty." the woman had more courage than the man--or else more compassion, for, without further parleying, she rapped her knuckles loudly against the door, and, as she did so, terry sneaked away to the kitchen. barry had just succeeded in raising his sister to the sofa as he heard the knock. "who's that?" he called out loudly; "what do you want?" "plaze yer honer, miss anty's wanting in the kitchen." "she's busy, and can't come at present; she'll be there directly." "is she ill at all, mr. barry? god bless you, spake, miss anty; in god's name, spake thin. ah! mr. barry, thin, shure she'd spake av' she were able." "go away, you fool! your mistress'll be out in a minute." then, after a moment's consideration, he went and unlocked the door, "or--go in, and see what she wants. she's fainted, i think." barry lynch walked out of the room, and into the garden before the house, to think over what he had done, and what he'd better do for the future, leaving anty to the care of the frightened woman. she soon came to herself, and, excepting that her head was bruised in the fall, was not much hurt. the blow, falling on her hands, had neither cut nor marked her; but she was for a long time so flurried that she did not know where she was, and, in answer to all biddy's tender inquiries as to the cause of her fall, and anathemas as to the master's bad temper, merely said that "she'd get to bed, for her head ached so, she didn't know where she was." to bed accordingly she went; and glad she was to have escaped alive from that drunken face, which had glared on her for the last half hour. after wandering about round the house and through the grounds, for above an hour, barry returned, half sobered, to the room; but, in his present state of mind, he could not go to bed sober. he ordered more hot water, and again sat down alone to drink, and drown the remorse he was beginning to feel for what he had done--or rather, not remorse, but the feeling of fear that every one would know how he had treated anty, and that they would side with her against him. whichever way he looked, all was misery and disappointment to him, and his only hope, for the present, was in drink. there he sat, for a long time, with his eyes fixed on the turf, till it was all burnt out, trying to get fresh courage from the spirits he swallowed, and swearing to himself that he would not be beat by a woman. about one o'clock he seized one of the candles, and staggered up to bed. as he passed his sister's door, he opened it and went in. she was fast asleep; her shoes were off, and the bed-clothes were thrown over her, but she was not undressed. he slowly shut the door, and stood, for some moments, looking at her; then, walking to the bed, he took her shoulder, and shook it as gently as his drunkenness would let him. this did not wake her, so he put the candle down on the table, close beside the bed, and, steadying himself against the bedstead, he shook her again and again. "anty", he whispered, "anty"; and, at last, she opened her eyes. directly she saw his face, she closed them again, and buried her own in the clothes; however, he saw that she was awake, and, bending his head, he muttered, loud enough for her to hear, but in a thick, harsh, hurried, drunken voice, "anty--d'ye hear? if you marry that man, i'll have your life!" and then, leaving the candle behind him, he staggered off into his own room in the dark. vi. the escape in vain, after that, did anty try to sleep; turn which way she would, she saw the bloodshot eyes and horrid drunken face of her cruel brother. for a long time she lay, trembling and anxious; fearing she knew not what, and trying to compose herself--trying to make herself think that she had no present cause for fear; but in vain. if she heard a noise, she thought it was her brother's footstep, and when the house was perfectly silent and still, she feared the very silence itself. at last, she crept out of bed, and, taking the candle left by her brother, which had now burned down to the socket, stepped softly down the stairs, to the place where the two maid-servants slept, and, having awakened them, she made biddy return with her and keep her company for the remainder of the night. she did not quite tell the good-natured girl all that had passed; she did not own that her brother had threatened to send her to a madhouse, or that he had sworn to have her life; but she said enough to show that he had shamefully ill-treated her, and to convince biddy that wherever her mistress might find a home, it would be very unadvisable that she and barry should continue to live under the same roof. early in the morning, "long afore the break o' day," as the song says, biddy got up from her hard bed on the floor of her mistress' room, and, seeing that anty was at last asleep, started to carry into immediate execution the counsels she had given during the night. as she passed the head of the stairs, she heard the loud snore of barry, in his drunken slumber; and, wishing that he might sleep as sound for ever and ever, she crept down to her own domicile, and awakened her comrade. "whist, judy--whist, darlint! up wid ye, and let me out." "and what'd you be doing out now?" yawned judy. "an arrand of the misthress;--shure, he used her disperate. faix, it's a wondher he didn't murther her outright!" "and where are ye going now?" "jist down to dunmore--to the kellys then, avich. asy now; i'll be telling you all bye and bye. she must be out of this intirely." "is't miss anty? where'd she be going thin out of this?" "divil a matther where! he'd murther her, the ruffian 'av he cotched her another night in his dhrunkenness. we must git her out before he sleeps hisself right. but hurry now, i'll be telling you all when i'm back again." the two crept off to the back door together, and, judy having opened it, biddy sallied out, on her important and good-natured mission. it was still dark, though the morning was beginning to break, as she stood, panting, at the front door of the inn. she tried to get in at the back, but the yard gates were fastened; and jack, the ostler, did not seem to be about yet. so she gave a timid, modest knock, with the iron knocker, on the front door. a pause, and then a second knock, a little louder; another pause, and then a third; and then, as no one came, she remembered the importance of her message, and gave such a rap as a man might do, who badly wanted a glass of hot drink after travelling the whole night. the servants had good or hardy consciences, for they slept soundly; but the widow kelly, in her little bed-room behind the shop, well knew the sound of that knocker, and, hurrying on her slippers and her gown, she got to the door, and asked who was there. "is that sally, ma'am?" said biddy, well knowing the widow's voice. "no, it's not. what is it you're wanting?" "is it kate thin, ma'am?" "no, it's not kate. who are you, i say; and what d'you want?" "i'm biddy, plaze ma'am--from lynch's, and i'm wanting to spake to yerself, ma'am--about miss anty. she's very bad intirely, ma'am." "what ails her;--and why d'you come here? why don't you go to doctor colligan, av' she's ill; and not come knocking here?" "it ain't bad that way, miss anty is, ma'am. av' you'd just be good enough to open the door, i'd tell you in no time." it would, i am sure, be doing injustice to mrs kelly to say that her curiosity was stronger than her charity; they both, however, no doubt had their effect, and the door was speedily opened. "oh, ma'am!" commenced biddy, "sich terrible doings up at the house! miss anty's almost kilt!" "come out of the cowld, girl, in to the kitchen fire," said the widow, who didn't like the february blast, to which biddy, in her anxiety, had been quite indifferent; and the careful widow again bolted the door, and followed the woman into certainly the warmest place in dunmore, for the turf fire in the inn kitchen was burning day and night. "and now, tell me what is it ails miss anty? she war well enough yesterday, i think, and i heard more of her then than i wished." biddy now pulled her cloak from off her head, settled it over her shoulders, and prepared for telling a good substantial story. "oh, misthress kelly, ma'am, there's been disperate doings last night up at the house. we were all hearing, in the morn yesterday, as how miss anty and mr martin, god bless him!--were to make a match of it,--as why wouldn't they, ma'am? for wouldn't mr martin make her a tidy, dacent, good husband?" "well, well, biddy--don't mind mr martin; he'll be betther without a wife for one while, and he needn't be quarrelling for one when he wants her. what ails miss anty?" "shure i'm telling you, ma'am; howsomever, whether its thrue or no about mr martin, we were all hearing it yestherday; and the masther, he war afther hearing it too, for he come into his dinner as black as tunder; and terry says he dhrunk the whole of a bottle of wine, and then he called for the sperrits, and swilled away at them till he was nigh dhrunk. well, wid that, ma'am, he sent for miss anty, and the moment she comes in, he locks to the door, and pulls her to the sofa, and swears outright that he'll murdher her av' she don't swear, by the blessed mary and the cross, that she'll niver dhrame of marrying no one." "who tould you all this, biddy? was it herself?" "why, thin, partly herself it war who tould me, ma'am, and partly--; you see, when mr barry war in his tantrums and dhrunken like, i didn't like to be laving miss anty alone wid him, and nobody nigh, so i and terry betook ourselves nigh the door, and, partly heard what was going on; that's the thruth on it, mrs kelly; and, afther a dale of rampaging and scolding, may i niver see glory av' he didn't up wid his clenched fist, strik her in the face, and knock her down--all for one as 'av she wor a dhrunken blackguard at a fair!" "you didn't see that, biddy?" "no, ma'am--i didn't see it; how could i, through the door?--but i heerd it, plain enough. i heerd the poor cratur fall for dead amongst the tables and chairs--i did, mrs kelly--and i heerd the big blow smash agin her poor head, and down she wint--why wouldn't she? and he, the born ruffian, her own brother, the big blackguard, stricking at her wid all his force! well, wid that ma'am, i rushed into the room--at laist, i didn't rush in--for how could i, and the door locked?--but i knocked agin and agin, for i war afeard he would be murthering her out and out. so, i calls out, as loud as i could, as how miss anty war wanting in the kitchen: and wid that he come to the door, and unlocks it as bould as brass, and rushes out into the garden, saying as how miss anty war afther fainting. well, in course i goes in to her, where he had dragged her upon the sofa, and, thrue enough, she war faint indeed." "and, did she tell you, biddy, that her own brother had trated her that way?" "wait, mrs kelly, ma'am, till i tell yer how it all happened. when she comed to herself--and she warn't long coming round--she didn't say much, nor did i; for i didn't just like then to be saying much agin the masther, for who could know where his ears were?--perish his sowl, the blackguard!" "don't be cursing, biddy." "no, ma'am; only he must be cursed, sooner or later. well, when she comed to herself, she begged av' me to help her to bed, and she went up to her room, and laid herself down, and i thought to myself that at any rate it was all over for that night. when she war gone, the masther he soon come back into the house, and begun calling for the sperrits again, like mad; and terry said that when he tuk the biling wather into the room, mr barry war just like the divil--as he's painted, only for his ears. after that terry wint to bed; and i and judy weren't long afther him, for we didn't care to be sitting up alone wid him, and he mad dhrunk. so we turned in, and we were in bed maybe two hours or so, and fast enough, when down come the misthress--as pale as a sheet, wid a candle in her hand, and begged me, for dear life, to come up into her room to her, and so i did, in coorse. and then she tould me all--and, not contint with what he'd done down stairs, but the dhrunken ruffian must come up into her bed-room and swear the most dreadfullest things to her you iver heerd, mrs kelly. the words he war afther using, and the things he said, war most horrid; and miss anty wouldn't for her dear life, nor for all the money in dunmore, stop another night, nor another day in the house wid him." "but, is she much hurt, biddy?" "oh! her head's cut, dreadful, where she fell, ma'am: and he shuck the very life out of her poor carcase; so he did, mrs kelly, the ruffian!" "don't be cursing, i tell you, girl. and what is it your misthress is wishing to do now? did she tell you to come to me?" "no, ma'am; she didn't exactly tell me--only as she war saying that she wouldn't for anything be staying in the house with mr barry; and as she didn't seem to be knowing where she'd be going, and av' she be raally going to be married to mr martin--" "drat mr martin, you fool! did she tell you she wanted to come here?". "she didn't quite say as much as that. to tell the thruth, thin, it wor i that said it, and she didn't unsay it; so, wid that, i thought i'd come down here the first thing, and av' you, mrs kelly, wor thinking it right, we'd get her out of the house before the masther's stirring." the widow was a prudent woman, and she stood, for some time, considering; for she felt that, if she held out her hand to anty now, she must stick to her through and through in the battle which there would be between her and her brother; and there might be more plague than profit in that. but then, again, she was not at all so indifferent as she had appeared to be, to her favourite son's marrying four hundred a-year. she was angry at his thinking of such a thing without consulting her; she feared the legal difficulties he must encounter; and she didn't like the thoughts of its being said that her son had married an old fool, and cozened her out of her money. but still, four hundred a-year was a great thing; and anty was a good-tempered tractable young woman, of the right religion, and would not make a bad wife; and, on reconsideration, mrs kelly thought the thing wasn't to be sneezed at. then, again, she hated barry, and, having a high spirit, felt indignant that he should think of preventing her son from marrying his sister, if the two of them chose to do it; and she knew she'd be able, and willing enough, too, to tell him a bit of her mind, if there should be occasion. and lastly, and most powerfully of all, the woman's feeling came in to overcome her prudential scruples, and to open her heart and her house to a poor, kindly, innocent creature, ill-treated as anty lynch had been. she was making up her mind what to do, and determining to give battle royal to barry and all his satellites, on behalf of anty, when biddy interrupted her by saying,-- "i hope i warn't wrong, ma'am, in coming down and throubling you so arly? i thought maybe you'd be glad to befrind miss anty--seeing she and miss meg, and miss jane, is so frindly." "no, biddy;--for a wondher, you're right, this morning. mr barry won't be stirring yet?" "divil a stir, ma'am! the dhrunkenness won't be off him yet this long while. and will i go up, and be bringing miss anty down, ma'am?" "wait a while. sit to the fire there, and warm your shins. you're a good girl. i'll go and get on my shoes and stockings, and my cloak, and bonnet. i must go up wid you myself, and ask yer misthress down, as she should be asked. they'll be telling lies on her 'av she don't lave the house dacently, as she ought." "more power to you thin, mrs kelly, this blessed morning, for a kind good woman as you are, god bless you!" whimpered forth biddy, who, now that she had obtained her request, began to cry, and to stuff the corner of her petticoat into her eyes. "whist, you fool--whist," said the widow. "go and get up sally--you know where she sleeps--and tell her to put down a fire in the little parlour upstairs, and to get a cup of tay ready, and to have miss meg up. your misthress'll be the better of a quiet sleep afther the night she's had, and it'll be betther for her jist popping into miss meg's bed than getting between a pair of cowld sheets." these preparations met with biddy's entire approval, for she reiterated her blessings on the widow, as she went to announce all the news to sally and kate, while mrs kelly made such preparations as were fitting for a walk, at that early hour, up to dunmore house. they were not long before they were under weigh, but they did not reach the house quite so quickly as biddy had left it. mrs kelly had to pick her way in the half light, and observed that "she'd never been up to the house since old simeon lynch built it, and when the stones were laying for it, she didn't think she ever would; but one never knowed what changes might happen in this world." they were soon in the house, for judy was up to let them in; and though she stared when she saw mrs kelly, she merely curtsied, and said nothing. the girl went upstairs first, with the candle, and mrs kelly followed, very gently, on tiptoe. she need not have been so careful to avoid waking barry, for, had a drove of oxen been driven upstairs, it would not have roused him. however, up she crept,--her thick shoes creaking on every stair,--and stood outside the door, while biddy went in to break the news of her arrival. anty was still asleep, but it did not take much to rouse her; and she trembled in her bed, when, on her asking what was the matter, mrs kelly popped her bonnet inside the door, and said, "it's only me, my dear. mrs kelly, you know, from the inn," and then she very cautiously insinuated the rest of her body into the room, as though she thought that barry was asleep under the bed, and she was afraid of treading on one of his stray fingers. "it's only me, my dear. biddy's been down to me, like a good girl; and i tell you what--this is no place for you, just at present, miss anty; not till such time as things is settled a little. so i'm thinking you'd betther be slipping down wid me to the inn there, before your brother's up. there's nobody in it, not a sowl, only meg, and jane, and me, and we'll make you snug enough between us, never fear." "do, miss anty, dear do, darling," added biddy. "it'll be a dale betther for you than waiting here to be batthered and bruised, and, perhaps, murthered out and out." "hush, biddy--don't be saying such things," said the widow, who had a great idea of carrying on the war on her own premises, but who felt seriously afraid of barry now that she was in his house, "don't be saying such things, to frighthen her. but you'll be asier there than here," she continued, to anty; "and there's nothin like having things asy. so, get up alanna [ ], and we'll have you warm and snug down there in no time." [footnote : alanna--my child] anty did not want much persuading. she was soon induced to get up and dress herself, to put on her cloak and bonnet, and hurry off with the widow, before the people of dunmore should be up to look at her going through the town to the inn; while biddy was left to pack up such things as were necessary for her mistress' use, and enjoined to hurry down with them to the inn as quick as she could; for, as the widow said, "there war no use in letting every idle bosthoon [ ] in the place see her crossing with a lot of baggage, and set them all asking the where and the why and the wherefore; though, for the matther of that, they'd all hear it soon enough." [footnote : bosthoon--a worthless fellow] to tell the truth, mrs kelly's courage waned from the moment of her leaving her own door, and it did not return till she felt herself within it again. indeed, as she was leaving the gate of dunmore house, with anty on her arm, she was already beginning to repent what she was doing; for there were idlers about, and she felt ashamed of carrying off the young heiress. but these feelings vanished the moment she had crossed her own sill. when she had once got anty home, it was all right. the widow kelly seldom went out into the world; she seldom went anywhere except to mass; and, when out, she was a very modest and retiring old lady; but she could face the devil, if necessary, across her own counter. and so anty was rescued, for a while, from her brother's persecution. this happened on the morning on which martin and lord ballindine met together at the lawyer's, when the deeds were prepared which young kelly's genuine honesty made him think necessary before he eloped with old sim lynch's heiress. he would have been rather surprised to hear, at that moment, that his mother had been before him, and carried off his bride elect to the inn! anty was soon domesticated. the widow, very properly, wouldn't let her friends, meg and jane, ask her any questions at present. sally had made, on the occasion, a pot of tea sufficient to supply the morning wants of half a regiment, and had fully determined that it should not be wasted. the kelly girls were both up, and ready to do anything for their friend; so they got her to take a little of sally's specific, and put her into a warm bed to sleep, quiet and secure from any interruption. while her guest was sleeping, the widow made up her mind that her best and safest course, for the present, would be, as she expressed it to her daughter, meg, "to keep her toe in her pump, and say nothing to nobody." "anty can just stay quiet and asy," she continued, "till we see what master barry manes to be afther; he'll find it difficult enough to move her out of this, i'm thinking, and i doubt his trying. as to money matthers, i'll neither meddle nor make, nor will you, mind; so listen to that, girls; and as to moylan, he's a dacent quiet poor man--but it's bad thrusting any one. av' he's her agent, however, i s'pose he'll look afther the estate; only, barry'll be smashing the things up there at the house yonder in his anger and dhrunken fits, and it's a pity the poor girl's property should go to rack. but he's such a born divil, she's lucky to be out of his clutches alive; though, thank the almighty, that put a good roof over the lone widow this day, he can't clutch her here. wouldn't i like to see him come to the door and ax for her! and he can't smash the acres, nor the money they say mulholland has, at tuam; and faix, av' he does any harm up there at the house, shure enough anty can make him pay for--it every pot and pan of it--out of his share, and she'll do it, too--av' she's said by me. but mind, i'll neither meddle nor make; neither do you, and then we're safe, and anty too. and martin'll be here soon--i wondher what good dublin'll do him?--they might have the repale without him, i suppose?--and when he's here, why, av' he's minded to marry her, and she's plased, why, father geoghegan may come down, and do it before the whole counthry, and who's ashamed? but there'll be no huggery-muggery, and schaming; that is, av' they're said by me. faix, i'd like to know who she's to be afeared of, and she undher this roof! i s'pose martin ain't fool enough to care for what such a fellow as barry lynch can do or say--and he with all the kellys to back him; as shure they would, and why not, from the lord down? not that i recommend the match; i think martin a dale betther off as he is, for he's wanting nothing, and he's his own industhry--and, maybe, a handful of money besides. but, as for being afeard--i niver heard yet that a kelly need be afeard of a lynch in dunmore." in this manner did mrs kelly express the various thoughts that ran through her head, as she considered anty's affairs; and if we could analyse the good lady's mind, we should probably find that the result of her reflections was a pleasing assurance that she could exercise the christian virtues of charity and hospitality towards anty, and, at the same time, secure her son's wishes and welfare, without subjecting her own name to any obloquy, or putting herself to any loss or inconvenience. she determined to put no questions to anty, nor even to allude to her brother, unless spoken to on the subject; but, at the same time, she stoutly resolved to come to no terms with barry, and to defy him to the utmost, should he attempt to invade her in her own territories. after a sound sleep anty got up, much strengthened and refreshed, and found the two kelly girls ready to condole with, or congratulate her, according to her mood and spirits. in spite of their mother's caution, they were quite prepared for gossiping, as soon as anty showed the slightest inclination that way; and, though she at first was afraid to talk about her brother, and was even, from kindly feeling, unwilling to do so, the luxury of such an opportunity of unrestrained confidence overcame her; and, before the three had been sitting together for a couple of hours, she had described the whole interview, as well as the last drunken midnight visit of barry's to her own bed-room, which, to her imagination, was the most horrible of all the horrors of the night. poor anty. she cried vehemently that morning--more in sorrow for her brother, than in remembrance of her own fears, as she told her friends how he had threatened to shut her up in a mad-house, and then to murder her, unless she promised him not to marry; and when she described how brutally he had struck her, and how, afterwards, he had crept to her room, with his red eyes and swollen face, in the dead of the night, and, placing his hot mouth close to her ears, had dreadfully sworn that she should die, if she thought of martin kelly as her husband, she trembled as though she was in an ague fit. the girls said all they could to comfort her, and they succeeded in a great degree; but they could not bring her to talk of martin. she shuddered whenever his name was mentioned, and they began to fear that barry's threat would have the intended effect, and frighten her from the match. however, they kindly talked of other things--of how impossible it was that she should go back to dunmore house, and how comfortable and snug they would make her at the inn, till she got a home for herself; of what she should do, and of all their little household plans together; till anty, when she could forget her brother's threats for a time, seemed to be more comfortable and happy than she had been for years. in vain did the widow that morning repeatedly invoke meg and jane, first one and then the other, to assist in her commercial labours. in vain were sally and kate commissioned to bring them down. if, on some urgent behest, one of them darted down to mix a dandy of punch, or weigh a pound of sugar, when the widow was imperatively employed elsewhere, she was upstairs again, before her mother could look about her; and, at last, mrs kelly was obliged to content herself with the reflection that girls would be girls, and that it was "nathural and right they shouldn't wish to lave anty alone the first morning, and she sthrange to the place." at five o'clock, the widow, as was her custom, went up to her dinner; and meg was then obliged to come down and mind the shop, till her sister, having dined, should come down and relieve guard. she had only just ensconced herself behind the counter, when who should walk into the shop but barry lynch. had meg seen an ogre, or the enemy of all mankind himself, she could not, at the moment, have been more frightened; and she stood staring at him, as if the sudden loss of the power of motion alone prevented her from running away. "i want to see mrs kelly," said barry; "d'ye hear? i want to see your mother; go and tell her." but we must go back, and see how mr lynch had managed to get up, and pass his morning. vii. mr barry lynch makes a morning call it was noon before barry first opened his eyes, and discovered the reality of the headache which the night's miserable and solitary debauch had entailed on him. for, in spite of the oft-repeated assurance that there is not a headache in a hogshead of it, whiskey punch will sicken one, as well as more expensive and more fashionable potent drinks. barry was very sick when he first awoke; and very miserable, too; for vague recollections of what he had done, and doubtful fears of what he might have done, crowded on him. a drunken man always feels more anxiety about what he has not done in his drunkenness, than about what he has; and so it was with barry. he remembered having used rough language with his sister, but he could not remember how far he had gone. he remembered striking her, and he knew that the servant had come in; but he could not remember how, or with what he had struck her, or whether he had done so more than once, or whether she had been much hurt. he could not even think whether he had seen her since or not; he remembered being in the garden after she had fallen, and drinking again after that, but nothing further. surely, he could not have killed her? he could not even have hurt her very much, or he would have heard of it before this. if anything serious had happened, the servants would have taken care that he should have heard enough about it ere now. then he began to think what o'clock it could be, and that it must be late, for his watch was run down; the general fate of drunkards, who are doomed to utter ignorance of the hour at which they wake to the consciousness of their miserable disgrace. he feared to ring the bell for the servant; he was afraid to ask the particulars of last night's work; so he turned on his pillow, and tried to sleep again. but in vain. if he closed his eyes, anty was before them, and he was dreaming, half awake, that he was trying to stifle her, and that she was escaping, to tell all the world of his brutality and cruelty. this happened over and over again; for when he dozed but for a minute, the same thing re-occurred, as vividly as before, and made even his waking consciousness preferable to the visions of his disturbed slumbers. so, at last, he roused himself, and endeavoured to think what he should do. whilst he was sitting up in his bed, and reflecting that he must undress himself before he could dress himself--for he had tumbled into bed with most of his clothes on--terry's red head appeared at the door, showing an anxiety, on the part of its owner, to see if "the masther" was awake, but to take no step to bring about such a state, if, luckily, he still slept. "what's the time, terry?" said lynch, frightened, by his own state, into rather more courtesy than he usually displayed to those dependent on him. "well then, i b'lieve it's past one, yer honer." "the d----l it is! i've such a headache. i was screwed last night; eh, terry?" "i b'lieve yer war, yer honer." "what o'clock was it when i went to bed?" "well then, i don't rightly know, mr barry; it wasn't only about ten when i tuk in the last hot wather, and i didn't see yer honer afther that." "well; tell miss anty to make me a cup of tea, and do you bring it up here." this was a feeler. if anything was the matter with anty, terry would be sure to tell him now; but he only said, "yis, yer honer," and retreated. barry now comforted himself with the reflection that there was no great harm done, and that though, certainly, there had been some row between him and anty, it would probably blow over; and then, also, he began to reflect that, perhaps, what he had said and done, would frighten her out of her match with kelly. in the meantime. terry went into the kitchen, with the news that "masther was awake, and axing for tay." biddy had considered herself entitled to remain all the morning at the inn, having, in a manner, earned a right to be idle for that day, by her activity during the night; and the other girl had endeavoured to enjoy the same luxury, for she had been found once or twice during the morning, ensconced in the kitchen, under sally's wing; but mrs kelly had hunted her back, to go and wait on her master, giving her to understand that she would not receive the whole household. "and ye're afther telling him where miss anty's gone, terry?" inquired the injured fair one. "divil a tell for me thin,--shure, he may find it out hisself, widout my telling him." "faix, it's he'll be mad thin, when he finds she's taken up with the likes of the widdy kelly!" "and ain't she betther there, nor being murthered up here? he'd be killing her out and out some night." "well, but terry, he's not so bad as all that; there's worse than him, and ain't it rasonable he shouldn't be quiet and asy, and she taking up with the likes of martin kelly?" "may be so; but wouldn't she be a dale happier with martin than up here wid him? any ways it don't do angering him, so, get him the tay, judy." it was soon found that this was easier said than done, for anty, in her confusion, had taken away the keys in her pocket, and there was no tea to be had. the bell was now rung, and, as barry had gradually re-assured himself, rung violently; and terry, when he arrived distracted at the bed-room door, was angrily asked by his thirsty master why the tea didn't appear? the truth was now obliged to come out, or at any rate, part of it: so terry answered, that miss anty was out, and had the keys with her. miss anty was so rarely out, that barry instantly trembled again. had she gone to a magistrate, to swear against him? had she run away from him? had she gone off with martin? "where the d----l's she gone, terry?" said he, in his extremity. "faix, yer honour, thin, i'm not rightly knowing; but i hear tell she's down at the widow kelly's." "who told you, you fool?" "well thin, yer honer, it war judy." "and where's judy?" and it ended in judy's being produced, and the two of them, at length, explained to their master, that the widow had come up early in the morning and fetched her away; and judy swore "that not a know she knowed how it had come about, or what had induced the widow to come, or miss anty to go, or anything about it; only, for shure, miss anty was down there, snug enough, with miss jane and miss meg; and the widdy war in her tantrums, and wouldn't let ony dacent person inside the house-door--barring biddy. and that wor all she knowed av' she wor on the book." the secret was now out. anty had left him, and put herself under the protection of martin kelly's mother; had absolutely defied him, after all his threats of the preceding night. what should he do now! all his hatred for her returned again, all his anxious wishes that she might be somehow removed from his path, as an obnoxious stumbling-block. a few minutes ago, he was afraid he had murdered her, and he now almost wished that he had done so. he finished dressing himself, and then sat down in the parlour, which had been the scene of his last night's brutality, to concoct fresh schemes for the persecution of his sister. in the meantime, terry rushed down to the inn, demanding the keys, and giving mrs kelly a fearful history of his master's anger. this she very wisely refrained from retailing, but, having procured the keys, gave them to the messenger, merely informing him, that "thanks to god's kind protection, miss anty was tolerably well over the last night's work, and he might tell his master so." this message terry thought it wisest to suppress, so he took the breakfast up in silence, and his master asked no more questions. he was very sick and pale, and could eat nothing; but he drank a quantity of tea, and a couple of glasses of brandy-and-water, and then he felt better, and again began to think what measures he should take, what scheme he could concoct, for stopping this horrid marriage, and making his sister obedient to his wishes. "confound her," he said, almost aloud, as he thought, with bitter vexation of spirit, of her unincumbered moiety of the property, "confound them all!" grinding his teeth, and meaning by the "all" to include with anty his father, and every one who might have assisted his father in making the odious will, as well as his own attorney in tuam, who wouldn't find out some legal expedient by which he could set it aside. and then, as he thought of the shameful persecution of which he was the victim, he kicked the fender with impotent violence, and, as the noise of the falling fire irons added to his passion, he reiterated his kicks till the unoffending piece of furniture was smashed; and then with manly indignation he turned away to the window. but breaking the furniture, though it was what the widow predicted of him, wouldn't in any way mend matters, or assist him in getting out of his difficulties. what was he to do? he couldn't live on £ a-year; he couldn't remain in dunmore, to be known by every one as martin kelly's brother-in-law; he couldn't endure the thoughts of dividing the property with such "a low-born huxtering blackguard", as he called him over and over again. he couldn't stay there, to be beaten by him in the course of legal proceedings, or to give him up amicable possession of what ought to have been--what should have been his--what he looked upon as his own. he came back, and sat down again over the fire, contemplating the debris of the fender, and turning all these miserable circumstances over in his mind. after remaining there till five o'clock, and having fortified himself with sundry glasses of wine, he formed his resolution. he would make one struggle more; he would first go down to the widow, and claim his sister, as a poor simple young woman, inveigled away from her natural guardian; and, if this were unsuccessful, as he felt pretty sure it would be, he would take proceedings to prove her a lunatic. if he failed, he might still delay, and finally put off the marriage; and he was sure he could get some attorney to put him in the way of doing it, and to undertake the work for him. his late father's attorney had been a fool, in not breaking the will, or at any rate trying it, and he would go to daly. young daly, he knew, was a sharp fellow, and wanted practice, and this would just suit him. and then, if at last he found that nothing could be done by this means, if his sister and the property _must_ go from him, he would compromise the matter with the bridegroom, he would meet him half way, and, raising what money he could on his share of the estate, give leg bail to his creditors, and go to some place abroad, where tidings of dunmore would never reach him. what did it matter what people said? he should never hear it. he would make over the whole property to kelly, on getting a good life income out of it. martin was a prudent fellow, and would jump at such a plan. as he thought of this, he even began to wish that it was done; he pictured to himself the easy pleasures, the card-tables, the billiard-rooms, and cafés of some calais or boulogne; pleasures which he had never known, but which had been so glowingly described to him; and he got almost cheerful again as he felt that, in any way, there might be bright days yet in store for him. he would, however, still make the last effort for the whole stake. it would be time enough to give in, and make the best of a _pis aller_ [ ], when he was forced to do so. if beaten, he would make use of martin kelly; but he would first try if he couldn't prove him to be a swindling adventurer, and his sister to be an idiot. [footnote : pis aller--(french) last resort] much satisfied at having come to this salutary resolution, he took up his hat, and set out for the widow's, in order to put into operation the first part of the scheme. he rather wished it over, as he knew that mrs kelly was no coward, and had a strong tongue in her head. however, it must be done, and the sooner the better. he first of all looked at himself in his glass, to see that his appearance was sufficiently haughty and indignant, and, as he flattered himself, like that of a gentleman singularly out of his element in such a village as dunmore; and then, having ordered his dinner to be ready on his return, he proceeded on his voyage for the recovery of his dear sister. entering the shop, he communicated his wishes to meg, in the manner before described; and, while she was gone on her errand, he remained alone there, lashing his boot, in the most approved, but, still, in a very common-place manner. "oh, mother!" said meg, rushing into the room where her mother, and jane, and anty, were at dinner, "there's barry lynch down in the shop, wanting you." "oh my!" said jane. "now sit still, anty dear, and he can't come near you. shure, he'll niver be afther coming upstairs, will he, meg?" anty, who had begun to feel quite happy in her new quarters, and among her kind friends, turned pale, and dropped her knife and fork. "what'll i do, mrs kelly?" she said, as she saw the old lady complacently get up. "you're not going to give me up? you'll not go to him?" "faith i will thin, my dear," replied the widow; "never fear else--i'll go to him, or any one else that sends to me in a dacent manner. may-be it's wanting tay in the shop he is. i'll go to him immediately. but, as for giving you up, i mane you to stay here, till you've a proper home of your own; and barry lynch has more in him than i think, av' he makes me alter my mind. set down quiet, meg, and get your dinner." and the widow got up, and proceeded to the shop. the girls were all in commotion. one went to the door at the top of the stairs, to overhear as much as possible of what was to take place; and the other clasped anty's hand, to re-assure her, having first thrown open the door of one of the bed-rooms, that she might have a place of retreat in the event of the enemy succeeding in pushing his way upstairs. "your humble sarvant, mr lynch," said the widow, entering the shop and immediately taking up a position of strength in her accustomed place behind the counter. "were you wanting me, this evening?" and she took up the knife with which she cut penn'orths of tobacco for her customers, and hitting the counter with its wooden handle looked as hard as copper, and as bold as brass. "yes, mrs kelly," said barry, with as much dignity as he could muster, "i do want to speak to you. my sister has foolishly left her home this morning, and my servants tell me she is under your roof. is this true?" "is it anty? indeed she is thin: ating her dinner, upstairs, this very moment;" and she rapped the counter again, and looked her foe in the face. "then, with your leave, mrs kelly, i'll step up, and speak to her. i suppose she's alone?" "indeed she ain't thin, for she's the two girls ating wid her, and myself too, barring that i'm just come down at your bidding. no; we're not so bad as that, to lave her all alone; and as for your seeing her, mr lynch, i don't think she's exactly wishing it at present; so, av' you've a message, i'll take it." "you don't mean to say that miss lynch--my sister--is in this inn, and that you intend to prevent my seeing her? you'd better take care what you're doing, mrs kelly. i don't want to say anything harsh at present, but you'd better take care what you're about with me and my family, or you'll find yourself in a scrape that you little bargain for." "i'll take care of myself, mr barry; never fear for me, darling; and, what's more, i'll take care of your sister, too. and, to give you a bit of my mind--she'll want my care, i'm thinking, while you're in the counthry." "i've not come here to listen to impertinence, mrs kelly, and i will not do so. in fact, it is very unwillingly that i came into this house at all." "oh, pray lave it thin, pray lave it! we can do without you." "perhaps you will have the civility to listen to me. it is very unwillingly, i say, that i have come here at all; but my sister, who is, unfortunately, not able to judge for herself, is here. how she came here i don't pretend to say--" "oh, she walked," said the widow, interrupting him; "she walked, quiet and asy, out of your door, and into mine. but that's a lie, for it was out of her own. she didn't come through the kay-hole, nor yet out of the window." "i'm saying nothing about how she came here, but here she is, poor creature!" "poor crature, indeed! she was like to be a poor crature, av' she stayed up there much longer." "here she is, i say, and i consider it my duty to look after her. you cannot but be aware, mrs kelly, that this is not a fit place for miss lynch. you must be aware that a road-side public-house, however decent, or a village shop, however respectable, is not the proper place for my sister; and, though i may not yet be legally her guardian, i am her brother, and am in charge of her property, and i insist on seeing her. it will be at your peril if you prevent me." "have you done, now, misther barry?" "that's what i've got to say; and i think you've sense enough to see the folly--not to speak of the danger, of preventing me from seeing my sister." "that's your say, misther lynch; and now, listen to mine. av' miss anty was wishing to see you, you'd be welcome upstairs, for her sake; but she ain't, so there's an end of that; for not a foot will you put inside this, unless you're intending to force your way, and i don't think you'll be for trying that. and as to bearing the danger, why, i'll do my best; and, for all the harm you're likely to do me--that's by fair manes,--i don't think i'll be axing any one to help me out of it. so, good bye t' ye, av' you've no further commands, for i didn't yet well finish the bit i was ating." "and you mean to say, mrs kelly, you'll take upon yourself to prevent my seeing my sister?" "indeed i do; unless she was wishing it, as well as yourself; and no mistake." "and you'll do that, knowing, as you do, that the unfortunate young woman is of weak mind, and unable to judge for herself, and that i'm her brother, and her only living relative and guardian?" "all blathershin, masther barry," said the uncourteous widow, dropping the knife from her hand, and smacking her fingers: "as for wake mind, it's sthrong enough to take good care of herself and her money too, now she's once out of dunmore house. there many waker than anty lynch, though few have had worse tratement to make them so. as for guardian, i'm thinking it's long since she was of age, and, av' her father didn't think she wanted one, when he made his will, you needn't bother yourself about it, now she's no one to plaze only herself. and as for brother, masther barry, why didn't you think of that before you struck her, like a brute, as you are--before you got dhrunk, like a baste, and then threatened to murdher her? why didn't you think about brother and sisther before you thried to rob the poor _wake_ crature, as you call her; and when you found she wasn't quite wake enough, as you call it, swore to have her life, av' she wouldn't act at your bidding? that's being a brother and a guardian, is it, masther barry? talk to me of danger, you ruffian," continued the widow, with her back now thoroughly up; "you'd betther look to yourself, or i know who'll be in most danger. av' it wasn't the throuble it'd be to anty,--and, god knows, she's had throubles enough, i'd have had her before the magisthrates before this, to tell of what was done last night up at the house, yonder. but mind, she can do it yet, and, av' you don't take yourself very asy, she shall. danger, indeed! a robber and ruffian like you, to talk of danger to me--and his _dear_ sisther, too, and aftimer trying his best, last night, to murdher her!" these last words, with a long drawl on the word _dear_, were addressed rather to the crowd, whom the widow's loud voice had attracted into the open shop, than to barry, who stood, during this tirade, half stupefied with rage, and half frightened, at the open attack made on him with reference to his ill-treatment of anty. however, he couldn't pull in his horns now, and he was obliged, in self-defence, to brazen it out. "very well, mrs kelly--you shall pay for this impudence, and that dearly. you've invented these lies, as a pretext for getting my sister and her property into your hands!" "lies!" screamed the widow; "av' you say lies to me agin, in this house, i'll smash the bones of ye myself, with the broom-handle. lies, indeed! and from you, barry lynch, the biggest liar in all connaught--not to talk of robber and ruffian! you'd betther take yourself out of that, fair and asy, while you're let. you'll find you'll have the worst of it, av' you come rampaging here wid me, my man;" and she turned round to the listening crowd for sympathy, which those who dared were not slow in giving her. "and that's thrue for you, mrs kelly, ma'am," exclaimed one. "it's a shame for him to come storming here, agin a lone widdy, so it is," said a virago, who seemed well able, like the widow herself, to take her own part. "who iver knew any good of a lynch--barring miss anty herself?" argued a third. "the kellys is always too good for the likes of them," put in a fourth, presuming that the intended marriage was the subject immediately in discourse. "faix, mr martin's too good for the best of 'em," declared another. "niver mind mr martin, boys," said the widow, who wasn't well pleased to have her son's name mentioned in the affair--"it's no business of his, one way or another; he ain't in dunmore, nor yet nigh it. miss anty lynch has come to me for protection; and, by the blessed virgin, she shall have it, as long as my name's mary kelly, and i ain't like to change it; so that's the long and short of it, barry lynch. so you may go and get dhrunk agin as soon as you plaze, and bate and bang terry rooney, or judy smith; only i think either on 'em's more than a match for you." "then i tell you, mrs kelly," replied barry, who was hardly able to get in a word, "that you'll hear more about it. steps are now being taken to prove miss lynch a lunatic, as every one here knows she unfortunately is; and, as sure as you stand there, you'll have to answer for detaining her; and you're much mistaken if you think you'll get hold of her property, even though she were to marry your son, for, i warn you, she's not her own mistress, or able to be so." "drat your impudence, you low-born ruffian," answered his opponent; "who cares for her money? it's not come to that yet, that a kelly is wanting to schame money out of a lynch." "i've nothing more to say, since you insist on keeping possession of my sister," and barry turned to the door. "but you'll be indicted for conspiracy, so you'd better be prepared." "conspiracy, is it?" said one of mrs kelly's admirers; "maybe, ma'am, he'll get you put in along with dan and father tierney, god bless them! it's conspiracy they're afore the judges for." barry now took himself off, before hearing the last of the widow's final peal of thunder. "get out wid you! you're no good, and never will be. an' it wasn't for the young woman upstairs, i'd have the coat off your back, and your face well mauled, before i let you out of the shop!" and so ended the interview, in which the anxious brother can hardly be said to have been triumphant, or successful. the widow, on the other hand, seemed to feel that she had acquitted herself well, and that she had taken the orphan's part, like a woman, a christian, and a mother; and merely saying, with a kind of inward chuckle, "come to me, indeed, with his roguery! he's got the wrong pig by the ear!" she walked off, to join the more timid trio upstairs, one of whom was speedily sent down, to see that business did not go astray. and then she gave a long account of the interview to anty and meg, which was hardly necessary, as they had heard most of what had passed. the widow however was not to know that, and she was very voluble in her description of barry's insolence, and of the dreadfully abusive things he had said to her--how he had given her the lie, and called her out of her name. she did not, however, seem to be aware that she had, herself, said a word which was more than necessarily violent; and assured anty over and over again, that, out of respect to her feelings, and because the man was, after all, her brother, she had refrained from doing and saying what she would have done and said, had she been treated in such a manner by anybody else. she seemed, however, in spite of the ill-treatment which she had undergone, to be in a serene and happy state of mind. she shook anty's two hands in hers, and told her to make herself "snug and asy where she was, like a dear girl, and to fret for nothing, for no one could hurt or harum her, and she undher mary kelly's roof." then she wiped her face in her apron, set to at her dinner; and even went so far as to drink a glass of porter, a thing she hadn't done, except on a sunday, since her eldest daughter's marriage. barry lynch sneaked up the town, like a beaten dog. he felt that the widow had had the best of it, and he also felt that every one in dunmore was against him. it was however only what he had expected, and calculated upon; and what should he care for the dunmore people? they wouldn't rise up and kill him, nor would they be likely even to injure him. let them hate on, he would follow his own plan. as he came near the house gate, there was sitting, as usual, jacky, the fool. "well, yer honer, masther barry," said jacky, "don't forget your poor fool this blessed morning!" "away with you! if i see you there again, i'll have you in bridewell, you blackguard." "ah, you're joking, masther barry. you wouldn't like to be afther doing that. so yer honer's been down to the widdy's? that's well; it's a fine thing to see you on good terms, since you're soon like to be so sib. well, there an't no betther fellow, from this to galway, than martin kelly, that's one comfort, masther barry." barry looked round for something wherewith to avenge himself for this, but jacky was out of his reach; so he merely muttered some customary but inaudible curses, and turned into the house. he immediately took pen, ink, and paper, and, writing the following note dispatched it to tuam, by terry, mounted for the occasion, and directed on no account to return without an answer. if mr daly wasn't at home, he was to wait for his return; that is, if he was expected home that night. dunmore house, feb. . my dear sir, i wish to consult you on legal business, which will _bear no delay_. the subject is of considerable importance, and i am induced to think it will be more ably handled by you than by mr blake, my father's man of business. there is a bed at your service at dunmore house, and i shall be glad to see you to dinner to-morrow. i am, dear sir, your faithful servant, barry lynch. p.s.--you had better not mention in tuam that you are coming to me,--not that my business is one that i intend to keep secret. j. daly, esq., solicitor, tuam. in about two hours' time, terry had put the above into the hands of the person for whom it was intended, and in two more he had brought back an answer, saying that mr daly would be at dunmore house to dinner on the following day. and terry, on his journey there and back, did not forget to tell everyone he saw, from whom he came, and to whom he was going. viii. mr martin kelly returns to dunmore we will now return to martin kelly. i have before said that as soon as he had completed his legal business,--namely, his instructions for the settlement of anty lynch's property, respecting which he and lord ballindine had been together to the lawyer's in clare street,--he started for home, by the ballinasloe canal-boat, and reached that famous depôt of the fleecy tribe without adventure. i will not attempt to describe the tedium of that horrid voyage, for it has been often described before; and to martin, who was in no ways fastidious, it was not so unendurable as it must always be to those who have been accustomed to more rapid movement. nor yet will i attempt to put on record the miserable resources of those, who, doomed to a twenty hours' sojourn in one of these floating prisons, vainly endeavour to occupy or amuse their minds. but i will advise any, who from ill-contrived arrangements, or unforeseen misfortune, [ ] may find themselves on board the ballinasloe canal-boat, to entertain no such vain dream. the _vis inertiæ_ [ ] of patient endurance, is the only weapon of any use in attempting to overcome the lengthened ennui of this most tedious transit. reading is out of the question. i have tried it myself, and seen others try it, but in vain. the sense of the motion, almost imperceptible, but still perceptible; the noises above you; the smells around you; the diversified crowd, of which you are a part; at one moment the heat this crowd creates; at the next, the draught which a window just opened behind your ears lets in on you; the fumes of punch; the snores of the man under the table; the noisy anger of his neighbour, who reviles the attendant sylph; the would-be witticisms of a third, who makes continual amorous overtures to the same overtasked damsel, notwithstanding the publicity of his situation; the loud complaints of the old lady near the door, who cannot obtain the gratuitous kindness of a glass of water; and the baby-soothing lullabies of the young one, who is suckling her infant under your elbow. these things alike prevent one from reading, sleeping, or thinking. all one can do is to wait till the long night gradually wears itself away, and reflect that, time and the hour run through the longest day [ ]. [footnote : of course it will be remembered that this was written before railways in ireland had been constructed. (original footnote by trollope)] [footnote : vis inertiae--(latin) the power of inertia] [footnote : _macbeth_, act i, sc. : "come what come may, time and the hour runs through the roughest day."] i hardly know why a journey in one of these boats should be much more intolerable than travelling either outside or inside a coach; for, either in or on the coach, one has less room for motion, and less opportunity of employment. i believe the misery of the canal-boat chiefly consists in a pre-conceived and erroneous idea of its capabilities. one prepares oneself for occupation--an attempt is made to achieve actual comfort--and both end in disappointment; the limbs become weary with endeavouring to fix themselves in a position of repose, and the mind is fatigued more by the search after, than the want of, occupation. martin, however, made no complaints, and felt no misery. he made great play at the eternal half-boiled leg of mutton, floating in a bloody sea of grease and gravy, which always comes on the table three hours after the departure from porto bello. he, and others equally gifted with the _dura ilia messorum_ [ ], swallowed huge collops [ ] of the raw animal, and vast heaps of yellow turnips, till the pity with which a stranger would at first be inclined to contemplate the consumer of such unsavoury food, is transferred to the victim who has to provide the meal at two shillings a head. neither love nor drink--and martin had, on the previous day, been much troubled with both--had affected his appetite; and he ate out his money with the true persevering prudence of a connaught man, who firmly determines not to be done. [footnote : dura ilia messorum--(latin) the strong intestines of reapers--a quotation from horace's _epodes_ iii. trollope was an accomplished latin scholar and later wrote a _life of cicero_. his books are full of quotations from many roman writers.] [footnote : collops--portions of food or slices of meat] he was equally diligent at breakfast; and, at last, reached ballinasloe, at ten o'clock the morning after he had left dublin, in a flourishing condition. from thence he travelled, by bianconi's car, as far as tuam, and when there he went at once to the hotel, to get a hack car to take him home to dunmore. in the hotel yard he found a car already prepared for a journey; and, on giving his order for a similar vehicle for his own use, was informed, by the disinterested ostler, that the horse then being harnessed, was to take mr daly, the attorney, to tuam, [ ] and that probably that gentleman would not object to join him, martin, in the conveyance. martin, thinking it preferable to pay fourpence rather than sixpence a mile for his jaunt, acquiesced in this arrangement, and, as he had a sort of speaking acquaintance with mr daly, whom he rightly imagined would not despise the economy which actuated himself, he had his carpet-bag put into the well of the car, and, placing himself on it, he proceeded to the attorney's door. [footnote : the text says "tuam," but the destination is really dunmore.] he soon made the necessary explanation to mr daly, who made no objection to the proposal; and he also throwing a somewhat diminutive carpet-bag into the same well, placed himself alongside of our friend, and they proceeded on their journey, with the most amicable feelings towards each other. they little guessed, either the one or the other, as they commenced talking on the now all-absorbing subject of the great trial, that they were going to dunmore for the express object--though not with the expressed purpose, of opposing each other--that daly was to be employed to suggest any legal means for robbing martin of a wife, and anty of her property; and that martin was going home with the fixed determination of effecting a wedding, to prevent which his companion was, in consideration of liberal payment, to use all his ingenuity and energy. when they had discussed o'connel and his companions, and their chances of liberation for four or five miles, and when martin had warmly expressed his assurance that no jury could convict the saviours of their country, and daly had given utterance to his legal opinion that saltpetre couldn't save them from two years in newgate, martin asked his companion whether he was going beyond dunmore that night? "no, indeed, then," replied daly; "i have a client there now--a thing i never had in that part of the country before yesterday." "we'll have you at the inn, then, i suppose, mr daly?" "faith, you won't, for i shall dine on velvet. my new client is one of the right sort, that can feed as well as fee a lawyer. i've got my dinner, and bed tonight, whatever else i may get." "there's not many of that sort in dunmore thin; any way, there weren't when i left it, a week since. whose house are you going to, mr daly, av' it's not impertinent asking?" "barry lynch's." "barry lynch's!" re-echoed martin; "the divil you are! i wonder what's in the wind with him now. i thought blake always did his business?" "the devil a know i know, so i can't tell you; and if i did, i shouldn't, you may be sure. but a man that's just come to his property always wants a lawyer; and many a one, besides barry lynch, ain't satisfied without two." "well, any way, i wish you joy of your new client. i'm not over fond of him myself, i'll own; but then there were always rasons why he and i shouldn't pull well together. barry's always been a dale too high for me, since he was at school with the young lord. well, good evening, mr daly. never mind time car coming down the street, as you're at your friend's gate," and martin took his bag on his arm, and walked down to the inn. though martin couldn't guess, as he walked quickly down the street, what barry lynch could want with young daly, who was beginning to be known as a clever, though not over-scrupulous practitioner, he felt a presentiment that it must have some reference to anty and himself, and this made him rather uncomfortable. could barry have heard of his engagement? had anty repented of her bargain, during his short absence? had that old reptile moylan, played him false, and spoilt his game? "that must be it," said martin to himself, "and it's odd but i'll be even with the schamer, yet; only she's so asy frightened!--av' she'd the laist pluck in life, it's little i'd care for moylan or barry either." this little soliloquy brought him to the inn door. some of the tribe of loungers who were always hanging about the door, and whom in her hatred of idleness the widow would one day rout from the place, and, in her charity, feed the next, had seen martin coming down the street, and had given intelligence in the kitchen. as he walked in, therefore, at the open door, meg and jane were ready to receive him in the passage. their looks were big with some important news. martin soon saw that they had something to tell. "well, girls," he said, as he chucked his bag and coat to sally, "for heaven's sake get me something to ate, for i'm starved. what's the news at dunmore?" "it's you should have the news thin," said one, "and you just from dublin." "there's lots of news there, then; i'll tell you when i've got my dinner. how's the ould lady?" and he stepped on, as if to pass by them, upstairs. "stop a moment, martin," said meg; "don't be in a hurry; there's some one there." "who's there? is it a stranger?" "why, then, it is, and it isn't," said jane. "but you don't ask afther the young lady!" said her sister. "may i be hanged thin, av' i know what the two of ye are afther! is there people in both the rooms? come, girls, av' ye've anything to tell, why don't you out wid it and have done? i suppose i can go into the bed-room, at any rate?" "aisy, martin, and i'll tell you. anty's in the parlour." "in the parlour upstairs?" said he; "the deuce she is! and what brought her here? did she quarrel with barry, meg?" added he, in a whisper. "indeed she did, out and out," said meg. "oh, he used her horrible!" said jane. "he'll hear all about that by and by," said meg. "come up and see her now, martin." "but does mother know she's here?" "why, it was she brought her here! she fetched her down from the house, yesterday, before we was up." thus assured that anty had not been smuggled upstairs, her lover, or suitor as he might perhaps be more confidently called, proceeded to visit her. if he wished her to believe that his first impulse, on hearing of her being in the house, had been to throw himself at her feet, it would have been well that this conversation should have been carried on out of her hearing. but anty was not an exigent mistress, and was perfectly contented that as much of her recent history as possible should be explained before martin presented himself. martin went slowly upstairs, and paused a moment at the door, as if he was a little afraid of commencing the interview; he looked round to his sisters, and made a sign to them to come in with him, and then, quickly pushing open the unfastened door, walked briskly up to anty and shook hands with her. "i hope you're very well, anty," said he; "seeing you here is what i didn't expect, but i'm very glad you've come down." "thank ye, martin," replied she; "it was very good of your mother, fetching me. she's been the best friend i've had many a day." "begad, it's a fine thing to see you and the ould lady pull so well together. it was yesterday you came here?" "yesterday morning. i was so glad to come! i don't know what they'd been saying to barry; but the night before last he got drinking, and then he was very bad to me, and tried to frighten me, and so, you see, i come down to your mother till we could be friends again." anty's apology for being at the inn, was perhaps unnecessary; but, with the feeling so natural to a woman, she was half afraid that martin would fancy she had run after him, and she therefore thought it as well to tell him that it was only a temporary measure. poor anty! at the moment she said so, she trembled at the very idea of putting herself again in her brother's power. "frinds, indeed!" said meg; "how can you iver be frinds with the like of him? what nonsense you talk, anty! why, martin, he was like to murdher her!--he raised his fist to her, and knocked her down--and, afther that, swore to her he'd kill her outright av' she wouldn't sware that she'd niver--" "whist, meg! how can you go on that way?" said anty, interrupting her, and blushing. "i'll not stop in the room; don't you know he was dhrunk when he done all that?" "and won't he be dhrunk again, anty?" suggested jane. "shure he will: he'll be dhrunk always, now he's once begun," replied meg, who, of all the family was the most anxious to push her brother's suit; and who, though really fond of her friend, thought the present opportunity a great deal too good to be thrown away, and could not bear the idea of anty's even thinking of being reconciled to her brother. "won't he be always dhrunk now?" she continued; "and ain't we all frinds here? and why shouldn't you let me tell martin all? afther all's said and done, isn't he the best frind you've got?"--here anty blushed very red, and to tell the truth, so did martin too--"well so he is, and unless you tell him what's happened, how's he to know what to advise; and, to tell the truth, wouldn't you sooner do what he says than any one else?" "i'm sure i'm very much obliged to mr martin"--it had been plain martin before meg's appeal; "but your mother knows what's best for me, and i'll do whatever she says. av' it hadn't been for her, i don't know where i'd be now." "but you needn't quarrel with martin because you're frinds with mother," answered meg. "nonsense, meg," said jane, "anty's not going to quarrel with him. you hurry her too much." martin looked rather stupid all this time, but he plucked up courage and said, "who's going to quarrel? i'm shure, anty, you and i won't; but, whatever it is barry did to you, i hope you won't go back there again, now you're once here. but did he railly sthrike you in arnest?" "he did, and knocked her down," said jane. "but won't you get your brother his dinner?" said anty; "he must be very hungry, afther his ride--and won't you see your mother afther your journey, mr martin? i'm shure she's expecting you." this, for the present, put an end to the conversation; the girls went to get something for their brother to eat, and he descended into the lower regions to pay his filial respects to his mother. a considerable time passed before martin returned to the meal the three young women had provided for him, during which he was in close consultation with the widow. in the first place, she began upbraiding him for his folly in wishing to marry an old maid for her money; she then taxed him with villany, for trying to cheat anty out of her property; and when he defended himself from that charge by telling her what he had done about the settlement, she asked him how much he had to pay the rogue of a lawyer for that "gander's job". she then proceeded to point out all the difficulties which lay in the way of a marriage between him, martin, and her, anty; and showed how mad it was for either of them to think about it. from that, she got into a narrative of barry's conduct, and anty's sufferings, neither of which lost anything in the telling; and having by this time gossiped herself into a good humour, she proceeded to show how, through her means and assistance, the marriage might take place if he was still bent upon it. she eschewed all running away, and would hear of no clandestine proceedings. they should be married in the face of day, as the kellys ought, with all their friends round them. "they'd have no huggery-muggery work, up in a corner; not they indeed! why should they?--for fear of barry lynch?--who cared for a dhrunken blackguard like that?--not she indeed! who ever heard of a kelly being afraid of a lynch?--they'd ax him to come and see his sister married, and av' he didn't like it, he might do the other thing." and so, the widow got quite eloquent on the glories of the wedding, and the enormities of her son's future brother-in-law, who had, she assured martin, come down and abused her horribly, in her own shop, before all the town, because she allowed anty to stay in the house. she then proceeded to the consequences of the marriage, and expressed her hope that when martin got all that ready money he would "do something for his poor sisthers--for heaven knew they war like to be bad enough off, for all she'd be able to do for them!" from this she got to martin's own future mode of life, suggesting a "small snug cottage on the farm, just big enough for them two, and, may-be, a slip of a girl servant, and not to be taring and tatthering away, as av' money had no eend; and, afther all," she added, "there war nothing like industhry; and who know'd whether that born villain, barry, mightn't yet get sich a hoult of the money, that there'd be no getting it out of his fist?" and she then depicted, in most pathetic language, what would be the misery of herself and all the kellys if martin, flushed with his prosperity, were to give up the farm at toneroe, and afterwards find that he had been robbed of his expected property, and that he had no support for himself and his young bride. on this subject martin considerably comforted her by assuring her that he had no thoughts of abandoning toneroe, although he did not go so far as to acquiesce in the very small cottage; and he moreover expressed his thorough confidence that he would neither be led himself, nor lead anty, into the imprudence of a marriage, until he had well satisfied himself that the property was safe. the widow was well pleased to find, from martin's prudent resolves, that he was her own son, and that she needn't blush for him; and then they parted, she to her shop, and he to his dinner: not however, before he had promised her to give up all ideas of a clandestine marriage, and to permit himself to be united to his wife in the face of day, as became a kelly. the evening passed over quietly and snugly at the inn. martin had not much difficulty in persuading his three companions to take a glass of punch each out of his tumbler, and less in getting them to take a second, and, before they went to bed, he and anty were again intimate. and, as he was sitting next her for a couple of hours on the little sofa opposite the fire, it is more than probable that he got his arm round her waist--a comfortable position, which seemed in no way to shock the decorum of either meg or jane. ix. mr daly, the attorney we must now see how things went on in the enemy's camp. the attorney drove up to the door of dunmore house on his car, and was shown into the drawing-room, where he met barry lynch. the two young men were acquainted, though not intimate with each other, and they bowed, and then shook hands; and barry told the attorney that he was welcome to dunmore house, and the attorney made another bow, rubbed his hands before the fire and said it was a very cold evening; and barry said it was 'nation cold for that time of the year; which, considering that they were now in the middle of february, showed that barry was rather abroad, and didn't exactly know what to say. he remained for about a minute, silent before the fire, and then asked daly if he'd like to see his room; and, the attorney acquiescing, he led him up to it, and left him there. the truth was, that, as the time of the man's visit had drawn nearer, barry had become more and more embarrassed; and now that the attorney had absolutely come, his employer felt himself unable to explain the business before dinner. "these fellows are so confoundedly sharp--i shall never be up to him till i get a tumbler of punch on board," said he to himself, comforting himself with the reflection; "besides, i'm never well able for anything till i get a little warmed. we'll get along like a house on fire when we've got the hot water between us." the true meaning of all which was, that he hadn't the courage to make known his villanous schemes respecting his sister till he was half drunk; and, in order the earlier to bring about this necessary and now daily consummation, he sneaked downstairs and took a solitary glass of brandy to fortify himself for entertaining the attorney. the dinner was dull enough; for, of course, as long as the man was in the room there was no talking on business, and, in his present frame of mind barry was not likely to be an agreeable companion. the attorney ate his dinner as if it was a part of the fee, received in payment of the work he was to do, and with a determination to make the most of it. at last, the dishes disappeared, and with them terry rooney; who, however, like a faithful servant, felt too strong an interest in his master's affairs to be very far absent when matters of importance were likely to be discussed. "and now, mr daly," said lynch, "we can be snug here, without interruption, for an hour or two. you'll find that whiskey old and good, i think; but, if you prefer wine, that port on the table came from barton's, in sackville street." "thank ye; if i take anything, it'll be a glass of punch. but as we've business to talk of, may-be i'd better keep my head clear." "my head's never so clear then, as when i've done my second tumbler. i'm never so sure of what i'm about as when i'm a little warmed; 'but,' says you, 'because my head's strong, it's no reason another's shouldn't be weak:' but do as you like; liberty hall here now, mr daly; that is, as far as i'm concerned. you knew my father, i believe, mr daly?" "well then, mr lynch, i didn't exactly know him; but living so near him, and he having so much business in the county, and myself having a little, i believe i've been in company with him, odd times." "he was a queer man: wasn't he, mr daly?" "was he, then? i dare say. i didn't know much about him. i'll take the sugar from you, mr lynch; i believe i might as well mix a drop, as the night's cold." "that's right. i thought you weren't the fellow to sit with an empty glass before you. but, as i was saying before, the old boy was a queer hand; that is, latterly--for the last year or so. of course you know all about his will?" "faith then, not much. i heard he left a will, dividing the property between you and miss lynch." "he did! just at the last moment, when the breath wasn't much more than left in him, he signed a will, making away half the estate, just as you say, to my sister. blake could have broke the will, only he was so d---- pig-headed and stupid. it's too late now, i suppose?" "why, i could hardly answer that, you know, as i never heard the circumstances; but i was given to understand that blake consulted mcmahon; and that mcmahon wouldn't take up the case, as there was nothing he could put before the chancellor. mind i'm only repeating what people said in tuam, and about there. of course, i couldn't think of advising till i knew the particulars. was it on this subject, mr lynch, you were good enough to send for me?" "not at all, mr daly. i look upon that as done and gone; bad luck to blake and mcmahon, both. the truth is, between you and me, daly--i don't mind telling you; as i hope now you will become my man of business, and it's only fair you should know all about it--the truth is, blake was more interested on the other side, and he was determined the case shouldn't go before the chancellor. but, when my father signed that will, it was just after one of those fits he had lately; that could be proved, and he didn't know what he was doing, from adam! he didn't know what was in the will, nor, that he was signing a will at all; so help me, he didn't. however, that's over. it wasn't to talk about that that i sent for you; only, sorrow seize the rogue that made the old man rob me! it wasn't anty herself, poor creature; she knew nothing about it; it was those who meant to get hold of my money, through her, that did it. poor anty! heaven knows she wasn't up to such a dodge as that!" "well, mr lynch, of course i know nothing of the absolute facts; but from what i hear, i think it's as well to let the will alone. the chancellor won't put a will aside in a hurry; it's always a difficult job--would cost an immense sum of money, which should, any way, come out of the property; and, after all, the chances are ten to one you'd be beat." "perhaps you're right, now; though i'm sure, had the matter been properly taken up at first--had you seen the whole case at the first start, the thing could have been done. i'm sure you would have said so; but that's over now; it's another business i want you for. but you don't drink your punch!--and it's dry work talking, without wetting one's whistle," and barry carried out his own recommendation. "i'm doing very well, thank ye, mr lynch. and what is it i can do for you?" "that's what i'm coming to. you know that, by the will, my sister anty gets from four to five hundred a year?" "i didn't know the amount; but i believe she has half whatever there is." "exactly: half the land, half the cash, half the house, half everything, except the debts! and those were contracted in my name, and i must pay them all. isn't that hard, mr daly?" "i didn't know your father had debts." "oh, but he had--debts which ought to have been his; though, as i said, they stand in my name, and i must pay them." "and, i suppose, what you now want is to saddle the debts on the entire property? if you can really prove that the debts were incurred for your father's benefit, i should think you might do that. but has your sister refused to pay the half? they can't be heavy. won't miss lynch agree to pay the half herself?" this last lie of barry's--for, to give the devil his due, old sim hadn't owed one penny for the last twenty years--was only a bright invention of the moment, thrown off by our injured hero to aggravate the hardships of his case; but he was determined to make the most of it. "not heavy?--faith, they _are_ heavy, and d----d heavy too, mr daly!--what'll take two hundred a-year out of my miserable share of the property; divil a less. oh! there's never any knowing how a man'll cut up till he's gone." "that's true; but how could your father owe such a sum as that, and no one know it? why, that must be four or five thousand pounds?" "about five, i believe." "and you've put your name to them, isn't that it?" "something like it. you know, he and lord ballindine, years ago, were fighting about the leases we held under the old lord; and then, the old man wanted ready money, and borrowed it in dublin; and, some years since--that is, about three years ago,--sooner than see any of the property sold, i took up the debt myself. you know, it was all as good as my own then; and now, confound it! i must pay the whole out of the miserable thing that's left me under this infernal will. but it wasn't even about that i sent for you; only, i must explain exactly how matters are, before i come to the real point." "but your father's name must be joined with yours in the debt; and, if so, you can come upon the entire property for the payment. there's no difficulty about that; your sister, of course, must pay the half." "it's not so, my dear fellow. i can't explain the thing exactly, but it's i that owe the money, and i must pay it. but it's no good talking of that. well, you see, anty that's my sister, has this property all in her own hands. but you don't drink your punch," and barry mixed his third tumbler. "of course she has; and, surely she won't refuse to pay half the claims on the estate?" "never mind the claims!" answered barry, who began to fear that he had pushed his little invention a thought too far. "i tell you, i must stand to them; you don't suppose i'd ask her to pay a penny as a favour? no; i'm a little too proud for that. besides, it'd be no use, not the least; and that's what i'm coming to. you see, anty's got this money, and--you know, don't you, mr daly, poor anty's not just like other people?" "no," said mr daly--"i didn't. i can't say i know much about miss lynch. i never had the pleasure of seeing her." "but did you never hear she wasn't quite right?" "indeed, i never did, then." "well that's odd; but we never had it much talked about, poor creature. indeed, there was no necessity for people to know much about it, for she never gave any trouble; and, to tell the truth, as long as she was kept quiet, she never gave us occasion to think much about it. but, confound them for rogues--those who have got hold of her now, have quite upset her." "but what is it ails your sister, mr lynch?" "to have it out, at once, then--she's not right in her upper story. mind, i don't mean she's a downright lunatic; but she's cracked, poor thing, and quite unable to judge for herself, in money-matters, and such like; and, though she might have done very well, poor thing, and passed without notice, if she'd been left quiet, as was always intended, i'm afraid now, unless she's well managed, she'd end her life in the ballinasloe asylum." the attorney made no answer to this, although barry paused, to allow him to do so. daly was too sharp, and knew his employer's character too well to believe all he said, and he now began to fancy that he saw what the affectionate brother was after. "well, daly," continued barry, after a minute's pause; "after the old man died, we went on quiet enough for some time. i was up in dublin mostly, about that confounded loan, and poor anty was left here by herself; and what should she do, but take up with a low huxter's family in the town here." "that's bad," said the attorney. "was there an unmarried young man among them at all?" "faith there was so; as great a blackguard as there is in connaught." "and miss lynch is going to marry him?" "that's just it, daly; that's what we must prevent. you know, for the sake of the family, i couldn't let it go on. then, poor creature, she'd be plundered and ill-treated--she'd be a downright idiot in no time; and, you know, daly, the property'd go to the devil; and where'd i be then?" daly couldn't help thinking that, in all probability, his kind host would not be long in following the property; but he did not say so. he merely asked the name of the "blackguard" whom miss anty meant to marry? "wait till i tell you the whole of it. the first thing i heard was, that anty had made a low ruffian, named moylan, her agent." "i know him; she couldn't have done much worse. well?" "she made him her agent without speaking to me, or telling me a word about it; and i couldn't make out what had put it into her head, till i heard that this old rogue was a kind of cousin to some people living here, named kelly." "what, the widow, that keeps the inn?" "the very same! confound her, for an impertinent scheming old hag, as she is. well; that's the house that anty was always going to; drinking tea with the daughters, and walking with the son--an infernal young farmer, that lives with them, the worst of the whole set." "what, martin kelly?--there's worse fellows than him, mr lynch." "i'll be hanged if i know them, then; but if there are, i don't choose my poor sister--only one remove from an idiot, and hardly that--to be carried off from her mother's house, and married to such a fellow as that. why, it's all the same infernal plot; it's the same people that got the old man to sign the will, when he was past his senses!" "begad, they must have been clever to do that! how the deuce could they have got the will drawn?" "i tell you, they _did_ do it!" answered barry, whose courage was now somewhat raised by the whiskey. "that's neither here nor there, but they did it; and, when the old fool was dead, they got this moylan made anty's agent: and then, the hag of a mother comes up here, before daylight, and bribes the servant, and carries her off down to her filthy den, which she calls an inn; and when i call to see my sister, i get nothing but insolence and abuse." "and when did this happen? when did miss lynch leave the house?" "yesterday morning, about four o'clock." "she went down of her own accord, though?" "d----l a bit. the old hag came up here, and filched her out of her bed." "but she couldn't have taken your sister away, unless she had wished to go." "of course she wished it; but a silly creature like her can't be let to do all she wishes.. she wishes to get a husband, and doesn't care what sort of a one she gets; but you don't suppose an old maid--forty years old, who has always been too stupid and foolish ever to be seen or spoken to, should be allowed to throw away four hundred a-year, on the first robber that tries to cheat her? you don't mean to say there isn't a law to prevent that?" "i don't know how you'll prevent it, mr lynch. she's her own mistress." "what the d----l! do you mean to say there's nothing to prevent an idiot like that from marrying?" "if she _was_ an idiot! but i think you'll find your sister has sense enough to marry whom she pleases." "i tell you she _is_ an idiot; not raving, mind; but everybody knows she was never fit to manage anything." "who'd prove it!" "why, i would. divil a doubt of it! i could prove that she never could, all her life." "ah, my dear sir! you couldn't do it; nor could i advise you to try--that is, unless there were plenty more who could swear positively that she was out of her mind. would the servants swear that? could you yourself, now, positively swear that she was out of her mind?" "why--she never had any mind to be out of." "unless you are very sure she is, and, for a considerable time back, has been, a confirmed lunatic, you'd be very wrong--very ill-advised, i mean, mr lynch, to try that game at all. things would come out which you wouldn't like; and your motives would be--would be--" seen through at once, the attorney was on the point of saying, but he stopped himself, and finished by the words "called in question". "and i'm to sit here, then, and see that young blackguard kelly, run off with what ought to be my own, and my sister into the bargain? i'm blessed if i do! if you can't put me in the way of stopping it, i'll find those that can." "you're getting too much in a hurry, mr lynch. is your sister at the inn now?" "to be sure she is." "and she is engaged to this young man?" "she is." "why, then, she might be married to him to-morrow, for anything you know." "she might, if he was here. but they tell me he's away, in dublin." "if they told you so to-day, they told you wrong: he came into dunmore, from tuam, on the same car with myself, this very afternoon." "what, martin kelly? then he'll be off with her this night, while we're sitting here!" and barry jumped up, as if to rush out, and prevent the immediate consummation of his worst fears. "stop a moment, mr lynch," said the more prudent and more sober lawyer. "if they were off, you couldn't follow them; and, if you did follow and find them, you couldn't prevent their being married, if such were their wish, and they had a priest ready to do it. take my advice; remain quiet where you are, and let's talk the matter over. as for taking out a commission 'de lunatico', as we call it, you'll find you couldn't do it. miss lynch may be a little weak or so in the upper story, but she's not a lunatic; and you couldn't make her so, if you had half dunmore to back you, because she'd be brought before the commissioners herself, and that, you know, would soon settle the question. but you might still prevent the marriage, for a time, at any rate--at least, i think so; and, after that, you must trust to the chapter of accidents." "so help me, that's all i want! if i got her once up here again, and was sure the thing was off, for a month or so, let me alone, then, for bringing her to reason!" as daly watched his comrade's reddening face, and saw the malicious gleam of his eyes as he declared how easily he'd manage the affair, if poor anty was once more in the house, his heart misgave him, even though he was a sharp attorney, at the idea of assisting such a cruel brute in his cruelty; and, for a moment, he had determined to throw up the matter. barry was so unprincipled, and so wickedly malicious in his want of principle, that he disgusted even daly. but, on second thoughts, the lawyer remembered that if he didn't do the job, another would; and, quieting his not very violent qualms of conscience with the idea that, though employed by the brother, he might also, to a certain extent, protect the sister, he proceeded to give his advice as to the course which would be most likely to keep the property out of the hands of the kellys. he explained to barry that, as anty had left her own home in company with martin's mother, and as she now was a guest at the widow's, it was unlikely that any immediate clandestine marriage should be resorted to; that their most likely course would be to brazen the matter out, and have the wedding solemnised without any secrecy, and without any especial notice to him, barry. that, on the next morning, a legal notice should be prepared in tuam, and served on the widow, informing her that it was his intention to indict her for conspiracy, in enticing away from her own home his sister anty, for the purpose of obtaining possession of her property, she being of weak mind, and not able properly to manage her own affairs; that a copy of this notice should also be sent to martin, warning him that he would be included in the indictment if he took any proceedings with regard to miss lynch; and that a further copy should, if possible, be put into the hands of miss lynch herself. "you may be sure that'll frighten them," continued daly; "and then, you know, when we see what sort of fight they make, we'll be able to judge whether we ought to go on and prosecute or not. i think the widow'll be very shy of meddling, when she finds you're in earnest. and you see, mr lynch," he went on, dropping his voice, "if you _do_ go into court, as i don't think you will, you'll go with clean hands, as you ought to do. nobody can say anything against you for trying to prevent your sister from marrying a man so much younger than herself, and so much inferior in station and fortune; you won't seem to gain anything by it, and that's everything with a jury; and then, you know, if it comes out that miss lynch's mind is rather touched, it's an additional reason why you should protect her from intriguing and interested schemers. don't you see?" barry did see, or fancied he saw, that he had now got the kellys in a dead fix, and anty back into his own hands again; and his self-confidence having been fully roused by his potations, he was tolerably happy, and talked very loudly of the manner in which he would punish those low-bred huxters, who had presumed to interfere with him in the management of his family. towards the latter end of the evening, he became even more confidential, and showed the cloven foot, if possible, more undisguisedly than he had hitherto done. he spoke of the impossibility of allowing four hundred a year to be carried off from him, and suggested to daly that his sister would soon drop off,--that there would then be a nice thing left, and that he, daly, should have the agency, and if he pleased, the use of dunmore house. as for himself, he had no idea of mewing himself up in such a hole as that; but, before he went, he'd take care to drive that villain, moylan, out of the place. "the cursed villany of those kellys, to go and palm such a robber as that off on his sister, by way of an agent!" to all this, daly paid but little attention, for he saw that his host was drunk. but when moylan's name was mentioned, he began to think that it might be as well either to include him in the threatened indictment, or else, which would be better still, to buy him over to their side, as they might probably learn from him what martin's plans really were. barry was, however, too tipsy to pay much attention to this, or to understand any deep-laid plans. so the two retired to their beds, barry determined, as he declared to the attorney in his drunken friendship, to have it out of anty, when he caught her; and daly promising to go to tuam early in the morning, have the notices prepared and served, and come back in the evening to dine and sleep, and have, if possible, an interview with mr moylan. as he undressed, he reflected that, during his short professional career, he had been thrown into the society of many unmitigated rogues of every description; but that his new friend, barry lynch, though he might not equal them in energy of villany and courage to do serious evil, beat them all hollow in selfishness, and utter brutal want of feeling, conscience, and principle. x. dot blake's advice in hour or two after martin kelly had left porto bello in the ballinasloe fly-boat, our other hero, lord ballindine, and his friend dot blake, started from morrison's hotel, with post horses, for handicap lodge; and, as they travelled in blake's very comfortable barouche, they reached their destination in time for a late dinner, without either adventure or discomfort. here they remained for some days, fully occupied with the education of their horses, the attention necessary to the engagements for which they were to run, and with their betting-books. lord ballindine's horse, brien boru, was destined to give the saxons a dressing at epsom, and put no one knows how many thousands into his owner's hands, by winning the derby; and arrangements had already been made for sending him over to john scott, the english trainer, at an expense, which, if the horse should by chance fail to be successful, would be of very serious consequence to his lordship. but lord ballindine had made up his mind, or rather, blake had made it up for him, and the thing was to be done; the risk was to be run, and the preparations--the sweats and the gallops, the physicking, feeding, and coddling, kept frank tolerably well employed; though the whole process would have gone on quite as well, had he been absent. it was not so, however, with dot blake. the turf, to him, was not an expensive pleasure, but a very serious business, and one which, to give him his due, he well understood. he himself, regulated the work, both of his horses and his men, and saw that both did what was allotted to them. he took very good care that he was never charged a guinea, where a guinea was not necessary; and that he got a guinea's worth for every guinea he laid out. in fact, he trained his own horses, and was thus able to assure himself that his interests were never made subservient to those of others who kept horses in the same stables. dot was in his glory, and in his element on the curragh, and he was never quite happy anywhere else. this, however, was not the case with his companion. for a couple of days the excitement attending brien boru was sufficient to fill lord ballindine's mind; but after that, he could not help recurring to other things. he was much in want of money, and had been civilly told by his agent's managing clerk, before he left town, that there was some difficulty in the way of his immediately getting the sum required. this annoyed him, for he could not carry on the game without money. and then, again, he was unhappy to be so near fanny wyndham, from day to day, without seeing her. he was truly and earnestly attached to her, and miserable at the threat which had been all but made by her guardian, that the match should be broken off. it was true that he had made up his mind not to go to grey abbey, as long as he remained at handicap lodge, and, having made the resolution, he thought he was wise in keeping it; but still, he continually felt that she must be aware that he was in the neighbourhood, and could not but be hurt at his apparent indifference. and then he knew that her guardian would make use of his present employment--his sojourn at such a den of sporting characters as his friend blake's habitation--and his continued absence from grey abbey though known to be in its vicinity, as additional arguments for inducing his ward to declare the engagement at an end. these troubles annoyed him, and though he daily stood by and saw brien boru go through his manoeuvres, he was discontented and fidgety. he had been at handicap lodge about a fortnight, and was beginning to feel anything but happy. his horse was to go over in another week, money was not plentiful with him, and tradesmen were becoming obdurate and persevering. his host, blake, was not a soothing or a comfortable friend, under these circumstances: he gave him a good deal of practical advice, but he could not sympathise with him. blake was a sharp, hard, sensible man, who reduced everything to pounds shillings and pence. lord ballindine was a man of feeling, and for the time, at least, a man of pleasure; and, though they were, or thought themselves friends, they did not pull well together; in fact, they bored each other terribly. one morning, lord ballindine was riding out from the training-ground, when he met, if not an old, at any rate an intimate acquaintance, named tierney. mr or, as he was commonly called, mat tierney, was a bachelor, about sixty years of age, who usually inhabited a lodge near the curragh; and who kept a horse or two on the turf, more for the sake of the standing which it gave him in the society he liked best, than from any intense love of the sport. he was a fat, jolly fellow, always laughing, and usually in a good humour; he was very fond of what he considered the world; and the world, at least that part of it which knew him, returned the compliment. "well, my lord," said he, after a few minutes of got-up enthusiasm respecting brien boru, "i congratulate you, sincerely." "what about?" said lord ballindine. "why, i find you've got a first-rate horse, and i hear you've got rid of a first-rate lady. you're very lucky, no doubt, in both; but i think fortune has stood to you most, in the latter." lord ballindine was petrified: he did not know what to reply. he was aware that his engagement with miss wyndham was so public that tierney could allude to no other lady; but he could not conceive how any one could have heard that his intended marriage was broken off--at any rate how he could have heard it spoken of so publicly, as to induce him to mention it in that sort of way, to himself. his first impulse was to be very indignant; but he felt that no one would dream of quarrelling with mat tierney; so he said, as soon as he was able to collect his thoughts sufficiently, "i was not aware of the second piece of luck, mr tierney. pray who is the lady?" "why, miss wyndham," said mat, himself a little astonished at lord ballindine's tone. "i'm sure, mr tierney," said frank, "you would say nothing, particularly in connection with a lady's name, which you intended either to be impertinent, or injurious. were it not that i am quite certain of this, i must own that what you have just said would appear to be both." "my dear lord," said the other, surprised and grieved, "i beg ten thousand pardons, if i have unintentionally said anything, which you feel to be either. but, surely, if i am not wrong in asking, the match between you and miss wyndham is broken off?" "may i ask you, mr tierney, who told you so?" "certainly--lord kilcullen; and, as he is miss wyndham's cousin, and lord cashel's son, i could not but think the report authentic." this overset frank still more thoroughly. lord kilcullen would never have spread the report publicly unless he had been authorised to do so by lord cashel. frank and lord kilcullen had never been intimate; and the former was aware that the other had always been averse to the proposed marriage; but still, he would never have openly declared that the marriage was broken off, had he not had some authority for saying so. "as you seem somewhat surprised," continued mat, seeing that lord ballindine remained silent, and apparently at a loss for what he ought to say, "perhaps i ought to tell you, that lord kilcullen mentioned it last night very publicly--at a dinner-party, as an absolute fact. indeed, from his manner, i thought he wished it to be generally made known. i presumed, therefore, that it had been mutually agreed between you, that the event was not to come off--that the match was not to be run; and, with my peculiar views, you know, on the subject of matrimony, i thought it a fair point for congratulation. if lord kilcullen had misled me, i heartily beg to apologise; and at the same time, by giving you my authority, to show you that i could not intend anything impertinent. if it suits you, you are quite at liberty to tell lord kilcullen all i have told you; and, if you wish me to contradict the report, which i must own i have spread, i will do so." frank felt that he could not be angry with mat tierney; he therefore thanked him for his open explanation, and, merely muttering something about private affairs not being worthy of public interest, rode off towards handicap lodge. it appeared very plain to him that the grey abbey family must have discarded him--that fanny wyndham, lord and lady cashel, and the whole set, must have made up their minds to drop him altogether; otherwise, one of the family would not have openly declared the match at an end. and yet he was at a loss to conceive how they could have done so--how even lord cashel could have reconciled it to himself to do so, without the common-place courtesy of writing to him on the subject. and then, when he thought of her, "his own fanny," as he had so often called her, he was still more bewildered: she, with whom he had sat for so many sweet hours talking of the impossibility of their ever forgetting, deserting, or even slighting each other; she, who had been so entirely devoted to him--so much more than engaged to him--could she have lent her name to such a heartless mode of breaking her faith? "if i had merely proposed for her through her guardian," thought frank, to himself--"if i had got lord cashel to make the engagement, as many men do, i should not be surprised; but after all that has passed between us--after all her vows, and all her--" and then lord ballindine struck his horse with his heel, and made a cut at the air with his whip, as he remembered certain passages more binding even than promises, warmer even than vows, which seemed to make him as miserable now as they had made him happy at the time of their occurrence. "i would not believe it," he continued, meditating, "if twenty kilcullens said it, or if fifty mat tierneys swore to it!" and then he rode on towards the lodge, in a state of mind for which i am quite unable to account, if his disbelief in fanny wyndham's constancy was really as strong as he had declared it to be. and, as he rode, many unusual thoughts--for, hitherto, frank had not been a very deep-thinking man--crowded his mind, as to the baseness, falsehood, and iniquity of the human race, especially of rich cautious old peers who had beautiful wards in their power. by the time he had reached the lodge, he had determined that he must now do something, and that, as he was quite unable to come to any satisfactory conclusion on his own unassisted judgment, he must consult blake, who, by the bye, was nearly as sick of fanny wyndham as he would have been had he himself been the person engaged to marry her. as he rode round to the yard, he saw his friend standing at the door of one of the stables, with a cigar in his mouth. "well, frank, how does brien go to-day? not that he'll ever be the thing till he gets to the other side of the water. they'll never be able to bring a horse out as he should be, on the curragh, till they've regular trained gallops. the slightest frost in spring, or sun in summer, and the ground's so hard, you might as well gallop your horse down the pavement of grafton street." "confound the horse," answered frank; "come here, dot, a minute. i want to speak to you." "what the d----l's the matter?--he's not lame, is he?" "who?--what?--brien boru? not that i know of. i wish the brute had never been foaled." "and why so? what crotchet have you got in your head now? something wrong about fanny, i suppose?" "why, did you hear anything?" "nothing but what you've told me." "i've just seen mat tierney, and he told me that kilcullen had declared, at a large dinner-party, yesterday, that the match between me and his cousin was finally broken off." "you wouldn't believe what mat tierney would say? mat was only taking a rise out of you." "not at all: he was not only speaking seriously, but he told me what i'm very sure was the truth, as far as lord kilcullen was concerned. i mean, i'm sure kilcullen said it, and in the most public manner he could; and now, the question is, what had i better do?" "there's no doubt as to what you'd better do; the question is what you'd rather do?" "but what had i _better_ do? call on kilcullen for an explanation?" "that's the last thing to think of. no; but declare what he reports to be the truth; return miss wyndham the lock of hair you have in your desk, and next your heart, or wherever you keep it; write her a pretty note, and conclude by saying that the 'adriatic's free to wed another'. that's what i should do." "it's very odd, blake, that you won't speak seriously to a man for a moment. you've as much heart in you as one of your own horses. i wish i'd never come to this cursed lodge of yours. i'd be all right then." "as for my heart, frank, if i have as much as my horses, i ought to be contented--for race-horses are usually considered to have a good deal; as for my cursed lodge, i can assure you i have endeavoured, and, if you will allow me, i will still endeavour, to make it as agreeable to you as i am able; and as to my speaking seriously, upon my word, i never spoke more so. you asked me what i thought you had better do--and i began by telling you there would be a great difference between that and what you'd rather do." "but, in heaven's name, why would you have me break off with miss wyndham, when every one knows i'm engaged to her; and when you know that i wish to marry her?" "firstly, to prevent her breaking off with you--though i fear there's hardly time for that; and secondly, in consequence--as the newspapers say, of incompatibility of temper." "why, you don't even know her!" "but i know you, and i know what your joint income would be, and i know that there would be great incompatibility between you, as lord ballindine, with a wife and family--and fifteen hundred a year, or so. but mind, i'm only telling you what i think you'd better do." "well, i shan't do that. if i was once settled down, i could live as well on fifteen hundred a year as any country gentleman in ireland. it's only the interference of lord cashel that makes me determined not to pull in till i am married. if he had let me have my own way, i shouldn't, by this time, have had a horse in the world, except one or two hunters or so, down in the country." "well, frank, if you're determined to get yourself married, i'll give you the best advice in my power as to the means of doing it. isn't that what you want?" "i want to know what you think i ought to do, just at this minute." "with matrimony as the winning-post?" "you know i wish to marry fanny wyndham." "and the sooner the better--is that it?" "of course. she'll be of age now, in a few days," replied lord ballindine. "then i advise you to order a new blue coat, and to buy a wedding-ring." "confusion!" cried frank, stamping his foot; and turning away in a passion; and then he took up his hat, to rush out of the room, in which the latter part of the conversation had taken place. "stop a minute, frank," said blake, "and don't be in a passion. what i said was only meant to show you how easy i think it is for you to marry miss wyndham if you choose." "easy! and every soul at grey abbey turned against me, in consequence of my owning that brute of a horse! i'll go over there at once, and i'll show lord cashel that at any rate he shall not treat me like a child. as for kilcullen, if he interferes with me or my name in any way, i'll--" "you'll what?--thrash him?" "indeed, i'd like nothing better!" "and then shoot him--be tried by your peers--and perhaps hung; is that it?" "oh, that's nonsense. i don't wish to fight any one, but i am not going to be insulted." "i don't think you are: i don't think there's the least chance of kilcullen insulting you; he has too much worldly wisdom. but to come back to miss wyndham: if you really mean to marry her, and if, as i believe, she is really fond of you, lord cashel and all the family can't prevent it. she is probably angry that you have not been over there; he is probably irate at your staying here, and, not unlikely, has made use of her own anger to make her think that she has quarrelled with you; and hence kilcullen's report." "and what shall i do now?" "nothing to-day, but eat your dinner, and drink your wine. ride over to-morrow, see lord cashel, and tell him--but do it quite coolly, if you can--exactly what you have heard, and how you have heard it, and beg him to assure lord kilcullen that he is mistaken in his notion that the match is off; and beg also that the report may not be repeated. do this; and do it as if you were lord cashel's equal, not as if you were his son, or his servant. if you are collected and steady with him for ten minutes, you'll soon find that he will become bothered and unsteady." "that's very easy to say here, but it's not so easy to do there. you don't know him as i do: he's so sedate, and so slow, and so dull--especially sitting alone, as he does of a morning, in that large, dingy, uncomfortable, dusty-looking book-room of his. he measures his words like senna and salts, and their tone is as disagreeable." "then do you drop out yours like prussic acid, and you'll beat him at his own game. those are all externals, my dear fellow. when a man knows he has nothing within his head to trust to,--when he has neither sense nor genius, he puts on a wig, ties up his neck in a white choker, sits in a big chair, and frightens the world with his silence. remember, if you were not a baby, he would not be a bugbear." "and should i not ask to see fanny?" "by all means. don't leave grey abbey without seeing and making your peace with miss wyndham. that'll be easy with you, because it's your _métier_. i own that with myself it would be the most difficult part of the morning's work. but don't ask to see her as a favour. when you've done with the lord (and don't let your conference be very long)--when you've done with the lord, tell him you'll say a word to the lady; and, whatever may have been his pre-determination, you'll find that, if you're cool, he'll be bothered, and he won't know how to refuse; and if he doesn't prevent you, i'm sure miss wyndham won't." "and if he asks about these wretched horses of mine?" "don't let him talk more about your affairs than you can help; but, if he presses you--and he won't if you play your game well--tell him that you're quite aware your income won't allow you to keep up an establishment at the curragh after you're married." "but about brien boru, and the derby?" "brien boru! you might as well talk to him about your washing-bills! don't go into particulars--stick to generals. he'll never ask you those questions unless he sees you shiver and shake like a half-whipped school-boy." after a great deal of confabulation, in which dot blake often repeated his opinion of lord ballindine's folly in not rejoicing at an opportunity of breaking off the match, it was determined that frank should ride over the next morning, and do exactly what his friend proposed. if, however, one might judge from his apparent dread of the interview with lord cashel, there was but little chance of his conducting it with the coolness or assurance insisted on by dot. the probability was, that when the time did come, he would, as blake said, shiver and shake like a half-whipped school-boy. "and what will you do when you're married, frank?" said blake; "for i'm beginning to think the symptoms are strong, and you'll hardly get out of it now." "do! why, i suppose i'll do much the same as others--have two children, and live happy ever afterwards." "i dare say you're right about the two children, only you might say two dozen; but as to the living happy, that's more problematical. what do you mean to eat and drink?" "eggs--potatoes and bacon--buttermilk, and potheen [ ]. it's odd if i can't get plenty of them in mayo, if i've nothing better." [footnote : pootheen--illegal (untaxed) whiskey, "moonshine"] "i suppose you will, frank; but bacon won't go down well after venison; and a course of claret is a bad preparative for potheen punch. you're not the man to live, with a family, on a small income, and what the d----l you'll do i don't know. you'll fortify kelly's court--that'll be the first step." "is it against the repealers?" "faith, no; you'll join them, of course: but against the sub-sheriff, and his officers--an army much more likely to crown their enterprises with success." "you seem to forget, dot, that, after all, i'm marrying a girl with quite as large a fortune as i had any right to expect." "the limit to your expectations was only in your own modesty; the less you had a right--in the common parlance--to expect, the more you wanted, and the more you ought to have looked for. say that miss wyndham's fortune clears a thousand a year of your property, you would never be able to get along on what you'd have. no; i'll tell you what you'll do. you'll shut up kelly's court, raise the rents, take a moderate house in london; and lord cashel, when his party are in, will get you made a court stick of, and you'll lead just such a life as your grandfather. if it's not very glorious, at any rate it's a useful kind of life. i hope miss wyndham will like it. you'll have to christen your children ernest and albert, and that sort of thing; that's the worst of it; and you'll never be let to sit down, and that's a bore. but you've strong legs. it would never do for me. i could never stand out a long tragedy in drury lane, with my neck in a stiff white choker, and my toes screwed into tight dress boots. i'd sooner be a porter myself, for he can go to bed when the day's over." "you're very witty, dot; but you know i'm the last man in ireland, not excepting yourself, to put up with that kind of thing. whatever i may have to live on, i shall live in my own country, and on my own property." "very well; if you won't be a gold stick, there's the other alternative: fortify kelly's court, and prepare for the sheriff's officers. of the two, there's certainly more fun in it; and you can go out with the harriers on a sunday afternoon, and live like a 'ra'al o'kelly of the ould times';--only the punch'll kill you in about ten years." "go on, dot, go on. you want to provoke me, but you won't. i wonder whether you'd bear it as well, if i told you you'd die a broken-down black-leg, without a friend or a shilling to bless you." "i don't think i should, because i should know that you were threatening me with a fate which my conduct and line of life would not warrant any one in expecting." "upon my word, then, i think there's quite as much chance of that as there is of my getting shut up by bailiffs in kelly's court, and dying drunk. i'll bet you fifty pounds i've a better account at my bankers than you have in ten years." "faith, i'll not take it. it'll be hard work getting fifty pounds out of you, then! in the meantime, come and play a game of billiards before dinner." to this lord ballindine consented, and they adjourned to the billiard-room; but, before they commenced playing, blake declared that if the names of lord cashel or miss wyndham were mentioned again that evening, he should retreat to his own room, and spend the hours by himself; so, for the rest of that day, lord ballindine was again driven back upon brien boru and the derby for conversation, as dot was too close about his own stable to talk much of his own horses and their performances, except when he was doing so with an eye to business. xi. the earl of cashel about two o'clock on the following morning, lord ballindine set off for grey abbey, on horseback, dressed with something more than ordinary care, and with a considerable palpitation about his heart. he hardly knew, himself, what or whom he feared, but he knew that he was afraid of something. he had a cold, sinking sensation within him, and he felt absolutely certain that he should be signally defeated in his present mission. he had plenty of what is usually called courage; had his friend recommended him instantly to call out lord kilcullen and shoot him, and afterwards any number of other young men who might express a thought in opposition to his claim on miss wyndham's hand, he would have set about it with the greatest readiness and aptitude; but he knew he could not baffle the appalling solemnity of lord cashel, in his own study. frank was not so very weak a man as he would appear to be when in the society of blake. he unfortunately allowed blake to think for him in many things, and he found a convenience in having some one to tell him what to do; but he was, in most respects, a better, and in some, even a wiser man than his friend. he often felt that the kind of life he was leading--contracting debts which he could not pay, and spending his time in pursuits which were not really congenial to him, was unsatisfactory and discreditable: and it was this very feeling, and the inability to defend that which he knew to be wrong and foolish, which made him so certain that he would not be able successfully to persist in his claim to miss wyndham's hand in opposition to the trite and well-weighed objections, which he knew her guardian would put forward. he consoled himself, however, with thinking that, at any rate, they could not prevent his seeing her; and he was quite sanguine as to her forgiveness, if he but got a fair opportunity of asking it. and when that was obtained, why should the care for any one? fanny would be of age, and her own mistress, in a few days, and all the solemn earls in england, and ireland too, could not then prevent her marrying whom and when she liked. he thought a great deal on all his friend had said to his future poverty; but then, his ideas and blake's were very different about life. blake's idea of happiness was, the concentrating of every thing into a focus for his own enjoyment; whereas he, frank, had only had recourse to dissipation and extravagance, because he had nothing to make home pleasant to him. if he once had fanny wyndham installed as lady ballindine, at kelly's court, he was sure he could do his duty as a country gentleman, and live on his income, be it what it might, not only without grumbling, but without wishing for anything more. he was fond of his country, his name, and his countrymen: he was fully convinced of his folly in buying race-horses, and in allowing himself to be dragged on the turf: he would sell brien boru, and the other two irish chieftains, for what they would fetch, and show fanny and her guardian that he was in earnest in his intention of reforming. blake might laugh at him if he liked; but he would not stay to be laughed at. he felt that handicap lodge was no place for him; and besides, why should he bear dot's disagreeable sarcasms? it was not the part of a real friend to say such cutting things as he continually did. after all, lord cashel would be a safer friend, or, at any rate, adviser; and, instead of trying to defeat him by coolness or insolence, he would at once tell him of all his intentions, explain to him exactly how matters stood, and prove his good resolutions by offering to take whatever steps the earl might recommend about the horses. this final determination made him easier in this mind, and, as he entered the gates of grey abbey park, he was tolerably comfortable, trusting to his own good resolutions, and the effect which he felt certain the expression of them must have on lord cashel. grey abbey is one of the largest but by no means one of the most picturesque demesnes in ireland. it is situated in the county of kildare, about two miles from the little town of kilcullen, in a flat, uninteresting, and not very fertile country. the park itself is extensive and tolerably well wooded, but it wants water and undulation, and is deficient of any object of attraction, except that of size and not very magnificent timber. i suppose, years ago, there was an abbey here, or near the spot, but there is now no vestige of it remaining. in a corner of the demesne there are standing the remains of one of those strong, square, ugly castles, which, two centuries since, were the real habitations of the landed proprietors of the country, and many of which have been inhabited even to a much later date. they now afford the strongest record of the apparently miserable state of life which even the favoured of the land then endured, and of the numberless domestic comforts which years and skill have given us, apt as we are to look back with fond regret to the happy, by-gone days of past periods. this old castle, now used as a cow-shed, is the only record of antiquity at grey abbey; and yet the ancient family of the greys have lived there for centuries. the first of them who possessed property in ireland, obtained in the reign of henry ii, grants of immense tracts of land, stretching through wicklow, kildare, and the queen's and king's counties; and, although his descendants have been unable to retain, through the various successive convulsions which have taken place in the interior of ireland since that time, anything like an eighth of what the family once pretended to claim, the earl of cashel, their present representative, has enough left to enable him to consider himself a very great man. the present mansion, built on the site of that in which the family had lived till about seventy years since, is, like the grounds, large, commodious, and uninteresting. it is built of stone, which appears as if it had been plastered over, is three stories high, and the windows are all of the same size, and at regular intervals. the body of the house looks like a huge, square, dutch old lady, and the two wings might be taken for her two equally fat, square, dutch daughters. inside, the furniture is good, strong, and plain. there are plenty of drawing-rooms, sitting-rooms, bed-rooms, and offices; a small gallery of very indifferent paintings, and a kitchen, with an excellent kitchen-range, and patent boilers of every shape. considering the nature of the attractions, it is somewhat strange that lord cashel should have considered it necessary to make it generally known that the park might be seen any day between the hours of nine and six, and the house, on tuesdays and fridays between the hours of eleven and four. yet such is the case, and the strangeness of this proceeding on his part is a good deal diminished by the fact that persons, either induced by lord cashel's good nature, or thinking that any big house must be worth seeing, very frequently pay half-a-crown to the housekeeper for the privilege of being dragged through every room in the mansion. there is a bed there, in which the regent slept when in ireland, and a room which was tenanted by lord normanby, when lord lieutenant. there is, moreover, a satin counterpane, which was made by the lord's aunt, and a snuff-box which was given to the lord's grandfather by frederick the great. these are the lions of the place, and the gratification experienced by those who see them is, no doubt, great; but i doubt if it equals the annoyance and misery to which they are subjected in being obliged to pass one unopened door--that of the private room of lady selina, the only daughter of the earl at present unmarried. it contains only a bed, and the usual instruments of a lady's toilet; but lady selina does not choose to have it shown, and it has become invested, in the eyes of the visitors, with no ordinary mystery. many a petitionary whisper is addressed to the housekeeper on the subject, but in vain; and, consequently, the public too often leave grey abbey dissatisfied. as lord ballindine rode through the gates, and up the long approach to the house, he was so satisfied of the wisdom of his own final resolution, and of the successful termination of his embassy under such circumstances, that he felt relieved of the uncomfortable sensation of fear which had oppressed him; and it was only when the six-foot high, powdered servant told him, with a very solemn face, that the earl was alone in the book-room--the odious room he hated so much--that he began again to feel a little misgiving. however, there was nothing left for him now, so he gave up his horse to the groom, and followed the sober-faced servant into the book-room. lord cashel was a man about sixty-three, with considerable external dignity of appearance, though without any personal advantage, either in face, figure, or manner. he had been an earl, with a large income, for thirty years; and in that time he had learned to look collected, even when his ideas were confused; to keep his eye steady, and to make a few words go a long way. he had never been intemperate, and was, therefore, strong and hale for his years,--he had not done many glaringly foolish things, and, therefore, had a character for wisdom and judgment. he had run away with no man's wife, and, since his marriage, had seduced no man's daughter; he was, therefore, considered a moral man. he was not so deeply in debt as to have his affairs known to every one; and hence was thought prudent. and, as he lived in his own house, with his own wife, paid his servants and labourers their wages regularly, and nodded in church for two hours every sunday, he was thought a good man. such were his virtues; and by these negative qualities--this _vis inertiæ_, he had acquired, and maintained, a considerable influence in the country. when lord ballindine's name was announced, he slowly rose, and, just touching the tip of frank's fingers, by way of shaking hands with him, hoped he had the pleasure of seeing him well. the viscount hoped the same of the earl--and of the ladies. this included the countess and lady selina, as well as fanny, and was, therefore, not a particular question; but, having hoped this, and the earl remaining silent, he got confused, turned red, hummed and hawed a little, sat down, and then, endeavouring to drown his confusion in volubility, began talking quickly about his anxiety to make final arrangements concerning matters, which, of course, he had most deeply at heart; and, at last, ran himself fairly aground, from not knowing whether, under the present circumstances, he ought to speak of his affianced to her guardian as "fanny", or "miss wyndham". when he had quite done, and was dead silent, and had paused sufficiently long to assure the earl that he was going to say nothing further just at present, the great man commenced his answer. "this is a painful subject, my lord--most peculiarly painful at the present time; but, surely, after all that has passed--but especially after what has _not_ passed"--lord cashel thought this was a dead hit--"you cannot consider your engagement with miss wyndham to be still in force?" "good gracious!--and why not, my lord? i am ready to do anything her friends--in fact i came solely, this morning, to consult yourself, about--i'm sure fanny herself can't conceive the engagement to be broken off. of course, if miss wyndham wishes it--but i can't believe--i can't believe--if it's about the horses, lord cashel, upon my word, i'm ready to sell them to-day." this was not very dignified in poor frank, and to tell the truth, he was completely bothered. lord cashel looked so more than ordinarily glum; had he been going to put on a black cap and pass sentence of death, or disinherit his eldest son, he could not have looked more stern or more important. frank's lack of dignity added to his, and made him feel immeasurably superior to any little difficulty which another person might have felt in making the communication he was going to make. he was really quite in a solemn good humour. lord ballindine's confusion was so flattering. "i can assure you, my lord, miss wyndham calls for no such sacrifice, nor do i. there was a time when, as her guardian, i ventured to hint--and i own i was taking a liberty, a fruitless liberty, in doing so--that i thought your remaining on the turf was hardly prudent. but i can assure you, with all kindly feeling--with no approach to animosity--that i will not offend in a similar way again. i hear, by mere rumour, that you have extended your operations to the other kingdom. i hope i have not been the means of inducing you to do so; but, advice, if not complied with, often gives a bias in an opposite direction. with regard to miss wyndham, i must express--and i really had thought it was unnecessary to do so, though it was certainly my intention, as it was miss wyndham's wish, that i should have written to you formally on the subject--but your own conduct--excuse me, lord ballindine--your own evident indifference, and continued, i fear i must call it, dissipation--and your, as i considered, unfortunate selection of acquaintance, combined with the necessary diminution of that attachment which i presume miss wyndham once felt for you--necessary, inasmuch as it was, as far as i understand, never of a sufficiently ardent nature to outlive the slights--indeed, my lord, i don't wish to offend you, or hurt your feelings--but, i must say, the slights which it encountered--." here the earl felt that his sentence was a little confused, but the viscount looked more so; and, therefore, not at all abashed by the want of a finish to his original proposition, he continued glibly enough: "in short, in considering all the features of the case, i thought the proposed marriage a most imprudent one; and, on questioning miss wyndham as to her feelings, i was, i must own, gratified to learn that she agreed with me; indeed, she conceived that your conduct gave ample proof, my lord, of your readiness to be absolved from your engagement; pardon me a moment, my lord--as i said before, i still deemed it incumbent on me, and on my ward, that i, as her guardian, should give you an absolute and written explanation of her feelings:--that would have been done yesterday, and this most unpleasant meeting would have been spared to both of us, but for the unexpected--did you hear of the occurrence which has happened in miss wyndham's family, my lord?" "occurrence? no, lord cashel; i did not hear of any especial occurrence." there had been a peculiarly solemn air about lord cashel during the whole of the interview, which deepened into quite funereal gloom as he asked the last question; but he was so uniformly solemn, that this had not struck lord ballindine. besides, an appearance of solemnity agreed so well with lord cashel's cast of features and tone of voice, that a visage more lengthened, and a speech somewhat slower than usual, served only to show him off as so much the more clearly identified by his own characteristics. thus a man who always wears a green coat does not become remarkable by a new green coat; he is only so much the more than ever, the man in the green coat. lord ballindine, therefore, answered the question without the appearance of that surprise which lord cashel expected he would feel, if he had really not yet heard of the occurrence about to be related to him. the earl, therefore, made up his mind, as indeed he had nearly done before, that frank knew well what was going to be told him, though it suited his purpose to conceal his knowledge. he could not, however, give his young brother nobleman the lie; and he was, therefore, constrained to tell his tale, as if to one to whom it was unknown. he was determined, however, though he could not speak out plainly, to let frank see that he was not deceived by his hypocrisy, and that he, lord cashel, was well aware, not only that the event about to be told had been known at handicap lodge, but that the viscount's present visit to grey abbey had arisen out of that knowledge. lord ballindine, up to this moment, was perfectly ignorant of this event, and it is only doing justice to him to say that, had he heard of it, it would at least have induced him to postpone his visit for some time. lord cashel paused for a few moments, looking at frank in a most diplomatic manner, and then proceeded to unfold his budget. "i am much surprised that you should not have heard of it. the distressing news reached grey abbey yesterday, and must have been well known in different circles in dublin yesterday morning. considering the great intercourse between dublin and the curragh, i wonder you can have been left so long in ignorance of a circumstance so likely to be widely discussed, and which at one time might have so strongly affected your own interests." lord cashel again paused, and looked hard at frank. he flattered himself that he was reading his thoughts; but he looked as if he had detected a spot on the other's collar, and wanted to see whether it was ink or soot. lord ballindine was, however, confounded. when the earl spoke of "a circumstance so likely to be widely discussed", mat tierney's conversation recurred to him, and lord kilcullen's public declaration that fanny wyndham's match was off.--it was certainly odd for lord cashel to call this an occurrence in miss wyndham's family, but then, he had a round-about way of saying everything. "i say," continued the earl, after a short pause, "that i cannot but be surprised that an event of so much importance, of so painful a nature, and, doubtless, already so publicly known, should not before this have reached the ears of one to whom, i presume, miss wyndham's name was not always wholly indifferent. but, as you have not heard it, my lord, i will communicate it to you," and again he paused, as though expecting another assurance of lord ballindine's ignorance. "why, my lord," said frank, "i did hear a rumour, which surprised me very much, but i could not suppose it to be true. to tell the truth, it was very much in consequence of what i heard that i came to grey abbey to-day." it was now lord cashel's turn to be confounded. first, to deny that he had heard anything about it--and then immediately to own that he had heard it, and had been induced to renew his visits to grey abbey in consequence! just what he, in his wisdom, had suspected was the case. but how could lord ballindine have the face to own it? i must, however, tell the reader the event of which frank was ignorant, and which, it appears, lord cashel is determined not to communicate to him. fanny wyndham's father had held a governorship, or some golden appointment in the golden days of india, and consequently had died rich. he left eighty thousand pounds to his son, who was younger than fanny, and twenty to his daughter. his son had lately been put into the guards, but he was not long spared to enjoy his sword and his uniform. he died, and his death had put his sister in possession of his money; and lord cashel thought that, though frank might slight twenty thousand pounds, he would be too glad to be allowed to remain the accepted admirer of a hundred thousand. "i thought you must have heard it, my lord," resumed the senior, as soon as he had collected his shreds of dignity, which frank's open avowal had somewhat scattered, "i felt certain you must have heard it, and you will, i am sure, perceive that this is no time for you--excuse me if i use a word which may appear harsh--it is no time for any one, not intimately connected with miss wyndham by ties of family, to intrude upon her sorrow." frank was completely bothered. he thought that if she were so sorrowful, if she grieved so deeply at the match being broken off, that was just the reason why he should see her. after all, it was rather flattering to himself to hear of her sorrows; dear fanny! was she so grieved that she was forced to part from him? "but, lord cashel," he said, "i am ready to do whatever you please. i'll take any steps you'll advise. but i really cannot see why i'm to be told that the engagement between me and miss wyndham is off, without hearing any reason from herself. i'll make any sacrifice you please, or she requires; i'm sure she was attached to me, and she cannot have overcome that affection so soon." "i have already said that we require--miss wyndham requires--no sacrifice from you. the time for sacrifice is past; and i do not think her affection was of such a nature as will long prey on her spirits." "my affection for her is, i can assure you--" "pray excuse me--but i think this is hardly the time either to talk of, or to show, your affection. had it been proved to be of a lasting, i fear i must say, a sincere nature, it would now have been most valued. i will leave yourself to say whether this was the case." "and so you mean to say, lord cashel, that i cannot see miss wyndham?" "assuredly, lord ballindine. and i must own, that i hardly appreciate your delicacy in asking to do so at the present moment." there was something very hard in this. the match was to be broken off without any notice to him; and when he requested, at any rate, to hear this decision from the mouth of the only person competent to make it, he was told that it was indelicate for him to wish to do so. this put his back up. "well, my lord," he said with some spirit, "miss wyndham is at present your ward, and in your house, and i am obliged to postpone the exercise of the right, to which, at least, i am entitled, of hearing her decision from her own mouth. i cannot think that she expects i should be satisfied with such an answer as i have now received. i shall write to her this evening, and shall expect at any rate the courtesy of an answer from herself." "my advice to my ward will be, not to write to you; at any rate for the present. i presume, my lord, you cannot doubt my word that miss wyndham chooses to be released from an engagement, which i must say your own conduct renders it highly inexpedient for her to keep." "i don't doubt your word, of course, lord cashel; but such being the case, i think miss wyndham might at least tell me so herself." "i should have thought, lord ballindine, that you would have felt that the sudden news of a dearly loved brother's death, was more than sufficient to excuse miss wyndham from undergoing an interview which, even under ordinary circumstances, would be of very doubtful expediency." "her brother's death! good gracious! is harry wyndham dead!" frank was so truly surprised--so effectually startled by the news, which he now for the first time heard, that, had his companion possessed any real knowledge of human nature, he would at once have seen that his astonishment was not affected. but he had none, and, therefore, went on blundering in his own pompous manner. "yes, my lord, he is dead. i understood you to say that you had already heard it; and, unless my ears deceived me, you explained that his demise was the immediate cause of your present visit. i cannot, however, go so far as to say that i think you have exercised a sound discretion in the matter. in expressing such an opinion, however, i am far from wishing to utter anything which may be irritating or offensive to your feelings." "upon my word then, i never heard a word about it till this moment! poor harry! and is fanny much cut up?" "miss wyndham is much afflicted." "i wouldn't for worlds annoy her, or press on her at such a moment. pray tell her, lord cashel, how deeply i feel her sorrows: pray tell her this, with my kindest--best compliments." this termination was very cold--but so was lord cashel's face. his lordship had also risen from his chair; and frank saw it was intended that the interview should end. but he would now have been glad to stay. he wanted to ask a hundred questions;--how the poor lad had died? whether he had been long ill?--whether it had been expected? but he saw that he must go; so he rose and putting out his hand which lord cashel just touched, he said, "good bye, my lord. i trust, after a few months are gone by, you may see reason to alter the opinion you have expressed respecting your ward. should i not hear from you before then, i shall again do myself the honour of calling at grey abbey; but i will write to miss wyndham before i do so." lord cashel had the honour of wishing lord ballindine a very good morning, and of bowing him to the door; and so the interview ended. xii. fanny wyndham when lord cashel had seen frank over the mat which lay outside his study door, and that there was a six foot servitor to open any other door through which he might have to pass, he returned to his seat, and, drawing his chair close to the fire, began to speculate on fanny and her discarded lover. he was very well satisfied with himself, and with his own judgment and firmness in the late conversation. it was very evident that frank had heard of harry wyndham's death, and of fanny's great accession of wealth; that he had immediately determined that the heiress was no longer to be neglected, and that he ought to strike while the iron was hot: hence his visit to grey abbey. his pretended ignorance of the young man's death, when he found he could not see miss wyndham, was a ruse; but an old bird like lord cashel was not to be caught with chaff. and then, how indelicate of him to come and press his suit immediately after news of so distressing a nature had reached miss wyndham! how very impolitic, thought lord cashel, to show such a hurry to take possession of the fortune!--how completely he had destroyed his own game. and then, other thoughts passed through his mind. his ward had now one hundred thousand pounds clear, which was, certainly, a great deal of ready money. lord cashel had no younger sons; but his heir, lord kilcullen, was an expensive man, and owed, he did not exactly know, and was always afraid to ask, how much. he must marry soon, or he would be sure to go to the devil. he had been living with actresses and opera-dancers quite long enough for his own respectability; and, if he ever intended to be such a pattern to the country as his father, it was now time for him to settle down. and lord cashel bethought himself that if he could persuade his son to marry fanny wyndham and pay his debts with her fortune--(surely he couldn't owe more than a hundred thousand pounds?)--he would be able to give them a very handsome allowance to live on. to do lord cashel justice, we must say that he had fully determined that it was his duty to break off the match between frank and his ward, before he heard of the accident which had so enriched her. and fanny herself, feeling slighted and neglected--knowing how near to her her lover was, and that nevertheless he never came to see her--hearing his name constantly mentioned in connection merely with horses and jockeys--had been induced to express her acquiescence in her guardian's views, and to throw poor frank overboard. in all this the earl had been actuated by no mercenary views, as far as his own immediate family was concerned. he had truly and justly thought that lord ballindine, with his limited fortune and dissipated habits, was a bad match for his ward; and he had, consequently, done his best to break the engagement. there could, therefore, he thought, be nothing unfair in his taking advantage of the prudence which he had exercised on her behalf. he did not know, when he was persuading her to renounce lord ballindine, that, at that moment, her young, rich, and only brother, was lying at the point of death. he had not done it for his own sake, or lord kilcullen's; there could, therefore, be nothing unjust or ungenerous in their turning to their own account the two losses, that of her lover and her brother, which had fallen on miss wyndham at the same time. if he, as her guardian, would have been wrong to allow lord ballindine to squander her twenty thousands, he would be so much the more wrong to let him make ducks and drakes of five times as much. in this manner he quieted his conscience as to his premeditated absorption of his ward's fortune. it was true that lord kilcullen was a heartless roué, whereas lord ballindine was only a thoughtless rake; but then, lord kilcullen would be an earl, and a peer of parliament, and lord ballindine was only an irish viscount. it was true that, in spite of her present anger, fanny dearly loved lord ballindine, and was dearly loved by him; and that lord kilcullen was not a man to love or be loved; but then, the kelly's court rents--what were they to the grey abbey rents? not a twentieth part of them! and, above all, lord kilcullen's vices were filtered through the cleansing medium of his father's partiality, and lord ballindine's faults were magnified by the cautious scruples of fanny's guardian. the old man settled, therefore, in his own mind, that fanny should be his dear daughter, and the only difficulty he expected to encounter was with his hopeful son. it did not occur to him that fanny might object, or that she could be other than pleased with the arrangement. he determined, however, to wait a little before the tidings of her future destiny should be conveyed to her, although no time was to be lost in talking over the matter with lord kilcullen. in the meantime, it would be necessary for him to tell fanny of lord ballindine's visit; and the wily peer was glad to think that she could not but be further disgusted at the hurry which her former lover had shown to renew his protestations of affection, as soon as the tidings of her wealth had reached him. however, he would say nothing on that head: he would merely tell her that lord ballindine had called, had asked to see her, and had been informed of her determination to see him no more. he sat, for a considerable time, musing over the fire, and strengthening his resolution; and then he stalked and strutted into the drawing-room, where the ladies were sitting, to make his communication to miss wyndham. miss wyndham, and her cousin, lady selina grey, the only unmarried daughter left on the earl's hands, were together. lady selina was not in her _première jeunesse_ [ ], and, in manner, face, and disposition, was something like her father: she was not, therefore, very charming; but his faults were softened down in her; and what was pretence in him, was, to a certain degree, real in her. she had a most exaggerated conception of her own station and dignity, and of what was due to her, and expected from her. because her rank enabled her to walk out of a room before other women, she fancied herself better than them, and entitled to be thought better. she was plain, red-haired, and in no ways attractive; but she had refused the offer of a respectable country gentleman, because he was only a country gentleman, and then flattered herself that she owned the continuance of her maiden condition to her high station, which made her a fit match only for the most exalted magnates of the land. but she was true, industrious, and charitable; she worked hard to bring her acquirements to that pitch which she considered necessary to render her fit for her position; she truly loved her family, and tried hard to love her neighbours, in which she might have succeeded but for the immeasurable height from which she looked down on them. she listened, complacently, to all those serious cautions against pride, which her religion taught her, and considered that she was obeying its warnings, when she spoke condescendingly to those around her. she thought that condescension was humility, and that her self-exaltation was not pride, but a proper feeling of her own and her family's dignity. [footnote : première jeunesse--(french) prime of youth] fanny wyndham was a very different creature. she, too, was proud, but her pride was of another, if not of a less innocent cast; she was proud of her own position; but it was as fanny wyndham, not as lord cashel's niece, or anybody's daughter. she had been brought out in the fashionable world, and liked, and was liked by, it; but she felt that she owed the character which three years had given her, to herself, and not to those around her. she stood as high as lady selina, though on very different grounds. any undue familiarity would have been quite as impossible with one as with the other. lady selina chilled intruders to a distance; fanny wyndham's light burned with so warm a flame, that butterflies were afraid to trust their wings within its reach. she was neither so well read, nor so thoughtful on what she did read, as her friend; but she could turn what she learned to more account, for the benefit of others. the one, in fact, could please, and the other could not. fanny wyndham was above the usual height; but she did not look tall, for her figure was well-formed and round, and her bust full. she had dark-brown hair, which was never curled, but worn in plain braids, fastened at the back of her head, together with the long rich folds which were collected there under a simple comb. her forehead was high, and beautifully formed, and when she spoke, showed the animation of her character. her eyes were full and round, of a hazel colour, bright and soft when she was pleased, but full of pride and displeasure when her temper was ruffled, or her dignity offended. her nose was slightly _retroussé_ [ ], but not so much so as to give to her that pertness, of which it is usually the index. the line of her cheeks and chin was very lovely: it was this which encouraged her to comb back that luxuriant hair, and which gave the greatest charm to her face. her mouth was large, too large for a beauty, and therefore she was not a regular beauty; but, were she talking to you, and willing to please you, you could hardly wish it to be less. i cannot describe the shade of her complexion, but it was rich and glowing; and, though she was not a brunette, i believe that in painting her portrait, an artist would have mixed more brown than other colours. [footnote : retroussé--(french) turned-up] at the time of which i am now speaking, she was sitting, or rather lying, on a sofa, with her face turned towards her cousin, but her eyes fixed on vacancy. as might have been expected, she was thinking of her brother, and his sudden death; but other subjects crowded with that into her mind, and another figure shared with him her thoughts. she had been induced to give her guardian an unqualified permission to reject, in her name, any further intercourse with frank; and though she had doubtless been induced to do so by the distressing consciousness that she had been slighted by him, she had cheated herself into the belief that prudence had induced her to do so. she felt that she was not fitted to be a poor man's wife, and that lord ballindine was as ill suited for matrimonial poverty. she had, therefore, induced herself to give him up; may-be she was afraid that if she delayed doing so, she might herself be given up. now, however, the case was altered; though she sincerely grieved for her brother, she could not but recollect the difference which his death made in her own position; she was now a great heiress, and, were she to marry lord ballindine, if she did not make him a rich man, she would, at any rate, free him from all embarrassment. besides, could she give him up now? now that she was rich? he would first hear of her brother's death and her wealth, and then would immediately be told that she had resolved to reject him. could she bear that she should be subjected to the construction which would fairly be put upon her conduct, if she acted in this manner? and then, again, she felt that she loved him; and she did love him, more dearly than she was herself aware. she began to repent of her easy submission to her guardian's advice, and to think how she could best unsay what she had already said. she had lost her brother; could she afford also to lose her lover? she had had none she could really love but those two. and the tears again came to her eyes, and lady selina saw her, for the twentieth time that morning, turn her face to the back of the sofa, and heard her sob. lady selina was sitting at one of the windows, over her carpet-work frame. she had talked a great deal of sound sense to fanny that morning, about her brother, and now prepared to talk some more. preparatory to this, she threw back her long red curls from her face, and wiped her red nose, for it was february. "fanny, you should occupy yourself, indeed you should, my dear. it's no use your attempting your embroidery, for your mind would still wander to him that is no more. you should read; indeed you should. do go on with gibbon. i'll fetch it for you, only tell me where you were." "i could not read, selina; i could not think about what i read, more than about the work." "but you should try, fanny,--the very attempt would be work to your mind: besides, you would be doing your duty. could all your tears bring him back to you? can all your sorrow again restore him to his friends? no! and you have great consolation, fanny, in reflecting that your remembrance of your brother is mixed with no alloy. he had not lived to be contaminated by the heartless vices of that portion of the world into which he would probably have been thrown; he had not become dissipated--extravagant--and sensual. this should be a great consolation to you." it might be thought that lady selina was making sarcastic allusions to her own brother and to fanny's lover; but she meant nothing of the kind. her remarks were intended to be sensible, true, and consolatory; and they at any rate did no harm, for fanny was thinking of something else before she had half finished her speech. they had both again been silent for a short time, when the door opened, and in came the earl. his usual pomposity of demeanour was somewhat softened by a lachrymose air, which, in respect to his ward's grief, he put on as he turned the handle of the door; and he walked somewhat more gently than usual into the room. "well, fanny, how are you now?" he said, as he crept up to her. "you shouldn't brood over these sad thoughts. your poor brother has gone to a better world; we shall always think of him as one who had felt no sorrow, and been guilty of but few faults. he died before he had wasted his fortune and health, as he might have done:--this will always be a consolation." it was singular how nearly alike were the platitudes of the daughter and the father. the young man had not injured his name, or character, in the world, and had left his money behind him: and, therefore, his death was less grievous! fanny did not answer, but she sat upright on the sofa as he came up to her--and he then sat down beside her. "perhaps i'm wrong, fanny, to speak to you on other subjects so soon after the sad event of which we heard last night; but, on the whole, i think it better to do so. it is good for you to rouse yourself, to exert yourself to think of other things; besides it will be a comfort to you to know that i have already done, what i am sure you strongly wished to have executed at once." it was not necessary for the guardian to say anything further to induce his ward to listen. she knew that he was going to speak about lord ballindine, and she was all attention. "i shall not trouble, you, fanny, by speaking to you now, i hope?" "no;" said fanny, with her heart palpitating. "if it's anything i ought to hear, it will be no trouble to me." "why, my dear, i do think you ought to know, without loss of time that lord ballindine has been with me this morning." fanny blushed up to her hair--not with shame, but with emotion as to what was coming next. "i have had a long conversation with him," continued the earl, "in the book-room, and i think i have convinced him that it is for your mutual happiness"--he paused, for he couldn't condescend to tell a lie; but in his glib, speechifying manner, he was nearly falling into one--"mutual happiness" was such an appropriate prudential phrase that he could not resist the temptation; but he corrected himself--"at least, i think i have convinced him that it is impossible that he should any longer look upon miss wyndham as his future wife." lord cashel paused for some mark of approbation. fanny saw that she was expected to speak, and, therefore, asked whether lord ballindine was still in the house. she listened tremulously for his answer; for she felt that if her lover were to be rejected, he had a right, after what had passed between them, to expect that she should, in person, express her resolution to him. and yet, if she had to see him now, could she reject him? could she tell him that all the vows that had been made between them were to be as nothing? no! she could only fall on his shoulder, and weep in his arms. but lord cashel had managed better than that. "no, fanny; neither he nor i, at the present moment, could expect you--could reasonably expect you, to subject yourself to anything so painful as an interview must now have been. lord ballindine has left the house--i hope, for the last time--at least, for many months." these words fell cold upon fanny's ears, "did he leave any--any message for me?" "nothing of any moment; nothing which it can avail to communicate to you: he expressed his grief for your brother's death, and desired i should tell you how grieved he was that you should be so afflicted." "poor harry!" sobbed fanny, for it was a relief to cry again, though her tears were more for her lover than her brother. "poor harry! they were very fond of each other. i'm sure he must have been sorry--i'm sure he'd feel it"--and she paused, and sobbed again--"he had heard of harry's death, then?" when she said this, she had in her mind none of the dirty suspicion that had actuated lord cashel; but he guessed at her feelings by his own, and answered accordingly. "at first i understood him to say he had; but then, he seemed to wish to express that he had not. my impression, i own, is, that he must have heard of it; the sad news must have reached him." fanny still did not understand the earl. the idea of her lover coming after her money immediately on her obtaining possession of it, never entered her mind; she thought of her wealth as far as it might have affected him, but did not dream of its altering his conduct towards her. "and did he seem unhappy about it?" she continued. "i am sure it would make him very unhappy. he could not have loved harry better if he had been his brother," and then she blushed again through her tears, as she remembered that she had intended that they should be brothers. lord cashel did not say anything more on this head; he was fully convinced that lord ballindine only looked on the young man's death as a windfall which he might turn to his own advantage; but he thought it would be a little too strong to say so outright, just at present. "it will be a comfort for you to know that this matter is now settled," continued the earl, "and that no one can attach the slightest blame to you in the matter. lord ballindine has shown himself so very imprudent, so very unfit, in every way, for the honour you once intended him, that no other line of conduct was open to you than that which you have wisely pursued." this treading on the fallen was too much for fanny. "i have no right either to speak or to think ill of him," said she, through her tears; "and if any one is ill-treated in the matter it is he. but did he not ask to see me?" "surely, fanny, you would not, at the present moment, have wished to see him!" "oh, no; it is a great relief, under all the circumstances, not having to do so. but was he contented? i should be glad that he were satisfied--that he shouldn't think i had treated him harshly, or rudely. did he appear as if he wished to see me again?" "why, he certainly did ask for a last interview--which, anticipating your wishes, i have refused." "but was he satisfied? did he appear to think that he had been badly treated?" "rejected lovers," answered the earl with a stately smile, "seldom express much satisfaction with the terms of their rejection; but i cannot say that lord ballindine testified any strong emotion." he rose from the sofa as he said this, and then, intending to clinch the nail, added as he went to the door--"to tell the truth, fanny, i think lord ballindine is much more eager for an alliance with your fair self now, than he was a few days back, when he could never find a moment's time to leave his horses, and his friend mr blake, either to see his intended wife, or to pay lady cashel the usual courtesy of a morning visit." he then opened the door, and, again closing it, added--"i think, however, fanny, that what has now passed between us will secure you from any further annoyance from him." lord cashel, in this last speech, had greatly overshot his mark; his object had been to make the separation between his ward and her lover permanent; and, hitherto, he had successfully appealed to her pride and her judgment. fanny had felt lord cashel to be right, when he told her that she was neglected, and that frank was dissipated, and in debt. she knew she should be unhappy as the wife of a poor nobleman, and she felt that it would break her proud heart to be jilted herself. she had, therefore, though unwillingly, still entirely agreed with her, guardian as to the expediency of breaking off, the match; and, had lord cashel been judicious, he might have confirmed her in this resolution; but his last thunderbolt, which had been intended to crush lord ballindine, had completely recoiled upon himself. fanny now instantly understood the allusion, and, raising her face, which was again resting on her hands, looked at him with an indignant glance through her tears. lord cashel, however, had left the room without observing the indignation expressed in fanny's eyes; but she was indignant; she knew frank well enough to be sure that he had come to grey abbey that morning with no such base motives as those ascribed to him. he might have heard of harry's death, and come there to express his sorrow, and offer that consolation which she felt she could accept from him sooner than from any living creature:--or, he might have been ignorant of it altogether; but that he should come there to press his suit because her brother was dead--immediately after his death--was not only impossible; but the person who could say it was possible, must be false and untrue to her. her uncle could not have believed it himself: he had basely pretended to believe it, that he might widen the breach which he had made. fanny was alone, in the drawing-room--for her cousin had left it as soon as her father began to talk about lord ballindine, and she sat there glowering through her tears for a long time. had lord ballindine been able to know all her thoughts at this moment, he would have felt little doubt as to the ultimate success of his suit. xiii. father and son lord cashel firmly believed, when he left the room, that he had shown great tact in discovering frank's mercenary schemes, and in laying them open before fanny; and that she had firmly and finally made up her mind to have nothing more to do with him. he had not long been re-seated in his customary chair in the book-room, before he began to feel a certain degree of horror at the young lord's baseness, and to think how worthily he had executed his duty as a guardian, in saving miss wyndham from so sordid a suitor. from thinking of his duties as a guardian, his mind, not unnaturally, recurred to those which were incumbent on him as a father, and here nothing disturbed his serenity. it is true that, from an appreciation of the lustre which would reflect back upon himself from allowing his son to become a decidedly fashionable young man, he had encouraged him in extravagance, dissipation, and heartless worldliness; he had brought him up to be supercilious, expensive, unprincipled, and useless. but then, he was gentlemanlike, dignified, and sought after; and now, the father reflected, with satisfaction, that, if he could accomplish his well-conceived scheme, he would pay his son's debts with his ward's fortune, and, at the same time, tie him down to some degree of propriety and decorum, by a wife. lord kilcullen, when about to marry, would be obliged to cashier his opera-dancers and their expensive crews; and, though he might not leave the turf altogether, when married he would gradually be drawn out of turf society, and would doubtless become a good steady family nobleman, like his father. why, he--lord cashel himself--wise, prudent, and respectable as he was--example as he knew himself to be to all peers, english, irish, and scotch,--had had his horses, and his indiscretions, when he was young. and then he stroked the calves of his legs, and smiled grimly; for the memory of his juvenile vices was pleasant to him. lord cashel thought, as he continued to reflect on the matter, that lord ballindine was certainly a sordid schemer; but that his son was a young man of whom he had just reason to be proud, and who was worthy of a wife in the shape of a hundred thousand pounds. and then, he congratulated himself on being the most anxious of guardians and the best of fathers; and, with these comfortable reflections, the worthy peer strutted off, through his ample doors, up his lofty stairs, and away through his long corridors, to dress for dinner. you might have heard his boots creaking till he got inside his dressing-room, but you must have owned that they did so with a most dignified cadence. it was pleasant enough, certainly, planning all these things; but there would be some little trouble in executing them. in the first place, lord kilcullen--though a very good son, on the whole, as the father frequently remarked to himself--was a little fond of having a will of his own, and may-be, might object to dispense with his dancing-girls. and though there was, unfortunately, but little doubt that the money was indispensably necessary to him, it was just possible that he might insist on having the cash without his cousin. however, the proposal must be made, and, as the operations necessary to perfect the marriage would cause some delay, and the money would certainly be wanted as soon as possible, no time was to be lost. lord kilcullen was, accordingly, summoned to grey abbey; and, as he presumed his attendance was required for the purpose of talking over some method of raising the wind, he obeyed the summons.--i should rather have said of raising a storm, for no gentle puff would serve to waft him through his present necessities. down he came, to the great delight of his mother, who thought him by far the finest young man of the day, though he usually slighted, snubbed, and ridiculed her--and of his sister, who always hailed with dignified joy the return of the eldest scion of her proud family to the ancestral roof. the earl was also glad to find that no previous engagement detained him; that is, that he so far sacrificed his own comfort as to leave tattersall's and the _figuranti_ of the opera-house, to come all the way to grey abbey, in the county of kildare. but, though the earl was glad to see his son, he was still a little consternated: the business interview could not be postponed, as it was not to be supposed that lord kilcullen would stay long at grey abbey during the london season; and the father had yet hardly sufficiently crammed himself for the occasion. besides, the pressure from without must have been very strong to have produced so immediate a compliance with a behest not uttered in a very peremptory manner, or, generally speaking, to a very obedient child. on the morning after his arrival, the earl was a little uneasy in his chair during breakfast. it was rather a sombre meal, for fanny had by no means recovered her spirits, nor did she appear to be in the way to do so. the countess tried to chat a little to her son, but he hardly answered her; and lady selina, though she was often profound, was never amusing. lord cashel made sundry attempts at general conversation, but as often failed. it was, at last, however, over; and the father requested the son to come with him into the book-room. when the fire was poked, and the chairs were drawn together over the rug, there were no further preliminaries which could be decently introduced, and the earl was therefore forced to commence. "well, kilcullen, i'm glad you're come to grey abbey. i'm afraid, however, we shan't induce you to stay with us long, so it's as well perhaps to settle our business at once. you would, however, greatly oblige your mother, and i'm sure i need not add, myself, if you could make your arrangements so as to stay with us till after easter. we could then return together." "till after easter, my lord! i should be in the hue and cry before that time, if i was so long absent from my accustomed haunts. besides i should only put out your own arrangements, or rather, those of lady cashel. there would probably be no room for me in the family coach.". "the family coach won't go, lord kilcullen. i am sorry to say, that the state of my affairs at present renders it advisable that the family should remain at grey abbey this season. i shall attend my parliamentary duties alone." this was intended as a hit the first at the prodigal son, but kilcullen was too crafty to allow it to tell. he merely bowed his head, and opened his eyes, to betoken his surprise at such a decision, and remained quiet. "indeed," continued lord cashel, "i did not even intend to have gone myself, but the unexpected death of harry wyndham renders it necessary. i must put fanny's affairs in a right train. poor harry!--did you see much of him during his illness?" "why, no--i can't say i did. i'm not a very good hand at doctoring or nursing. i saw him once since he got his commission, glittering with his gold lace like a new weather-cock on a town hall. he hadn't time to polish the shine off." "his death will make a great difference, as far as fanny is concerned--eh?" "indeed it will: her fortune now is considerable;--a deuced pretty thing, remembering that it's all ready money, and that she can touch it the moment she's of age. she's entirely off with ballindine, isn't she?" "oh, entirely," said the earl, with considerable self-complacency; "that affair is entirely over." "i've stated so everywhere publicly; but i dare say, she'll give him her money, nevertheless. she's not the girl to give over a man, if she's really fond of him." "but, my dear kilcullen, she has authorised me to give him a final answer, and i have done so. after that, you know, it would be quite impossible for her to--to--" "you'll see;--she'll marry lord ballindine. had harry lived, it might have been different; but now she's got all her brother's money, she'll think it a point of honour to marry her poor lover. besides, her staying this year in the country will be in his favour: she'll see no one here--and she'll want something to think of. i understand he has altogether thrown himself into blake's hands--the keenest fellow in ireland, with as much mercy as a foxhound. he's a positive fool, is ballindine." "i'm afraid he is--i'm afraid he is. and you may be sure i'm too fond of fanny--that is, i have too much regard for the trust reposed in me, to allow her to throw herself away upon him." "that's all very well; but what can you do?" "why, not allow him to see her; and i've another plan in my head for her." "ah!--but the thing is to put the plan into _her_ head. i'd be sorry to hear of a fine girl like fanny wyndham breaking her heart in a half-ruined barrack in connaught, without money to pay a schoolmaster to teach her children to spell. but i've too many troubles of my own to think of just at present, to care much about hers;" and the son and heir got up, and stood with his back to the fire, and put his arms under his coat-laps. "upon my soul, my lord, i never was so hard up in my life!" lord cashel now prepared himself for action. the first shot was fired, and he must go on with the battle. "so i hear, kilcullen; and yet, during the last four years, you've had nearly double your allowance; and, before that, i paid every farthing you owed. within the last five years, you've had nearly forty thousand pounds! supposing you'd had younger brothers, lord kilcullen--supposing that i had had six or eight sons instead of only one; what would you have done? how then would you have paid your debts?" "fate having exempted me and your lordship from so severe a curse, i have never turned my mind to reflect what i might have done under such an infliction." "or, supposing i had chosen, myself, to indulge in those expensive habits, which would have absorbed my income, and left me unable to do more for you, than many other noblemen in my position do for their sons--do you ever reflect how impossible it would then have been for me to have helped you out of your difficulties?" "i feel as truly grateful for your self-denial in this respect, as i do in that of my non-begotten brethren." lord cashel saw that he was laughed at, and he looked angry; but he did not want to quarrel with his son, so he continued: "jervis writes me word that it is absolutely necessary that thirty thousand pounds should be paid for you at once; or, that your remaining in london--or, in fact, in the country at all, is quite out of the question." "indeed, my lord, i'm afraid jervis is right." "thirty thousand pounds! are you aware what your income is?" "why, hardly. i know jervis takes care that i never see much of it." "do you mean that you don't receive it?" "oh, i do not at all doubt its accurate payment. i mean to say, that i don't often have the satisfaction of seeing much of it at the right side of my banker's book." "thirty thousand pounds! and will that sum set you completely free in the world?" "i am sorry to say it will not--nor nearly." "then, lord kilcullen," said the earl, with most severe, but still most courteous dignity, "may i trouble you to be good enough to tell me what, at the present moment, you do owe?" "i'm afraid i could not do so with any accuracy; but it is more than double the sum you have named." "do you mean, that you have no schedule of your debts?--no means of acquainting me with the amount? how can you expect that i can assist you, when you think it too much trouble to make yourself thoroughly acquainted with the state of your own affairs?" "a list could certainly be made out, if i had any prospect of being able to settle the amount. if your lordship can undertake to do so at once, i will undertake to hand you a correct list of the sums due, before i leave grey abbey. i presume you would not require to know exactly to whom all the items were owing." this effrontery was too much, and lord cashel was very near to losing his temper. "upon my honour, kilcullen, you're cool, very cool. you come upon me to pay, heaven knows how many thousands--more money, i know, than i'm able to raise; and you condescendingly tell me that you will trouble yourself so far as to let me know how much money i am to give you--but that i am not to know what is done with it! no; if i am to pay your debts again, i will do it through jervis." "pray remember," replied lord kilcullen, not at all disturbed from his equanimity, "that i have not proposed that you should pay my debts without knowing where the money went; and also that i have not yet asked you to pay them at all." "who, then, do you expect will pay them? i can assure you i should be glad to be relieved from the honour." "i merely said that i had not yet made any proposition respecting them. of course, i expect your assistance. failing you, i have no resource but the jews. i should regret to put the property into their hands; especially as, hitherto, i have not raised money on post obits [ ]." [footnote : post obit--a loan that need not be repaid until the death of a specified individual, usually someone from whom the borrower expected to inherit enough to repay the loan] "at any rate, i'm glad of that," said the father, willing to admit any excuse for returning to his good humour. "that would be ruin; and i hope that anything short of that may be--may be--may be done something with." the expression was not dignified, and it pained the earl to make it; but it was expressive, and he didn't wish at once to say that he had a proposal for paying off his son's debts. "but now, kilcullen, tell me fairly, in round figures, what do you think you owe?--as near as you can guess, without going to pen and paper, you know?" "well, my lord, if you will allow me, i will make a proposition to you. if you will hand over to mr jervis fifty thousand pounds, for him to pay such claims as have already been made upon him as your agent, and such other debts as i may have sent in to him: and if you will give myself thirty thousand, to pay such debts as i do not choose to have paid by an agent, i will undertake to have everything settled." "eighty thousand pounds in four years! why, kilcullen, what have you done with it?--where has it gone? you have five thousand a-year, no house to keep up, no property to support, no tenants to satisfy, no rates to pay--five thousand a-year for your own personal expenses--and, in four years, you have got eighty thousand in debt! the property never can stand that, you know. it never can stand at that rate. why, kilcullen, what have you done with it?" "mr crockford has a portion of it, and john scott has some of it. a great deal of it is scattered rather widely--so widely that it would be difficult now to trace it. but, my lord, it has gone. i won't deny that the greater portion of it has been lost at play, or on the turf. i trust i may, in future, be more fortunate and more cautious." "i trust so. i trust so, indeed. eighty thousand pounds! and do you think i can raise such a sum as that at a week's warning?" "indeed, i have no doubt as to your being able to do so: it may be another question whether you are willing." "i am not--i am not able," said the libelled father. "as you know well enough, the incumbrances on the property take more than a quarter of my income." "there can, nevertheless, be no doubt of your being able to have the money, and that at once, if you chose to go into the market for it. i have no doubt but that mr jervis could get it for you at once at five per cent." "four thousand a-year gone for ever from the property!--and what security am i to have that the same sacrifice will not be again incurred, after another lapse of four years?" "you can have no security, my lord, against my being in debt. you can, however, have every security that you will not again pay my debts, in your own resolution. i trust, however, that i have some experience to prevent my again falling into so disagreeable a predicament. i think i have heard your lordship say that you incurred some unnecessary expenses yourself in london, before your marriage!" "i wish, kilcullen, that you had never exceeded your income more than i did mine. but it is no use talking any further on this subject. i cannot, and i will not--i cannot in justice either to myself or to you, borrow this money for you; nor, if i could, should i think it right to do so." "then what the devil's the use of talking about it so long?" said the dutiful son, hastily jumping up from the chair in which he had again sat down. "did you bring me down to grey abbey merely to tell me that you knew of my difficulties, and that you could do nothing to assist me?" "now, don't put yourself into a passion--pray don't!" said the father, a little frightened by the sudden ebullition. "if you'll sit down, and listen to me, i'll tell you what i propose. i did not send for you here without intending to point out to you some method of extricating yourself from your present pecuniary embarrassment; and, if you have any wish to give up your course, of--i must say, reckless profusion, and commence that upright and distinguished career, which i still hope to see you take, you will, i think, own that my plan is both a safer and a more expedient one than that which you have proposed. it is quite time for you now to abandon the expensive follies of youth; and,"--lord cashel was getting into a delightfully dignified tone, and felt himself prepared for a good burst of common-place eloquence; but his son looked impatient, and as he could not take such liberty with him as he could with lord ballindine, he came to the point at once, and ended abruptly by saying, "and get married." "for the purpose of allowing my wife to pay my debts?" "why, not exactly that; but as, of course, you could not marry any woman but a woman with a large fortune, that would follow as a matter of consequence." "your lordship proposes the fortune not as the first object of my affection, but merely as a corollary. but, perhaps, it will be as well that you should finish your proposition, before i make any remarks on the subject." and lord kilcullen, sat down, with a well-feigned look of listless indifference. "well, kilcullen, i have latterly been thinking much about you, and so has your poor mother. she is very uneasy that you should still--still be unmarried; and jervis has written to me very strongly. you see it is quite necessary that something should be done--or we shall both be ruined. now, if i did raise this sum--and i really could not do it--i don't think i could manage it, just at present; but, even if i did, it would only be encouraging you to go on just in the same way again. now, if you were to marry, your whole course of life would be altered, and you would become, at the same time, more respectable and more happy." "that would depend a good deal upon circumstances, i should think." "oh! i am sure you would. you are just the same sort of fellow i was when at your age, and i was much happier after i was married, so i know it. now, you see, your cousin has a hundred thousand pounds; in fact something more than that." "what?--fanny! poor ballindine! so that's the way with him is it! when i was contradicting the rumour of his marriage with fanny, i little thought that i was to be his rival! at any rate, i shall have to shoot him first." "you might, at any rate, confine yourself to sense, lord kilcullen, when i am taking so much pains to talk sensibly to you, on a subject which, i presume, cannot but interest you." "indeed, my lord, i'm all attention; and i do intend to talk sensibly when i say that i think you are proposing to treat ballindine very ill. the world will think well of your turning him adrift on the score of the match being an imprudent one; but it won't speak so leniently of you if you expel him, as soon as your ward becomes an heiress, to make way for your own son." "you know that i'm not thinking of doing so. i've long seen that lord ballindine would not make a fitting husband for fanny--long before harry died." "and you think that i shall?" "indeed i do. i think she will be lucky to get you." "i'm flattered into silence: pray go on." "you will be an earl--a peer--and a man of property. what would she become if she married lord ballindine?" "oh, you are quite right! go on. i wonder it never occurred to her before to set her cap at me." "now do be serious. i wonder how you can joke on such a subject, with all your debts. i'm sure i feel them heavy enough, if you don't. you see lord ballindine was refused--i may say he was refused--before we heard about that poor boy's unfortunate death. it was the very morning we heard of it, three or four hours before the messenger came, that fanny had expressed her resolution to declare it off, and commissioned me to tell him so. and, therefore, of course, the two things can't have the remotest reference to each other." "i see. there are, or have been, two fanny wyndhams--separate persons, though both wards of your lordship. lord ballindine was engaged to the girl who had a brother; but he can have no possible concern with fanny wyndham, the heiress, who has no brother." "how can you be so unfeeling?--but you may pay your debts in your own way. you won't ever listen to what i have to say! i should have thought that, as your father, i might have considered myself entitled to more respect from you." "indeed, my lord, i'm all respect and attention, and i won't say one more word till you've finished." "well--you must see, there can be no objection on the score of lord ballindine?" "oh, none at all." "and then, where could fanny wish for a better match than yourself? it would be a great thing for her, and the match would be, in all things, so--so respectable, and just what it ought to be; and your mother would be so delighted, and so should i, and--" "her fortune would so nicely pay all my debts." "exactly. of course, i should take care to have your present income--five thousand a year--settled on her, in the shape of jointure; and i'm sure that would be treating her handsomely. the interest of her fortune would not be more than that." "and what should we live on?" "why, of course, i should continue your present allowance." "and you think that that which i have found so insufficient for myself, would be enough for both of us?" "you must make it enough, kilcullen--in order that there may be something left to enable you to keep up your title when i am gone." by this time, lord kilcullen appeared to be as serious, and nearly as solemn, as his father, and he sat, for a considerable time, musing, till his father said, "well, kilcullen, will you take my advice?" "it's impracticable, my lord. in the first place, the money must be paid immediately, and considerable delay must occur before i could even offer to miss wyndham; and, in the next place, were i to do so, i am sure she would refuse me." "why; there must be some delay, of course. but i suppose, if i passed my word, through jervis, for so much of the debts as are immediate, that a settlement might be made whereby they might stand over for twelve months, with interest, of course. as to refusing you, it's not at all likely: where would she look for a better offer?" "i don't know much of my cousin; but i don't think she's exactly the girl to take a man because he's a good match for her." "perhaps not. but then, you know, you understand women so well, and would have such opportunities; you would be sure to make yourself agreeable to her, with very little effort on your part." "yes, poor thing--she would be delivered over, ready bound, into the lion's den." and then the young man sat silent again, for some time, turning the matter over in his mind. at last, he said,-- "well, my lord; i am a considerate and a dutiful son, and i will agree to your proposition: but i must saddle it with conditions. i have no doubt that the sum which i suggested should be paid through your agent, could be arranged to be paid in a year, or eighteen months, by your making yourself responsible for it, and i would undertake to indemnify you. but the thirty thousand pounds i must have at once. i must return to london, with the power of raising it there, without delay. this, also, i would repay you out of fanny's fortune. i would then undertake to use my best endeavours to effect a union with your ward. but i most positively will not agree to this--nor have any hand in the matter, unless i am put in immediate possession of the sum i have named, and unless you will agree to double my income as soon as i am married." to both these propositions the earl, at first, refused to accede; but his son was firm. then, lord cashel agreed to put him in immediate possession of the sum of money he required, but would not hear of increasing his income. they argued, discussed, and quarrelled over the matter, for a long time; till, at last, the anxious father, in his passion, told his son that he might go his own way, and that he would take no further trouble to help so unconscionable a child. lord kilcullen rejoined by threatening immediately to throw the whole of the property, which was entailed on himself, into the hands of the jews. long they argued and bargained, till each was surprised at the obstinacy of the other. they ended, however, by splitting the difference, and it was agreed, that lord cashel was at once to hand over thirty thousand pounds, and to take his son's bond for the amount; that the other debts were to stand over till fanny's money was forthcoming; and that the income of the newly married pair was to be seven thousand five hundred a-year. "at least," thought lord kilcullen to himself, as he good-humouredly shook hands with his father at the termination of the interview--"i have not done so badly, for those infernal dogs will be silenced, and i shall get the money. i could not have gone back without that. i can go on with the marriage, or not, as i may choose, hereafter. it won't be a bad speculation, however." to do lord cashel justice, he did not intend cheating his son, nor did he suspect his son of an intention to cheat him. but the generation was deteriorating. xiv. the countess it was delightful to see on what good terms the earl and his son met that evening at dinner. the latter even went so far as to be decently civil to his mother, and was quite attentive to fanny. she, however, did not seem to appreciate the compliment. it was now a fortnight since she had heard of her brother's death, and during the whole of that time she had been silent, unhappy, and fretful. not a word more had been said to her about lord ballindine, nor had she, as yet, spoken about him to any one; but she had been thinking about little else, and had ascertained,--at least, so she thought,--that she could never be happy, unless she were reconciled to him. the more she brooded over the subject, the more she felt convinced that such was the case; she could not think how she had ever been induced to sanction, by her name, such an unwarrantable proceeding as the unceremonious dismissal of a man to whom her troth had been plighted, merely because he had not called to see her. as for his not writing, she was aware that lord cashel had recommended that, till she was of age, they should not correspond. as she thought the matter over in her own room, long hour after hour, she became angry with herself for having been talked into a feeling of anger for him. what right had she to be angry because he kept horses? she could not expect him to put himself into lord cashel's leading-strings. indeed, she thought she would have liked him less if he had done so. and now, to reject him just when circumstances put it in her power to enable her to free him from his embarrassments, and live a manner becoming his station! what must frank think of her?--for he could not but suppose that her rejection had been caused by her unexpected inheritance. in the course of the fortnight, she made up her mind that all lord cashel had said to lord ballindine should be unsaid;--but who was to do it? it would be a most unpleasant task to perform; and one which, she was aware, her guardian would be most unwilling to undertake. she fully resolved that she would do it herself, if she could find no fitting ambassador to undertake the task, though that would be a step to which she would fain not be driven. at one time, she absolutely thought of asking her cousin, kilcullen, about it:--this was just before his leaving grey abbey; he seemed so much more civil and kind than usual. but then, she knew so little of him, and so little liked what she did know: that scheme, therefore, was given up. lady selina was so cold, and prudent--would talk to her so much about propriety, self-respect, and self-control, that she could not make a confidante of her. no one could talk to selina on any subject more immediately interesting than a roman emperor, or a pattern for worsted-work. fanny felt that she would not be equal, herself, to going boldly to lord cashel, and desiring him to inform lord ballindine that he had been mistaken in the view he had taken of his ward's wishes: no--that was impossible; such a proceeding would probably bring on a fit of apoplexy. there was no one else to whom she could apply, but her aunt. lady cashel was a very good-natured old woman, who slept the greatest portion of her time, and knitted through the rest of her existence. she did not take a prominent part in any of the important doings of grey abbey; and, though lord cashel constantly referred to her, for he thought it respectable to do so, no one regarded her much. fanny felt, however, that she would neither scold her, ridicule her, nor refuse to listen: to lady cashel, therefore, at last, she went for assistance. her ladyship always passed the morning, after breakfast, in a room adjoining her own bed-room, in which she daily held deep debate with griffiths, her factotum, respecting household affairs, knitting-needles, and her own little ailments and cossetings. griffiths, luckily, was a woman of much the same tastes as her ladyship, only somewhat of a more active temperament; and they were most stedfast friends. it was such a comfort to lady cashel to have some one to whom she could twaddle! the morning after lord kilcullen's departure fanny knocked at her door, and was asked to come in. the countess, as usual, was in her easy chair, with the knitting-apparatus in her lap, and griffiths was seated at the table, pulling about threads, and keeping her ladyship awake by small talk. "i'm afraid i'm disturbing you, aunt," said fanny, "but i wanted to speak to you for a minute or two. good morning, mrs griffiths." "oh, no! you won't disturb me, fanny. i was a little busy this morning, for i wanted to finish this side of the--you see what a deal i've done,"--and the countess lugged up a whole heap of miscellaneous worsted from a basket just under her arm--"and i must finish it by lady-day [ ], or i shan't get the other done, i don't know when. but still, i've plenty of time to attend to you." [footnote : lady-day--annunciation day, march ] "then i'll go down, my lady, and see about getting the syrup boiled," said griffiths. "good morning, miss wyndham." "do; but mind you come up again immediately--i'll ring the bell when miss wyndham is going; and pray don't leave me alone, now." "no, my lady--not a moment," and griffiths escaped to the syrup. fanny's heart beat quick and hard, as she sat down on the sofa, opposite to her aunt. it was impossible for any one to be afraid of lady cashel, there was so very little about her that could inspire awe; but then, what she had to say was so very disagreeable to say! if she had had to tell her tale out loud, merely to the empty easy chair, it would have been a dreadful undertaking. "well, fanny, what can i do for you? i'm sure you look very nice in your bombazine; and it's very nicely made up. who was it made it for you?" "i got it down from dublin, aunt; from foley's." "oh, i remember; so you told me. griffiths has a niece makes those things up very well; but then she lives at namptwich, and one couldn't send to england for it. i had such a quantity of mourning by me, i didn't get any made up new; else, i think i must have sent for her." "my dear aunt, i am very unhappy about something, and i want you to help me. i'm afraid, though, it will give you a great deal of trouble." "good gracious, fanny!--what is it? is it about poor harry? i'm sure i grieved about him more than i can tell." "no, aunt: he's gone now, and time is the only cure for that grief. i know i must bear that without complaining. but, aunt, i feel--i think, that is, that i've used lord ballindine very ill." "good gracious me, my love! i thought lord cashel had managed all that--i thought that was all settled. you know, he would keep those horrid horses, and all that kind of thing; and what more could you do than just let lord cashel settle it?" "yes, but aunt--you see, i had engaged myself to lord ballindine, and i don't think--in fact--oh, aunt! i did not wish to break my word to lord ballindine, and i am very very sorry for what has been done," and fanny was again in tears. "but, my dear fanny," said the countess, so far excited as to commence rising from her seat--the attempt, however, was abandoned, when she felt the ill effects of the labour to which she was exposing herself--"but, my dear fanny--what would you have? it's done, now, you know; and, really, it's for the best." "oh, but, dear aunt, i must get somebody to see him. i've been thinking about it ever since he was here with my uncle. i wouldn't let him think that i broke it all off, merely because--because of poor harry's money," and fanny sobbed away dreadfully. "but you don't want to marry him!" said the naïve countess. now, fanny did want to marry him, though she hardly liked saying so, even to lady cashel. "you know, i promised him i would," said she; "and what will he think of me?--what must he think of me, to throw him off so cruelly, so harshly, after all that's past?--oh, aunt! i must see him again." "i know something of human nature," replied the aunt, "and if you do, i tell you, it will end in your being engaged to him again. you know it's off now. come, my dear; don't think so much about it: i'm sure lord cashel wouldn't do anything cruel or harsh." "oh, i must see him again, whatever comes of it;" and then she paused for a considerable time, during which the bewildered old lady was thinking what she could do to relieve her sensitive niece. "dear, dear aunt, i don't want to deceive you!" and fanny, springing up, knelt at her aunt's feet, and looked up into her face. "i do love him--i always loved him, and i cannot, cannot quarrel with him." and then she burst out crying vehemently, hiding her face in the countess's lap. lady cashel was quite overwhelmed. fanny was usually so much more collected than herself, that her present prostration, both of feeling and body, was dreadful to see. suppose she was to go into hysterics--there they would be alone, and lady cashel felt that she had not strength to ring the bell. "but, my dear fanny! oh dear, oh dear, this is very dreadful!--but, fanny--he's gone away now. lift up your face, fanny, for you frighten me. well, i'm sure i'll do anything for you. perhaps he wouldn't mind coming back again,--he always was very good-natured. i'm sure i always liked lord ballindine very much,--only he would have all those horses. but i'm sure, if you wish it, i should be very glad to see him marry you; only, you know, you must wait some time, because of poor harry; and i'm sure i don't know how you'll manage with lord cashel." "dear aunt--i want you to speak to lord cashel. when i was angry because i thought frank didn't come here as he might have done, i consented that my uncle should break off the match: besides, then, you know, we should have had so little between us. but i didn't know then how well i loved him. indeed, indeed, aunt, i cannot bring my heart to quarrel with him; and i am quite, _quite_ sure he would never wish to quarrel with me. will you go to my uncle--tell him that i've changed my mind; tell him that i was a foolish girl, and did not know my mind. but tell him i _must_ be friends with frank again." "well, of course i'll do what you wish me,--indeed, i would do anything for you, fanny, as if you were one of my own; but really, i don't know--good gracious! what am i to say to him? wouldn't it be better, fanny, if you were to go to him yourself?" "oh, no, aunt; pray do you tell him first. i couldn't go to him; besides, he would do anything for you, you know. i want you to go to him--do, now, dear aunt--and tell him--not from me, but from yourself--how very, very much i--that is, how very very--but you will know what to say; only frank must, _must_ come back again." "well, fanny, dear, i'll go to lord cashel; or, perhaps, he wouldn't mind coming here. ring the bell for me, dear. but i'm sure he'll be very angry. i'd just write a line and ask lord ballindine to come and dine here, and let him settle it all himself, only i don't think lord cashel would like it." griffiths answered the summons, and was despatched to the book-room to tell his lordship that her ladyship would be greatly obliged if he would step upstairs to her for a minute or two; and, as soon as griffiths was gone on her errand, fanny fled to her own apartment, leaving her aunt in a very bewildered and pitiable state of mind: and there she waited, with palpitating heart and weeping eyes, the effects of the interview. she was dreadfully nervous, for she felt certain that she would be summoned before her uncle. hitherto, she alone, in all the house, had held him in no kind of awe; indeed, her respect for her uncle had not been of the most exalted kind; but now she felt she was afraid of him. she remained in her room much longer than she thought it would have taken her aunt to explain what she had to say. at last, however, she heard footsteps in the corridor, and griffiths knocked at the door. her aunt would be obliged by her stepping into her room. she tried not to look disconcerted, and asked if lord cashel were still there. she was told that he was; and she felt that she had to muster up all her courage to encounter him. when she went into the room, lady cashel was still in her easy-chair, but the chair seemed to lend none of its easiness to its owner. she was sitting upright, with her hands on her two knees, and she looked perplexed, distressed, and unhappy. lord cashel was standing with his back to the fire-place, and fanny had never seen his face look so black. he really seemed, for the time, to have given over acting, to have thrown aside his dignity, and to be natural and in earnest. lady cashel began the conversation. "oh, fanny," she said, "you must really overcome all this sensitiveness; you really must. i've spoken to your uncle, and it's quite impossible, and very unwise; and, indeed, it can't be done at all. in fact, lord ballindine isn't, by any means, the sort of person i supposed." fanny knit her brows a little at this, and felt somewhat less humble than she did before. she knew she should get indignant if her uncle abused her lover, and that, if she did, her courage would rise in proportion. her aunt continued-- "your uncle's very kind about it, and says he can, of course, forgive your feeling a little out of sorts just at present; and, i'm sure, so can i, and i'm sure i'd do anything to make you happy; but as for making it all up with lord ballindine again, indeed it cannot be thought of, fanny; and so your uncle will tell you." and then lord cashel opened his oracular mouth, for the purpose of doing so. "really, fanny, this is the most unaccountable thing i ever heard of. but you'd better sit down, while i speak to you," and fanny sat down on the sofa. "i think i understood you rightly, when you desired me, less than a month ago, to inform lord ballindine that circumstances--that is, his own conduct--obliged you to decline the honour of his alliance. did you not do so spontaneously, and of your own accord?" "certainly, uncle, i agreed to take your advice; though i did so most unwillingly." "had i not your authority for desiring him--i won't say to discontinue his visits, for that he had long done--but to give up his pretensions to your hand? did you not authorise me to do so?" "i believe i did. but, uncle--" "and i have done as you desired me; and now, fanny, that i have done so--now that i have fully explained to him what you taught me to believe were your wishes on the subject, will you tell me--for i really think your aunt must have misunderstood you--what it is that you wish me to do?" "why, uncle, you pointed out--and it was very true then, that my fortune was not sufficient to enable lord ballindine to keep up his rank. it is different now, and i am very, very sorry that it is so; but it is different now, and i feel that i ought not to reject lord ballindine, because i am so much richer than i was when he--when he proposed to me." "then it's merely a matter of feeling with you, and not of affection? if i understand you, you are afraid that you should be thought to have treated lord ballindine badly?" "it's not only that--" and then she paused for a few moments, and added, "i thought i could have parted with him, when you made me believe that i ought to do so, but i find i cannot." "you mean that you love him?" and the earl looked very black at his niece. he intended to frighten her out of her resolution, but she quietly answered, "yes, uncle, i do." "and you want me to tell him so, after having banished him from my house?" fanny's eyes again shot fire at the word "banished", but she answered, very quietly, and even with a smile, "no, uncle; but i want you to ask him here again. i might tell him the rest myself." "but, fanny, dear," said the countess, "your uncle couldn't do it: you know, he told him to go away before. besides, i really don't think he'd come; he's so taken up with those horrid horses, and that mr blake, who is worse than any of 'em. really, fanny, kilcullen says that he and mr blake are quite notorious." "i think, aunt, lord kilcullen might be satisfied with looking after himself. if it depended on him, he never had a kind word to say for lord ballindine." "but you know, fanny," continued the aunt, "he knows everybody; and if he says lord ballindine is that sort of person, why, it must be so, though i'm sure i'm very sorry to hear it." lord cashel saw that he could not trust any more to his wife: that last hit about kilcullen had been very unfortunate; so he determined to put an end to all fanny's yearnings after her lover with a strong hand, and said, "if you mean, fanny, after what has passed, that i should go to lord ballindine, and give him to understand that he is again welcome to grey abbey, i must at once tell you that it is absolutely--absolutely impossible. if i had no personal objection to the young man on any prudential score, the very fact of my having already, at your request, desired his absence from my house, would be sufficient to render it impossible. i owe too much to my own dignity, and am too anxious for your reputation, to think of doing such a thing. but when i also remember that lord ballindine is a reckless, dissipated gambler--i much fear, with no fixed principle, i should consider any step towards renewing the acquaintance between you a most wicked and unpardonable proceeding." when fanny heard her lover designated as a reckless gambler, she lost all remaining feelings of fear at her uncle's anger, and, standing up, looked him full in the face through her tears. "it's not so, my lord!" she said, when he had finished. "he is not what you have said. i know him too well to believe such things of him, and i will not submit to hear him abused." "oh, fanny, my dear!" said the frightened countess; "don't speak in that way. surely, your uncle means to act for your own happiness; and don't you know lord ballindine has those horrid horses?" "if i don't mind his horses, aunt, no one else need; but he's no gambler, and he's not dissipated--i'm sure not half so much so as lord kilcullen." "in that, fanny, you're mistaken," said the earl; "but i don't wish to discuss the matter with you. you must, however, fully understand this: lord ballindine cannot be received under this roof. if you regret him, you must remember that his rejection was your own act. i think you then acted most prudently, and i trust it will not be long before you are of the same opinion yourself," and lord cashel moved to the door as though he had accomplished his part in the interview. "stop one moment, uncle," said fanny, striving hard to be calm, and hardly succeeding. "i did not ask my aunt to speak to you on this subject, till i had turned it over and over in my mind, and resolved that i would not make myself and another miserable for ever, because i had been foolish enough not to know my mind. you best know whether you can ask lord ballindine to grey abbey or not; but i am determined, if i cannot see him here, that i will see him somewhere else," and she turned towards the door, and then, thinking of her aunt, she turned back and kissed her, and immediately left the room. the countess looked up at her husband, quite dumbfounded, and he seemed rather distressed himself. however, he muttered something about her being a hot-headed simpleton and soon thinking better about it, and then betook himself to his private retreat, to hold sweet converse with his own thoughts--having first rung the bell for griffiths, to pick up the scattered threads of her mistress's knitting. lord cashel certainly did not like the look of things. there was a determination in fanny's eye, as she made her parting speech, which upset him rather, and which threw considerable difficulties in the way of lord kilcullen's wooing. to be sure, time would do a great deal: but then, there wasn't so much time to spare. he had already taken steps to borrow the thirty thousand pounds, and had, indeed, empowered his son to receive it: he had also pledged himself for the other fifty; and then, after all, that perverse fool of a girl would insist on being in love with that scapegrace, lord ballindine! this, however, might wear away, and he would take very good care that she should hear of his misdoings. it would be very odd if, after all, his plans were to be destroyed, and his arrangements disconcerted by his own ward, and niece--especially when he designed so great a match for her! he could not, however, make himself quite comfortable, though he had great confidence in his own diplomatic resources. xv. handicap lodge lord ballindine left grey abbey, and rode homewards, towards handicap lodge, in a melancholy and speculative mood. his first thoughts were all of harry wyndham. frank, as the accepted suitor of his sister, had known him well and intimately, and had liked him much; and the poor young fellow had been much attached to him. he was greatly shocked to hear of his death. it was not yet a month since he had seen him shining in all the new-blown splendour of his cavalry regimentals, and lord ballindine was unfeignedly grieved to think how short a time the lad had lived to enjoy them. his thoughts, then, naturally turned to his own position, and the declaration which lord cashel had made to him respecting himself. could it be absolutely true that fanny had determined to give him up altogether?--after all her willing vows, and assurances of unalterable affection, could she be so cold as to content herself with sending him a formal message, by her uncle, that she did not wish to see him again? frank argued with himself that it was impossible; he was sure he knew her too well. but still, lord cashel would hardly tell him a downright lie, and he had distinctly stated that the rejection came from miss wyndham herself. then, he began to feel indignant, and spurred his horse, and rode a little faster, and made a few resolutions as to upholding his own dignity. he would run after neither lord cashel nor his niece; he would not even ask her to change her mind, since she had been able to bring herself to such a determination as that expressed to him. but he would insist on seeing her; she could not refuse that to him, after what had passed between them, and he would then tell her what he thought of her, and leave her for ever. but no; he would do nothing to vex her, as long as she was grieving for her brother. poor harry!--she loved him so dearly! perhaps, after all, his sudden rejection was, in some manner, occasioned by this sad event, and would be revoked as her sorrow grew less with time. and then, for the first time, the idea shot across his mind, of the wealth fanny must inherit by her brother's death. it certainly had a considerable effect on him, for he breathed slow awhile, and was some little time before he could entirely realise the conception that fanny was now the undoubted owner of a large fortune. "that is it," thought he to himself, at last; "that sordid earl considers that he can now be sure of a higher match for his niece, and fanny has allowed herself to be persuaded out of her engagement: she has allowed herself to be talked into the belief that it was her duty to give up a poor man like me." and then, he felt very angry again. "heavens!" said he to himself--"is it possible she should be so servile and so mean? fanny wyndham, who cared so little for the prosy admonitions of her uncle, a few months since, can she have altered her disposition so completely? can the possession of her brother's money have made so vile a change in her character? could she be the same fanny who had so entirely belonged to him, who had certainly loved him truly once? perish her money! he had sought her from affection alone; he had truly and fondly loved her; he had determined to cling to her, in spite of the advice of his friends! and then, he found himself deserted and betrayed by her, because circumstances had given her the probable power of making a better match!" such were lord ballindine's thoughts; and he flattered himself with the reflection that he was a most cruelly used, affectionate, and disinterested lover. he did not, at the moment, remember that it was fanny's twenty thousand pounds which had first attracted his notice; and that he had for a considerable time wavered, before he made up his mind to part with himself at so low a price. it was not to be expected that he should remember that, just at present; and he rode on, considerably out of humour with all the world except himself. as he got near to handicap lodge, however, the genius of the master-spirit of that classic spot came upon him, and he began to bethink himself that it would be somewhat foolish of him to give up the game just at present. he reflected that a hundred thousand pounds would work a wondrous change and improvement at kelly's court--and that, if he was before prepared to marry fanny wyndham in opposition to the wishes of her guardian, he should now be doubly determined to do so, even though all grey abbey had resolved to the contrary. the last idea in his mind, as he got off his horse at his friend's door was, as to what dot blake would think, and say, of the tidings he brought home with him? it was dark when he reached handicap lodge, and, having first asked whether mr blake was in, and heard that he was dressing for dinner, he went to perform the same operation himself. when he came down, full of his budget, and quite ready, as usual, to apply to dot for advice, he was surprised, and annoyed, to find two other gentlemen in the room, together with blake. what a bore! to have to make one of a dinner-party of four, and the long protracted rubber of shorts which would follow it, when his mind was so full of other concerns! however, it was not to be avoided. the guests were, the fat, good-humoured, ready-witted mat tierney, and a little connaught member of parliament, named morris, who wore a wig, played a very good rubber of whist, and knew a good deal about selling hunters. he was not very bright, but he told one or two good stories of his own adventures in the world, which he repeated oftener than was approved of by his intimate friends; and he drank his wine plentifully and discreetly--for, if he didn't get a game of cards after consuming a certain quantum, he invariably went to sleep. there was something in the manner in which the three greeted him, on entering the room, which showed him that they had been speaking of him and his affairs. dot was the first to address him. "well, frank, i hope i am to wish you joy. i hope you've made a good morning's work of it?" frank looked rather distressed: before he could answer, however, mat tierney said, "well, ballindine, upon my soul i congratulate you sincerely, though, of course, you've seen nothing at grey abbey but tears and cambric handkerchiefs. i'm very glad, now, that what kilcullen told me wasn't true. he left dublin for london yesterday, and i suppose he won't hear of his cousin's death before he gets there." "upon my honour, lord ballindine," said the horse-dealing member, "you are a lucky fellow. i believe old wyndham was a regular golden nabob, and i suppose, now, you'll touch the whole of his gatherings." dot and his guests had heard of harry wyndham's death, and fanny's accession of fortune; but they had not heard that she had rejected her lover, and that he had been all but turned out of her guardian's house. nor did he mean to tell them; but he did not find himself pleasantly situated in having to hear their congratulations and listen to their jokes, while he himself felt that the rumour which he had so emphatically denied to mat tierney, only two days since, had turned out to be true. not one of the party made the slightest reference to the poor brother from whom fanny's new fortune had come, except as the lucky means of conveying it to her. there was no regret even pretended for his early death, no sympathy expressed with fanny's sorrow. and there was, moreover, an evident conviction in the minds of all the three, that frank, of course, looked on the accident as a piece of unalloyed good fortune--a splendid windfall in his way, unattended with any disagreeable concomitants. this grated against his feelings, and made him conscious that he was not yet heartless enough to be quite fit for, the society in which he found himself. the party soon went into the dining-room; and frank at first got a little ease, for fanny wyndham seemed to be forgotten in the willing devotion which was paid to blake's soup; the interest of the fish, also, seemed to be absorbing; and though conversation became more general towards the latter courses, still it was on general subjects, as long as the servants were in the room. but, much to his annoyance, his mistress again came on the tapis [ ], together with the claret. [footnote : a tapis was a small cloth or tapestry sometimes used to cover a table; hence the expression "on the tapis" meant "on the table" or "under consideration."] "you and kilcullen don't hit it off together--eh, ballindine?" said mat. "we never quarrelled," answered frank; "we never, however, were very intimate." "i wonder at that, for you're both fond of the turf. there's a large string of his at murphy's now, isn't there, dot?" "too many, i believe," said blake. "if you've a mind to be a purchaser, you'll find him a very pleasant fellow--especially if you don't object to his own prices." "faith i'll not trouble him," said mat; "i've two of them already, and a couple on the turf and a couple for the saddle are quite enough to suit me. but what the deuce made him say, so publicly, that your match was off, ballindine? he couldn't have heard of wyndham's death at the time, or i should think he was after the money himself." "i cannot tell; he certainly had not my authority," said frank. "nor the lady's either, i hope." "you had better ask herself, tierney; and, if she rejects me, maybe she'll take you." "there's a speculation for you," said blake; "you don't think yourself too old yet, i hope, to make your fortune by marriage?--and, if you don't, i'm sure miss wyndham can't." "i tell you what, dot, i admire miss wyndham much, and i admire a hundred thousand pounds more. i don't know anything i admire more than a hundred thousand pounds, except two; but, upon my word, i wouldn't take the money and the lady together." "well, that's kind of him, isn't it, frank? so, you've a chance left, yet." "ah! but you forget morris," said tierney; "and there's yourself, too. if ballindine is not to be the lucky man, i don't see why either of you should despair." "oh! as for me, i'm the devil. i've a tail, only i don't wear it, except on state occasions; and i've horns and hoofs, only people can't see them. but i don't see why morris should not succeed: he's the only one of the four that doesn't own a racehorse, and that's much in his favour. what do you say, morris?" "i'd have no objection," said the member; "except that i wouldn't like to stand in lord ballindine's way." "oh! he's the soul of good-nature. you wouldn't take it ill of him, would you, frank?" "not the least," said frank, sulkily; for he didn't like the conversation, and he didn't know how to put a stop to it. "perhaps you wouldn't mind giving him a line of introduction to lord cashel," said mat. "but, morris," said blake, "i'm afraid your politics would go against you. a repealer would never go down at grey abbey." "morris'll never let his politics harm him," said tierney. "repeal's a very good thing the other side of the shannon; or one might, carry it as far as conciliation hall, if one was hard pressed, and near an election. were you ever in conciliation hall yet, morris?" "no, mat; but i'm going next thursday. will you go with me?" "faith, i will not: but i think you should go; you ought to do something for your country, for you're a patriot. i never was a public man." "well, when i can do any good for my country, i'll go there. talking of that, i saw o'connell in town yesterday, and i never saw him looking so well. the verdict hasn't disturbed him much. i wonder what steps the government will take now? they must be fairly bothered. i don't think they dare imprison him." "not dare!" said blake--'and why not? when they had courage to indict him, you need not fear but what they'll dare to go on with a strong hand, now they have a verdict." "i'll tell you what, dot; if they imprison the whole set," said mat, "and keep them in prison for twelve months, every catholic in ireland will be a repealer by the end of that time." "and why shouldn't they all be repealers?" said morris. "it seems to me that it's just as natural for us to be repealers, as it is for you to be the contrary." "i won't say they don't dare to put them in prison," continued mat; "but i will say they'll be great fools to do it. the government have so good an excuse for not doing so: they have such an easy path out of the hobble. there was just enough difference of opinion among the judges--just enough irregularity in the trial, such as the omissions of the names from the long panel--to enable them to pardon the whole set with a good grace." "if they did," said blake, "the whole high tory party in this country--peers and parsons--would be furious. they'd lose one set of supporters, and wouldn't gain another. my opinion is, they'll lock the whole party up in the stone jug--for some time, at least." "why," said tierney, "their own party could not quarrel with them for not taking an advantage of a verdict, as to the legality of which there is so much difference of opinion even among the judges. i don't know much about these things, myself; but, as far as i can understand, they would have all been found guilty of high treason a few years back, and probably have been hung or beheaded; and if they could do that now, the country would be all the quieter. but they can't: the people will have their own way; and if they want the people to go easy, they shouldn't put o'connell into prison. rob them all of the glories of martyrdom, and you'd find you'll cut their combs and stop their crowing." "it's not so easy to do that now, mat," said morris. "you'll find that the country will stick to o'connell, whether he's in prison or out of it;--but peel will never dare to put him there. they talk of the penitentiary; but i'll tell you what, if they put him there, the people of dublin won't leave one stone upon another; they'd have it all down in a night." "you forget, morris, how near richmond barracks are to the penitentiary." "no, i don't. not that i think there'll be any row of the kind, for i'll bet a hundred guineas they're never put in prison at all." "done," said dot, and his little book was out--"put that down, morris, and i'll initial it: a hundred guineas, even, that o'connell is not in prison within twelve months of this time." "very well: that is, that he's not put there and kept there for six months, in consequence of the verdict just given at the state trials." "no, my boy; that's not it. i said nothing about being kept there six months. they're going to try for a writ of error, or what the devil they call it, before the peers. but i'll bet you a cool hundred he is put in prison before twelve months are over, in consequence of the verdict. if he's locked up there for one night, i win. will you take that?" "well, i will," said morris; and they both went to work at their little books. "i was in london," said mat, "during the greater portion of the trial--and it's astonishing what unanimity of opinion there was at the club that the whole set would be acquitted. i heard howard make bet, at the reform club, that the only man put in prison would be the attorney-general." "he ought to have included the chief justice," said morris. "by the bye, mat, is that howard the brother of the honourable and riverind augustus?" "upon my soul, i don't know whose brother he is. who is the riverind augustus?" "morris wants to tell a story, mat,' said blake; 'don't spoil him, now." "indeed i don't," said the member: "i never told it to any one till i mentioned it to you the other day. it only happened the other day, but it _is_ worth telling." "out with it, morris," said mat, "it isn't very long, is it?--because, if it is, we'll get dot to give us a little whiskey and hot water first. i'm sick of the claret." "just as you like, mat," and blake rang the bell, and the hot water was brought. "you know savarius o'leary," said morris, anxious to tell his story, "eh, tierney?" "what, savy, with the whiskers?" said tierney, "to be sure i do. who doesn't know savy?" "you know him, don't you, lord ballindine?" morris was determined everybody should listen to him. "oh yes, i know him; he comes from county mayo--his property's close to mine; that is, the patch of rocks and cabins--which he has managed to mortgage three times over, and each time for more than its value--which he still calls the o'leary estate." "well; some time ago--that is, since london began to fill, o'leary was seen walking down regent street, with a parson. how the deuce he'd ever got hold of the parson, or the parson of him, was never explained; but phil mahon saw him, and asked him who his friend in the white choker was. 'is it my friend in black, you mane?' says savy, 'thin, my frind was the honourable and the riverind augustus howard, the dane.' 'howard the dane,' said mahon, 'how the duce did any of the howards become danes?' 'ah, bother!' said savy, 'it's not of thim danes he is; it's not the danes of shwaden i mane, at all, man; but a rural dane of the church of england.'" mat tierney laughed heartily at this, and even frank forgot that his dignity had been hurt, and that he meant to be sulky; and he laughed also: the little member was delighted with his success, and felt himself encouraged to persevere. "ah, savy's a queer fellow, if you knew him," he continued, turning to lord ballindine, "and, upon my soul, he's no fool. oh, if you knew him as well--" "didn't you hear ballindine say he was his next door neighbour in mayo?" said blake, "or, rather, next barrack neighbour; for they dispense with doors in mayo--eh, frank? and their houses are all cabins or barracks." "why, we certainly don't pretend to all the apuleian luxuries of handicap lodge; but we are ignorant enough to think ourselves comfortable, and swinish enough to enjoy our pitiable state." "i beg ten thousand pardons, my dear fellow. i didn't mean to offend your nationality. castlebar, we must allow, is a fine provincial city--though killala's the mayo city, i believe; and claremorris, which is your own town i think, is, as all admit, a gem of paradise: only it's a pity so many of the houses have been unroofed lately. it adds perhaps to the picturesque effect, but it must, i should think, take away from the comfort." "not a house in claremorris belongs to me," said lord ballindine, again rather sulky, "or ever did to any of my family. i would as soon own claremorris, though, as i would castleblakeney. your own town is quite as shattered-looking a place." "that's quite true--but i have some hopes that castleblakeney will be blotted out of the face of creation before i come into possession." "but i was saying about savy o'leary," again interposed morris, "did you ever hear what he did?" but blake would not allow his guest the privilege of another story. "if you encourage morris," said he, "we shall never get our whist," and with that he rose from the table and walked away into the next room. they played high. morris always played high if he could, for he made money by whist. tierney was not a gambler by profession; but the men he lived among all played, and he, therefore, got into the way of it, and played the game well, for he was obliged to do so in his own defence. blake was an adept at every thing of the kind; and though the card-table was not the place where his light shone brightest, still he was quite at home at it. as might be supposed, lord ballindine did not fare well among the three. he played with each of them, one after the other, and lost with them all. blake, to do him justice, did not wish to see his friend's money go into the little member's pocket, and, once or twice, proposed giving up; but frank did not second the proposal, and morris was inveterate. the consequence was that, before the table was broken up, lord ballindine had lost a sum of money which he could very ill spare, and went to bed in a very unenviable state of mind, in spite of the brilliant prospects on which his friends congratulated him. xvi. brien boru the next morning, at breakfast, when frank was alone with blake, he explained to him how matters really stood at grey abbey. he told him how impossible he had found it to insist on seeing miss wyndham so soon after her brother's death, and how disgustingly disagreeable, stiff and repulsive the earl had been; and, by degrees, they got to talk of other things, and among them, frank's present pecuniary miseries. "there can be no doubt, i suppose," said dot, when frank had consoled himself by anathematising the earl for ten minutes, "as to the fact of miss wyndham's inheriting her brother's fortune?" "faith, i don't know; i never thought about her fortune if you'll believe me. i never even remembered that her brother's death would in any way affect her in the way of money, until after i left grey abbey." "oh, i can believe you capable of anything in the way of imprudence." "ah, but, dot, to think of that pompous fool--who sits and caws in that dingy book-room of his, with as much wise self-confidence as an antiquated raven--to think of him insinuating that i had come there looking for harry wyndham's money; when, as you know, i was as ignorant of the poor fellow's death as lord cashel was himself a week ago. insolent blackguard! i would never, willingly, speak another word to him, or put my foot inside that infernal door of his, if it were to get ten times all harry wyndham's fortune." "then, if i understand you, you now mean to relinquish your claims to miss wyndham's hand." "no; i don't believe she ever sent the message her uncle gave me. i don't see why i'm to give her up, just because she's got this money." "nor i, frank, to tell the truth; especially considering how badly you want it yourself. but i don't think quarrelling with the uncle is the surest way to get the niece." "but, man, he quarrelled with me." "it takes two people to quarrel. if he quarrelled with you, do you be the less willing to come to loggerheads with him." "wouldn't it be the best plan, dot, to carry her off?" "she wouldn't go, my boy: rope ladders and post-chaises are out of fashion." "but if she's really fond of me--and, upon my honour, i don't believe i'm flattering myself in thinking that she is--why the deuce shouldn't she marry me, _malgré_ [ ] lord cashel? she must be her own mistress in a week or two. by heavens, i cannot stomach that fellow's arrogant assumption of superiority." [footnote : malgré--(french) in spite of; notwithstanding] "it will be much more convenient for her to marry you _bon gré_ [ ] lord cashel, whom you may pitch to the devil, in any way you like best, as soon as you have fanny wyndham at kelly's court. but, till that happy time, take my advice, and submit to the cawing. rooks and ravens are respectable birds, just because they do look so wise. it's a great thing to look wise; the doing so does an acknowledged fool, like lord cashel, very great credit." [footnote : bon gré--(french) with the consent of] "but what ought i to do? i can't go to the man's house when he told me expressly not to do so." "oh, yes, you can: not immediately, but by and by--in a month or six weeks. i'll tell you what i should do, in your place; and remember, frank, i'm quite in earnest now, for it's a very different thing playing a game for twenty thousand pounds, which, to you, joined to a wife, would have been a positive irreparable loss, and starting for five or six times that sum, which would give you an income on which you might manage to live." "well, thou sapient counsellor--but, i tell you beforehand, the chances are ten to one i sha'n't follow your plan." "do as you like about that: you sha'n't, at any rate, have me to blame. i would in the first place, assure myself that fanny inherited her brother's money." "there's no doubt about that. lord cashel said as much." "make sure of it however. a lawyer'll do that for you, with very little trouble. then, take your name off the turf at once; it's worth your while to do it now. you may either do it by a _bona fide_ sale of the horses, or by running them in some other person's name. then, watch your opportunity, call at grey abbey, when the earl is not at home, and manage to see some of the ladies. if you can't do that, if you can't effect an _entrée_, write to miss wyndham; don't be too lachrymose, or supplicatory, in your style, but ask her to give you a plain answer personally, or in her own handwriting." "and if she declines the honour?" "if, as you say and as i believe, she loves, or has loved you, i don't think she'll do so. she'll submit to a little parleying, and then she'll capitulate. but it will be much better that you should see her, if possible, without writing at all." "i don't like the idea of calling at grey abbey. i wonder whether they'll go to london this season?" "if they do, you can go after them. the truth is simply this, ballindine; miss wyndham will follow her own fancy in the matter, in spite of her guardian; but, if you make no further advances to her, of course she can make none to you. but i think the game is in your own hand. you haven't the head to play it, or i should consider the stakes as good as won." "but then, about these horses, dot. i wish i could sell them, out and out, at once." "you'll find it very difficult to get anything like the value for a horse that's well up for the derby. you see, a purchaser must make up his mind to so much outlay: there's the purchase-money, and expense of english training, with so remote a chance of any speedy return." "but you said you'd advise me to sell them." "that's if you can get a purchaser:--or else run them in another name. you may run them in my name, if you like it; but scott must understand that i've nothing whatever to do with the expense." "would you not buy them yourself, blake?" "no. i would not." "why not?" "if i gave you anything like the value for them, the bargain would not suit me; and if i got them for what they'd be worth to me, you'd think, and other people would say, that i'd robbed you." then followed a lengthened and most intricate discourse on the affairs of the stable. frank much wanted his friend to take his stud entirely off his hands, but this dot resolutely refused to do. in the course of conversation, frank owned that the present state of his funds rendered it almost impracticable for him to incur the expense of sending his favourite, brien boru, to win laurels in england. he had lost nearly three hundred pounds the previous evening which his account at his banker's did not enable him to pay; his dublin agent had declined advancing him more money at present, and his tradesmen were very importunate. in fact, he was in a scrape, and dot must advise him how to extricate himself from it. "i'll tell you the truth, ballindine," said he; "as far as i'm concerned myself, i never will lend money, except where i see, as a matter of business, that it is a good speculation to do so. i wouldn't do it for my father." "who asked you?" said frank, turning very red, and looking very angry. "you did not, certainly; but i thought you might, and you would have been annoyed when i refused you; now, you have the power of being indignant, instead. however, having said so much, i'll tell you what i think you should do, and what i will do to relieve you, as far as the horses are concerned. do you go down to kelly's court, and remain there quiet for a time. you'll be able to borrow what money you absolutely want down there, if the dublin fellows actually refuse; but do with as little as you can. the horses shall run in my name for twelve months. if they win, i will divide with you at the end of the year the amount won, after deducting their expenses. if they lose, i will charge you with half the amount lost, including the expenses. should you not feel inclined, at the end of the year, to repay me this sum, i will then keep the horses, instead, or sell them at dycer's, if you like it better, and hand you the balance if there be any. what do you say to this? you will be released from all trouble, annoyance, and expense, and the cattle will, i trust, be in good hands." "that is to say, that, for one year, you are to possess one half of whatever value the horses may be?" "exactly: we shall be partners for one year." "to make that fair," said frank, "you ought to put into the concern three horses, as good and as valuable as my three." "yes; and you ought to bring into the concern half the capital to be expended in their training; and knowledge, experience, and skill in making use of them, equal to mine. no, frank; you're mistaken if you think that i can afford to give up my time, merely for the purpose of making an arrangement to save you from trouble." "upon my word, dot," answered the other, "you're about the coolest hand i ever met! did i ask you for your precious time, or anything else? you're always afraid that you're going to be done. now, you might make a distinction between me and some of your other friends, and remember that i am not in the habit of doing anybody." "why, i own i don't think it very likely that i, or indeed anyone else, should suffer much from you in that way, for your sin is not too much sharpness." "then why do you talk about what you can afford to do?" "because it's necessary. i made a proposal which you thought an unfair one. you mayn't believe me, but it is a most positive fact, that my only object in making that proposal was, to benefit you. you will find it difficult to get rid of your horses on any terms; and yet, with the very great stake before you in miss wyndham's fortune, it would be foolish in you to think of keeping them; and, on this account, i thought in what manner i could take them from you. if they belong to my stables i shall consider myself bound to run them to the best advantage, and"-- "well, well--for heaven's sake don't speechify about it." "stop a moment, frank, and listen, for i must make you understand. i must make you see that i am not taking advantage of your position, and trying to rob my own friend in my own house. i don't care what most people say of me, for in my career i must expect people to lie of me. i must, also, take care of myself. but i do wish you to know, that though i could not disarrange my schemes for you, i would not take you in." "why, dot--how can you go on so? i only thought i was taking a leaf out of your book, by being careful to make the best bargain i could." "well, as i was saying--i would run the horses to the best advantage--especially brien, for the derby: by doing so, my whole book would be upset: i should have to bet all round again--and, very likely, not be able to get the bets i want. i could not do this without a very strong interest in the horse. besides, you remember that i should have to go over with him to england myself, and that i should be obliged to be in england a great deal at a time when my own business would require me here." "my dear fellow," said frank, "you're going on as though it were necessary to defend yourself. i never accused you of anything." "never mind whether you did or no. you understand me now: if it will suit you, you can take my offer, but i should be glad to know at once." while this conversation was going on, the two young men had left the house, and sauntered out into blake's stud-yard. here were his stables, where he kept such horses as were not actually in the trainer's hands--and a large assortment of aged hunters, celebrated timber-jumpers, brood mares, thoroughbred fillies, cock-tailed colts, and promising foals. they were immediately joined by blake's stud groom, who came on business intent, to request a few words with his master; which meant that lord ballindine was to retreat, as it was full time for his friend to proceed to his regular day's work. blake's groom was a very different person in appearance, from the sort of servant in the possession of which the fashionable owner of two or three horses usually rejoices. he had no diminutive top boots; no loose brown breeches, buttoned low beneath the knee; no elongated waistcoat with capacious pockets; no dandy coat with remarkably short tail. he was a very ugly man of about fifty, named john bottom, dressed somewhat like a seedy gentleman; but he understood his business well, and did it; and was sufficiently wise to know that he served his own pocket best, in the long run, by being true to his master, and by resisting the numerous tempting offers which were made to him by denizens of the turf to play foul with his master's horses. he was, therefore, a treasure to blake; and he knew it, and valued himself accordingly. "well, john," said his master, "i suppose i must desert lord ballindine again, and obey your summons. your few words will last nearly till dinner, i suppose?" "why, there is a few things, to be sure, 'll be the better for being talked over a bit, as his lordship knows well enough. i wish we'd as crack a nag in our stables, as his lordship." "maybe we may, some day; one down and another come on, you know; as the butcher-boy said." "at any rate, your horses don't want bottom" said frank. he--he--he! laughed john, or rather tried to do so. he had laughed at that joke a thousand times; and, in the best of humours, he wasn't a merry man. "well, frank," said blake, "the cock has crowed; i must away. i suppose you'll ride down to igoe's, and see brien: but think of what i've said, and," he added, whispering--"remember that i will do the best i can for the animals, if you put them into my stables. they shall be made second to nothing, and shall only and always run to win." so, blake and john bottom walked off to the box stables and home paddocks. frank ordered his horse, and complied with his friend's suggestion, by riding down to igoe's. he was not in happy spirits as he went; he felt afraid that his hopes, with regard to fanny, would be blighted; and that, if he persevered in his suit, he would only be harassed, annoyed, and disappointed. he did not see what steps he could take, or how he could manage to see her. it would be impossible for him to go to grey abbey, after having been, as he felt, turned out by lord cashel. other things troubled him also. what should he now do with himself? it was true that he could go down to his own house; but everyone at kelly's court expected him to bring with him a bride and a fortune; and, instead of that, he would have to own that he had been jilted, and would be reduced to the disagreeable necessity of borrowing money from his own tenants. and then, that awful subject, money--took possession of him. what the deuce was he to do? what a fool he had been, to be seduced on to the turf by such a man as blake! and then, he expressed a wish to himself that blake had been--a long way off before he ever saw him. there he was, steward of the curragh, the owner of the best horse in ireland, and absolutely without money to enable him to carry on the game till he could properly retreat from it! then he was a little unfair upon his friend: he accused him of knowing his position, and wishing to take advantage of it; and, by the time he had got to igoe's, his mind was certainly not in a very charitable mood towards poor dot. he had, nevertheless, determined to accept his offer, and to take a last look at the three milesians. the people about the stables always made a great fuss with lord ballindine, partly because he was one of the stewards, and partly because he was going to run a crack horse for the derby in england; and though, generally speaking, he did not care much for personal complimentary respect, he usually got chattered and flattered into good humour at igoe's. "well, my lord," said a sort of foreman, or partner, or managing man, who usually presided over the yard, "i think we'll be apt to get justice to ireland on the downs this year. that is, they'll give us nothing but what we takes from 'em by hard fighting, or running, as the case may be." "how's brien looking this morning, grady?" "as fresh as a primrose, my lord, and as clear as crystal: he's ready, this moment, to run through any set of three years old as could be put on the curragh, anyway." "i'm afraid you're putting him on too forward." "too forrard, is it, my lord? not a bit. he's a hoss as naturally don't pick up flesh; though he feeds free, too. he's this moment all wind and bottom, though, as one may say, he's got no training. he's niver been sthretched yet. faith it's thrue i'm telling you, my lord." "i know scott doesn't like getting horses, early in the season, that are too fine--too much drawn up; he thinks they lose power by it, and so they do;--it's the distance that kills them, at the derby. it's so hard to get a young horse to stay the distance." "that's thrue, shure enough, my lord; and there isn't a gentleman this side the wather, anyway, undherstands thim things betther than your lordship." "well, grady, let's have a look at the young chieftain: he's all right about the lungs, anyway." "and feet too, my lord; niver saw a set of claner feet with plates on: and legs too! if you were to canter him down the road, i don't think he'd feel it; not that i'd like to thry, though." "why, he's not yet had much to try them." "faix, he has, my lord: didn't he win the autumn produce stakes?" "the only thing he ever ran for." "ah, but i tell you, as your lordship knows very well--no one betther--that it's a ticklish thing to bring a two year old to the post, in anything like condition--with any running in him at all, and not hurt his legs." "but i think he's all right--eh, grady?" "right?--your lordship knows he's right. i wish he may be made righter at john scott's, that's all. but that's unpossible." "of course, grady, you think he might be trained here, as well as at the other side of the water?" "no, i don't, my lord: quite different. i've none of thim ideas at all, and never had, thank god. i knows what we can do, and i knows what they can do:--breed a hoss in ireland, train him in the north of england, and run him in the south; and he'll do your work for you, and win your money, steady and shure." "and why not run in the north, too?" "they're too 'cute, my lord: they like to pick up the crumbs themselves--small blame to thim in that matther. no; a bright irish nag, with lots of heart, like brien boru, is the hoss to stand on for the derby; where all run fair and fair alike, the best wins;--but i won't say but he'll be the betther for a little polishing at johnny scott's." "besides, grady, no horse could run immediately after a sea voyage. do you remember what a show we made of peter simple at kilrue?" "to be shure i does, my lord: besides, they've proper gallops there, which we haven't--and they've betther manes of measuring horses:--why, they can measure a horse to half a pound, and tell his rale pace on a two-mile course, to a couple of seconds.--take the sheets off, larry, and let his lordship run his hand over him. he's as bright as a star, isn't he?" "i think you're getting him too fine. i'm sure scott'll say so." "don't mind him, my lord. he's not like one of those english cats, with jist a dash of speed about 'em, and nothing more--brutes that they put in training half a dozen times in as many months. thim animals pick up a lot of loose, flabby flesh in no time, and loses it in less; and, in course, av' they gets a sweat too much, there's nothin left in 'em; not a hapoth. brien's a different guess sort of animal from that." "were you going to have him out, grady?" "why, we was not--that is, only just for walking exercise, with his sheets on: but a canter down the half mile slope, and up again by the bushes won't go agin him." "well, saddle him then, and let pat get up." "yes, my lord"; and brien was saddled by the two men together, with much care and ceremony; and pat was put up--"and now, pat," continued grady, "keep him well in hand down the slope--don't let him out at all at all, till you come to the turn: when you're fairly round the corner, just shake your reins the laste in life, and when you're halfway up the rise, when the lad begins to snort a bit, let him just see the end of the switch--just raise it till it catches his eye; and av' he don't show that he's disposed for running, i'm mistaken. we'll step across to the bushes, my lord, and see him come round." lord ballindine and the managing man walked across to the bushes accordingly, and pat did exactly as he was desired. it was a pretty thing to see the beautiful young animal, with his sleek brown coat shining like a lady's curls, arching his neck, and throwing down his head, in his impatience to start. he was the very picture of health and symmetry; when he flung up his head you'd think the blood was running from his nose, his nostrils were so ruddy bright. he cantered off in great impatience, and fretted and fumed because the little fellow on his back would be the master, and not let him have his play--down the slope, and round the corner by the trees. it was beautiful to watch him, his motions were so easy, so graceful. at the turn he answered to the boy's encouragement, and mended his pace, till again he felt the bridle, and then, as the jock barely moved his right arm, he bounded up the rising ground, past the spot where lord ballindine and the trainer were standing, and shot away till he was beyond the place where he knew his gallop ordinarily ended. as grady said, he hadn't yet been stretched; he had never yet tried his own pace, and he had that look so beautiful in a horse when running, of working at his ease, and much within his power. "he's a beautiful creature," said lord ballindine, as he mournfully reflected that he was about to give up to dot blake half the possession of his favourite, and the whole of the nominal title. it was such a pity he should be so hampered; the mere _éclat_ of possessing such a horse was so great a pleasure; "he is a fine creature," said he, "and, i am sure, will do well." "your lordship may say that: he'll go precious nigh to astonish the saxons, i think. i suppose the pick-up at the derby'll be nigh four thousand this year." "i suppose it will--something like that." "well; i would like a nag out of our stables to do the trick on the downs, and av' we does it iver, it'll be now. mr igoe's standing a deal of cash on him. i wonder is mr blake standing much on him, my lord?" "you'd be precious deep, grady, if you could find what he's doing in that way." "that's thrue for you, my lord; but av' he, or your lordship, wants to get more on, now's the time. i'll lay twenty thousand pounds this moment, that afther he's been a fortnight at johnny scott's the odds agin him won't be more than ten to one, from that day till the morning he comes out on the downs." "i dare say not." "i wondher who your lordship'll put up?" "that must depend on scott, and what sort of a string he has running. he's nothing, as yet, high in the betting, except hardicanute." "nothing, my lord; and, take my word for it, that horse is ownly jist run up for the sake of the betting; that's not his nathural position. well, pat, you may take the saddle off. will your lordship see the mare out to-day?" "not to-day, grady. let's see, what's the day she runs?" "the fifteenth of may, my lord. i'm afraid mr watts' patriot 'll be too much for her; that's av' he'll run kind; but he don't do that always. well, good morning to your lordship." "good morning, grady;" and frank rode back towards handicap lodge. he had a great contest with himself on his road home. he had hated the horses two days since, when he was at grey abbey, and had hated himself, for having become their possessor; and now he couldn't bear the thought of parting with them. to be steward of the curragh--to own the best horse of the year--and to win the derby, were very pleasant things in themselves; and for what was he going to give over all this glory, pleasure and profit, to another? to please a girl who had rejected him, even jilted him, and to appease an old earl who had already turned him out of his house! no, he wouldn't do it. by the time that he was half a mile from igoe's stables he had determined that, as the girl was gone it would be a pity to throw the horses after her; he would finish this year on the turf; and then, if fanny wyndham was still her own mistress after christmas, he would again ask her her mind. "if she's a girl of spirit," he said to himself--"and nobody knows better than i do that she is, she won't like me the worse for having shown that i'm not to be led by the nose by a pompous old fool like lord cashel," and he rode on, fortifying himself in this resolution, for the second half mile. "but what the deuce should he do about money?" there was only one more half mile before he was again at handicap lodge.--guinness's people had his title-deeds, and he knew he had twelve hundred a year after paying the interest of the old incumbrances. they hadn't advanced him much since he came of age; certainly not above five thousand pounds; and it surely was very hard he could not get five or six hundred pounds when he wanted it so much; it was very hard that he shouldn't be able to do what he liked with his own, like the duke of newcastle. however, the money must be had: he must pay blake and tierney the balance of what they had won at whist, and the horse couldn't go over the water till the wind was raised. if he was driven very hard he might get something from martin kelly. these unpleasant cogitations brought him over the third half mile, and he rode through the gate of handicap lodge in a desperate state of indecision. "i'll tell you what i'll do, dot," he said, when he met his friend coming in from his morning's work; "and i'm deuced sorry to do it, for i shall be giving you the best horse of his year, and something tells me he'll win the derby." "i suppose 'something' means old jack igoe, or that blackguard grady," said dot. "but as to his winning, that's as it may be. you know the chances are sixteen to one he won't." "upon my honour i don't think they are." "will you take twelve to one?" "ah! youk now, dot, i'm not now wanting to bet on the horse with you. i was only saying that i've a kind of inward conviction that he will win." "my dear frank," said the other, "if men selling horses could also sell their inward convictions with them, what a lot of articles of that description there would be in the market! but what were you going to say you'd do?" "i'll tell you what i'll do: i'll agree to your terms providing you'll pay half the expenses of the horses since the last race each of them ran. you must see that would be only fair, supposing the horses belonged to you, equally with me, ever since that time." "it would be quite fair, no doubt, if i agreed to it: it would be quite fair also if i agreed to give you five hundred pounds; but i will do neither one nor the other." "but look here, dot--brien ran for the autumn produce stakes last october, and won them: since then he has done nothing to reimburse me for his expense, nor yet has anything been taken out of him by running. surely, if you are to have half the profits, you should at any rate pay half the expenses?" "that's very well put, frank; and if you and i stood upon equal ground, with an arbiter between us by whose decision we were bound to abide, and to whom the settlement of the question was entrusted, your arguments would, no doubt, be successful, but--" "well that's the fair way of looking at it." "but, as i was going to say, that's not the case. we are neither of us bound to take any one's decision; and, therefore, any terms which either of us chooses to accept must be fair. now i have told you my terms--the lowest price, if you like to call it so,--at which i will give your horses the benefit of my experience, and save you from their immediate pecuniary pressure; and i will neither take any other terms, nor will i press these on you." "why, blake, i'd sooner deal with all the jews of israel--" "stop, frank: one word of abuse, and i'll wash my hands of the matter altogether." "wash away then, i'll keep the horses, though i have to sell my hunters and the plate at kelly's court into the bargain." "i was going to add--only your energy's far too great to allow of a slow steady man like me finishing his sentence--i was going to say that, if you're pressed for money as you say, and if it will be any accommodation, i will let you have two hundred and fifty pounds at five per cent. on the security of the horses; that is, that you will be charged with that amount, and the interest, in the final closing of the account at the end of the year, before the horses are restored to you." had an uninterested observer been standing by he might have seen with half an eye that blake's coolness was put on, and that his indifference to the bargain was assumed. this offer of the loan was a second bid, when he found the first was likely to be rejected: it was made, too, at the time that he was positively declaring that he would make none but the first offer. poor frank!--he was utterly unable to cope with his friend at the weapons with which they were playing, and he was consequently most egregiously plundered. but it was in an affair of horse-flesh, and the sporting world, when it learned the terms on which the horses were transferred from lord ballindine's name to that of mr blake, had not a word of censure to utter against the latter. he was pronounced to be very wide awake, and decidedly at the top of his profession; and lord ballindine was spoken of, for a week, with considerable pity and contempt. when blake mentioned the loan frank got up, and stood with his back to the fire; then bit his lips, and walked twice up and down the room, with his hands in his pockets, and then he paused, looked out of the window, and attempted to whistle: then he threw himself into an armchair, poked out both his legs as far as he could, ran his fingers through his hair, and set to work hard to make up his mind. but it was no good; in about five minutes he found he could not do it; so he took out his purse, and, extracting half-a-crown, threw it up to the ceiling, saying, "well, dot--head or harp? if you're right, you have them." "harp," cried dot. they both examined the coin. "they're yours," said frank, with much solemnity; "and now you've got the best horse--yes, i believe the very best horse alive, for nothing." "only half of him, frank." "well," said frank; "it's done now, i suppose." "oh, of course it is," said dot: "i'll draw out the agreement, and give you a cheque for the money to-night." and so he did; and frank wrote a letter to igoe, authorizing him to hand over the horses to mr blake's groom, stating that he had sold them--for so ran his agreement with dot--and desiring that his bill for training, &c., might be forthwith forwarded to kelly's court. poor frank! he was ashamed to go to take a last look at his dear favourites, and tell his own trainer that he had sold his own horses. the next morning saw him, with his servant, on the ballinasloe coach, travelling towards kelly's court; and, also, saw brien boru, granuell, and finn m'goul led across the downs, from igoe's stables to handicap lodge. the handsome sheets, hoods, and rollers, in which they had hitherto appeared, and on which the initial b was alone conspicuous, were carefully folded up, and they were henceforth seen in plainer, but as serviceable apparel, labelled w. b. "will you give fourteen to one against brien boru?" said viscount avoca to lord tathenham corner, about ten days after this, at tattersall's. "i will," said lord tathenham. "in hundreds?" said the sharp irishman. "very well," said lord tathenham; and the bet was booked. "you didn't know, i suppose," said the successful viscount, "that dot blake has bought brien boru?" "and who the devil's dot blake?" said lord tathenham. "oh! you'll know before may's over," said the viscount. xvii. martin kelly's courtship it will be remembered that the tuam attorney, daly, dined with barry lynch, at dunmore house, on the same evening that martin kelly reached home after his dublin excursion; and that, on that occasion, a good deal of interesting conversation took place after dinner. barry, however, was hardly amenable to reason at that social hour, and it was not till the following morning that he became thoroughly convinced that it would be perfectly impossible for him to make his sister out a lunatic to the satisfaction of the chancellor. he then agreed to abandon the idea, and, in lieu of it, to indict, or at any rate to threaten to indict, the widow kelly and her son for a conspiracy, and an attempt to inveigle his sister anty into a disgraceful marriage, with the object of swindling her out of her property. "i'll see moylan, mr lynch," said daly; "and if i can talk him over, i think we might succeed in frightening the whole set of them, so far as to prevent the marriage. moylan must know that if your sister was to marry young kelly, there'd be an end to his agency; but we must promise him something, mr lynch." "yes; i suppose we must pay him, before we get anything out of him." "no, not before--but he must understand that he will get something, if he makes himself useful. you must let me explain to him that if the marriage is prevented, you will make no objection to his continuing to act as miss lynch's agent; and i might hint the possibility of his receiving the rents on the whole property." "hint what you like, daly, but don't tie me down to the infernal ruffian. i suppose we can throw him overboard afterwards, can't we?" "why, not altogether, mr lynch. if i make him a definite promise, i shall expect you to keep to it." "confound him!--but tell me, daly; what is it he's to do?--and what is it we're to do?" "why, mr lynch, it's more than probable, i think, that this plan of martin kelly's marrying your sisther may have been talked over between the ould woman, moylan, and the young man; and if so, that's something like a conspiracy. if i could worm that out of him, i think i'd manage to frighten them." "and what the deuce had i better do? you see, there was a bit of a row between us. that is, anty got frightened when i spoke to her of this rascal, and then she left the house. couldn't you make her understand that she'd be all right if she'd come to the house again?" while barry lynch had been sleeping off the effects of the punch, daly had been inquiring into the circumstances under which anty had left the house, and he had pretty nearly learned the truth; he knew, therefore, how much belief to give to his client's representation. "i don't think," said he, "that your sister will be likely to come back at present; she will probably find herself quieter and easier at the inn. you see, she has been used to a quiet life." "but, if she remains there, she can marry that young ruffian any moment she takes it into her head to do so. there's always some rogue of a priest ready to do a job of that sort." "exactly so, mr lynch. of course your sister can marry whom she pleases, and when she pleases, and neither you nor any one else can prevent her; but still--" "then what the devil's the use of my paying you to come here and tell me that?" "that's your affair: i didn't come without being sent for. but i was going to tell you that, though we can't prevent her from marrying if she pleases, we may make her afraid to do so. you had better write her a kind, affectionate note, regretting what has taken place between you, and promising to give her no molestation of any kind, if she will return to her own house,--and keep a copy of this letter. then i will see moylan; and, if i can do anything with him, it will be necessary that you should also see him. you could come over to tuam, and meet him in my office; and then i will try and force an entrance into the widow's castle, and, if possible, see your sister, and humbug the ould woman into a belief that she has laid herself open to criminal indictment. we might even go so far as to have notices served on them; but, if they snap their fingers at us, we can do nothing further. my advice in that case would be, that you should make the best terms in your power with martin kelly." "and let the whole thing go! i'd sooner--why, daly, i believe you're as bad as blake! you're afraid of these huxtering thieves!" "if you go on in that way, mr lynch, you'll get no professional gentleman to act with you. i give you my best advice; it you don't like it, you needn't follow it; but you won't get a solicitor in connaught to do better for you than what i'm proposing." "confusion!" muttered barry, and he struck the hot turf in the grate a desperate blow with the tongs which he had in his hands, and sent the sparks and bits of fire flying about the hearth. "the truth is, you see, your sister's in her full senses; there's the divil a doubt of that; the money's her own, and she can marry whom she pleases. all that we can do is to try and make the kellys think they have got into a scrape." "but this letter--what on earth am i to say to her?" "i'll just put down what i would say, were i you; and if you like you can copy it." daly then wrote the following letter-- my dear anty, before taking other steps, which could not fail of being very disagreeable to you and to others, i wish to point out to you how injudiciously you are acting in leaving your own house; and to try to induce you to do that which will be most beneficial to yourself, and most conducive to your happiness and respectability. if you will return to dunmore house, i most solemnly promise to leave you unmolested. i much regret that my violence on thursday should have annoyed you, but i can assure you it was attributable merely to my anxiety on your account. nothing, however, shall induce me to repeat it. but you must be aware that a little inn is not a fit place for you to be stopping at; and i am obliged to tell you that i have conclusive evidence of a conspiracy having been formed, by the family with whom you are staying, to get possession of your money; and that this conspiracy was entered into very shortly after the contents of my father's will had been made public. i _must_ have this fact proved at the assizes, and the disreputable parties to it punished, unless you will consent, at any rate for a time, to put yourself under the protection of your brother. in the meantime pray believe me, dear anty, in spite of appearances, your affectionate brother, barry lynch. it was then agreed that this letter should be copied and signed by barry, and delivered by terry on the following morning, which was sunday. daly then returned to tuam, with no warm admiration for his client. in the meantime the excitement at the inn, arising from anty's arrival and martin's return, was gradually subsiding. these two important events, both happening on the same day, sadly upset the domestic economy of mrs kelly's establishment. sally had indulged in tea almost to stupefaction, and kattie's elfin locks became more than ordinarily disordered. on the following morning, however, things seemed to fall a little more into their places: the widow was, as usual, behind her counter; and if her girls did not give her as much assistance as she desired of them, and as much as was usual with them, they were perhaps excusable, for they could not well leave their new guest alone on the day after her coming to them. martin went out early to toneroe; doubtless the necessary labours of the incipient spring required him at the farm but i believe that if his motives were analysed, he hardly felt himself up to a _tête-à-tête_ with his mistress, before he had enjoyed a cool day's consideration of the extraordinary circumstances which had brought her into the inn as his mother's guest. he, moreover, wished to have a little undisturbed conversation with meg, and to learn from her how anty might be inclined towards him just at present. so martin spent his morning among his lambs and his ploughs; and was walking home, towards dusk, tired enough, when he met barry lynch, on horseback, that hero having come out, as usual, for his solitary ride, to indulge in useless dreams of the happy times he would have, were his sister only removed from her tribulations in this world. though martin had never been on friendly terms with his more ambitious neighbour, there had never, up to this time, been any quarrel between them, and he therefore just muttered "good morning, mr lynch," as he passed him on the road. barry said nothing, and did not appear to see him as he passed; but some idea struck him as soon as he had passed, and he pulled in his horse and hallooed out "kelly!"--and, as martin stopped, he added, "come here a moment--i want to speak to you." "well, mr barry, what is it?" said the other, returning. lynch paused, and evidently did not know whether to speak or let it alone. at last he said, "never mind--i'll get somebody else to say what i was going to say. but you'd better look sharp what you're about, my lad, or you'll find yourself in a scrape that you don't dream of." "and is that all you called me back for?" said martin. "that's all i mean to say to you at present." "well then, mr lynch, i must say you're very good, and i'm shure i will look sharp enough. but, to my thinking, d'you know, you want looking afther yourself a precious dale more than i do," and then he turned to proceed homewards, but said, as he was going--"have you any message for your sisther, mr lynch?" "by--! my young man, i'll make you pay for what you're doing," answered barry. "i know you'll be glad to hear she's pretty well: she's coming round from the thratement she got the other night; though, by all accounts, it's a wondher she's alive this moment to tell of it." barry did not attempt any further reply, but rode on, sorry enough that he had commenced the conversation. martin got home in time for a snug tea with anty and his sisters, and succeeded in prevailing on the three to take each a glass of punch; and, before anty went to bed he began to find himself more at his ease with her, and able to call her by her christian name without any disagreeable emotion. he certainly had a most able coadjutor in meg. she made room on the sofa for him between herself and his mistress, and then contrived that the room should be barely sufficient, so that anty was rather closely hemmed up in one corner: moreover, she made anty give her opinion as to martin's looks after his metropolitan excursion, and tried hard to make martin pay some compliments to anty's appearance. but in this she failed, although she gave him numerous opportunities. however, they passed the evening very comfortably,--quite sufficiently so to make anty feel that the kindly, humble friendship of the inn was infinitely preferable to the miserable grandeur of dunmore house; and it is probable that all the lovemaking in the world would not have operated so strongly in martin's favour as this feeling. meg, however, was not satisfied, for as soon as she had seen jane and anty into the bed-room she returned to her brother, and lectured him as to his lukewarm manifestations of affection. "martin," said she, returning into the little sitting-room, and carefully shutting the door after her, "you're the biggest bosthoon of a gandher i ever see, to be losing your opportunities with anty this way! i b'lieve it's waiting you are for herself to come forward to you. do you think a young woman don't expect something more from a lover than jist for you to sit by her, and go on all as one as though she was one of your own sisthers? av' once she gets out of this before the priest has made one of the two of you, mind, i tell you, it'll be all up with you. i wondher, martin, you haven't got more pluck in you!" "oh! bother, meg. you're thinking of nothing but kissing and slobbhering.--anty's not the same as you and jane, and doesn't be all agog for such nonsense!" "i tell you, martin, anty's a woman; and, take my word for it, what another girl likes won't come amiss to her. besides, why don't you spake to her?" "spake?--why, what would you have me spake?" "well, martin, you're a fool. have you, or have you not, made up your mind to marry anty?" "to be shure i will, av' she'll have me." "and do you expect her to have you without asking?" "shure, you know, didn't i ask her often enough?" "ah, but you must do more than jist ask her that way. she'll never make up her mind to go before the priest, unless you say something sthronger to her. jist tell her, plump out, you're ready and willing, and get the thing done before lent. what's to hindher you?--shure, you know," she added, in a whisper, "you'll not get sich a fortune as anty's in your way every day. spake out, man, and don't be afraid of her: take my word she won't like you a bit the worse for a few kisses." martin promised to comply with his sister's advice, and to sound anty touching their marriage on the following morning after mass. on the sunday morning, at breakfast, the widow proposed to anty that she should go to mass with herself and her daughters; but anty trembled so violently at the idea of showing herself in public, after her escape from dunmore house, that the widow did not press her to do so, although afterwards she expressed her disapprobation of anty's conduct to her own girls. "i don't see what she has to be afeard of," said she, "in going to get mass from her own clergyman in her own chapel. she don't think, i suppose, that barry lynch'd dare come in there to pull her out, before the blessed altar, glory be to god." "ah but, mother, you know, she has been so frighted." "frighted, indeed! she'll get over these tantrums, i hope, before sunday next, or i know where i'll wish her again." so anty was left at home, and the rest of the family went to mass. when the women returned, meg manoeuvred greatly, and, in fine, successfully, that no one should enter the little parlour to interrupt the wooing she intended should take place there. she had no difficulty with jane, for she told her what her plans were; and though her less energetic sister did not quite agree in the wisdom of her designs, and pronounced an opinion that it would be "better to let things settle down a bit," still she did not presume to run counter to meg's views; but meg had some work to dispose of her mother. it would not have answered at all, as meg had very well learned herself, to caution her mother not to interrupt martin in his love-making, for the widow had no charity for such follies. she certainly expected her daughters to get married, and wished them to be well and speedily settled; but she watched anything like a flirtation on their part as closely as a cat does a mouse. if any young man were in the house, she'd listen to the fall of his footsteps with the utmost care; and when she had reason to fear that there was anything like a lengthened _tête-à-tête_ upstairs, she would steal on the pair, if possible, unawares, and interrupt, without the least reserve, any billing and cooing which might be going on, sending the delinquent daughter to her work, and giving a glower at the swain, which she expected might be sufficient to deter him from similar offences for some little time. the girls, consequently, were taught to be on the alert--to steal about on tiptoe, to elude their mother's watchful ear, to have recourse to a thousand little methods of deceiving her, and to baffle her with her own weapons. the mother, if she suspected that any prohibited frolic was likely to be carried on, at a late hour, would tell her daughters that she was going to bed, and would shut herself up for a couple of hours in her bed-room, and then steal out eavesdropping, peeping through key-holes and listening at door-handles; and the daughters, knowing their mother's practice, would not come forth till the listening and peeping had been completed, and till they had ascertained, by some infallible means, that the old woman was between the sheets. each party knew the tricks of the other; and yet, taking it all in all, the widow got on very well with her children, and everybody said what a good mother she had been: she was accustomed to use deceit, and was therefore not disgusted by it in others. whether the system of domestic manners which i have described is one likely to induce to sound restraint and good morals is a question which i will leave to be discussed by writers on educational points. however meg managed it, she did contrive that her mother should not go near the little parlour this sunday morning, and anty was left alone, to receive her lover's visit. i regret to say that he was long in paying it. he loitered about the chapel gates before he came home; and seemed more than usually willing to talk to anyone about anything. at last, however, just as meg was getting furious, he entered the inn. "why, martin, you born ideot--av' she ain't waiting for you this hour and more!" "thim that's long waited for is always welcome when they do come," replied martin. "well afther all i've done for you! are you going in now?--cause, av' you don't, i'll go and tell her not to be tasing herself about you. i'll neither be art or part in any such schaming." "schaming, is it, meg? faith, it'd be a clever fellow'd beat you at that," and, without waiting for his sister's sharp reply, he walked into the little room where anty was sitting. "so, anty, you wouldn't come to mass?" he began. "maybe i'll go next sunday," said she. "it's a long time since you missed mass before, i'm thinking." "not since the sunday afther father's death." "it's little you were thinking then how soon you'd be stopping down here with us at the inn." "that's thrue for you, martin, god knows." at this point of the conversation martin stuck fast: he did not know rosalind's recipe [ ] for the difficulty a man feels, when he finds himself gravelled for conversation with his mistress; so he merely scratched his head, and thought hard to find what he'd say next. i doubt whether the conviction, which was then strong on his mind, that meg was listening at the keyhole to every word that passed, at all assisted him in the operation. at last, some muse came to his aid, and he made out another sentence. [footnote : rosalind's recipe--in _as you like it_, act iii, sc. ii, rosalind, disguised as a young man, instructs orlando to practice his wooing on her.] "it was very odd my finding you down here, all ready before me, wasn't it?" "'deed it was: your mother was a very good woman to me that morning, anyhow." "and tell me now, anty, do you like the inn?" "'deed i do--but it's quare, like." "how quare?" "why, having meg and jane here: i wasn't ever used to anyone to talk to, only just the servants." "you'll have plenty always to talk to now--eh, anty?" and martin tried a sweet look at his lady love. "i'm shure i don't know. av' i'm only left quiet, that's what i most care about." "but, anty, tell me--you don't want always to be what you call quiet?" "oh! but i do--why not?" "but you don't mane, anty, that you wouldn't like to have some kind of work to do--some occupation, like?" "why, i wouldn't like to be idle; but a person needn't be idle because they're quiet." "and that's thrue, anty." and martin broke down again. "there'd be a great crowd in chapel, i suppose?" said anty. "there was a great crowd." "and what was father geoghegan preaching about?" "well, then, i didn't mind. to tell the truth, anty, i came out most as soon as the preaching began; only i know he told the boys to pray that the liberathor might be got out of his throubles; and so they should--not that there's much to throuble him, as far as the verdict's concerned." "isn't there then? i thought they made him out guilty?" "so they did, the false ruffians: but what harum 'll that do? they daren't touch a hair of his head!" politics, however, are not a favourable introduction to love-making: so martin felt, and again gave up the subject, in the hopes that he might find something better. "what a fool the man is!" thought meg to herself, at the door--"if i had a lover went on like that, wouldn't i pull his ears!" martin got up--walked across the room--looked out of the little window--felt very much ashamed of himself, and, returning, sat himself down on the sofa. "anty," he said, at last, blushing nearly brown as he spoke; "were you thinking of what i was spaking to you about before i went to dublin?" anty blushed also, now. "about what?" she said. "why, just about you and me making a match of it. come, anty, dear, what's the good of losing time? i've been thinking of little else; and, after what's been between us, you must have thought the matther over too, though you do let on to be so innocent. come, anty, now that you and mother's so thick, there can be nothing against it." "but indeed there is, martin, a great dale against it--though i'm sure it's good of you to be thinking of me. there's so much against it, i think we had betther be of one mind, and give it over at once." "and what's to hinder us marrying, anty, av' yourself is plazed? av' you and i, and mother are plazed, sorrow a one that i know of has a word to say in the matther." "but barry don't like it!" "and, afther all, are you going to wait for what barry likes? you didn't wait for what was plazing to barry lynch when you came down here; nor yet did mother when she went up and fetched you down at five in the morning, dreading he'd murdher you outright. and it was thrue for her, for he would, av' he was let, the brute. and are you going to wait for what he likes?" "whatever he's done, he's my brother; and there's only the two of us." "but it's not that, anty--don't you know it's not that? isn't it because you're afraid of him? because he threatened and frightened you? and what on 'arth could he do to harum you av' you was the wife of--of a man who'd, anyway, not let barry lynch, or anyone else, come between you and your comfort and aise?" "but you don't know how wretched i've been since he spoke to me about--about getting myself married: you don't know what i've suffered; and i've a feeling that good would never come of it." "and, afther all, are you going to tell me now, that i may jist go my own way? is that to be your answer, and all i'm to get from you?" "don't be angry with me, martin. i'm maning to do everything for the best." "maning?--what's the good of maning? anyways, anty, let me have an answer, for i'll not be making a fool of myself any longer. somehow, all the boys here, every sowl in dunmore, has it that you and i is to be married--and now, afther promising me as you did--" "oh, i never promised, martin." "it was all one as a promise--and now i'm to be thrown overboard. and why?--because barry lynch got dhrunk, and frightened you. av' i'd seen the ruffian striking you, i think i'd 've been near putting it beyond him to strike another woman iver again." "glory be to god that you wasn't near him that night," said anty, crossing herself. "it was bad enough, but av' the two of you should ever be set fighting along of me, it would kill me outright." "but who's talking of fighting, anty, dear?" and martin drew a little nearer to her--"who's talking of fighting? i never wish to spake another word to barry the longest day that ever comes. av' he'll get out of my way, i'll go bail he'll not find me in his." "but he wouldn't get out of your way, nor get out of mine, av' you and i got married: he'd be in our way, and we'd be in his, and nothing could iver come of it but sorrow and misery, and maybe bloodshed." "them's all a woman's fears. av' you an i were once spliced by the priest, god bless him, barry wouldn't trouble dunmore long afther." "that's another rason, too. why should i be dhriving him out of his own house? you know he's a right to the house, as well as i." "who's talking of dhriving him out? faith, he'd be welcome to stay there long enough for me! he'd go, fast enough, without dhriving, though; you can't say the counthry wouldn't have a good riddhance of him. but never mind that, anty: it wasn't about barry, one way or the other, i was thinking, when i first asked you to have me; nor it wasn't about myself altogether, as i could let you know; though, in course, i'm not saying but that myself's as dear to myself as another, an' why not? but to tell the blessed truth, i was thinking av' you too; and that you'd be happier and asier, let alone betther an' more respecthable, as an honest man's wife, as i'd make you, than being mewed up there in dread of your life, never daring to open your mouth to a christian, for fear of your own brother, who niver did, nor niver will lift a hand to sarve you, though he wasn't backward to lift it to sthrike you, woman and sisther though you were. come, anty, darlin," he added, after a pause, during which he managed to get his arm behind her back, though he couldn't be said to have it fairly round her waist--"get quit of all these quandaries, and say at once, like an honest girl, you'll do what i'm asking--and what no living man can hindher you from or say against it.--or else jist fairly say you won't, and i'll have done with it." anty sat silent, for she didn't like to say she wouldn't; and she thought of her brother's threats, and was afraid to say she would. martin advanced a little in his proceedings, however, and now succeeded in getting his arm round her waist--and, having done so, he wasn't slow in letting her feel its pressure. she made an attempt, with her hand, to disengage herself--certainly not a successful, and, probably, not a very energetic attempt, when the widow's step was heard on the stairs. martin retreated from his position on the sofa, and meg from hers outside the door, and mrs kelly entered the room, with barry's letter in her hand, meg following, to ascertain the cause of the unfortunate interruption. xviii. an attorney's office in connaught "anty, here's a letter for ye," began the widow. "terry's brought it down from the house, and says it's from misther barry. i b'lieve he was in the right not to bring it hisself." "a letther for me, mrs kelly? what can he be writing about? i don't just know whether i ought to open it or no;" and anty trembled, as she turned the epistle over and over again in her hands. "what for would you not open it? the letther can't hurt you, girl, whatever the writher might do." thus encouraged, anty broke the seal, and made herself acquainted with the contents of the letter which daly had dictated; but she then found that her difficulties had only just commenced. was she to send an answer, and if so, what answer? and if she sent none, what notice ought she to take of it? the matter was one evidently too weighty to be settled by her own judgment, so she handed the letter to be read, first by the widow, and then by martin, and lastly by the two girls, who, by this time, were both in the room. "well, the dethermined impudence of that blackguard!" exclaimed mrs kelly. "conspiracy!--av' that don't bang banagher! what does the man mean by 'conspiracy,' eh, martin?" "faith, you must ask himself that, mother; and then it's ten to one he can't tell you." "i suppose," said meg, "he wants to say that we're all schaming to rob anty of her money--only he daren't, for the life of him, spake it out straight forrard." "or, maybe," suggested jane, "he wants to bring something agen us like this affair of o'connell's--only he'll find, down here, that he an't got dublin soft goods to deal wid." then followed a consultation, as to the proper steps to be taken in the matter. the widow advised that father geoghegan should be sent for to indite such a reply as a christian ill-used woman should send to so base a letter. meg, who was very hot on the subject, and who had read of some such proceeding in a novel, was for putting up in a blank envelope the letter itself, and returning it to barry by the hands of jack, the ostler; at the same time, she declared that "no surrender" should be her motto. jane was of opinion that "miss anastasia lynch's compliments to mr barry lynch, and she didn't find herself strong enough to move to dunmore house at present," would answer all purposes, and be, on the whole, the safest course. while martin pronounced that "if anty would be led by him, she'd just pitch the letter behind the fire an' take no notice of it, good, bad, or indifferent." none of these plans pleased anty, for, as she remarked, "after all, barry was her brother, and blood was thickher than wather." so, after much consultation, pen, ink, and paper were procured, and the following letter was concocted between them, all the soft bits having been great stumbling-blocks, in which, however, anty's quiet perseverance carried the point, in opposition to the wishes of all the kellys. the words put in brackets were those peculiarly objected to. dunmore inn. february, . dear barry, i (am very sorry i) can't come back to the house, at any rate just at present. i am not very sthrong in health, and there are kind female friends about me here, which you know there couldn't be up at the house. anty herself, in the original draft inserted "ladies," but the widow's good sense repudiated the term, and insisted on the word "females": jane suggested that "females" did not sound quite respectful alone, and martin thought that anty might call them "female friends," which was consequently done. --besides, there are reasons why i'm quieter here, till things are a little more settled. i will forgive (and forget) all that happened up at the house between us-- "why, you can't forget it," said meg. "oh, i could, av' he was kind to me. i'd forget it all in a week av' he was kind to me," answered anty-- (and i will do nothing particular without first letting you know). they were all loud against this paragraph, but they could not carry their point. i must tell you, dear barry, that you are very much mistaken about the people of this house: they are dear, kind friends to me, and, wherever i am, i must love them to the last day of my life--but indeed i am, and hope you believe so, your affectionate sister, anastasia lynch. when the last paragraph was read over anty's shoulder, meg declared she was a dear, dear creature: jane gave her a big kiss, and began crying; even the widow put the corner of her apron to her eye, and martin, trying to look manly and unconcerned, declared that he was "quite shure they all loved her, and they'd be brutes and bastes av' they didn't!" the letter, as given above, was finally decided on; written, sealed, and despatched by jack, who was desired to be very particular to deliver it at the front door, with miss lynch's love, which was accordingly done. all the care, however, which had been bestowed on it did not make it palatable to barry, who was alone when he received it, and merely muttered, as he read it, "confound her, low-minded slut! friends, indeed! what business has she with friends, except such as i please?--if i'd the choosing of her friends, they'd be a strait waistcoat, and the madhouse doctor. good heaven! that half my property--no, but two-thirds of it,--should belong to her!--the stupid, stiff-necked robber!" these last pleasant epithets had reference to his respected progenitor. on the same evening, after tea, martin endeavoured to make a little further advance with anty, for he felt that he had been interrupted just as she was coming round; but her nerves were again disordered, and he soon found that if he pressed her now, he should only get a decided negative, which he might find it very difficult to induce her to revoke. anty's letter was sent off early on the monday morning--at least, as early as barry now ever managed to do anything--to the attorney at tuam, with strong injunctions that no time was to be lost in taking further steps, and with a request that daly would again come out to dunmore. this, however, he did not at present think it expedient to do. so he wrote to barry, begging him to come into tuam on the wednesday, to meet moylan, whom he, daly, would, if possible, contrive to see on the intervening day. "obstinate puppy!" said barry to himself--"if he'd had the least pluck in life he'd have broken the will, or at least made the girl out a lunatic. but a connaught lawyer hasn't half the wit or courage now that he used to have." however, he wrote a note to daly, agreeing to his proposal, and promising to be in tuam at two o'clock on the wednesday. on the following day daly saw moylan, and had a long conversation with him. the old man held out for a long time, expressing much indignation at being supposed capable of joining in any underhand agreement for transferring miss lynch's property to his relatives the kellys, and declaring that he would make public to every one in dunmore and tuam the base manner in which barry lynch was treating his sister. indeed, moylan kept to his story so long and so firmly that the young attorney was nearly giving him up; but at last he found his weak side. "well, mr moylan," he said, "then i can only say your own conduct is very disinterested;--and i might even go so far as to say that you appear to me foolishly indifferent to your own concerns. here's the agency of the whole property going a-begging: the rents, i believe, are about a thousand a-year: you might be recaving them all by jist a word of your mouth, and that only telling the blessed truth; and here, you're going to put the whole thing into the hands of young kelly; throwing up even the half of the business you have got!" "who says i'm afther doing any sich thing, mr daly?" "why, martin kelly says so. didn't as many as four or five persons hear him say, down at dunmore, that divil a one of the tenants'd iver pay a haporth [ ] of the november rents to anyone only jist to himself? there was father geoghegan heard him, an doctor ned blake." [footnote : haporth--half-penny's worth] "maybe he'll find his mistake, mr daly." "maybe he will, mr moylan. maybe we'll put the whole affair into the courts, and have a regular recaver over the property, under the chancellor. people, though they're ever so respectable in their way,--and i don't mane to say a word against the kellys, mr moylan, for they were always friends of mine--but people can't be allowed to make a dead set at a property like this, and have it all their own way, like the bull in the china-shop. i know there has been an agreement made, and that, in the eye of the law, is a conspiracy. i positively know that an agreement has been made to induce miss lynch to become martin kelly's wife; and i know the parties to it, too; and i also know that an active young fellow like him wouldn't be paying an agent to get in his rents; and i thought, if mr lynch was willing to appoint you his agent, as well as his sister's, it might be worth your while to lend us a hand to settle this affair, without forcing us to stick people into a witness-box whom neither i nor mr lynch--" "but what the d----l can i--" "jist hear me out, mr moylan; you see, if they once knew--the kellys i mane--that you wouldn't lend a hand to this piece of iniquity--" "which piece of iniquity, mr daly?--for i'm entirely bothered." "ah, now, mr moylan, none of your fun: this piece of iniquity of theirs, i say; for i can call it no less. if they once knew that you wouldn't help 'em, they'd be obliged to drop it all; the matter'd never have to go into court at all, and you'd jist step into the agency fair and aisy; and, into the bargain, you'd do nothing but an honest man's work." the old man broke down, and consented to "go agin the kellys," as he somewhat ambiguously styled his apostasy, provided the agency was absolutely promised to him; and he went away with the understanding that he was to come on the following day and meet mr lynch. at two o'clock, punctual to the time of his appointment, moylan was there, and was kept waiting an hour in daly's little parlour. at the end of this time barry came in, having invigorated his courage and spirits with a couple of glasses of brandy. daly had been for some time on the look-out for him, for he wished to say a few words to him in private, and give him his cue before he took him into the room where moylan was sitting. this could not well be done in the office, for it was crowded. it would, i think, astonish a london attorney in respectable practice, to see the manner in which his brethren towards the west of ireland get through their work. daly's office was open to all the world; the front door of the house, of which he rented the ground floor, was never closed, except at night; nor was the door of the office, which opened immediately into the hail. during the hour that moylan was waiting in the parlour, daly was sitting, with his hat on, upon a high stool, with his feet resting on a small counter which ran across the room, smoking a pipe: a boy, about seventeen years of age, daly's clerk, was filling up numbers of those abominable formulas of legal persecution in which attorneys deal, and was plying his trade as steadily as though no february blasts were blowing in on him through the open door, no sounds of loud and boisterous conversation were rattling in his ears. the dashing manager of one of the branch banks in the town was sitting close to the little stove, and raking out the turf ashes with the office rule, while describing a drinking-bout that had taken place on the previous sunday at blake's of blakemount; he had a cigar in his mouth, and was searching for a piece of well-kindled turf, wherewith to light it. a little fat oily shopkeeper in the town, who called himself a woollen merchant, was standing with the raised leaf of the counter in his hand, roaring with laughter at the manager's story. two frieze coated farmers, outside the counter, were stretching across it, and whispering very audibly to daly some details of litigation which did not appear very much to interest him; and a couple of idle blackguards were leaning against the wall, ready to obey any behest of the attorney's which might enable them to earn a sixpence without labour, and listening with all their ears to the different interesting topics of conversation which might be broached in the inner office. "here's the very man i'm waiting for, at last," said daly, when, from his position on the stool, he saw, through the two open doors, the bloated red face of barry lynch approaching; and, giving an impulse to his body by a shove against the wall behind him, he raised himself on to the counter, and, assisting himself by a pull at the collar of the frieze coat of the farmer who was in the middle of his story, jumped to the ground, and met his client at the front door. "i beg your pardon, mr lynch," said he as soon as he had shaken hands with him, "but will you just step up to my room a minute, for i want to spake to you;" and he took him up into his bed-room, for he hadn't a second sitting-room. "you'll excuse my bringing you up here, for the office was full, you see, and moylan's in the parlour." "the d----l he is! he came round then, did he, eh, daly?" "oh, i've had a terrible hard game to play with him. i'd no idea he'd be so tough a customer, or make such a good fight; but i think i've managed him." "there was a regular plan then, eh, daly? just as i said. it was a regular planned scheme among them?" "wait a moment, and you'll know all about it, at least as much as i know myself; and, to tell the truth, that's devilish little. but, if we manage to break off the match, and get your sister clane out of the inn there, you must give moylan your agency, at any rate for two or three years." "you haven't promised that?" "but i have, though. we can do nothing without it: it was only when i hinted that, that the old sinner came round." "but what the deuce is it he's to do for us, after all?" "he's to allow us to put him forward as a bugbear, to frighten the kellys with: that's all, and, if we can manage that, that's enough. but come down now. i only wanted to warn you that, if you think the agency is too high a price to pay for the man's services, whatever they may be, you must make up your mind to dispense with them." "well," answered barry, as he followed the attorney downstairs, "i can't understand what you're about; but i suppose you must be right;" and they went into the little parlour where moylan was sitting. moylan and barry lynch had only met once, since the former had been entrusted to receive anty's rents, on which occasion moylan had been grossly insulted by her brother. barry, remembering the meeting, felt very awkward at the idea of entering into amicable conversation with him, and crept in at the door like a whipped dog. moylan was too old to feel any such compunctions, and consequently made what he intended to be taken as a very complaisant bow to his future patron. he was an ill-made, ugly, stumpy man, about fifty; with a blotched face, straggling sandy hair, and grey shaggy whiskers. he wore a long brown great coat, buttoned up to his chin, and this was the only article of wearing apparel visible upon him: in his hands he twirled a shining new four-and-fourpenny hat. as soon as their mutual salutations were over, daly commenced his business. "there is no doubt in the world, mr lynch," said he, addressing barry, "that a most unfair attempt has been made by this family to get possession of your sister's property--a most shameful attempt, which the law will no doubt recognise as a misdemeanour. but i think we shall be able to stop their game without any law at all, which will save us the annoyance of putting mr moylan here, and other respectable witnesses, on the table. mr moylan says that very soon afther your father's will was made known--" "now, mr daly--shure i niver said a word in life at all about the will," said moylan, interrupting him. "no, you did not: i mane, very soon afther you got the agency--" "divil a word i said about the agency, either." "well, well; some time ago--he says that, some time ago, he and martin kelly were talking over your sister's affairs; i believe the widow was there, too." "ah, now, mr daly--why'd you be putting them words into my mouth? sorrow a word of the kind i iver utthered at all." "what the deuce was it you did say, then?" "faix, i don't know that i said much, at all." "didn't you say, mr moylan, that martin kelly was talking to you about marrying anty, some six weeks ago?" "maybe i did; he was spaking about it." "and, if you were in the chair now, before a jury, wouldn't you swear that there was a schame among them to get anty lynch married to martin kelly? come, mr moylan, that's all we want to know: if you can't say as much as that for us now, just that we may let the kellys know what sort of evidence we could bring against them, if they push us, we must only have you and others summoned, and see what you'll have to say then." "oh, i'd say the truth, mr daly--divil a less--and i'd do as much as that now; but i thought mr lynch was wanting to say something about the property?" "not a word then i've to say about it," said barry, "except that i won't let that robber, young kelly, walk off with it, as long as there's law in the land." "mr moylan probably meant about the agency," observed daly. barry looked considerably puzzled, and turned to the attorney for assistance. "he manes," continued daly, "that he and the kellys are good friends, and it wouldn't be any convenience to him just to say anything that wouldn't be pleasing to them, unless we could make him independent of them:--isn't that about the long and the short of it, mr moylan?" "indepindent of the kellys, is it, mr daly?--faix, thin, i'm teetotally indepindent of them this minute, and mane to continue so, glory be to god. oh, i'm not afeard to tell the thruth agin ere a kelly in galway or roscommon--and, av' that was all, i don't see why i need have come here this day. when i'm called upon in the rigular way, and has a rigular question put me before the jury, either at sessions or 'sizes, you'll find i'll not be bothered for an answer, and, av' that's all, i b'lieve i may be going,"--and he made a movement towards the door. "just as you please, mr moylan," said daly; "and you may be sure that you'll not be long without an opportunity of showing how free you are with your answers. but, as a friend, i tell you you'll be wrong to lave this room till you've had a little more talk with mr lynch and myself. i believe i mentioned to you mr lynch was looking out for someone to act as agent over his portion of the dunmore property?" barry looked as black as thunder, but he said nothing. "you war, mr daly. av' i could accommodate mr lynch, i'm shure i'd be happy to undhertake the business." "i believe, mr lynch," said daly, turning to the other, "i may go so far as to promise mr moylan the agency of the whole property, provided miss lynch is induced to quit the house of the kellys? of course, mr moylan, you can see that as long as miss lynch is in a position of unfortunate hostility to her brother, the same agent could not act for both; but i think my client is inclined to put his property under your management, providing his sister returns to her own home. i believe i'm stating your wishes, mr lynch." "manage it your own way," said barry, "for i don't see what you're doing. if this man can do anything for me, why, i suppose i must pay him for it; and if so, your plan's as good a way of paying him as another." the attorney raised his hat with his hand, and scratched his head: he was afraid that moylan would have again gone off in a pet at lynch's brutality, but the old man sat quite quiet. he wouldn't have much minded what was said to him, as long as he secured the agency. "you see, mr moylan," continued daly, "you can have the agency. five per cent. upon the rents is what my client--" "no, daly--five per cent.!--i'm shot if i do!" exclaimed barry. "i'm gething twenty-five pounds per annum from miss anty, for her half, and i wouldn't think of collecting the other for less," declared moylan. and then a long battle followed on this point, which it required all daly's tact and perseverance to adjust. the old man was pertinacious, and many whispers had to be made into barry's ear before the matter could be settled. it was, however, at last agreed that notice was to be served on the kellys, of barry lynch's determination to indict them for a conspiracy; that daly was to see the widow, martin, and, if possible, anty, and tell them all that moylan was prepared to prove that such a conspiracy had been formed;--care was also to be taken that copies of the notices so served should be placed in anty's hands. moylan, in the meantime, agreed to keep out of the way, and undertook, should he be unfortunate enough to encounter any of the family of the kellys, to brave the matter out by declaring that "av' he war brought before the judge and jury he couldn't do more than tell the blessed thruth, and why not?" in reward for this, he was to be appointed agent over the entire property the moment that miss lynch left the inn, at which time he was to receive a document, signed by barry, undertaking to retain him in the agency for four years certain, or else to pay him a hundred pounds when it was taken from him. these terms having been mutually agreed to, and barry having, with many oaths, declared that he was a most shamefully ill-used man, the three separated. moylan skulked off to one of his haunts in the town; barry went to the bank, to endeavour to get a bill discounted [ ]; and daly returned to his office, to prepare the notices for the unfortunate widow and her son. [footnote : bill discounted--a common way for young men to borrow money in nineteenth century britain was to sign a promissory note (an "i.o.u."), often called a "bill," to repay the loan at a specified time. the lender gave the borrower less than the face value of the note (that is, he "discounted" the note), the difference being the interest. sometimes these notes were co-signed by a third party, who became responsible for repaying the loan if the borrower defaulted; this is one of the major themes in trollope's later book _framley parsonage_. trollope himself was quite familiar with methods of borrowing, having gotten into debt in his youth.] xix. mr daly visits the dunmore inn daly let no grass grow under his feet, for early on the following morning he hired a car, and proceeded to dunmore, with the notices in his pocket. his feelings were not very comfortable on his journey, for he knew that he was going on a bad errand, and he was not naturally either a heartless or an unscrupulous man, considering that he was a provincial attorney; but he was young in business, and poor, and he could not afford to give up a client. he endeavoured to persuade himself that it certainly was a wrong thing for martin kelly to marry such a woman as anty lynch, and that barry had some show of justice on his side; but he could not succeed. he knew that martin was a frank, honourable fellow, and that a marriage with him would be the very thing most likely to make anty happy; and he was certain, moreover, that, however anxious martin might naturally be to secure the fortune, he would take no illegal or even unfair steps to do so. he felt that his client was a ruffian of the deepest die: that his sole object was to rob his sister, and that he had no case which it would be possible even to bring before a jury. his intention now was, merely to work upon the timidity and ignorance of anty and the other females, and to frighten them with a bugbear in the shape of a criminal indictment; and daly felt that the work he was about was very, very dirty work. two or three times on the road, he had all but made up his mind to tear the letters he had in his pocket, and to drive at once to dunmore house, and tell barry lynch that he would do nothing further in the case. and he would have done so, had he not reflected that he had gone so far with moylan, that he could not recede, without leaving it in the old rogue's power to make the whole matter public. as he drove down the street of dunmore, he endeavoured to quiet his conscience, by reflecting that he might still do much to guard anty from the ill effects of her brother's rapacity; and that at any rate he would not see her property taken from her, though she might be frightened out of her matrimonial speculation. he wanted to see the widow, martin, and anty, and if possible to see them, at first, separately; and fortune so far favoured him that, as he got off the car, he saw our hero standing at the inn door. "ah! mr daly," said he, coming up to the car and shaking hands with the attorney, for daly put out his hand to him--"how are you again?--i suppose you're going up to the house? they say you're barry's right hand man now. were you coming into the inn?" "why, i will step in just this minute; but i've a word i want to spake to you first." "to me!" said martin. "yes, to you, martin kelly: isn't that quare?" and then he gave directions to the driver to put up the horse, and bring the car round again in an hour's time. "d' you remember my telling you, the day we came into dunmore on the car together, that i was going up to the house?" "faith i do, well; it's not so long since." "and do you mind my telling you, i didn't know from adam what it was for, that barry lynch was sending for me?" "and i remember that, too." "and that i tould you, that when i did know i shouldn't tell you?" "begad you did, mr daly; thim very words." "why then, martin, i tould you what wasn't thrue, for i'm come all the way from tuam, this minute, to tell you all about it." martin turned very red, for he rightly conceived that when an attorney came all the way from tuam to talk to him, the tidings were not likely to be agreeable. "and is it about barry lynch's business?" "it is." "then it's schames there's divil a doubt of that." "it is schames, as you say, martin," said daly, slapping him on the shoulder--"fine schames--no less than a wife with four hundred a-year! wouldn't that be a fine schame?" "'deed it would, mr daly, av' the wife and the fortune were honestly come by." "and isn't it a hundred pities that i must come and upset such a pretty schame as that? but, for all that, it's thrue. i'm sorry for you, martin, but you must give up anty lynch." "give her up, is it? faith i haven't got her to give up, worse luck." "nor never will, martin; and that's worse luck again." "well, mr daly, av' that's all you've come to say, you might have saved yourself car-hire. miss lynch is nothing to me, mind; how should she be? but av' she war, neither barry lynch--who's as big a rogue as there is from this to hisself and back again--nor you, who, i take it, ain't rogue enough to do barry's work, wouldn't put me off it." "well, martin; thank 'ee for the compliment. but now, you know what i've come about, and there's no joke in it. of course i don't want you to tell me anything of your plans; but, as mr lynch's lawyer, i must tell you so much as this of his:--that, if his sister doesn't lave the inn, and honestly assure him that she'll give up her intention of marrying you, he's determined to take proceedings." he then fumbled in his pocket, and, bringing out the two notices, handed to martin the one addressed to him. "read that, and it'll give you an idea what we're afther. and when i tell you that moylan owns, and will swear to it too, that he was present when all the plans were made, you'll see that we're not going to sea without wind in our sails." "well--i'm shot av' i know the laist in the world what all this is about!" said martin, as he stood in the street, reading over the legally-worded letter--"'conspiracy!'--well that'll do, mr daly; go on--'enticing away from her home!'--that's good, when the blackguard nearly knocked the life out of her, and mother brought her down here, from downright charity, and to prevent murdher--'wake intellects!'--well, mr daly, i didn't expect this kind of thing from you: begorra, i thought you were above this!--wake intellects! faith, they're a dale too sthrong, and too good--and too wide awake too, for barry to get the betther of her that way. not that i'm in the laist in life surprised at anything he'd do; but i thought that you, mr daly, wouldn't put your hands to such work as that." daly felt the rebuke, and felt it strongly, too; but now that he was embarked in the business, he must put the best face he could upon it. still it was a moment or two before he could answer the young farmer. "why," he said--"why did you put your hands to such a dirty job as this, martin?--you were doing well, and not in want--and how could you let anyone persuade you to go and sell yourself to, an ugly ould maid, for a few hundred pounds? don't you know, that if you were married to her this minute, you'd have a lawsuit that'd go near to ruin you before you could get possession of the property?" "av' i'm in want of legal advice, mr daly, which thank god, i'm not, nor likely to be--but av' i war, it's not from barry lynch's attorney i'd be looking for it." "i'd be sorry to see you in want of it, martin; but if you mane to keep out of the worst kind of law, you'd better have done with anty lynch. i'd a dale sooner be drawing up a marriage settlement between you and some pretty girl with five or six hundred pound fortune, than i'd be exposing to the counthry such a mane trick as this you're now afther, of seducing a poor half-witted ould maid, like anty lynch, into a disgraceful marriage." "look here, mr daly," said the other; "you've hired yourself out to barry lynch, and you must do his work, i suppose, whether it's dirthy or clane; and you know yourself, as well as i can tell you, which it's likely to be--" "that's my concern; lave that to me; you've quite enough to do to mind yourself." "but av' he's nothing betther for you to do, than to send you here bally-ragging and calling folks out of their name, he must have a sight more money to spare than i give him credit for; and you must be a dale worse off than your neighbours thought you, to do it for him." "that'll do," said mr daly, knocking at the door of the inn; "only, remember, mr kelly, you've now received notice of the steps which my client feels himself called upon to take." martin turned to go away, but then, reflecting that it would be as well not to leave the women by themselves in the power of the enemy, he also waited at the door till it was opened by katty. "is miss lynch within?" asked daly. "go round to the shop, katty," said martin, "and tell mother to come to the door. there's a gentleman wanting her." "it was miss lynch i asked for," said daly, still looking to the girl for an answer. "do as i bid you, you born ideot, and don't stand gaping there," shouted martin to the girl, who immediately ran off towards the shop. "i might as well warn you, mr kelly, that, if miss lynch is denied to me, the fact of her being so denied will be a very sthrong proof against you and your family. in fact, it amounts to an illegal detention of her person, in the eye of the law." daly said this in a very low voice, almost a whisper. "faith, the law must have quare eyes, av' it makes anything wrong with a young lady being asked the question whether or no she wishes to see an attorney, at eleven in the morning." "an attorney!" whispered meg to jane and anty at the top of the stairs. "heaven and 'arth," said poor anty, shaking and shivering--"what's going to be the matter now?" "it's young daly," said jane, stretching forward and peeping clown the stairs: "i can see the curl of his whiskers." by this time the news had reached mrs kelly, in the shop, "that a sthrange gentleman war axing for miss anty, but that she warn't to be shown to him on no account;" so the widow dropped her tobacco knife, flung off her dirty apron, and, having summoned jane and meg to attend to the mercantile affairs of the establishment--turned into the inn, and met mr daly and her son still standing at the bottom of the stairs. the widow curtsied ceremoniously, and wished mr. daly good morning, and he was equally civil in his salutation. "mr daly's going to have us all before the assizes, mother. we'll never get off without the treadmill, any way: it's well av' the whole kit of us don't have to go over the wather at the queen's expense." "the lord be good to us;" said the widow, crossing herself. what's the matter, mr daly?" "your son's joking, ma'am. i was only asking to see miss lynch, on business." "step upstairs, mother, into the big parlour, and don't let's be standing talking here where all the world can hear us." "and wilcome, for me, i'm shure"--said the widow, stroking down the front of her dress with the palms of her hands, as she walked upstairs--"and wilcome too for me i'm very shure. i've said or done nothing as i wish to consail, mr daly. will you be plazed to take a chair?" and the widow sat down herself on a chair in the middle of the room, with her hands folded over each other in her lap, as if she was preparing to answer questions from that time to a very late hour in the evening. "and now, mr daly--av' you've anything to say to a poor widdy like me, i'm ready." "my chief object in calling, mrs kelly, was to see miss lynch. would you oblige me by letting miss lynch know that i'm waiting to see her on business." "maybe it's a message from her brother, mr daly?" said mrs kelly. "you had better go in to miss lynch, mother," said martin, "and ask her av' it's pleasing to her to see mr daly. she can see him, in course, av' she likes." "i don't see what good 'll come of her seeing him," rejoined the widow. "with great respect to you, mr daly, and not maning to say a word agin you, i don't see how anty lynch 'll be the betther for seeing ere an attorney in the counthry." "i don't want to frighten you, ma'am," said daly; "but i can assure you, you will put yourself in a very awkward position if you refuse to allow me to see miss lynch." "ah, mother!" said martin, "don't have a word to say in the matther at all, one way or the other. just tell anty mr daly wishes to see her--let her come or not, just as she chooses. what's she afeard of, that she shouldn't hear what anyone has to say to her?" the widow seemed to be in great doubt and perplexity, and continued whispering with martin for some time, during which daly remained standing with his back to the fire. at length martin said, "av' you've got another of them notices to give my mother, mr daly, why don't you do it?" "why, to tell you the thruth," answered the attorney, "i don't want to throuble your mother unless it's absolutely necessary; and although i have the notice ready in my pocket, if i could see miss lynch, i might be spared the disagreeable job of serving it on her." "the holy virgin save us!" said the widow; "an' what notice is it at all, you're going to serve on a poor lone woman like me?" "be said by me, mother, and fetch anty in here. mr daly won't expect, i suppose, but what you should stay and hear what it is he has to say?" "both you and your mother are welcome to hear all that i have to say to the lady," said daly; for he felt that it would be impossible for him to see anty alone. the widow unwillingly got up to fetch her guest. when she got to the door, she turned round, and said, "and is there a notice, as you calls it, to be sarved on miss lynch?" "not a line, mrs kelly; not a line, on my honour. i only want her to hear a few words that i'm commissioned by her brother to say to her." "and you're not going to give her any paper--nor nothing of that sort at all?" "not a word, mrs kelly." "ah, mother," said martin, "mr daly couldn't hurt her, av' he war wishing, and he's not. go and bring her in." the widow went out, and in a few minutes returned, bringing anty with her, trembling from head to foot. the poor young woman had not exactly heard what had passed between the attorney and the mother and her son, but she knew very well that his visit had reference to her, and that it was in some way connected with her brother. she had, therefore, been in a great state of alarm since meg and jane had left her alone. when mrs kelly came into the little room where she was sitting, and told her that mr daly had come to dunmore on purpose to see her, her first impulse was to declare that she wouldn't go to him; and had she done so, the widow would not have pressed her. but she hesitated, for she didn't like to refuse to do anything which her friend asked her; and when mrs kelly said, "martin says as how the man can't hurt you, anty, so you'd betther jist hear what it is he has to say," she felt that she had no loophole of escape, and got up to comply. "but mind, anty," whispered the cautious widow, as her hand was on the parlour door, "becase this daly is wanting to speak to you, that's no rason you should be wanting to spake to him; so, if you'll be said by me, you'll jist hould your tongue, and let him say on." fully determined to comply with this prudent advice, anty followed the old woman, and, curtseying at daly without looking at him, sat herself down in the middle of the old sofa, with her hands crossed before her. "anty," said martin, making great haste to speak, before daly could commence, and then checking himself as he remembered that he shouldn't have ventured on the familiarity of calling her by her christian name in daly's presence--"miss lynch, i mane--as mr daly here has come all the way from tuam on purpose to spake to you, it wouldn't perhaps be manners in you to let him go back without hearing him. but remember, whatever your brother says, or whatever mr daly says for him--and it's all--one you're still your own mistress, free to act and to spake, to come and to go; and that neither the one nor the other can hurt you, or mother, or me, nor anybody belonging to us." "god knows," said daly, "i want to have no hand in hurting any of you; but, to tell the truth, martin, it would be well for miss lynch to have a better adviser than you or she may get herself, and, what she'll think more of, she'll get her friends--maning you, mrs kelly, and your family--into a heap of throubles." "oh, god forbid, thin!" exclaimed anty. "niver mind us, mr daly," said the widow. "the kellys was always able to hould their own; thanks be to glory." "well, i've said my say, mr daly," said martin, "and now do you say your'n: as for throubles, we've all enough of thim; but your own must have been bad, when you undhertook this sort of job for barry lynch." "mind yourself, martin, as i told you before, and you'll about have enough to do.--miss lynch, i've been instructed by your brother to draw up an indictment against mrs kelly and mr kelly, charging them with conspiracy to get possession of your fortune." "a what!" shouted the widow, jumping up from her chair--"to rob anty lynch of her fortune! i'd have you to know, mr daly, i wouldn't demane myself to rob the best gentleman in connaught, let alone a poor unprotected young woman, whom i've--" "whist, mother--go asy," said martin. "i tould you that that was what war in the paper he gave me; he'll give you another, telling you all about it just this minute." "well, the born ruffian! does he dare to accuse me of wishing to rob his sister! now, mr daly, av' the blessed thruth is in you this minute, don't your own heart know who it is, is most likely to rob anty lynch?--isn't it barry lynch himself is thrying to rob his own sisther this minute? ay, and he'd murdher her too, only the heart within him isn't sthrong enough." "ah, mother! don't be saying such things," said martin; "what business is that of our'n? let barry send what messages he plazes; i tell you it's all moonshine; he can't hurt the hair of your head, nor anty's neither. go asy, and let mr daly say what he has to say, and have done with it." "it's asy to say 'go asy'--but who's to sit still and be tould sich things as that? rob anty lynch indeed!" "if you'll let me finish what i have to say, mrs kelly, i think you'll find it betther for the whole of us," said daly. "go on thin, and be quick with it; but don't talk to dacent people about robbers any more. robbers indeed! they're not far to fitch; and black robbers too, glory be to god." "your brother, miss lynch, is determined to bring this matter before a jury at the assizes, for the sake of protecting you and your property." "protecthing anty lynch!--is it barry? the holy virgin defind her from sich prothection! a broken head the first moment the dhrink makes his heart sthrong enough to sthrike her!" "ah, mother! you're a fool," exclaimed martin: "why can't you let the man go on?--ain't he paid for saying it? well, mr daly, begorra i pity you, to have such things on your tongue; but go on, go on, and finish it." "your brother conceives this to be his duty," continued daly, rather bothered by the manner in which he had to make his communication, "and it is a duty which he is determined to go through with." "duty!" said the widow, with a twist of her nose, and giving almost a whistle through her lips, in a manner which very plainly declared the contempt she felt for barry's ideas of duty. "with this object," continued daly, "i have already handed to martin kelly a notice of what your brother means to do; and i have another notice prepared in my pocket for his mother. the next step will be to swear the informations before a magistrate, and get the committals made out; mrs kelly and her son will then have to give bail for their appearance at the assizes." "and so we can," said the widow; "betther bail than e'er a lynch or daly--not but what the dalys is respictable--betther bail, any way, than e'er a lynch in galway could show, either for sessions or 'sizes, by night or by day, winter or summer." "ah, mother! you don't understhand: he's maning that we're to be tried in the dock, for staling anty's money." "faix, but that'd be a good joke! isn't anty to the fore herself to say who's robbed her? take an ould woman's advice, mr daly, and go back to tuam: it ain't so asy to put salt on the tail of a dunmore bird." "and so i will, mrs kelly," said daly; "but you must let me finish what i have to tell miss lynch.--this will be a proceeding most disagreeable to your brother's feelings." "failings, indeed!" muttered the widow; "faix, i b'lieve his chief failing at present's for sthrong dhrink!" "--but he must go on with it, unless you at once lave the inn, return to your own home, and give him your promise that you will never marry martin kelly." anty blushed deep crimson over her whole face at the mention of her contemplated marriage; and, to tell the truth, so did martin. "here is the notice," said daly, taking the paper out of his pocket; "and the matter now rests with yourself. if you'll only tell me that you'll be guided by your brother on this subject, i'll burn the notice at once; and i'll undertake to say that, as far as your property is concerned, your brother will not in the least interfere with you in the management of it." "and good rason why, mr daly," said the widow--"jist becase he can't." "well, miss lynch, am i to tell your brother that you are willing to oblige him in this matter?" whatever effect daly's threats may have had on the widow and her son, they told strongly upon anty; for she sat now the picture of misery and indecision. at last she said: "oh, lord defend me! what am i to do, mrs kelly?" "do?" said martin; "why, what should you do--but just wish mr daly good morning, and stay where you are, snug and comfortable?" "av' you war to lave this, anty, and go up to dunmore house afther all that's been said and done, i'd say barry was right, and that ballinasloe asylum was the fitting place for you," said the widow. "the blessed virgin guide and prothect me," said anty, "for i want her guidance this minute. oh, that the walls of a convent was round me this minute--i wouldn't know what throuble was!" "and you needn't know anything about throuble," said martin, who didn't quite like his mistress's allusion to a convent. "you don't suppose there's a word of thruth in all this long story of mr daly's?--he knows,--and i'll say it out to his face--he knows barry don't dare carry on with sich a schame. he knows he's only come here to frighten you out of this, that barry may have his will on you again." "and god forgive him his errand here this day," said the widow, "for it was a very bad one." "if you will allow me to offer you my advice, miss lynch," said daly, "you will put yourself, at any rate for a time, under your brother's protection." "she won't do no sich thing," said the widow. "what! to be locked into the parlour agin--and be nigh murdhered? holy father!" "oh, no," said anty, at last, shuddering in horror at the remembrance of the last night she passed in dunmore house, "i cannot go back to live with him, but i'll do anything else, av' he'll only lave me, and my kind, kind friends, in pace and quiet." "indeed, and you won't, anty," said the widow; "you'll do nothing for him. your frinds--that's av' you mane the kellys--is very able to take care of themselves." "if your brother, miss lynch, will lave dunmore house altogether, and let you have it to yourself, will you go and live there, and give him the promise not to marry martin kelly?" "indeed an' she won't," said the widow. "she'll give no promise of the kind. promise, indeed! what for should she promise barry lynch whom she will marry, or whom she won't?" "raily, mrs kelly, i think you might let miss lynch answer for herself." "i wouldn't, for all the world thin, go to live at dunmore house," said anty. "and you are determined to stay in this inn here?" "in course she is--that's till she's a snug house of her own," said the widow. "ah, mother!" said martin, "what for will you be talking?" "and you're determined," repeated daly, "to stay here?" "i am," faltered anty. "then i have nothing further to do than to hand you this, mrs kelly"--and he offered the notice to the widow, but she refused to touch it, and he consequently put it down on the table. "but it is my duty to tell you, miss lynch, that the gentry of this counthry, before whom you will have to appear, will express very great indignation at your conduct in persevering in placing poor people like the kellys in so dreadful a predicament, by your wilful and disgraceful obstinacy." poor anty burst into tears. she had been for some time past trying to restrain herself, but daly's last speech, and the horrible idea of the gentry of the country browbeating and frowning at her, completely upset her, and she hid her face on the arm of the sofa, and sobbed aloud. "poor people like the kellys!" shouted the widow, now for the first time really angry with daly--"not so poor, mr daly, as to do dirthy work for anyone. i wish i could say as much this day for your mother's son! poor people, indeed! i suppose, now, you wouldn't call barry lynch one of your poor people; but in my mind he's the poorest crature living this day in county galway. av' you've done now, mr daly, you've my lave to be walking; and the less you let the poor kellys see of you, from this time out, the betther." when anty's sobs commenced, martin had gone over to her to comfort her, "ah, anty, dear," he whispered to her, "shure you'd not be minding what such a fellow as he'd be saying to you?--shure he's jist paid for all this--he's only sent here by barry to thry and frighten you,"--but it was of no avail: daly had succeeded at any rate in making her miserable, and it was past the power of martin's eloquence to undo what the attorney had done. "well, mr daly," he said, turning round sharply, "i suppose you have done here now, and the sooner you turn your back on this place the betther--an' you may take this along with you. av' you think you've frightened my mother or me, you're very much mistaken." "yes," said daly, "i have done now, and i am sorry my business has been so unpleasant. your mother, martin, had betther not disregard that notice. good morning, miss lynch: good morning, mrs kelly; good morning, martin;" and daly took up his hat, and left the room. "good morning to you, mr daly," said martin: "as i've said before, i'm sorry to see you've taken to this line of business." as soon as the attorney was gone, both martin and his mother attempted to console and re-assure poor anty, but they did not find the task an easy one. "oh, mrs kelly," she said, as soon as she was able to say anything, "i'm sorry i iver come here, i am: i'm sorry i iver set my foot in the house!" "don't say so, anty, dear," said the widow. "what'd you be sorry for--an't it the best place for you?" "oh! but to think that i'd bring all these throubles on you! betther be up there, and bear it all, than bring you and yours into law, and sorrow, and expense. only i couldn't find the words in my throat to say it, i'd 've tould the man that i'd 've gone back at once. i wish i had--indeed, mrs kelly, i wish i had." "why, anty," said martin, "you an't fool enough to believe what daly's been saying? shure all he's afther is to frighthen you out of this. never fear: barry can't hurt us a halfporth, though no doubt he's willing enough, av' he had the way." "i wish i was in a convent, this moment," said anty. "oh! i wish i'd done as father asked me long since. av' the walls of a convent was around me, i'd niver know what throubles was." "no more you shan't now," said martin: "who's to hurt you? come, anty, look up; there's nothing in all this to vex you." but neither son nor mother were able to soothe the poor young woman. the very presence of an attorney was awful to her; and all the jargon which daly had used, of juries, judges, trials, and notices, had sounded terribly in her ears. the very names of such things were to her terrible realities, and she couldn't bring herself to believe that her brother would threaten to make use of such horrible engines of persecution, without having the power to bring them into action. then, visions of the lunatic asylum, into which he had declared that he would throw her, flitted across her, and made her whole body shiver and shake; and again she remembered the horrid glare of his eye, the hot breath, and the frightful form of his visage, on the night when he almost told her that he would murder her. poor anty had at no time high or enduring spirits, but such as she had were now completely quelled. a dreadful feeling of coming evil--a foreboding of misery, such as will sometimes overwhelm stronger minds than anty's, seemed to stifle her; and she continued sobbing till she fell into hysterics, when meg and jane were summoned to her assistance. they sat with her for above an hour, doing all that kindness and affection could suggest; but after a time anty told them that she had a cold, sick feeling within herself, that she felt weak and ill, and that she'd sooner go to bed. to bed they accordingly took her; and sally brought her tea, and katty lighted a fire in her room, and jane read to her an edifying article from the lives of the saints, and meg argued with her as to the folly of being frightened. but it was all of no avail; before night, anty was really ill. the next morning, the widow was obliged to own to herself that such was the case. in the afternoon, doctor colligan was called in; and it was many, many weeks before anty recovered from the effects of the attorney's visit. xx. very liberal when the widow left the parlour, after having placed her guest in the charge of her daughters, she summoned her son to follow her down stairs, and was very careful not to leave behind her the notice which daly had placed on the table. as soon as she found herself behind the shutter of her little desk, which stood in the shop-window, she commenced very eagerly spelling it over. the purport of the notice was, to inform her that barry lynch intended immediately to apply to the magistrates to commit her and her son, for conspiring together to inveigle anty into a marriage; and that the fact of their having done so would be proved by mr moylan, who was prepared to swear that he had been present when the plan had been arranged between them. the reader is aware that whatever show of truth there might be for this accusation, as far as martin and moylan himself were concerned, the widow at any rate was innocent; and he can conceive the good lady's indignation at the idea of her own connection, moylan, having been seduced over to the enemy. though she had put on a bold front against daly, and though she did not quite believe that barry was in earnest in taking proceedings against her, still her heart failed her as she read the legal technicalities of the papers she held in her hand, and turned to her son for counsel in considerable tribulation. "but there must be something in it, i tell you," said she. "though barry lynch, and that limb o' the divil, young daly, 'd stick at nothin in the way of lies and desait, they'd niver go to say all this about moylan, unless he'd agree to do their bidding." "that's like enough, mother: i dare say moylan has been talked over--bought over rather; for he's not one of them as'd do mischief for nothin." "and does the ould robber mane to say that i--. as i live, i niver as much as mentioned anty's name to moylan, except jist about the agency!" "i'm shure you didn't, mother." "and what is it then he has to say agin us?" "jist lies; that's av' he were called on to say anything; but he niver will be. this is all one of barry's schames to frighten you, and get anty turned out of the inn." "thin master barry doesn't know the widdy kelly, i can tell him that; for when i puts my hand to a thing, i mane to pull through wid it. but tell me--all this'll be costing money, won't, it? attorneys don't bring thim sort of things about for nothing," and she gave a most contemptuous twist to the notice. "oh, barry must pay for that." "i doubt that, martin: he's not fond of paying, the mane, dirthy blackguard. i tell you what, you shouldn't iver have let daly inside the house: he'll make us pay for the writing o' thim as shure as my name's mary kelly: av' he hadn't got into the house, he couldn't've done a halfporth." "i tell you, mother, it wouldn't have done not to let him see anty. they'd have said we'd got her shut up here, and wouldn't let any one come nigh her." "well, martin, you'll see we'll have to pay for it. this comes of meddling with other folks! i wonder how i was iver fool enough to have fitched her down here!--good couldn't come of daling with such people as barry lynch." "but you wouldn't have left her up there to be murdhered?" "she's nothin' to me, and i don't know as she's iver like to be." "may-be not." "but, tell me, martin--was there anything said between you and moylan about anty before she come down here?" "how, anything said, mother?" "why, was there any schaming betwixt you?" "schaming?--when i want to schame, i'll not go shares with sich a fellow as moylan." "ah, but was there anything passed about anty and you getting married? come now, martin; i'm in all this throuble along of you, and you shouldn't lave me in the dark. was you talking to moylan about anty and her fortune?" "why, thin, i'll jist tell you the whole thruth, as i tould it all before to mister frank--that is, lord ballindine, up in dublin; and as i wouldn't mind telling it this minute to barry, or daly, or any one else in the three counties. when moylan got the agency, he come out to me at toneroe; and afther talking a bit about anty and her fortune, he let on as how it would be a bright spec for me to marry her, and i won't deny that it was he as first put it into my head. well, thin, he had schames of his own about keeping the agency, and getting a nice thing out of the property himself, for putting anty in my way; but i tould him downright i didn't know anything about that; and that 'av iver i did anything in the matter it would be all fair and above board; and that was all the conspiracy i and moylan had." "and enough too, martin," said the widow. "you'll find it's quite enough to get us into throuble. and why wouldn't you tell me what was going on between you?" "there was nothing going on between us." "i say there was;--and to go and invaigle me into your schames without knowing a word about it!--it was a murdhering shame of you--and av' i do have to pay for it, i'll never forgive you." "that's right, mother; quarrel with me about it, do. it was i made you bring anty down here, wasn't it? when i was up in dublin all the time." "but to go and put yourself in the power of sich a fellow as moylan! i didn't think you were so soft." "ah, bother, mother! who's put themselves in the power of moylan?" "i'll moyle him, and spoil him too, the false blackguard, to turn agin the family--them as has made him! i wondher what he's to get for swearing agin us?"--and then, after a pause, she added in a most pathetic voice "oh, martin, to think of being dragged away to galway, before the whole counthry, to be made a conspirather of! i, that always paid my way, before and behind, though only a poor widdy! who's to mind the shop, i wondher?--i'm shure meg's not able; and there'll be mary'll be jist nigh her time, and won't be able to come! martin, you've been and ruined me with your plots and your marriages! what did you want with a wife, i wondher, and you so well off!"--and mrs kelly began wiping her eyes, for she was affected to tears at the prospect of her coming misery. "av' you take it so to heart, mother, you'd betther give anty a hint to be out of this. you heard daly tell her, that was all barry wanted." martin knew his mother tolerably well, or he would not have made this proposition. he understood what the real extent of her sorrow was, and how much of her lamentation he was to attribute to her laudable wish to appear a martyr to the wishes and pleasures of her children. "turn her out!" replied she, "no, niver; and i didn't think i'd 've heard you asking me to." "i didn't ask you, mother,--only anything'd be betther than downright ruin." "i wouldn't demane myself to barry so much as to wish her out of this now she's here. but it was along of you she came here, and av' i've to pay for all this lawyer work, you oughtn't to see me at a loss. i'm shure i don't know where your sisthers is to look for a pound or two when i'm gone, av' things goes on this way," and again the widow whimpered. "don't let that throuble you, mother: av' there's anything to pay, i won't let it come upon you, any way. but i tell you there'll be nothing more about it." mrs kelly was somewhat quieted by her son's guarantee, and, muttering that she couldn't afford to be wasting her mornings in that way, diligently commenced weighing out innumerable three-halfporths of brown sugar, and martin went about his own business. daly left the inn, after his interview with anty and the kellys, in anything but a pleasant frame of mind. in the first place, he knew that he had been signally unsuccessful, and that his want of success had been mainly attributable to his having failed to see anty alone; and, in the next place, he felt more than ever disgusted with his client. he began to reflect, for the first time, that he might, and probably would, irretrievably injure his character by undertaking, as martin truly called it, such a very low line of business: that, if the matter were persevered in, every one in connaught would be sure to hear of anty's persecution; and that his own name would be so mixed up with lynch's in the transaction as to leave him no means of escaping the ignominy which was so justly due to his employer. beyond these selfish motives of wishing to withdraw from the business, he really pitied anty, and felt a great repugnance at being the means of adding to her troubles; and he was aware of the scandalous shame of subjecting her again to the ill-treatment of such a wretch as her brother, by threatening proceedings which he knew could never be taken. as he got on the car to return to tuam, he determined that whatever plan he might settle on adopting, he would have nothing further to do with prosecuting or persecuting either anty or the kellys. "i'll give him the best advice i can about it," said daly to himself; "and if he don't like it he may do the other thing. i wouldn't carry on with this game for all he's worth, and that i believe is not much." he had intended to go direct to dunmore house from the kellys, and to have seen barry, but he would have had to stop for dinner if he had done so; and though, generally speaking, not very squeamish in his society, he did not wish to enjoy another after-dinner _tête-à-tête_ with him--"it's better to get him over to tuam," thought he, "and try and make him see rason when he's sober: nothing's too hot or too bad for him, when he's mad dhrunk afther dinner." accordingly, lynch was again summoned to tuam, and held a second council in the attorney's little parlour. daly commenced by telling him that his sister had seen him, and had positively refused to leave the inn, and that the widow and her son had both listened to the threats of a prosecution unmoved and undismayed. barry indulged in his usual volubility of expletives; expressed his fixed intention of exterminating the kellys; declared, with many asseverations, his conviction that his sister was a lunatic; swore, by everything under, in, and above the earth, that he would have her shut up in the lunatic asylum in ballinasloe, in the teeth of the lord chancellor and all the other lawyers in ireland; cursed the shades of his father, deeply and copiously; assured daly that he was only prevented from recovering his own property by the weakness and ignorance of his legal advisers, and ended by asking the attorney's advice as to his future conduct. "what the d----l, then, am i to do with the confounded ideot?" said he. "if you'll take my advice, you'll do nothing." "what, and let her marry and have that young blackguard brought up to dunmore under my very nose?" "i'm very much afraid, mr lynch, if you wish to be quit of martin kelly, it is you must lave dunmore. you may be shure he won't." "oh, as for that, i've nothing to tie me to dunmore. i hate the place; i never meant to live there. if i only saw my sister properly taken care of, and that it was put out of her power to throw herself away, i should leave it at once." "between you and me, mr lynch, she will be taken care of; and as for throwing herself away, she must judge of that herself. take my word for it, the best thing for you to do is to come to terms with martin kelly, and to sell out your property in dunmore. you'll make much better terms before marriage than you would afther, it stands to rason." barry was half standing, and half sitting on the small parlour table, and there he remained for a few minutes, meditating on daly's most unpleasant proposal. it was a hard pill for him to swallow, and he couldn't get it down without some convulsive grimaces. he bit his under lip, till the blood came through it, and at last said, "why, you've taken this thing up, daly, as if you were to be paid by the kellys instead of by me! i can't understand it, confound me if i can!" daly turned very red at the insinuation. he was within an ace of seizing lynch by the collar, and expelling him in a summary way from his premises, a feat which he was able to perform; and willing also, for he was sick of his client; but he thought of it a second time, and restrained himself. "mr lynch," he said, after a moment or two, "that's the second time you've made an observation of that kind to me; and i'll tell you what; if your business was the best in the county, instead of being as bad a case as was ever put into a lawyer's hands, i wouldn't stand it from you. if you think you can let out your passion against me, as you do against your own people, you'll find your mistake out very soon; so you'd betther mind what you're saying." "why, what the devil did i say?" said lynch, half abashed. "i'll not repeat it--and you hadn't betther, either. and now, do you choose to hear my professional advice, and behave to me as you ought and shall do? or will you go out of this and look out for another attorney? to tell you the truth, i'd jist as lieve you'd take your business to some one else." barry's brow grew very black, and he looked at daly as though he would much like to insult him again if he dared. but he did not dare. he had no one else to look to for advice or support; he had utterly estranged from him his father's lawyer; and though he suspected that daly was not true to him, he felt that he could not break with him. he was obliged, therefore, to swallow his wrath, though it choked him, and to mutter something in the shape of an apology. it was a mutter: daly heard something about its being only a joke, and not expecting to be taken up so d---- sharp; and, accepting these sounds as an _amende honorable_ [ ], again renewed his functions as attorney. [footnote : amende honorable--(french) apology] "will you authorise me to see martin kelly, and to treat with him? you'll find it the cheapest thing you can do; and, more than that, it'll be what nobody can blame you for." "how treat with him?--i owe him nothing--i don't see what i've got to treat with him about. am i to offer him half the property on condition he'll consent to marry my sister? is that what you mean?" "no: that's not what i mean; but it'll come to much the same thing in the end. in the first place, you must withdraw all opposition to miss lynch's marriage; indeed, you must give it your direct sanction; and, in the next place, you must make an amicable arrangement with martin about the division of the property." "what--coolly give him all he has the impudence to ask?--throw up the game altogether, and pitch the whole stakes into his lap?--why, daly, you--" "well, mr lynch, finish your speech," said daly, looking him full in the face. barry had been on the point of again accusing the attorney of playing false to him, but he paused in time; he caught daly's eye, and did not dare to finish the sentence which he had begun. "i can't understand you, i mean," said he; "i can't understand what you're after: but go on; may-be you're right, but i can't see, for the life of me. what am i to get by such a plan as that?" barry was now cowed and frightened; he had no dram-bottle by him to reassure him, and he became, comparatively speaking, calm and subdued. indeed, before the interview was over he fell into a pitiably lachrymose tone, and claimed sympathy for the many hardships he had to undergo through the ill-treatment of his family. "i'll try and explain to you, mr lynch, what you'll get by it. as far as i can understand, your father left about eight hundred a-year between the two--that's you and your sisther; and then there's the house and furniture. nothing on earth can keep her out of her property, or prevent her from marrying whom she plases. martin kelly, who is an honest fellow, though sharp enough, has set his eye on her, and before many weeks you'll find he'll make her his wife. undher these circumstances, wouldn't he be the best tenant you could find for dunmore? you're not fond of the place, and will be still less so when he's your brother-in-law. lave it altogether, mr lynch; give him a laise of the whole concern, and if you'll do that now at once, take my word for it you'll get more out of dunmore than iver you will by staying here, and fighting the matther out." "but about the debts, daly?" "why, i suppose the fact is, the debts are all your own, eh?" "well--suppose they are?" "exactly so: personal debts of your own. why, when you've made some final arrangement about the property, you must make some other arrangement with your creditors. but that's quite a separate affair; you don't expect martin kelly to pay your debts, i suppose?" "but i might get a sum of money for the good-will, mightn't i?" "i don't think martin's able to put a large sum down. i'll tell you what i think you might ask; and what i think he would give, to get your good-will and consent to the match, and to prevent any further difficulty. i think he'd become your tenant, for the whole of your share, at a rent of five-hundred a year; and maybe he'd give you three hundred pounds for the furniture and stock, and things about the place. if so, you should give him a laise of three lives." there was a good deal in this proposition that was pleasing to barry's mind: five hundred a-year without any trouble in collecting it; the power of living abroad in the unrestrained indulgence of hotels and billiard rooms; the probable chance of being able to retain his income and bilk his creditors; the prospect of shaking off from himself the consequences of a connection with the kellys, and being for ever rid of dunmore encumbrances. these things all opened before his eyes a vista of future, idle, uncontrolled enjoyment, just suited to his taste, and strongly tempted him at once to close with daly's offer. but still, he could hardly bring himself to consent to be vanquished by his own sister; it was wormwood to him to think that after all she should be left to the undisturbed enjoyment of her father's legacy. he had been brow-beaten by the widow, insulted by young kelly, cowed and silenced by the attorney whom he had intended to patronise and convert into a creature of his own: he could however have borne and put up with all this, if he could only have got his will of his sister; but to give up to her, who had been his slave all his life--to own, at last, that he had no power over her, whom he had always looked upon as so abject, so mean a thing; to give in, of his own accord, to the robbery which had been committed on him by his own father; and to do this, while he felt convinced as he still did, that a sufficiently unscrupulous attorney could save him from such cruel disgrace and loss, was a trial to which he could hardly bring himself to submit, crushed and tamed as he was. he still sat on the edge of the parlour table, and there he remained mute, balancing the pros and cons of daly's plan. daly waited a minute or two for his answer, and, finding that he said nothing, left him alone for a time, to make up his mind, telling him that he would return in about a quarter of an hour. barry never moved from his position; it was an important question he had to settle, and so he felt it, for he gave up to the subject his undivided attention. since his boyhood he had looked forward to a life of ease, pleasure, and licence, and had longed for his father's death that he might enjoy it. it seemed now within his reach; for his means, though reduced, would still be sufficient for sensual gratification. but, idle, unprincipled, brutal, castaway wretch as barry was, he still felt the degradation of inaction, when he had such stimulating motives to energy as unsatisfied rapacity and hatred for his sister: ignorant as he was of the meaning of the word right, he tried to persuade himself that it would be wrong in him to yield. could he only pluck up sufficient courage to speak his mind to daly, and frighten him into compliance with his wishes, he still felt that he might be successful--that he might, by some legal tactics, at any rate obtain for himself the management of his sister's property. but this he could not do: he felt that daly was his master; and though he still thought that he might have triumphed had he come sufficiently prepared, that is, with a considerable quantum of spirits inside him, he knew himself well enough to be aware that he could do nothing without this assistance; and, alas, he could not obtain it there. he had great reliance in the efficacy of whiskey; he would trust much to a large dose of port wine; but with brandy he considered himself invincible. he sat biting his lip, trying to think, trying to make up his mind, trying to gain sufficient self-composure to finish his interview with daly with some appearance of resolution and self-confidence, but it was in vain; when the attorney returned, his face still plainly showed that he was utterly unresolved, utterly unable to resolve on anything. "well, mr lynch," said daly, "will you let me spake to kelly about this, or would you rather sleep on the matther?" barry gave a long sigh--"wouldn't he give six hundred, daly? he'd still have two hundred clear, and think what that'd be for a fellow like him!" "you must ask him for it yourself then; i'll not propose to him any such thing. upon my soul, he'll be a great fool to give the five hundred, because he's no occasion to meddle with you in the matther at all, at all. but still i think he may give it; but as for asking for more--at any rate i won't do it; you can do what you like, yourself." "and am i to sell the furniture, and everything--horses, cattle, and everything about the place--for three hundred pounds?" "not unless you like it, you ain't, mr lynch; but i'll tell you this--if you can do so, and do do so, it'll be the best bargain you ever made:--mind, one-half of it all belongs to your sisther." barry muttered an oath through his ground teeth; he would have liked to scratch the ashes of his father from their resting-place, and wreak his vengeance on them, whenever this degrading fact was named to him. "but i want the money, daly," said he: "i couldn't get afloat unless i had more than that: i couldn't pay your bill, you know, unless i got a higher figure down than that. come, daly, you must do something for me; you must do something, you know, to earn the fees," and he tried to look facetious, by giving a wretched ghastly grin. "my bill won't be a long one, mr lynch, and you may be shure i'm trying to make it as short as i can. and as for earning it, whatever you may think, i can assure you i shall never have got money harder. i've now given you my best advice; if your mind's not yet made up, perhaps you'll have the goodness to let me hear from you when it is?" and daly walked from the fire towards the door, and placed his hand upon the handle of it. this was a hint which barry couldn't misunderstand. "well, i'll write to you," he said, and passed through the door. he felt, however, that it was useless to attempt to trust himself to his own judgment, and he turned back, as daly passed into his office--"daly," he said, "step out one minute: i won't keep you a second." the attorney unwillingly lifted up the counter, and came out to him. "manage it your own way," said he; "do whatever you think best; but you must see that i've been badly used--infernally cruelly treated, and you ought to do the best you can for me. here am i, giving away, as i may say, my own property to a young shopkeeper, and upon my soul you ought to make him pay something for it; upon my soul you ought, for it's only fair!" "i've tould you, mr lynch, what i'll propose to martin kelly; if you don't think the terms fair, you can propose any others yourself; or you're at liberty to employ any other agent you please." barry sighed again, but he yielded. he felt broken-hearted, and unhappy, and he longed to quit a country so distasteful to him, and relatives and neighbours so ungrateful; he longed in his heart for the sweet, easy haunts of boulogne, which he had never known, but of which he had heard many a glowing description from congenial spirits whom he knew. he had heard enough of the ways and means of many a leading star in that elysium, to be aware that, with five hundred a-year, unembarrassed and punctually paid, he might shine as a prince indeed. he would go at once to that happy foreign shore, where the memory of no father would follow him, where the presence of no sister would degrade and irritate him, where billiard-tables were rife, and brandy cheap; where virtue was easy, and restraint unnecessary; where no duties would harass him, no tenants upbraid him, no duns persecute him. there, carefully guarding himself against the schemes of those less fortunate followers of pleasure among whom he would be thrown in his social hours, he would convert every shilling of his income to some purpose of self-enjoyment, and live a life of luxurious abandonment. and he need not be altogether idle, he reflected within himself afterwards, as he was riding home: he felt that he was possessed of sufficient energy and talent to make himself perfectly master of a pack of cards, to be a proficient over a billiard-table, and even to get the upper hand of a box of dice. with such pursuits left to him, he might yet live to be talked of, feared, and wealthy; and barry's utmost ambition would have carried him no further. as i said before, he yielded to the attorney, and commissioned him fully to treat with martin kelly in the manner proposed by himself. martin was to give him five hundred a-year for his share of the property, and three hundred pounds for the furniture, &c.; and barry was to give his sister his written and unconditional assent to her marriage; was to sign any document which might be necessary as to her settlement, and was then to leave dunmore for ever. daly made him write an authority for making such a proposal, by which he bound himself to the terms, should they be acceded to by the other party. "but you must bear in mind," added daly, as his client for the second time turned from the door, "that i don't guarantee that martin kelly will accept these terms: it's very likely he may be sharp enough to know that he can manage as well without you as he can with you. you'll remember that, mr lynch." "i will--i will, daly; but look here--if he bites freely--and i think he will, and if you find you could get as much as a thousand out of him, or even eight hundred, you shall have one hundred clear for yourself." this was barry's last piece of diplomacy for that day. daly vouchsafed him no answer, but returned into his office, and barry mounted his horse, and returned home not altogether ill-pleased with his prospects, but still regretting that he should have gone about so serious a piece of business, so utterly unprepared. these regrets rose stronger, when his after-dinner courage returned to him as he sate solitary over his fire. "i should have had him here," said he to himself, "and not gone to that confounded cold hole of his. after all, there's no place for a cock to fight on like his own dunghill; and there's nothing able to carry a fellow well through a tough bit of jobation [ ] with a lawyer like a stiff tumbler of brandy punch. it'd have been worth a couple of hundred to me, to have had him out here--impertinent puppy! well, devil a halfpenny i'll pay him!" this thought was consolatory, and he began again to think of boulogne. [footnote : jobation--a tedious session; scolding] xxi. lord ballindine at home two days after the last recorded interview between lord ballindine and his friend, dot blake, the former found himself once more sitting down to dinner with his mother and sisters, the honourable mrs o'kelly and the honourable misses o'kelly; at least such were the titular dignities conferred on them in county mayo, though i believe, strictly speaking, the young ladies had no claim to the appellation. mrs o'kelly was a very small woman, with no particularly developed character, and perhaps of no very general utility. she was fond of her daughters, and more than fond of her son, partly because he was so tall and so handsome, and partly because he was the lord, the head of the family, and the owner of the house. she was, on the whole, a good-natured person, though perhaps her temper was a little soured by her husband having, very unfairly, died before he had given her a right to call herself lady ballindine. she was naturally shy and reserved, and the seclusion of o'kelly's court did not tend to make her less so; but she felt that the position and rank of her son required her to be dignified; and consequently, when in society, she somewhat ridiculously aggravated her natural timidity with an assumed rigidity of demeanour. she was, however, a good woman, striving, with small means, to do the best for her family; prudent and self-denying, and very diligent in looking after the house servants. her two daughters had been, at the instance of their grandfather, the courtier, christened augusta and sophia, after the two princesses of that name, and were now called guss and sophy: they were both pretty, good-natured girls--one with dark brown and the other light brown hair: they both played the harp badly, sung tolerably, danced well, and were very fond of nice young men. they both thought kelly's court rather dull; but then they had known nothing better since they had grown up, and there were some tolerably nice people not very far off, whom they occasionally saw: there were the dillons, of ballyhaunis, who had three thousand a-year, and spent six; they were really a delightful family--three daughters and four sons, all unmarried, and up to anything: the sons all hunted, shot, danced, and did everything that they ought to do--at least in the eyes of young ladies; though some of their more coldly prudent acquaintances expressed an opinion that it would be as well if the three younger would think of doing something for themselves; but they looked so manly and handsome when they breakfasted at kelly's court on a hunt morning, with their bright tops, red coats, and hunting-caps, that guss and sophy, and a great many others, thought it would be a shame to interrupt them in their career. and then, ballyhaunis was only eight miles from kelly's court; though they were irish miles, it is true, and the road was not patronised by the grand jury; but the distance was only eight miles, and there were always beds for them when they went to dinner at peter dillon's. then there were the blakes of castletown. to be sure they could give no parties, for they were both unmarried; but they were none the worse for that, and they had plenty of horses, and went out everywhere. and the blakes of morristown; they also were very nice people; only unfortunately, old blake was always on his keeping, and couldn't show himself out of doors except on sundays, for fear of the bailiffs. and the browns of mount dillon, and the browns of castle brown; and general bourke of creamstown. all these families lived within fifteen or sixteen miles of kelly's court, and prevented the o'kellys from feeling themselves quite isolated from the social world. their nearest neighbours, however, were the armstrongs, and of them they saw a great deal. the reverend joseph armstrong was rector of ballindine, and mrs o'kelly was his parishioner, and the only protestant one he had; and, as mr armstrong did not like to see his church quite deserted, and as mrs o'kelly was, as she flattered herself, a very fervent protestant, they were all in all to each other. ballindine was not a good living, and mr armstrong had a very large family; he was, therefore, a poor man. his children were helpless, uneducated, and improvident; his wife was nearly worn out with the labours of bringing them forth and afterwards catering for them; and a great portion of his own life was taken up in a hard battle with tradesmen and tithe-payers, creditors, and debtors. yet, in spite of the insufficiency of his two hundred a-year to meet all or half his wants, mr armstrong was not an unhappy man. at any moment of social enjoyment he forgot all his cares and poverty, and was always the first to laugh, and the last to cease to do so. he never refused an invitation to dinner, and if he did not entertain many in his own house, it was his fortune, and not his heart, that prevented him from doing so. he could hardly be called a good clergyman, and yet his remissness was not so much his own fault as that of circumstances. how could a protestant rector be a good parish clergyman, with but one old lady and her daughters, for the exercise of his clerical energies and talents? he constantly lauded the zeal of st. paul for proselytism; but, as he himself once observed, even st. paul had never had to deal with the obstinacy of an irish roman catholic. he often regretted the want of work, and grieved that his profession, as far as he saw and had been instructed, required nothing of him but a short service on every sunday morning, and the celebration of the eucharist four times a-year; but such were the facts; and the idleness which this want of work engendered, and the habits which his poverty induced, had given him a character as a clergyman, very different from that which the high feelings and strict principles which animated him at his ordination would have seemed to ensure. he was, in fact, a loose, slovenly man, somewhat too fond of his tumbler of punch; a little lax, perhaps, as to clerical discipline, but very staunch as to doctrine. he possessed no industry or energy of any kind; but he was good-natured and charitable, lived on friendly terms with all his neighbours, and was intimate with every one that dwelt within ten miles of him, priest and parson, lord and commoner. such was the neighbourhood of kelly's court, and among such lord ballindine had now made up his mind to remain a while, till circumstances should decide what further steps he should take with regard to fanny wyndham. there were a few hunting days left in the season, which he intended to enjoy; and then he must manage to make shift to lull the time with shooting, fishing, farming, and nursing his horses and dogs. his mother and sisters had heard nothing of the rumour of the quarrel between frank and fanny, which mat tierney had so openly alluded to at handicap lodge; and he was rather put out by their eager questions on the subject. nothing was said about it till the servant withdrew, after dinner, but the three ladies were too anxious for information to delay their curiosity any longer. "well, frank," said the elder sister, who was sitting over the fire, close to his left elbow--(he had a bottle of claret at his right)--"well, frank, do tell us something about fanny wyndham; we are so longing to hear; and you never will write, you know." "everybody says it's a brilliant match," said the mother. "they say here she's forty thousand pounds: i'm sure i hope she has, frank." "but when is it to be?" said sophy. "she's of age now, isn't she? and i thought you were only waiting for that. i'm sure we shall like her; come, frank, do tell us--when are we to see lady ballindine?" frank looked rather serious and embarrassed, but did not immediately make any reply. "you haven't quarrelled, have you, frank?" said the mother. "the match isn't off--is it?" said guss. "miss wyndham has just lost her only brother," said he; "he died quite suddenly in london about ten days since; she was very much attached to him." "good gracious, how shocking!" said sophy. "i'm sorry," said guss. "why, frank," said their mother, now excited into absolute animation; "his fortune was more than double hers, wasn't it?--who'll have it now?" "it was, mother; five times as much as hers, i believe." "gracious powers! and who has it now? why don't you tell me, frank?" "his sister fanny." "heavens and earth!--i hope you're not going to let her quarrel with you, are you? has there been anything between you? have there been any words between you and lord cashel? why don't you tell me, frank, when you know how anxious i am?" "if you must know all about it, i have not had any words, as you call them, with fanny wyndham; but i have with her guardian. he thinks a hundred and twenty thousand pounds much too great a fortune for a connaught viscount. however, i don't think so. it will be for time to show what fanny thinks. meanwhile, the less said about it the better; remember that, girls, will you?" "oh, we will--we won't say a word about it; but she'll never change her mind because of her money, will she?" "that's what would make me love a man twice the more," said guss; "or at any rate show it twice the stronger." "frank," said the anxious mother, "for heaven's sake don't let anything stand between you and lord cashel; think what a thing it is you'd lose! why; it'd pay all the debts, and leave the property worth twice what it ever was before. if lord cashel thinks you ought to give up the hounds, do it at once, frank; anything rather than quarrel with him. you could get them again, you know, when all's settled." "i've given up quite as much as i intend for lord cashel." "now, frank, don't be a fool, or you'll repent it all your life: what does it signify how much you give up to such a man as lord cashel? you don't think, do you, that he objects to our being at kelly's court? because i'm sure we wouldn't stay a moment if we thought that." "mother, i wouldn't part with a cur dog out of the place to please lord cashel. but if i were to do everything on earth at his beck and will, it would make no difference: he will never let me marry fanny wyndham if he can help it; but, thank god, i don't believe he can." "i hope not--i hope not. you'll never see half such a fortune again." "well, mother, say nothing about it one way or the other, to anybody. and as you now know how the matter stands, it's no good any of us talking more about it till i've settled what i mean to do myself." "i shall hate her," said sophy, "if her getting all her brother's money changes her; but i'm sure it won't." and so the conversation ended. lord ballindine had not rested in his paternal halls the second night, before he had commenced making arrangements for a hunt breakfast, by way of letting all his friends know that he was again among them. and so missives, in guss and sophy's handwriting, were sent round by a bare-legged little boy, to all the mounts, towns, and castles, belonging to the dillons, blakes, bourkes, and browns of the neighbourhood, to tell them that the dogs would draw the kelly's court covers at eleven o'clock on the following tuesday morning, and that the preparatory breakfast would be on the table at ten. this was welcome news to the whole neighbourhood. it was only on the sunday evening that the sportsmen got the intimation, and very busy most of them were on the following monday to see that their nags and breeches were all right--fit to work and fit to be seen. the four dillons, of ballyhaunis, gave out to their grooms a large assortment of pipe-clay and putty-powder. bingham blake, of castletown, ordered a new set of girths to his hunting saddle; and his brother jerry, who was in no slight degree proud of his legs, but whose nether trappings were rather the worse from the constant work of a heavy season, went so far as to go forth very early on the monday morning to excite the ballinrobe tailor to undertake the almost impossible task of completing him a pair of doeskin by the tuesday morning. the work was done, and the breeches home at castletown by eight--though the doeskin had to be purchased in tuam, and an assistant artist taken away from his mother's wake, to sit up all night over the seams. but then the tailor owed a small trifle of arrear of rent for his potato-garden, and his landlord was jerry blake's cousin-german [ ]. there's nothing carries one further than a good connexion, thought both jerry and the tailor when the job was finished. [footnote : cousin-german--first cousin] among the other invitations sent was one to martin kelly,--not exactly worded like the others, for though lord ballindine was perhaps more anxious to see him than anyone else, martin had not yet got quite so high in the ladder of life as to be asked to breakfast at kelly's court. but the fact that frank for a moment thought of asking him showed that he was looking upwards in the world's estimation. frank wrote him a note himself, saying that the hounds would throw off at kelly's court, at eleven; that, if he would ride over, he would be sure to see a good hunt, and that he, lord ballindine, had a few words to say to him on business, just while the dogs were being put into the cover. martin, as usual, had a good horse which he was disposed to sell, if, as he said, he got its value; and wrote to say he would wait on lord ballindine at eleven. the truth was, frank wanted to borrow money from him. another note was sent to the glebe, requesting the rector to come to breakfast and to look at the hounds being thrown off. the modest style of the invitation was considered as due to mr armstrong's clerical position, but was hardly rendered necessary by his habits; for though the parson attended such meetings in an old suit of rusty black, and rode an equally rusty-looking pony, he was always to be seen, at the end of the day, among those who were left around the dogs. on the tuesday morning there was a good deal of bustle at kelly's court. all the boys about the place were collected in front of the house, to walk the gentlemen's horses about while the riders were at breakfast, and earn a sixpence or a fourpenny bit; and among them, sitting idly on the big steppingstone placed near the door, was jack the fool, who, for the day, seemed to have deserted the service of barry lynch. and now the red-coats flocked up to the door, and it was laughable to see the knowledge of character displayed by the gossoons in the selection of their customers. one or two, who were known to be "bad pays," were allowed to dismount without molestation of any kind, and could not even part with their steeds till they had come to an absolute bargain as to the amount of gratuity to be given. lambert brown was one of these unfortunate characters--a younger brother who had a little, and but a very little money, and who was determined to keep that. he was a miserable hanger-on at his brother's house, without profession or prospects; greedy, stingy, and disagreeable; endowed with a squint, and long lank light-coloured hair: he was a bad horseman, always craning and shirking in the field, boasting and lying after dinner; nevertheless, he was invited and endured because he was one of the browns of mount dillon, cousin to the browns of castle brown, nephew to mrs dillon the member's wife, and third cousin of lord ballaghaderrin. he dismounted in the gravel circle before the door, and looked round for someone to take his horse; but none of the urchins would come to him. at last he caught hold of a little ragged boy whom he knew, from his own side of the country, and who had come all the way there, eight long irish miles, on the chance of earning sixpence and seeing a hunt. "here, patsy, come here, you born little divil," and he laid hold of the arm of the brat, who was trying to escape from him--"come and hold my horse for me--and i'll not forget you." "shure, yer honer, mr lambert, i can't thin, for i'm afther engaging myself this blessed minute to mr larry dillon, only he's jist trotted round to the stables to spake a word to mick keogh." "don't be lying, you little blackguard; hould the horse, and don't stir out of that." "shure how can i, mr lambert, when i've been and guv my word to mr larry?" and the little fellow put his hands behind him, that he might not be forced to take hold of the reins. "don't talk to me, you young imp, but take the horse. i'll not forget you when i come out. what's the matter with you, you fool; d'ye think i'd tell you a lie about it?" patsy evidently thought he would; for though he took the horse almost upon compulsion, he whimpered as he did so, and said: "shure, mr lambert, would you go and rob a poor boy of his chances?--i come'd all the way from ballyglass this blessed morning to 'arn a tizzy, and av' i doesn't get it from you this turn, i'll--" but lambert brown had gone into the house, and on his return after breakfast he fully justified the lad's suspicion, for he again promised him that he wouldn't forget him, and that he'd see him some day at mr dillon's. "well, lambert brown," said the boy, as that worthy gentleman rode off, "it's you're the raal blackguard--and it's well all the counthry knows you: sorrow be your bed this night; it's little the poor'll grieve for you, when you're stretched, or the rich either, for the matther of that." very different was the reception bingham blake got, as he drove up with his tandem and tax-cart: half-a-dozen had kept themselves idle, each in the hope of being the lucky individual to come in for bingham's shilling. "och, mr bingham, shure i'm first," roared one fellow. but the first, as he styled himself, was soon knocked down under the wheels of the cart by the others. "mr blake, thin--mr blake, darlint--doesn't ye remimber the promise you guv me?" "mr jerry, mr jerry, avick,"--this was addressed to the brother--"spake a word for me; do, yer honour; shure it was i come all the way from teddy mahony's with the breeches this morning, god bless 'em, and the fine legs as is in 'em." but they were all balked, for blake had his servant there. "get out, you blackguards!" said he, raising his tandem whip, as if to strike them. "get out, you robbers! are you going to take the cart and horses clean away from me? that mare'll settle some of ye, if you make so free with her! she's not a bit too chary of her hind feet. get out of that, i tell you;" and he lightly struck with the point of his whip the boy who had lambert brown's horse. "ah, mr bingham," said, the boy, pretending to rub the part very hard, "you owe me one for that, anyhow, and it's you are the good mark for it, god bless you." "faix," said another, "one blow from your honour is worth two promises from lambert brown, any way." there was a great laugh at this among the ragged crew, for lambert brown was still standing on the doorsteps: when he heard this sally, however, he walked in, and the different red-coats and top-boots were not long in crowding after him. lord ballindine received them in the same costume, and very glad they all seemed to see him again. when an irish gentleman is popular in his neighbourhood, nothing can exceed the real devotion paid to him; and when that gentleman is a master of hounds, and does not require a subscription, he is more than ever so. "welcome back, ballindine--better late than never; but why did you stay away so long?" said general bourke, an old gentleman with long, thin, flowing grey hairs, waving beneath his broad-brimmed felt hunting-hat. "you're not getting so fond of the turf, i hope, as to be giving up the field for it? give me the sport where i can ride my own horse myself; not where i must pay a young rascal for doing it for me, and robbing me into the bargain, most likely." "quite right, general," said frank; "so you see i've given up the curragh, and come down to the dogs again." "yes, but you've waited too long, man; the dogs have nearly done their work for this year. i'm sorry for it; the last day of the season is the worst day in the year to me. i'm ill for a week after it." "well, general, please the pigs, we'll be in great tune next october. i've as fine a set of puppies to enter as there is in ireland, let alone connaught. you must come down, and tell me what you think of them." "next october's all very well for you young fellows, but i'm seventy-eight. i always make up my mind that i'll never turn out another season, and it'll be true for me this year. i'm hunting over sixty years, ballindine, in these three counties. i ought to have had enough of it by this time, you'll say." "i'll bet you ten pounds," said bingham blake, "that you hunt after eighty." "done with you bingham," said the general, and the bet was booked. general bourke was an old soldier, who told the truth in saying that he had hunted over the same ground sixty years ago. but he had not been at it ever since, for he had in the meantime seen a great deal of hard active service, and obtained high military reputation. but he had again taken kindly to the national sport of his country, on returning to his own estate at the close of the peninsular war; and had ever since attended the meets twice a week through every winter, with fewer exceptions than any other member of the hunt. he always wore top-boots--of the ancient cut, with deep painted tops and square toes, drawn tight up over the calf of his leg; a pair of most capacious dark-coloured leather breeches, the origin of which was unknown to any other present member of the hunt, and a red frock coat, very much soiled by weather, water, and wear. the general was a rich man, and therefore always had a horse to suit him. on the present occasion, he was riding a strong brown beast, called parsimony, that would climb over anything, and creep down the gable end of a house if he were required to do so. he was got by oeconomy; those who know county mayo know the breed well. they were now all crowded into the large dining-room at kelly's court; about five-and-twenty redcoats, and mr armstrong's rusty black. in spite of his shabby appearance, however, and the fact that the greater number of those around him were roman catholics, he seemed to be very popular with the lot; and his opinion on the important subject of its being a scenting morning was asked with as much confidence in his judgment, as though the foxes of the country were peculiarly subject to episcopalian jurisdiction. "well, then, peter," said he, "the wind's in the right quarter. mick says there's a strong dog-fox in the long bit of gorse behind the firs; if he breaks from that he must run towards ballintubber, and when you're once over the meering [ ] into roscommon, there's not an acre of tilled land, unless a herd's garden, between that and--the deuce knows where all--further than most of you'll like to ride, i take it." [footnote : meering--a well-marked boundary, such as a ditch or fence, between farms, fields, bogs, etc] "how far'll you go yourself, armstrong? faith, i believe it's few of the crack nags'll beat the old black pony at a long day." "is it i?" said the parson, innocently. "as soon as i've heard the dogs give tongue, and seen them well on their game, i'll go home. i've land ploughing, and i must look after that. but, as i was saying, if the fox breaks well away from the gorse, you'll have the best run you've seen this season; but if he dodges back into the plantation, you'll have enough to do to make him break at all; and when he does, he'll go away towards ballyhaunis, through as cross a country as ever a horse put a shoe into." and having uttered this scientific prediction, which was listened to with the greatest deference by peter dillon, the rev. joseph armstrong turned his attention to the ham and tea. the three ladies were all smiles to meet their guests; mrs o'kelly, dressed in a piece of satin turk, came forward to shake hands with the general, but sophy and guss kept their positions, beneath the coffee-pot and tea-urn, at each end of the long table, being very properly of opinion that it was the duty of the younger part of the community to come forward, and make their overtures to them. bingham blake, the cynosure on whom the eyes of the beauty of county mayo were most generally placed, soon found his seat beside guss, rather to sophy's mortification; but sophy was good-natured, and when peter dillon placed himself at her right hand, she was quite happy, though peter's father was still alive, and bingham's had been dead this many a year and castletown much in want of a mistress. "now, miss o'kelly," said bingham, "do let me manage the coffee-pot; the cream-jug and sugar-tongs will be quite enough for your energies." "indeed and i won't, mr blake; you're a great deal too awkward, and a great deal too hungry. the last hunt-morning you breakfasted here you threw the coffee-grouts into the sugar-basin, when i let you help me." "to think of your remembering that!--but i'm improved since then. i've been taking lessons with my old aunt at castlebar." "you don't mean you've really been staying with lady sarah?" "oh, but i have, though. i was there three days; made tea every night; washed the poodle every morning, and clear-starched her sunday pelerine, with my own hands on saturday evening." "oh, what a useful animal! what a husband you'll make, when you're a little more improved!" "shan't i? as you're so fond of accomplishments, perhaps you'll take me yourself by-and-by?" "why, as you're so useful, maybe i may." "well, lambert," said lord ballindine, across the table, to the stingy gentleman with the squint, "are you going to ride hard to-day?" "i'll go bail i'm not much behind, my lord," said lambert; "if the dogs go, i'll follow." "i'll bet you a crown, lambert," said his cousin, young brown of mount brown, "the dogs kill, and you don't see them do it." "oh, that may be, and yet i mayn't be much behind." "i'll bet you're not in the next field to them." "maybe you'll not be within ten fields yourself." "come, lambert, i'll tell you what--we'll ride together, and i'll bet you a crown i pound you before you're over three leaps." "ah, now, take it easy with yourself," said lambert; "there are others ride better than you." "but no one better than yourself; is that it, eh?" "well, jerry, how do the new articles fit?" said nicholas dillon. "pretty well, thank you: they'd be a deal more comfortable though, if you'd pay for them." "did you hear, miss o'kelly, what jerry blake did yesterday?" said nicholas dillon aloud, across the table. "indeed, i did not," said guss--"but i hope, for the sake of the blakes in general, he didn't do anything much amiss?" "i'll tell you then," continued nicholas. "a portion of his ould hunting-dress--i'll not specify what, you know--but a portion, which he'd been wearing since the last election, were too shabby to show: well, he couldn't catch a hedge tailor far or near, only poor lame andy oulahan, who was burying his wife, rest her sowl, the very moment jerry got a howld of him. well, jerry was wild that the tailors were so scarce, so he laid his hands on andy, dragged him away from the corpse and all the illigant enthertainment of the funeral, and never let him out of sight till he'd put on the last button." "oh, mr blake!" said guss, "you did not take the man away from his dead wife?" "indeed i did not, miss o'kelly: andy'd no such good chance; his wife's to the fore this day, worse luck for him. it was only his mother he was burying." "but you didn't take him away from his mother's funeral?" "oh, i did it according to law, you know. i got bingham to give me a warrant first, before i let the policeman lay a hand on him." "now, general, you've really made no breakfast at all," said the hospitable hostess: "do let guss give you a hot cup of coffee." "not a drop more, mrs o'kelly. i've done more than well; but, if you'll allow me, i'll just take a crust of bread in my pocket." "and what would you do that for?--you'll be coming back to lunch, you know." "is it lunch, mrs o'kelly, pray don't think of troubling yourself to have lunch on the table. maybe we'll be a deal nearer creamstown than kelly's court at lunch time. but it's quite time we were off. as for bingham blake, from the look of him, he's going to stay here with your daughter augusta all the morning." "i believe then he'd much sooner be with the dogs, general, than losing his time with her." "are you going to move at all, ballindine," said the impatient old sportsman. "do you know what time it is?--it'll be twelve o'clock before you have the dogs in the cover." "very good time, too, general: men must eat, you know, and the fox won't stir till we move him. but come, gentlemen, you seem to be dropping your knives and forks. suppose we get into our saddles?" and again the red-coats sallied out. bingham gave guss a tender squeeze, which she all but returned, as she bade him take care and not go and kill himself. peter dillon stayed to have a few last words with sophy, and to impress upon her his sister nora's message, that she and _her_ sister were to be sure to come over on friday to ballyhaunis, and spend the night there. "we will, if we're let, tell nora," said sophy; "but now frank's at home, we must mind him, you know." "make him bring you over: there'll be a bed for him; the old house is big enough, heaven knows." "indeed it is. well, i'll do my best; but tell nora to be sure and get the fiddler from hollymount. it's so stupid for her to be sitting there at the piano while we're dancing." "i'll manage that; only do you bring frank to dance with her," and another tender squeeze was given--and peter hurried out to the horses. and now they were all gone but the parson. "mrs o'kelly," said he, "mrs armstrong wants a favour from you. poor minny's very bad with her throat; she didn't get a wink of sleep last night." "dear me--poor thing; can i send her anything?" "if you could let them have a little black currant jelly, mrs armstrong would be so thankful. she has so much to think of, and is so weak herself, poor thing, she hasn't time to make those things." "indeed i will, mr armstrong. i'll send it down this morning; and a little calf's foot jelly won't hurt her. it is in the house, and mrs armstrong mightn't be able to get the feet, you know. give them my love, and if i can get out at all to-morrow, i'll go and see them." and so the parson, having completed his domestic embassy for the benefit of his sick little girl, followed the others, keen for the hunt; and the three ladies were left alone, to see the plate and china put away. xxii. the hunt though the majority of those who were in the habit of hunting with the kelly's court hounds had been at the breakfast, there were still a considerable number of horsemen waiting on the lawn in front of the house, when frank and his friends sallied forth. the dogs were collected round the huntsman, behaving themselves, for the most part, with admirable propriety; an occasional yelp from a young hound would now and then prove that the whipper [ ] had his eye on them, and would not allow rambling; but the old dogs sat demurely on their haunches, waiting the well-known signal for action. there they sat, as grave as so many senators, with their large heads raised, their heavy lips hanging from each side of their jaws, and their deep, strong chests expanded so as to show fully their bone, muscle, and breeding. [footnote : whipper--an officer of the hunt whose duty was to help the hunstman control the hounds] among the men who had arrived on the lawn during breakfast were two who certainly had not come together, and who had not spoken since they had been there. they were martin kelly and barry lynch. martin was dressed just as usual, except that he had on a pair of spurs, but barry was armed cap-a-pie [ ]. some time before his father's death he had supplied himself with all the fashionable requisites for the field,--not because he was fond of hunting, for he was not,--but in order to prove himself as much a gentleman as other people. he had been out twice this year, but had felt very miserable, for no one spoke to him, and he had gone home, on both occasions, early in the day; but he had now made up his mind that he would show himself to his old schoolfellow in his new character as an independent country gentleman; and what was more, he was determined that lord ballindine should not cut him. [footnote : cap-a-pie--from head to foot] he very soon had an opportunity for effecting his purpose, for the moment that frank got on his horse, he unintentionally rode close up to him. "how d'ye do, my lord?--i hope i see your lordship well?" said barry, with a clumsy attempt at ease and familiarity. "i'm glad to find your lordship in the field before the season's over." "good morning, mr lynch," said frank, and was turning away from him, when, remembering that he must have come from dunmore, he asked, "did you see martin kelly anywhere?" "can't say i did, my lord," said barry, and he turned away completely silenced, and out of countenance. martin had been talking to the huntsman, and criticizing the hounds. he knew every dog's name, character, and capabilities, and also every horse in lord ballindine's stable, and was consequently held in great respect by mick keogh and his crew. and now the business began. "mick," said the lord, "we'll take them down to the young plantation, and bring them back through the firs and so into the gorse. if the lad's lying there, we must hit him that way." "that's thrue for yer honer, my lord;" and he started off with his obedient family. "you're wrong, ballindine," said the parson; "for you'll drive him up into the big plantation, and you'll be all day before you make him break; and ten to one they'll chop him in the cover." "would you put them into the gorse at once then?" "take 'em gently through the firs; maybe he's lying out--and down into the gorse, and then, if he's there, he must go away, and into a tip-top country too--miles upon miles of pasture--right away to ballintubber," "that's thrue, too, my lord: let his rivirence alone for understandhing a fox," said mick, with a wink. the parson's behests were obeyed. the hounds followed mick into the plantation, and were followed by two or three of the more eager of the party, who did not object to receiving wet boughs in their faces, or who delighted in riding for half an hour with their heads bowed close down over their saddle-bows. the rest remained with the whipper, outside. "stay a moment here, martin," said lord ballindine. "they can't get away without our seeing them, and i want to speak a few words to you." "and i want particularly to spake to your lordship," said martin; "and there's no fear of the fox! i never knew a fox lie in those firs yet." "nor i either, but you see the parson would have his way. i suppose, if the priest were out, and he told you to run the dogs through the gooseberry-bushes, you'd do it?" "i'm blessed if i would, my lord! every man to his trade. not but what mr armstrong knows pretty well what he's about." "well but, martin, i'll tell you what i want of you. i want a little money, without bothering those fellows up in dublin; and i believe you could let me have it; at any rate, you and your mother together. those fellows at guinness's are stiff about it, and i want three hundred pounds, without absolutely telling them that they must give it me. i'd give you my bill for the amount at twelve months, and, allow you six per cent.; but then i want it immediately. can you let me have it?" "why, my lord," said martin, after pausing awhile and looking very contemplative during the time, "i certainly have the money; that is, i and mother together; but--" "oh, if you've any doubt about it--or if it puts you out, don't do it." "divil a doubt on 'arth, my lord; but i'll tell you i was just going to ask your lordship's advice about laying out the same sum in another way, and i don't think i could raise twice that much." "very well, martin; if you've anything better to do with your money, i'm sure i'd be sorry to take it from you." "that's jist it, my lord. i don't think i can do betther--but i want your advice about it." "my advice whether you ought to lend me three hundred pounds or not! why, martin, you're a fool. i wouldn't ask you to lend it me, if i thought you oughtn't to lend it." "oh--i'm certain sure of that, my lord; but there's an offer made me, that i'd like to have your lordship's mind about. it's not much to my liking, though; and i think it'll be betther for me to be giving you the money," and then martin told his landlord the offer which had been made to him by daly, on the part of barry lynch. "you see, my lord," he concluded by saying, "it'd be a great thing to be shut of barry entirely out of the counthry, and to have poor anty's mind at ase about it, should she iver live to get betther; but thin, i don't like to have dailings with the divil, or any one so much of his colour as barry lynch." "this is a very grave matter, martin, and takes some little time to think about. to tell the truth, i forgot your matrimonial speculation when i asked for the money. though i want the cash, i think you should keep it in your power to close with barry: no, you'd better keep the money by you." "after all, the ould woman could let me have it on the security of the house, you know, av' i did take up with the offer. so, any way, your lordship needn't be balked about the cash." "but is miss lynch so very ill, martin?" "'deed, and she is, mr frank; very bad intirely. doctor colligan was with her three times yestherday." "and does barry take any notice of her now she's ill?" "why, not yet he didn't; but then, we kept it from him as much as we could, till it got dangerous like. mother manes to send colligan to him to-day, av' he thinks she's not betther." "if she were to die, martin, there'd be an end of it all, wouldn't there?" "oh, in course there would, my lord"--and then he added, with a sigh, "i'd be sorry she'd die, for, somehow, i'm very fond of her, quare as it'll seem to you. i'd be very sorry she should die." "of course you would, martin; and it doesn't seem queer at all." "oh, i wasn't thinking about the money, then, my lord; i was only thinking of anty herself: you don't know what a good young woman she is--it's anything but herself she's thinking of always." "did she make any will?" "deed she didn't, my lord: nor won't, it's my mind." "ah! but she should, after all that you and your mother've gone through. it'd be a thousand pities that wretch barry got all the property again." "he's wilcome to it for the kellys, av' anty dies. but av' she lives he shall niver rob a penny from her. oh, my lord! we wouldn't put sich a thing as a will into her head, and she so bad, for all the money the ould man their father iver had. but, hark! my lord--that's gaylass, i know the note well, and she's as true as gould: there's the fox there, just inside the gorse, as the parson said"--and away they both trotted, to the bottom of the plantation, from whence the cheering sound of the dog's voices came, sharp, sweet, and mellow. yes; the parson was as right as if he had been let into the fox's confidence overnight, and had betrayed it in the morning. gaylass was hardly in the gorse before she discovered the doomed brute's vicinity, and told of it to the whole canine confraternity. away from his hiding-place he went, towards the open country, but immediately returned into the covert, for he saw a lot of boys before him, who had assembled with the object of looking at the hunt, but with the very probable effect of spoiling it; for, as much as a fox hates a dog, he fears the human race more, and will run from an urchin with a stick into the jaws of his much more fatal enemy. "as long as them blackguards is there, a hollowing, and a screeching, divil a fox in all ireland'd go out of this," said mick to his master. "ah, boys," said frank, riding up, "if you want to see a hunt, will you keep back!" "begorra we will, yer honer," said one. "faix--we wouldn't be afther spiling your honer's divarsion, my lord, on no account," said another. "we'll be out o' this althogether, now this blessed minute," said a third, but still there they remained, each loudly endeavouring to banish the others. at last, however, the fox saw a fair course before him, and away he went; and with very little start, for the dogs followed him out of the covert almost with a view. and now the men settled themselves to the work, and began to strive for the pride of place, at least the younger portion of them: for in every field there are two classes of men. those who go out to get the greatest possible quantity of riding, and those whose object is to get the least. those who go to work their nags, and those who go to spare them. the former think that the excellence of the hunt depends on the horses; the latter, on the dogs. the former go to act, and the latter to see. and it is very generally the case that the least active part of the community know the most about the sport. they, the less active part above alluded to, know every high-road and bye-road; they consult the wind, and calculate that a fox won't run with his nose against it; they remember this stream and this bog, and avoid them; they are often at the top of eminences, and only descend when they see which way the dogs are going; they take short cuts, and lay themselves out for narrow lanes; they dislike galloping, and eschew leaping; and yet, when a hard-riding man is bringing up his two hundred guinea hunter, a minute or two late for the finish, covered with foam, trembling with his exertion, not a breath left in him--he'll probably find one of these steady fellows there before him, mounted on a broken-down screw, but as cool and as fresh as when he was brought out of the stable; and what is, perhaps, still more amazing, at the end of the day, when the hunt is canvassed after dinner, our dashing friend, who is in great doubt whether his thoroughbred steeplechaser will ever recover his day's work, and who has been personally administering warm mashes and bandages before he would venture to take his own boots off, finds he does not know half as much about the hunt, or can tell half as correctly where the game went, as our, quiet-going friend, whose hack will probably go out on the following morning under the car, with the mistress and children. such a one was parson armstrong; and when lord ballindine and most of the others went away after the hounds, he coolly turned round in a different direction, crept through a broken wall into a peasant's garden, and over a dunghill, by the cabin door into a road, and then trotted along as demurely and leisurely as though he were going to bury an old woman in the next parish. frank was, generally speaking, as good-natured a man as is often met, but even he got excited and irritable when hunting his own pack. all masters of hounds do. some one was always too forward, another too near the dogs, a third interfering with the servants, and a fourth making too much noise. "confound it, peter," he said, when they had gone over a field or two, and the dogs missed the scent for a moment, "i thought at any rate you knew better than to cross the dogs that way." "who crossed the dogs?" said the other--"what nonsense you're talking: why i wasn't out of the potato-field till they were nearly all at the next wall." "well, it may be nonsense," continued frank; "but when i see a man riding right through the hounds, and they hunting, i call that crossing them." "hoicks! tally"--hollowed some one--"there's graceful has it again--well done, granger! faith, frank, that's a good dog! if he's not first, he's always second." "now, gentlemen, steady, for heaven's sake. do let the dogs settle to their work before you're a-top of them. upon my soul, nicholas brown, it's ridiculous to see you!" "it'd be a good thing if he were half as much in a hurry to get to heaven," said bingham blake. "thank'ee," said nicholas; "go to heaven yourself. i'm well enough where i am." and now they were off again. in the next field the whole pack caught a view of the fox just as he was stealing out; and after him they went, with their noses well above the ground, their voices loud and clear, and in one bevy. away they went: the game was strong; the scent was good; the ground was soft, but not too soft; and a magnificent hunt they had; but there were some misfortunes shortly after getting away. barry lynch, wishing, in his ignorance, to lead and show himself off, and not knowing how--scurrying along among the dogs, and bothered at every leap, had given great offence to lord ballindine. but, not wishing to speak severely to a man whom he would not under any circumstances address in a friendly way, he talked at him, and endeavoured to bring him to order by blowing up others in his hearing. but this was thrown away on barry, and he continued his career in a most disgusting manner; scrambling through gaps together with the dogs, crossing other men without the slightest reserve, annoying every one, and evidently pluming himself on his performance. frank's brow was getting blacker and blacker. jerry blake and young brown were greatly amusing themselves at the exhibition, and every now and then gave him a word or two of encouragement, praising his mare, telling how well he got over that last fence, and bidding him mind and keep well forward. this was all new to barry, and he really began to feel himself in his element;--if it hadn't been for those abominable walls, he would have enjoyed himself. but this was too good to last, and before very long he made a _faux pas_, which brought down on him in a torrent the bottled-up wrath of the viscount. they had been galloping across a large, unbroken sheep-walk, which exactly suited barry's taste, and he had got well forward towards the hounds. frank was behind, expostulating with jerry blake and the others for encouraging him, when the dogs came to a small stone wall about two feet and a half high. in this there was a broken gap, through which many of them crept. barry also saw this happy escape from the grand difficulty of jumping, and, ignorant that if he rode the gap at all, he should let the hounds go first, made for it right among them, in spite of frank's voice, now raised loudly to caution him. the horse the man rode knew his business better than himself, and tried to spare the dogs which were under his feet; but, in getting out, he made a slight spring, and came down on the haunches of a favourite young hound called "goneaway"; he broke the leg close to the socket, and the poor beast most loudly told his complaint. this was too much to be borne, and frank rode up red with passion; and a lot of others, including the whipper, soon followed. "he has killed the dog!" said he. "did you ever see such a clumsy, ignorant fool? mr lynch, if you'd do me the honour to stay away another day, and amuse yourself in any other way, i should be much obliged." "it wasn't my fault then," said barry. "do you mean to give me the lie, sir?" replied frank. "the dog got under the horse's feet. how was i to help it?" there was a universal titter at this, which made barry wish himself at home again, with his brandy-bottle. "ah! sir," said frank; "you're as fit to ride a hunt as you are to do anything else which gentlemen usually do. may i trouble you to make yourself scarce? your horse, i see, can't carry you much farther, and if you'll take my advice, you'll go home, before you're ridden over yourself. well, martin, is the bone broken?" martin had got off his horse, and was kneeling down beside the poor hurt brute. "indeed it is, my lord, in two places. you'd better let tony kill him; he has an awful sprain in the back, as well; he'll niver put a foot to the ground again." "by heavens, that's too bad! isn't it bingham? he was, out and out, the finest puppy we entered last year." "what can you expect," said bingham, "when such fellows as that come into a field? he's as much business here as a cow in a drawing-room." "but what can we do?--one can't turn him off the land; if he chooses to come, he must." "why, yes," said bingham, "if he will come he must. but then, if he insists on doing so, he may be horsewhipped; he may be ridden over; he may be kicked; and he may be told that he's a low, vulgar, paltry scoundrel; and, if he repeats his visits, that's the treatment he'll probably receive." barry was close to both the speakers, and of course heard, and was intended to hear, every word that was said. he contented himself, however, with muttering certain inaudible defiances, and was seen and heard of no more that day. the hunt was continued, and the fox was killed; but frank and those with him saw but little more of it. however, as soon as directions were given for the death of poor goneaway, they went on, and received a very satisfactory account of the proceedings from those who had seen the finish. as usual, the parson was among the number, and he gave them a most detailed history, not only of the fox's proceedings during the day, but also of all the reasons which actuated the animal, in every different turn he took. "i declare, armstrong," said peter dillon, "i think you were a fox yourself, once! do you remember anything about it?" "what a run he would give!" said jerry; "the best pack that was ever kennelled wouldn't have a chance with him." "who was that old chap," said nicholas dillon, showing off his classical learning, "who said that dead animals always became something else?--maybe it's only in the course of nature for a dead fox to become a live parson." "exactly: you've hit it," said armstrong; "and, in the same way, the moment the breath is out of a goose it becomes an idle squireen [ ], and, generally speaking, a younger brother." [footnote : squireen--diminutive of squire; a minor irish gentleman given to "putting on airs" or imitating the manners and haughtiness of men of greater wealth] "put that in your pipe and smoke it, nick," said jerry; "and take care how you meddle with the church again." "who saw anything of lambert brown?" said another; "i left him bogged below there at gurtnascreenagh, and all he could do, the old grey horse wouldn't move a leg to get out for him." "oh, he's there still," said nicholas. "he was trying to follow me, and i took him there on purpose. it's not deep, and he'll do no hurt: he'll keep as well there, as anywhere else." "nonsense, dillon!" said the general--"you'll make his brother really angry, if you go on that way. if the man's a fool, leave him in his folly, but don't be playing tricks on him. you'll only get yourself into a quarrel with the family." "and how shall we manage about the money, my lord?" said martin, as he drew near the point at which he would separate from the rest, to ride towards dunmore. "i've been thinking about it, and there's no doubt about having it for you on friday, av that'll suit." "that brother-in-law of yours is a most unmitigated blackguard, isn't he, martin?" said frank, who was thinking more about poor goneaway than the money. "he isn't no brother-in-law of mine yet, and probably niver will be, for i'm afeard poor anty'll go. but av he iver is, he'll soon take himself out of the counthry, and be no more throuble to your lordship or any of us." "but to think of his riding right a-top of the poor brute, and then saying that the dog got under his horse's feet! why, he's a fool as well as a knave. was he ever out before?" "well, then, i believe he was, twice this year; though i didn't see him myself." "then i hope this'll be the last time: three times is quite enough for such a fellow as that." "i don't think he'll be apt to show again afther what you and mr bingham said to him. well, shure, mr bingham was very hard on him!" "serve him right; nothing's too bad for him." "oh, that's thrue for you, my lord: i don't pity him one bit. but about the money, and this job of my own. av it wasn't asking too much, it'd be a great thing av your lordship'd see daly." it was then settled that lord ballindine should ride over to dunmore on the following friday, and if circumstances seemed to render it advisable, that he and martin should go on together to the attorney at tuam. xxiii. doctor colligan doctor colligan, the galen of dunmore, though a practitioner of most unprepossessing appearance and demeanour, was neither ignorant nor careless. though for many years he had courted the public in vain, his neighbours had at last learned to know and appreciate him; and, at the time of anty's illness, the inhabitants of three parishes trusted their corporeal ailments to his care, with comfort to themselves and profit to him. nevertheless, there were many things about doctor colligan not calculated to inspire either respect or confidence. he always seemed a little afraid of his patient, and very much afraid of his patient's friends: he was always dreading the appearance at dunmore of one of those young rivals, who had lately established themselves at tuam on one side, and hollymount on the other; and, to prevent so fatal a circumstance, was continually trying to be civil and obliging to his customers. he would not put on a blister, or order a black dose, without consulting with the lady of the house, and asking permission of the patient, and consequently had always an air of doubt and indecision. then, he was excessively dirty in his person and practice: he carried a considerable territory beneath his nails; smelt equally strongly of the laboratory and the stable; would wipe his hands on the patient's sheets, and wherever he went left horrid marks of his whereabouts: he was very fond of good eating and much drinking, and would neglect the best customer that ever was sick, when tempted by the fascination of a game of loo. he was certainly a bad family-man; for though he worked hard for the support of his wife and children, he was little among them, paid them no attention, and felt no scruple in assuring mrs c. that he had been obliged to remain up all night with that dreadful mrs jones, whose children were always so tedious; or that mr blake was so bad after his accident that he could not leave him for a moment; when, to tell the truth, the doctor had passed the night with the cards in his hands, and a tumbler of punch beside him. he was a tall, thick-set, heavy man, with short black curly hair; was a little bald at the top of his head; and looked always as though he had shaved himself the day before yesterday, and had not washed since. his face was good-natured, but heavy and unintellectual. he was ignorant of everything but his profession, and the odds on the card-table or the race-course. but to give him his due, on these subjects he was not ignorant; and this was now so generally known that, in dangerous cases, doctor colligan had been sent for, many, many miles. this was the man who attended poor anty in her illness, and he did as much for her as could be done; but it was a bad case, and doctor colligan thought it would be fatal. she had intermittent fever, and was occasionally delirious; but it was her great debility between the attacks which he considered so dangerous. on the morning after the hunt, he told martin that he greatly feared she would go off, from exhaustion, in a few days, and that it would be wise to let barry know the state in which his sister was. there was a consultation on the subject between the two and martin's mother, in which it was agreed that the doctor should go up to dunmore house, and tell barry exactly the state of affairs. "and good news it'll be for him," said mrs kelly; "the best he heard since the ould man died. av he had his will of her, she'd niver rise from the bed where she's stretched. but, glory be to god, there's a providence over all, and maybe she'll live yet to give him the go-by." "how you talk, mother," said martin; "and what's the use? whatever he wishes won't harum her; and maybe, now she's dying, his heart'll be softened to her. any way, don't let him have to say she died here, without his hearing a word how bad she was." "maybe he'd be afther saying we murdhered her for her money," said the widow, with a shudder. "he can hardly complain of that, when he'll be getting all the money himself. but, however, it's much betther, all ways, that doctor colligan should see him." "you know, mrs kelly," said the doctor, "as a matter of course he'll be asking to see his sister." "you wouldn't have him come in here to her, would you?--faix, doctor colligan, it'll be her death out right at once av he does." "it'd not be nathural, to refuse to let him see her," said the doctor; "and i don't think it would do any harm: but i'll be guided by you, mrs kelly, in what i say to him." "besides," said martin, "i know anty would wish to see him: he is her brother; and there's only the two of 'em." "between you be it," said the widow; "i tell you i don't like it. you neither of you know barry lynch, as well as i do; he'd smother her av it come into his head." "ah, mother, nonsense now; hould your tongue; you don't know what you're saying." "well; didn't he try to do as bad before?" "it wouldn't do, i tell you," continued martin, "not to let him see her; that is, av anty wishes it." it ended in the widow being sent into anty's room, to ask her whether she had any message to send to her brother. the poor girl knew how ill she was, and expected her death; and when the widow told her that doctor colligan was going to call on her brother, she said that she hoped she should see barry once more before all was over. "mother," said martin, as soon as the doctor's back was turned, "you'll get yourself in a scrape av you go on saying such things as that about folk before strangers." "is it about barry?" "yes; about barry. how do you know colligan won't be repating all them things to him?" "let him, and wilcome. shure wouldn't i say as much to barry lynch himself? what do i care for the blagguard?--only this, i wish i'd niver heard his name, or seen his foot over the sill of the door. i'm sorry i iver heard the name of the lynches in dunmore." "you're not regretting the throuble anty is to you, mother?" "regretting? i don't know what you mane by regretting. i don't know is it regretting to be slaving as much and more for her than i would for my own, and no chance of getting as much as thanks for it." "you'll be rewarded hereafther, mother; shure won't it all go for charity?" "i'm not so shure of that," said the widow. "it was your schaming to get her money brought her here, and, like a poor wake woman, as i was, i fell into it; and now we've all the throuble and the expinse, and the time lost, and afther all, barry'll be getting everything when she's gone. you'll see, martin; we'll have the wake, and the funeral, and the docthor and all, on us--mind my words else. och musha, musha! what'll i do at all? faix, forty pounds won't clear what this turn is like to come to; an' all from your dirthy undherhand schaming ways." in truth, the widow was perplexed in her inmost soul about anty; torn and tortured by doubts and anxieties. her real love of anty and true charity was in state of battle with her parsimony; and then, avarice was strong within her; and utter, uncontrolled hatred of barry still stronger. but, opposed to these was dread of some unforeseen evil--some tremendous law proceedings: she had a half-formed idea that she was doing what she had no right to do, and that she might some day be walked off to galway assizes. then again, she had an absurd pride about it, which often made her declare that she'd never be beat by such a "scum of the 'arth" as barry lynch, and that she'd fight it out with him if it cost her a hundred pounds; though no one understood what the battle was which she was to fight. just before anty's illness had become so serious, daly called, and had succeeded in reconciling both martin and the widow to himself; but he had not quite made them agree to his proposal. the widow, indeed, was much averse to it. she wouldn't deal with such a greek as barry, even in the acceptance of a boon. when she found him willing to compromise, she became more than ever averse to any friendly terms; but now the whole ground was slipping from under her feet. anty was dying: she would have had her trouble for nothing; and that hated barry would gain his point, and the whole of his sister's property, in triumph. twenty times the idea of a will had come into her mind, and how comfortable it would be if anty would leave her property, or at any rate a portion of it, to martin. but though the thoughts of such a delightful arrangement kept her in a continual whirlwind of anxiety, she never hinted at the subject to anty. as she said to herself, "a kelly wouldn't demane herself to ask a brass penny from a lynch." she didn't even speak to her daughters about it, though the continual twitter she was in made them aware that there was some unusual burthen on her mind. it was not only to the kellys that the idea occurred that anty in her illness might make a will. the thoughts of such a catastrophe had robbed barry of half the pleasure which the rumours of his sister's dangerous position had given him. he had not received any direct intimation of anty's state, but had heard through the servants that she was ill--very ill--dangerously--"not expected," as the country people call it; and each fresh rumour gave him new hopes, and new life. he now spurned all idea of connexion with martin; he would trample on the kellys for thinking of such a thing: he would show daly, when in the plenitude of his wealth and power, how he despised the lukewarmness and timidity of his councils. these and other delightful visions were floating through his imagination; when, all of a sudden, like a blow, like a thunderbolt, the idea of _a will_ fell as it were upon him with a ton weight. his heart sunk low within him; he became white, and his jaw dropped. after all, there were victory and triumph, plunder and wealth, _his_ wealth, in the very hands of his enemies! of course the kellys would force her to make a will, if she didn't do it of her own accord; if not, they'd forge one. there was some comfort in that thought: he could at any rate contest the will, and swear that it was a forgery. he swallowed a dram, and went off, almost weeping to daly. "oh, mr daly, poor anty's dying: did you hear, mr daly--she's all but gone?" yes; daly had been sorry to hear that miss lynch was very ill. "what shall i do," continued barry, "if they say that she's left a will?" "go and hear it read. or, if you don't like to do that yourself, stay away, and let me hear it." "but they'll forge one! they'll make out what they please, and when she's dying, they'll make her put her name to it; or they'll only just put the pen in her hand, when she's not knowing what she's doing. they'd do anything now, daly, to get the money they've been fighting for so hard." "it's my belief," answered the attorney, "that the kellys not only won't do anything dishonest, but that they won't even take any unfair advantage of you. but at any rate you can do nothing. you must wait patiently; you, at any rate, can take no steps till she's dead." "but couldn't she make a will in my favour? i know she'd do it if i asked her--if i asked her now--now she's going off, you know. i'm sure she'd do it. don't you think she would?" "you're safer, i think, to let it alone," said daly, who could hardly control the ineffable disgust he felt. "i don't know that," continued barry. "she's weak, and 'll do what she's asked: besides, _they'll_ make her do it. fancy if, when she's gone, i find i have to share everything with those people!" and he struck his forehead and pushed the hair off his perspiring face, as he literally shook with despair. "i must see her, daly. i'm quite sure she'll make a will if i beg her; they can't hinder me seeing my own, only, dying sister; can they, daly? and when i'm once there, i'll sit with her, and watch till it's all over. i'm sure, now she's ill, i'd do anything for her." daly said nothing, though barry paused for him to reply. "only about the form," continued he, "i wouldn't know what to put. by heavens, daly! you must come with me. you can be up at the house, and i can have you down at a minute's warning." daly utterly declined, but barry continued to press him. "but you must, daly; i tell you i know i'm right. i know her so well--she'll do it at once for the sake--for the sake of--you know she is my own sister, and all that--and she thinks so much of that kind of thing. i'll tell you what, daly; upon my honour and soul," and he repeated the words in a most solemn tone, "if you'll draw the will, and she signs it, so that i come in for the whole thing--and i know she will i'll make over fifty--ay, seventy pounds a year for you for ever and ever. i will, as i live." the interview ended by the attorney turning barry lynch into the street, and assuring him that if he ever came into his office again, on any business whatsoever, he would unscrupulously kick him out. so ended, also, the connexion between the two; for daly never got a farthing for his labour. indeed, after all that had taken place, he thought it as well not to trouble his _ci-devant_ client with a bill. barry went home, and of course got drunk. when doctor colligan called on lynch, he found that he was not at home. he was at that very moment at tuam, with the attorney. the doctor repeated his visit later in the afternoon, but barry had still not returned, and he therefore left word that he would call early after breakfast the following morning. he did so; and, after waiting half an hour in the dining-room, barry, only half awake and half dressed, and still half drunk, came down to him. the doctor, with a long face, delivered his message, and explained to him the state in which his sister was lying; assured him that everything in the power of medicine had been and should be done; that, nevertheless, he feared the chance of recovery was remote; and ended by informing him that miss lynch was aware of her danger, and had expressed a wish to see him before it might be too late. could he make it convenient to come over just now--in half an hour--or say an hour?--said the doctor, looking at the red face and unfinished toilet of the distressed brother. barry at first scarcely knew what reply to give. on his return from tuam, he had determined that he would at any rate make his way into his sister's room, and, as he thought to himself, see what would come of it. in his after-dinner courage he had further determined, that he would treat the widow and her family with a very high hand, if they dared to make objection to his seeing his sister; but now, when the friendly overture came from anty herself, and was brought by one of the kelly faction, he felt himself a little confounded, as though he rather dreaded the interview, and would wish to put it off for a day or two. "oh, yes--certainly, doctor colligan; to be sure--that is--tell me, doctor, is she really so bad?" "indeed, mr lynch, she is very weak." "but, doctor, you don't think there is any chance--i mean, there isn't any danger, is there, that she'd go off at once?" "why, no, i don't think there is; indeed, i have no doubt she will hold out a fortnight yet." "then, perhaps, doctor, i'd better put it off till to-morrow; i'll tell you why: there's a person i wish--" "why, mr lynch, to-day would be better. the fever's periodical, you see, and will be on her again to-morrow--" "i beg your pardon, doctor colligan," said barry, of a sudden remembering to be civil,--"but you'll take a glass of wine?" "not a drop, thank ye, of anything." "oh, but you will;" and barry rang the bell and had the wine brought. "and you expect she'll have another attack to-morrow?" "that's a matter of course, mr lynch; the fever'll come on her again to-morrow. every attack leaves her weaker and weaker, and we fear she'll go off, before it leaves her altogether." "poor thing!" said barry, contemplatively. "we had her head shaved," said the doctor. "did you, indeed!" answered barry. "she was my favourite sister, doctor colligan--that is, i had no other." "i believe not," said doctor colligan, looking sympathetic. "take another glass of wine, doctor?--now do," and he poured out another bumper. "thank'ee, mr lynch, thank'ee; not a drop more. and you'll be over in an hour then? i'd better go and tell her, that she may be prepared, you know," and the doctor returned to the sick room of his patient. barry remained standing in the parlour, looking at the glasses and the decanter, as though he were speculating on the manner in which they had been fabricated. "she may recover, after all," thought he to himself. "she's as strong as a horse--i know her better than they do. i know she'll recover, and then what shall i do? stand to the offer daly made to kelly, i suppose!" and then he sat down close to the table, with his elbow on it, and his chin resting on his hand; and there he remained, full of thought. to tell the truth, barry lynch had never thought more intensely than he did during those ten minutes. at last he jumped up suddenly, as though surprised at what had been passing within himself; he looked hastily at the door and at the window, as though to see that he had not been watched, and then went upstairs to dress himself, preparatory to his visit to the inn. xxiv. anty lynch's bed-side scene the first anty had borne her illness with that patience and endurance which were so particularly inherent in her nature. she had never complained; and had received the untiring attentions and care of her two young friends, with a warmth of affection and gratitude which astonished them, accustomed as they had been in every little illness to give and receive that tender care with which sickness is treated in affectionate families. when ill, they felt they had a right to be petulant, and to complain; to exact, and to be attended to: they had been used to it from each other, and thought it an incidental part of the business. but anty had hitherto had no one to nurse her, and she looked on meg and jane as kind ministering angels, emulous as they were to relieve her wants and ease her sufferings. her thin face had become thinner, and was very pale; her head had been shaved close, and there was nothing between the broad white border of her nightcap and her clammy brow and wan cheek. but illness was more becoming to anty than health; it gave her a melancholy and beautiful expression of resignation, which, under ordinary circumstances, was wanting to her features, though not to her character. her eyes were brighter than they usually were, and her complexion was clear, colourless, and transparent. i do not mean to say that anty in her illness was beautiful, but she was no longer plain; and even to the young kellys, whose feelings and sympathies cannot be supposed to have been of the highest order, she became an object of the most intense interest, and the warmest affection. "well, doctor," she said, as doctor colligan crept into her room, after the termination of his embassy to barry; "will he come?" "oh, of course he will; why wouldn't he, and you wishing it? he'll be here in an hour, miss lynch. he wasn't just ready to come over with me." "i'm glad of that," said anty, who felt that she had to collect her thoughts before she saw him; and then, after a moment, she added, "can't i take my medicine now, doctor?" "just before he comes you'd better have it, i think. one of the girls will step up and give it you when he's below. he'll want to speak a word or so to mrs kelly before he comes up." "spake to me, docthor!" said the widow, alarmed. "what'll he be spaking to me about? faix, i had spaking enough with him last time he was here." "you'd better just see him, mrs kelly," whispered the, doctor. "you'll find him quiet enough, now; just take him fair and asy; keep him downstairs a moment, while jane gives her the medicine. she'd better take it just before he goes to her, and don't let him stay long, whatever you do. i'll be back before the evening's over; not that i think that she'll want me to see her, but i'll just drop in." "are you going, doctor?" said anty, as he stepped up to the bed. he told her he was. "you've told mrs kelly, haven't you, that i'm to see barry alone?" "why, i didn't say so," said the doctor, looking at the widow; "but i suppose there'll be no harm--eh, mrs kelly?" "you must let me see him alone, dear mrs kelly!" "if doctor colligan thinks you ought, anty dear, i wouldn't stay in the room myself for worlds." "but you won't keep him here long, miss lynch--eh? and you won't excite yourself?--indeed, you mustn't. you'll allow them fifteen minutes, mrs kelly, not more, and then you'll come up;" and with these cautions, the doctor withdrew. "i wish he was come and gone," said the widow to her elder daughter. "well; av i'd known all what was to follow, i'd niver have got out of my warm bed to go and fetch anty lynch down here that cowld morning! well, i'll be wise another time. live and larn they say, and it's thrue, too." "but, mother, you ain't wishing poor anty wasn't here?" "indeed, but i do; everything to give and nothin to get--that's not the way i have managed to live. but it's not that altogether, neither. i'm not begrudging anty anything for herself; but that i'd be dhriven to let that blagguard of a brother of hers into the house, and that as a frind like, is what i didn't think i'd ever have put upon me!" barry made his appearance about an hour after the time at which they had begun to expect him; and as soon as meg saw him, one of them flew upstairs, to tell anty and give her her tonic. barry had made himself quite a dandy to do honour to the occasion of paying probably a parting visit to his sister, whom he had driven out of her own house to die at the inn. he had on his new blue frock-coat, and a buff waistcoat with gilt buttons, over which his watch-chain was gracefully arranged. his pantaloons were strapped clown very tightly over his polished boots; a shining new silk hat was on one side of his head; and in his hand he was dangling an ebony cane. in spite, however, of all these gaudy trappings, he could not muster up an easy air; and, as he knocked, he had that look proverbially attributed to dogs who are going to be hung. sally opened the door for him, and the widow, who had come out from the shop, made him a low courtesy in the passage. "oh--ah--yes--mrs kelly, i believe?" said barry. "yes, mr lynch, that's my name; glory be to god!" "my sister, miss lynch, is still staying here, i believe?" "why, drat it, man; wasn't dr colligan with you less than an hour ago, telling you you must come here, av you wanted to see her?" "you'll oblige me by sending up the servant to tell miss lynch i'm here." "walk up here a minute, and i'll do that errand for you myself.--well," continued she, muttering to herself "for him to ax av she war staying here, as though he didn't know it! there niver was his ditto for desait, maneness and divilry!" a minute or two after the widow had left him, barry found himself by his sister's bed-side, but never had he found himself in a position for which he was less fitted, or which was less easy to him. he assumed, however, a long and solemn face, and crawling up to the bed-side, told his sister, in a whining voice, that he was very glad to see her. "sit down, barry, sit down," said anty, stretching out her thin pale hand, and taking hold of her brother's. barry did as he was told, and sat down. "i'm so glad to see you, barry," said she: "i'm so very glad to see you once more--" and then after a pause, "and it'll be the last time, barry, for i'm dying." barry told her he didn't think she was, for he didn't know when he'd seen her looking better. "yes, i am, barry: doctor colligan has said as much; and i should know it well enough myself, even if he'd never said a word. we're friends now, are we not?--everything's forgiven and forgotten, isn't it, barry?" anty had still hold of her brother's hand, and seemed desirous to keep it. he sat on the edge of his chair, with his knees tucked in against the bed, the very picture of discomfort, both of body and mind. "oh, of course it is, anty," said he; "forgive and forget; that was always my motto. i'm sure i never bore any malice--indeed i never was so sorry as when you went away, and--" "ah, barry," said anty; "it was better i went then; may-be it's all better as it is. when the priest has been with me and given me comfort, i won't fear to die. but there are other things, barry, i want to spake to you about." "if there's anything i can do, i'm sure i'd do it: if there's anything at all you wish done.--would you like to come up to the house again?" "oh no, barry, not for worlds." "why, perhaps, just at present, you are too weak to move; only wouldn't it be more comfortable for you to be in your own house? these people here are all very well, i dare say, but they must be a great bother to you, eh?--so interested, you know, in everything they do." "ah! barry, you don't know them." barry remembered that he would be on the wrong tack to abuse the kellys. "i'm sure they're very nice people," said he; "indeed i always thought so, and said so--but they're not like your own flesh and blood, are they, anty?--and why shouldn't you come up and be--" "no, barry," said she; "i'll not do that; as they're so very, very kind as to let me stay here, i'll remain till--till god takes me to himself. but they're not my flesh and blood"--and she turned round and looked affectionately in the face of her brother--"there are only the two of us left now; and soon, very soon you'll be all alone." barry felt very uncomfortable, and wished the interview was over: he tried to say something, but failed, and anty went on--"when that time comes, will you remember what i say to you now?--when you're all alone, barry; when there's nothing left to trouble you or put you out--will you think then of the last time you ever saw your sister, and--" "oh, anty, sure i'll be seeing you again!" "no, barry, never again. this is the last time we shall ever meet, and think how much we ought to be to each other! we've neither of us father or mother, husband or wife.--when i'm gone you'll be alone: will you think of me then--and will you remember, remember every day--what i say to you now?" "indeed i will, anty. i'll do anything, everything you'd have me. is there anything you'd wish me to give to any person?" "barry," she continued, "no good ever came of my father's will."--barry almost jumped off his chair as he heard his sister's words, so much did they startle him; but he said nothing.--"the money has done me no good, but the loss of it has blackened your heart, and turned your blood to gall against me. yes, barry--yes--don't speak now, let me go on;--the old man brought you up to look for it, and, alas, he taught you to look for nothing else; it has not been your fault, and i'm not blaming you--i'm not maning to blame you, my own brother, for you are my own"--and she turned round in the bed and shed tears upon his hand, and kissed it.--"but gold, and land, will never make you happy,--no, not all the gold of england, nor all the land the old kings ever had could make you happy, av the heart was bad within you. you'll have it all now, barry, or mostly all. you'll have what you think the old man wronged you of; you'll have it with no one to provide for but yourself, with no one to trouble you, no one to thwart you. but oh, barry, av it's in your heart that that can make you happy--there's nothing before you but misery--and death--and hell." barry shook like a child in the clutches of its master--"yes, barry; misery and death, and all the tortures of the damned. it's to save you from this, my own brother, to try and turn your heart from that foul love of money, that your sister is now speaking to you from her grave.--oh, barry! try and cure it. learn to give to others, and you'll enjoy what you have yourself.--learn to love others, and then you'll know what it is to be loved yourself. try, try to soften that hard heart. marry at once, barry, at once, before you're older and worse to cure; and you'll have children, and love them; and when you feel, as feel you must, that the money is clinging round your soul, fling it from you, and think of the last words your sister said to you." the sweat was now running down the cheeks of the wretched man, for the mixed rebuke and prayer of his sister had come home to him, and touched him; but it was neither with pity, with remorse, nor penitence. no; in that foul heart there was no room, even for remorse; but he trembled with fear as he listened to her words, and, falling on his knees, swore to her that he would do just as she would have him. "if i could but think," continued she, "that you would remember what i am saying--" "oh, i will, anty: i will--indeed, indeed, i will!" "if i could believe so, barry--i'd die happy and in comfort, for i love you better than anything on earth;" and again she pressed his hot red hand--"but oh, brother! i feel for you:--you never kneel before the altar of god--you've no priest to move the weight of sin from your soul--and how heavy that must be! do you remember, barry; it's but a week or two ago and you threatened to kill me for the sake of our father's money? you wanted to put me in a mad-house; you tried to make me mad with fear and cruelty; me, your sister; and i never harmed or crossed you. god is now doing what you threatened; a kind, good god is now taking me to himself, and you will get what you so longed for without more sin on your conscience; but it'll never bless you, av you've still the same wishes in your heart, the same love of gold--the same hatred of a fellow-creature." "oh, anty!" sobbed out barry, who was now absolutely in tears, "i was drunk that night; i was indeed, or i'd never have said or done what i did." "and how often are you so, barry?--isn't it so with you every night? that's another thing; for my sake, for your own sake--for god's sake, give up the dhrink. it's killing you from day to day, and hour to hour. i see it in your eyes, and smell it in your breath, and hear it in your voice; it's that that makes your heart so black:--it's that that gives you over, body and soul, to the devil. i would not have said a word about that night to hurt you now; and, dear barry, i wouldn't have said such words as these to you at all, but that i shall never speak to you again. and oh! i pray that you'll remember them. you're idle now, always:--don't continue so; earn your money, and it will be a blessing to you and to others. but in idleness, and drunkenness, and wickedness, it will only lead you quicker to the devil." barry reiterated his promises; he would take the pledge; he would work at the farm; he would marry and have a family; he would not care the least for money; he would pay his debts; he would go to church, or chapel, if anty liked it better; at any rate, he'd say his prayers; he would remember every word she had said to the last day of his life; he promised everything or anything, as though his future existence depended on his appeasing his dying sister. but during the whole time, his chief wish, his longing desire, was to finish the interview, and get out of that horrid room. he felt that he was mastered and cowed by the creature whom he had so despised, and he could not account for the feeling. why did he not dare to answer her? she had told him he would have her money: she had said it would come to him as a matter of course; and it was not the dread of losing that which prevented his saying a word in his own defence. no; she had really frightened him: she had made him really feel that he was a low, wretched, wicked creature, and he longed to escape from her, that he might recover his composure. "i have but little more to say to you, barry," she continued, "and that little is about the property. you will have it all, but a small sum of money--" here anty was interrupted by a knock at the door, and the entrance of the widow. she came to say that the quarter of an hour allowed by the doctor had been long exceeded, and that really mr barry ought to take his leave, as so much talking would be bad for anty. this was quite a god-send for barry, who was only anxious to be off; but anty begged for a respite. "one five minutes longer, dear mrs kelly," said she, "and i shall have done; only five minutes--i'm much stronger now, and really it won't hurt me." "well, then--mind, only five minutes," said the widow, and again left them alone. "you don't know, barry--you can never know how good that woman has been to me; indeed all of them--and all for nothing. they've asked nothing of me, and now that they know i'm dying, i'm sure they expect nothing from me. she has enough; but i wish to leave something to martin, and the girls;" and a slight pale blush covered her wan cheeks and forehead as she mentioned martin's name. "i will leave him five hundred pounds, and them the same between them. it will be nothing to you, barry, out of the whole; but see and pay it at once, will you?" and she looked kindly into his face. he promised vehemently that he would, and told her not to bother herself about a will: they should have the money as certainly as if twenty wills were made. to give barry his due, at that moment, he meant to be as good as his word. anty, however, told him that she would make a will; that she would send for a lawyer, and have the matter properly settled. "and now," she said, "dear barry, may god almighty bless you--may he guide you and preserve you; and may he, above all, take from you that horrid love of the world's gold and wealth. good bye," and she raised herself up in her bed--"good bye, for the last time, my own dear brother; and try to remember what i've said to you this day. kiss me before you go, barry." barry leaned over the bed, and kissed her, and then crept out of the room, and down the stairs, with the tears streaming down his red cheeks; and skulked across the street to his own house, with his hat slouched over his face, and his handkerchief held across his mouth. xxv. anty lynch's bed-side scene the second anty was a good deal exhausted by her interview with her brother, but towards evening she rallied a little, and told jane, who was sitting with her, that she wanted to say one word in private, to martin. jane was rather surprised, for though martin was in the habit of going into the room every morning to see the invalid, anty had never before asked for him. however, she went for martin, and found him. "martin," said she; "anty wants to see you alone, in private." "me?" said martin, turning a little red. "do you know what it's about?" "she didn't say a word, only she wanted to see you alone; but i'm thinking it's something about her brother; he was with her a long long time this morning, and went away more like a dead man than a live one. but come, don't keep her waiting; and, whatever you do, don't stay long; every word she spakes is killing her." martin followed his sister into the sick-room, and, gently taking anty's offered hand, asked her in a whisper, what he could do for her. jane went out; and, to do her justice sat herself down at a distance from the door, though she was in a painful state of curiosity as to what was being said within. "you're all too good to me, martin," said anty; "you'll spoil me, between you, minding every word i say so quick." martin assured her again, in a whisper, that anything and everything they could do for her was only a pleasure. "don't mind whispering," said anty; "spake out; your voice won't hurt me. i love to hear your voices, they're all so kind and good. but martin, i've business you must do for me, and that at once, for i feel within me that i'll soon be gone from this." "we hope not, anty; but it's all with god now--isn't it? no one knows that betther than yourself." "oh yes, i do know that; and i feel it is his pleasure that it should be so, and i don't fear to die. a few weeks back the thoughts of death, when they came upon me, nearly killed me; but that feeling's all gone now." martin did not know what answer to make; he again told her he hoped she would soon get better. it is a difficult task to talk properly to a dying person about death, and martin felt that he was quite incompetent to do so. "but," she continued, after a little, "there's still much that i want to do,--that i ought to do. in the first place, i must make my will." martin was again puzzled. this was another subject on which he felt himself equally unwilling to speak; he could not advise her not to make one; and he certainly would not advise her to do so. "your will, anty?--there's time enough for that; you'll be sthronger you know, in a day or two. doctor colligan says so--and then we'll talk about it." "i hope there is time enough, martin; but there isn't more than enough; it's not much that i'll have to say--" "were you spaking to barry about it this morning?" "oh, i was. i told him what i'd do: he'll have the property now, mostly all as one as av the ould man had left it to him. it would have been betther so, eh martin?" anty never doubted her lover's disinterestedness; at this moment she suspected him of no dirty longing after her money, and she did him only justice. when he came into her room he had no thoughts of inheriting anything from her. had he been sure that by asking he could have induced her to make a will in his favour, he would not have done so. but still his heart sunk a little within him when he heard her declare that she was going to leave everything back to her brother. it was, however, only for a moment; he remembered his honest determination firmly and resolutely to protect their joint property against any of her brother's attempts, should he ever marry her; but in no degree to strive or even hanker after it, unless it became his own in a fair, straightforward manner. "well, anty; i think you're right," said he. "but wouldn't it all go to barry, nathurally, without your bothering yourself about a will, and you so wake." "in course it would, at laist i suppose so; but martin," and she smiled faintly as she looked up into his face, "i want the two dear, dear girls, and i want yourself to have some little thing to remember me by; and your dear kind mother,--she doesn't want money, but if i ask her to take a few of the silver things in the house, i'm sure she'll keep them for my sake. oh, martin! i do love you all so very--so very much!" and the warm tears streamed down her cheeks. martin's eyes were affected, too: he made a desperate struggle to repress the weakness, but he could not succeed, and was obliged to own it by rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his coat. "and i'm shure, anty," said he, "we all love you; any one must love you who knew you." and then he paused: he was trying to say something of his own true personal regard for her, but he hardly knew how to express it. "we all love you as though you were one of ourselves--and so you are--it's all the same--at any rate it is to me." "and i would have been one of you, had i lived. i can talk to you more about it now, martin, than i ever could before, because i know i feel i am dying." "but you mustn't talk, anty; it wakens you, and you've had too much talking already this day." "it does me good, martin, and i must say what i have to say to you. i mayn't be able again. had it plazed god i should have lived, i would have prayed for nothing higher or betther than to be one of such a family as yourselves. had i been--had i been"--and now anty blushed again, and she also found a difficulty in expressing herself; but she soon got over it, and continued, "had i been permitted to marry you, martin, i think i would have been a good wife to you. i am very, very sure i would have been an affectionate one." "i'm shure you would--i'm shure you would, anty. god send you may still: av you war only once well again there's nothing now to hindher us." "you forget barry," anty said, with a shudder. "but it doesn't matther talking of that now"--martin was on the point of telling her that barry had agreed, under certain conditions, to their marriage: but, on second thoughts, he felt it would be useless to do so; and anty continued, "i would have done all i could, martin. i would have loved you fondly and truly. i would have liked what you liked, and, av i could, i would've made your home quiet and happy. your mother should have been my mother, and your sisthers my sisthers." "so they are now, anty--so they are now, my own, own anty--they love you as much as though they were." "god almighty bless them for their goodness, and you too, martin. i cannot tell you, i niver could tell you, how i've valued your honest thrue love, for i know you have loved me honestly and thruly; but i've always been afraid to spake to you. i've sometimes thought you must despise me, i've been so wake and cowardly." "despise you, anty?--how could i despise you, when i've always loved you?" "but now, martin, about poor barry--for he is poor. i've sometimes thought, as i've been lying here the long long hours awake, that, feeling to you as i do, i ought to be laving you what the ould man left to me." "i'd be sorry you did, anty. i'll not be saying but what i thought of that when i first looked for you, but it was never to take it from you, but to share it with you, and make you happy with it." "i know it, martin: i always knew it and felt it." "and now, av it's god's will that you should go from us, i'd rather barry had the money than us. we've enough, the lord be praised; and i wouldn't for worlds it should be said that it war for that we brought you among us; nor for all county galway would i lave it to barry to say, that when you were here, sick, and wake, and dying, we put a pen into your hand to make you sign a will to rob him of what should by rights be his." "that's it, dear martin; it wouldn't bless you if you had it; it can bless no one who looks to it alone for a blessing. it wouldn't make you happy--it would make you miserable, av people said you had that which you ought not to have. besides, i love my poor brother; he is my brother, my only real relation; we've lived all our lives together; and though he isn't what he should be, the fault is not all his own, i should not sleep in my grave, av i died with his curse upon me; as i should, av he found, when i am gone, that i'd willed the property all away. i've told him he'd have it all--nearly all; and i've begged him, prayed to him, from my dying bed, to mend his ways; to try and be something betther in the world than what i fear he's like to be. i think he minded what i said when he was here, for death-bed words have a solemn sound to the most worldly; but when i'm gone he'll be all alone, there'll be no one to look afther him. nobody loves him--no one even likes him; no one will live with him but those who mane to rob him; and he will be robbed, and plundered, and desaved, when he thinks he's robbing and desaving others." anty paused, more for breath than for a reply, but martin felt that he must say something. "indeed, anty, i fear he'll hardly come to good. he dhrinks too much, by all accounts; besides, he's idle, and the honest feeling isn't in him." "it's thrue, dear martin; it's too thrue. will you do me a great great favour, martin"--and she rose up a little and turned her moist clear eye full upon him--"will you show your thrue love to your poor anty, by a rale lasting kindness, but one that'll be giving you much much throuble and pain? afther i'm dead and gone--long long after i'm in my cold grave, will you do that for me, martin?". "indeed i will, anty," said martin, rather astonished, but with a look of solemn assurance; "anything that i can do, i will: you needn't dread my not remembering, but i fear it isn't much that i can do for you." "will you always think and spake of barry--will you always act to him and by him, and for him, not as a man whom you know and dislike, but as my brother--your own anty's only brother?--whatever he does, will you thry to make him do betther? whatever troubles he's in, will you lend him your hand? come what come may to him, will you be his frind? he has no frind now. when i'm gone, will you be a frind to him?" martin was much confounded. "he won't let me be his frind," he said; "he looks down on us and despises us; he thinks himself too high to be befrinded by us. besides, of all dunmore he hates us most." "he won't when he finds you haven't got the property from him: but frindship doesn't depend on letting--rale frindship doesn't. i don't want you to be dhrinking, and ating, and going about with him. god forbid!--you're too good for that. but when you find he wants a frind, come forward, and thry and make him do something for himself. you can't but come together; you'll be the executhor in the will; won't you, martin? and then he'll meet you about the property; he can't help it, and you must meet then as frinds. and keep that up. if he insults you, forgive it or my sake; if he's fractious and annoying, put up with it for my sake; for my sake thry to make him like you, and thry to make others like him." martin felt that this would be impossible, but he didn't say so--"no one respects him now, but all respect you. i see it in people's eyes and manners, without hearing what they say. av you spake well of him--at any rate kindly of him, people won't turn themselves so against him. will you do all this, for my sake?" martin solemnly promised that, as far as he could, he would do so; that, at any rate as far as himself was concerned, he would never quarrel with him. "you'll have very, very much to forgive," continued anty; "but then it's so sweet to forgive; and he's had no fond mother like you; he has not been taught any duties, any virtues, as you have. he has only been taught that money is the thing to love, and that he should worship nothing but that. martin, for my sake, will you look on him as a brother?--a wicked, bad, castaway brother; but still as a brother, to be forgiven, and, if possible, redeemed?" "as i hope for glory in heaven, i will," said martin; "but i think he'll go far from this; i think he'll quit dunmore." "maybe he will; perhaps it's betther he should; but he'll lave his name behind him. don't be too hard on that, and don't let others; and even av he does go, it'll not be long before he'll want a frind, and i don't know anywhere he can go that he's likely to find one. wherever he may go, or whatever he may do, you won't forget he was my brother; will you, martin? you won't forget he was your own anty's only brother." martin again gave her his solemn word that he would, to the best of his ability, act as a friend and brother to barry. "and now about the will." martin again endeavoured to dissuade her from thinking about a will just at present. "ah! but my heart's set upon it," she said; "i shouldn't be happy unless i did it, and i'm sure you don't want to make me unhappy, now. you must get me some lawyer here, martin; i'm afraid you're not lawyer enough for that yourself." "indeed i'm not, anty; it's a trade i know little about." "well; you must get me a lawyer; not to-morrow, for i know i shan't be well enough; but i hope i shall next day, and you may tell him just what to put in it. i've no secrets from you." and she told him exactly what she had before told her brother. "that'll not hurt him," she continued; "and i'd like to think you and the dear girls should accept something from me." martin then agreed to go to daly. he was on good terms with them all now, since making the last offer to them respecting the property; besides, as martin said, "he knew no other lawyer, and, as the will was so decidedly in barry's favour, who was so proper to make it as barry's own lawyer?" "good-bye now, martin," said anty; "we shall be desperately scolded for talking so long; but it was on my mind to say it all, and i'm betther now it's all over." "good night, dear anty," said martin, "i'll be seeing you to-morrow." "every day, i hope, martin, till it's all over. god bless you, god bless you all--and you above all. you don't know, martin--at laist you didn't know all along, how well, how thruly i've loved you. good night," and martin left the room, as barry had done, in tears. but he had no feeling within him of which he had cause to be ashamed. he was ashamed, and tried to hide his face, for he was not accustomed to be seen with the tears running down his cheeks; but still he had within him a strong sensation of gratified pride, as he reflected that he was the object of the warmest affection to so sweet a creature as anty lynch. "well, martin--what was it she wanted?" said his mother, as she met him at the bottom of the stairs. "i couldn't tell you now, mother," said he; "but av there was iver an angel on 'arth, it's anty lynch." and saying so, he pushed open the door and escaped into the street. "i wondher what she's been about now?" said the widow, speculating to herself--"well, av she does lave it away from barry, who can say but what she has a right to do as she likes with her own?--and who's done the most for her, i'd like to know?"--and pleasant prospects of her son's enjoying an independence flitted before her mind's eye. "but thin," she continued, talking to herself, "i wouldn't have it said in dunmore that a kelly demaned hisself to rob a lynch, not for twice all sim lynch ever had. well--we'll see; but no good 'll ever come of meddling with them people. jane, jane," she called out, at the top of her voice, "are you niver coming down, and letting me out of this?--bad manners to you." jane answered, in the same voice, from the parlour upstairs, "shure, mother, ain't i getting anty her tay?" "drat anty and her tay!--well, shure, i'm railly bothered now wid them lynches!--well, glory be to god, there's an end to everything--not that i'm wishing her anywhere but where she is; she's welcome, for mary kelly." xxvi. love's ambassador two days after the hunt in which poor goneaway was killed by barry's horse, ballindine received the following letter from his friend dot blake. limmer's hotel, th march, . dear frank, i and brien, and bottom, crossed over last friday night, and, thanks to the god of storms, were allowed to get quietly through it. the young chieftain didn't like being boxed on the quay a bit too well; the rattling of the chains upset him, and the fellows there are so infernally noisy and awkward, that i wonder he was ever got on board. it's difficult to make an irishman handy, but it's the very devil to make him quiet. there were four at his head, and three at his tail, two at the wheel, turning, and one up aloft, hallooing like a demon in the air; and when master brien showed a little aversion to this comic performance, they were going to drag him into the box _bon gré, mal gré_, till bottom interposed and saved the men and the horse from destroying each other. we got safe to middleham on saturday night, the greatest part of the way by rail. scott has a splendid string of horses. these english fellows do their work in tiptop style, only they think more of spending money than they do of making it. i waited to see him out on monday, when he'd got a trot, and he was as bright as though he'd never left the curragh. scott says he's a little too fine; but you know of course he must find some fault. to give igoe his due, he could not be in better condition, and scott was obliged to own that, _considering where he came from_, he was very well. i came on here on tuesday, and have taken thirteen wherever i could get it, and thought the money safe. i have got a good deal on, and won't budge till i do it at six to one; and i'm sure i'll bring him to that. i think he'll rise quickly, as he wants so little training, and as his qualities must be at once known now he's in scott's stables; so if you mean to put any more on you had better do it at once. so much for the stables. i left the other two at home, but have one of my own string here, as maybe i'll pick up a match: and now i wish to let you know a report that i heard this morning--at least a secret, which bids fair to become a report. it is said that kilcullen is to marry f---- w----, and that he has already paid heaven only knows how many thousand pounds of debt with her money; that the old earl has arranged it all, and that the beautiful heiress has reluctantly agreed to be made a viscountess. i'm very far from saying that i believe this; but it may suit you to know that i heard the arrangement mentioned before two other persons, one of whom was morris;--strange enough this, as he was one of the set at handicap lodge when you told them that the match with yourself was still on. i have no doubt the plan would suit father and son; you best know how far the lady may have been likely to accede. at any rate, my dear frank, if you'll take my advice, you'll not sit quiet till she does marry some one. you can't expect she'll wear the willow for you very long, if you do nothing yourself. write to her by post, and write to the earl by the same post, saying you have done so. tell her in the sweetest way you can, that you cannot live without seeing her, and getting your _congé_ [ ], if _congé_ it is to be, from her own dear lips; and tell him, in as few words, as you please, that you mean to do yourself the honour of knocking at his door on such and such a day--and do it. [footnote : congé--(french) dismissal, notice to quit] by the bye, kilcullen certainly returns to ireland immediately. there's been the devil's own smash among him and the jews. he has certainly been dividing money among them; but not near enough, by all accounts, to satisfy the half of them. for the sake of your reputation, if not of your pocket, don't let him walk off with the hundred and thirty thousand pounds. they say it's not a penny less. very faithfully yours, w. blake. shall i do anything for you here about brien? i think i might still get you eleven to one, but let me hear at once. as frank read the first portion of this epistle, his affection for his poor dear favourite nag returned in full force, and he felt all the pangs of remorse for having parted with him; but when he came to the latter part, to lord kilcullen's name, and the initials by which his own fanny was designated, he forgot all about horse and owner; became totally regardless of thirteen, eleven, and six to one, and read on hastily to the end; read it all again--then closed the letter, and put it in his pocket, and remained for a considerable time in silent contemplation, trying to make up his mind what he would do. nobody was with him as he opened his post-bag, which he took from the messenger as the boy was coming up to the house; he therefore read his letter alone, on the lawn, and he continued pacing up and down before the house with a most perturbed air, for half an hour. kilcullen going to marry fanny wyndham! so, that was the cause of lord cashel's singular behaviour--his incivility, and refusal to allow frank to see his ward. "what! to have arranged it all in twenty-four hours," thought frank to himself; "to have made over his ward's money to his son, before her brother, from whom she inherited it, was in his grave: to determine at once to reject an accepted suitor for the sake of closing on the poor girl's money--and without the slightest regard for her happiness, without a thought for her welfare! and then, such lies," said the viscount, aloud, striking his heel into the grass in his angry impetuosity; "such base, cruel lies!--to say that she had authorised him, when he couldn't have dared to make such a proposal to her, and her brother but two days dead. well; i took him for a stiff-necked pompous fool, but i never thought him such an avaricious knave." and fanny, too--could fanny have agreed, so soon, to give her hand to another? she could not have transferred her heart. his own dear, fond fanny! a short time ago they had been all in all to each other; and now so completely estranged as they were! however, dot was right; up to this time fanny might be quite true to him; indeed, there was not ground even for doubting her, for it was evident that no reliance was to be placed in lord cashel's asseverations. but still he could not expect that she should continue to consider herself engaged, if she remained totally neglected by her lover. he must do something, and that at once; but there was very great difficulty in deciding what that something was to be. it was easy enough for dot to say, first write, and then go. if he were to write, what security was there that his letter would be allowed to reach fanny? and, if he went, how much less chance was there that he would be allowed to see her. and then, again to be turned out of the house! again informed, by that pompous scheming earl, that his visits there were not desired. or, worse still, not to be admitted; to be driven from the door by a footman who would well know for what he came! no; come what come might, he would never again go to grey abbey; at least not unless he was specially and courteously invited thither by the owner; and then it should only be to marry his ward, and take her from the odious place, never to return again. "the impudent impostor!" continued frank to himself; "to pretend to suspect me, when he was himself hatching his dirty, mercenary, heartless schemes!" but still the same question recurred,--what was to be done? venting his wrath on lord cashel would not get him out of the difficulty: going was out of the question; writing was of little use. could he not send somebody else? some one who could not be refused admittance to fanny, and who might at any rate learn what her wishes and feelings were? he did not like making love by deputy; but still, in his present dilemma, he could think of nothing better. but whom was he to send? bingham blake was a man of character, and would not make a fool of himself; but he was too young; he would not be able to make his way to fanny. no--a young unmarried man would not do.--mat tierney?--he was afraid of no one, and always cool and collected; but then, mat was in london; besides, he was a sort of friend of kilcullen's. general bourke? no one could refuse an _entrée_ to his venerable grey hairs, and polished manner; besides, his standing in the world was so good, so unexceptionable; but then the chances were he would not go on such an errand; he was too old to be asked to take such a troublesome service; and besides, if asked, it was very probable he would say that he considered lord cashel entitled to his ward's obedience. the rector--the rev. joseph armstrong? he must be the man: there was, at any rate, respectability in his profession; and he had sufficient worldly tact not easily to be thrust aside from his object: the difficulty would be, whether he had a coat sufficiently decent to appear in at grey abbey. after mature consideration he made up his mind that the parson should be his ambassador. he would sooner have confided in bingham blake, but an unmarried man would not do. no; the parson must be the man. frank was, unfortunately, but little disposed to act in any case without advice, and in his anxiety to consult some one as to consulting the parson, returned into the house, to make a clear breast of it to his mother. he found her in the breakfast-room with the two girls, and the three were holding council deep. "oh, here's frank," said sophy; "we'd better tell him all about it at once--and he'll tell us which she'd like best." "we didn't mean to tell you," said guss; "but i and sophy are going to work two sofas for the drawing-room--in berlin wool, you know: they'll be very handsome--everybody has them now, you know; they have a splendid pair at ballyhaunis which nora and her cousin worked." "but we want to know what pattern would suit fanny's taste," said sophy. "well; you can't know that," said frank rather pettishly, "so you'd better please yourselves." "oh, but you must know what she likes," continued guss; "i'm for this," and she, displayed a pattern showing forth two gorgeous macaws--each with plumage of the brightest colours. "the colours are so bright, and the feathers will work in so well." "i don't like anything in worsted-work but flowers," said sophy; "nora dillon says she saw two most beautiful wreaths at that shop in grafton street, both hanging from bars, you know; and that would be so much prettier. i'm sure fanny would like flowers best; wouldn't she now, frank?--mamma thinks the common cross-bar patterns are nicer for furniture." "indeed i do, my dear," said mrs o'kelly; "and you see them much more common now in well-furnished drawing-rooms. but still i'd much sooner have them just what fanny would like best. surely, frank, you must have heard her speak about worsted-work?" all this completely disconcerted frank, and made him very much out of love with his own plan of consulting his mother. he gave the trio some not very encouraging answer as to their good-natured intentions towards his drawing-room, and again left them alone. "well; there's nothing for it but to send the parson; i don't think he'll make a fool of himself, but then i know he'll look so shabby. however, here goes," and he mounted his nag, and rode off to ballindine glebe. the glebe-house was about a couple of miles from kelly's court, and it was about half-past four when lord ballindine got there. he knocked at the door, which was wide open, though it was yet only the last day of march, and was told by a remarkably slatternly maid-servant, that her master was "jist afther dinner;" that he was stepped out, but was about the place, and could be "fetched in at oncet;"--and would his honour walk in? and so lord ballindine was shown into the rectory drawing-room on one side of the passage (alias hall), while the attendant of all work went to announce his arrival in the rectory dining-room on the other side. here mrs armstrong was sitting among her numerous progeny, securing the _débris_ of the dinner from their rapacious paws, and endeavouring to make two very unruly boys consume the portions of fat which had been supplied to them with, as they loudly declared, an unfairly insufficient quantum of lean. as the girl was good-natured enough to leave both doors wide open, frank had the full advantage of the conversation. "now, greg," said the mother, "if you leave your meat that way i'll have it put by for you, and you shall have nothing but potatoes till it's ate." "why, mother, it's nothing but tallow; look here; you gave me all the outside part." "i'll tell your dada, and see what he'll say, if you call the meat tallow; and you're just as bad, joe; worse if anything--gracious me, here's waste! well, i'll lock it up for you, and you shall both of you eat it to-morrow, before you have a bit of anything else." then followed a desperate fit of coughing. "my poor minny!" said the mother, "you're just as bad as ever. why would you go out on the wet grass?--is there none of the black currant jam left?" "no, mother," coughed minny, "not a bit." "greg ate it all," peached sarah, an elder sister; "i told him not, but he would." "greg, i'll have you flogged, and you never shall come from school again. what's that you're saying, mary?" "there's a jintleman in the drawing-room as is axing afther masther." "gentleman--what gentleman?" asked the lady. "sorrow a know i know, ma'am!" said mary, who was a new importation--"only, he's a dark, sightly jintleman, as come on a horse." "and did you send for the master?" "i did, ma'am; i was out in the yard, and bad patsy go look for him." "it's nicholas dillon, i'll bet twopence," said greg, jumping up to rush into the other room: "he's come about the black colt, i know." "stay where you are, greg; and don't go in there with your dirty face and fingers;" and, after speculating a little longer, the lady went into the drawing-room herself; though, to tell the truth, her own face and fingers were hardly in a state suitable for receiving company. mrs armstrong marched into the drawing-room with something of a stately air, to meet the strange gentleman, and there she found her old friend lord ballindine. whoever called at the rectory, and at whatever hour the visit might be made, poor mrs armstrong was sure to apologise for the confusion in which she was found. she had always just got rid of a servant, and could not get another that suited her; or there was some other commonplace reason for her being discovered _en déshabille_ [ ]. however, she managed to talk to frank for a minute or two with tolerable volubility, till her eyes happening to dwell on her own hands, which were certainly not as white as a lady's should be, she became a little uncomfortable and embarrassed--tried to hide them in her drapery--then remembered that she had on her morning slippers, which were rather the worse for wear; and, feeling too much ashamed of her _tout ensemble_ to remain, hurried out of the room, saying that she would go and see where armstrong could possibly have got himself to. she did not appear again to lord ballindine. [footnote : en déshabille--(french) partly or scantily dressed] poor mrs armstrong!--though she looked so little like one, she had been brought up as a lady, carefully and delicately; and her lot was the more miserable, for she knew how lamentable were her present deficiencies. when she married a poor curate, having, herself, only a few hundred pounds' fortune, she had made up her mind to a life of comparative poverty; but she had meant even in her poverty to be decent, respectable, and lady-like. weak health, nine children, an improvident husband, and an income so lamentably ill-suited to her wants, had however been too much for her, and she had degenerated into a slatternly, idle scold. in a short time the parson came in from his farm, rusty and muddy--rusty, from his clerical dress; muddy from his farming occupations; and lord ballindine went into the business of his embassy. he remembered, however, how plainly he had heard the threats about the uneaten fat, and not wishing the household to hear all he had to say respecting fanny wyndham, he took the parson out into the road before the house, and, walking up and down, unfolded his proposal. mr armstrong expressed extreme surprise at the nature of the mission on which he was to be sent; secondly at the necessity of such a mission at all; and thirdly, lastly, and chiefly, at the enormous amount of the heiress's fortune, to lose which he declared would be an unpardonable sin on lord ballindine's part. he seemed to be not at all surprised that lord cashel should wish to secure so much money in his own family; nor did he at all participate in the unmeasured reprobation with which frank loaded the worthy earl's name. one hundred and thirty thousand pounds would justify anything, and he thought of his nine poor children, his poor wife, his poor home, his poor two hundred a-year, and his poor self. he calculated that so very rich a lady would most probably have some interest in the church, which she could not but exercise in his favour, if he were instrumental in getting her married; and he determined to go. then the, difficult question as to the wardrobe occurred to him. besides, he had no money for the road. those, however, were minor evils to be got over, and he expressed himself willing to undertake the embassy. "but, my dear ballindine; what is it i'm to do?" said he. "of course you know, i'd do anything for you, as of course i ought--anything that ought to be done; but what is it exactly you wish me to say?" "you see, armstrong, that pettifogging schemer told me he didn't wish me to come to his house again, and i wouldn't, even for fanny wyndham, force myself into any man's house. he would not let me see her when i was there, and i could not press it, because her brother was only just dead; so i'm obliged to take her refusal second hand. now i don't believe she ever sent the message he gave me. i think he has made her believe that i'm deserting and ill-treating her; and in this way she may be piqued and tormented into marrying kilcullen." "i see it now: upon my word then lord cashel knows how to play his cards! but if i go to grey abbey i can't see her without seeing him." "of course not--but i'm coming to that. you see, i have no reason to doubt fanny's love; she has assured me of it a thousand times. i wouldn't say so to you even, as it looks like boasting, only it's so necessary you should know how the land lies; besides, everybody knew it; all the world knew we were engaged." "oh, boasting--it's no boasting at all: it would be very little good my going to grey abbey, if she had not told you so." "well, i think that if you were to see lord cashel and tell him, in your own quiet way, who you are; that you are rector of ballindine, and my especial friend; and that you had come all the way from county mayo especially to see miss wyndham, that you might hear from herself whatever message she had to send to me--if you were to do this, i don't think he would dare to prevent you from seeing her." "if he did, of course i would put it to him that you, who were so long received as miss wyndham's accepted swain, were at least entitled to so much consideration at her hands; and that i must demand so much on your behalf, wouldn't that be it, eh?" "exactly. i see you understand it, as if you'd been at it all your life; only don't call me her swain." "well, i'll think of another word--her beau." "for heaven's sake, no!--that's ten times worse." "well, her lover?" "that's at any rate english: but say, her accepted husband--that'll be true and plain: if you do that i think you will manage to see her, and then--" "well, then--for that'll be the difficult part." "oh, when you see her, one simple word will do: fanny wyndham loves plain dealing. merely tell her that lord ballindine has not changed his mind; and that he wishes to know from herself, by the mouth of a friend whom he can trust, whether she has changed hers. if she tells you that she has, i would not follow her farther though she were twice as rich as croesus. i'm not hunting her for her money; but i am determined that lord cashel shall not make us both miserable by forcing her into a marriage with his _roué_ of a son." "well, ballindine, i'll go; but mind, you must not blame me if i fail. i'll do the best i can for you." "of course i won't. when will you be able to start?" "why, i suppose there's no immediate hurry?" said the parson, remembering that the new suit of clothes must be procured. "oh, but there is. kilcullen will be there at once; and considering how long it is since i saw fanny--three months, i believe--no time should be lost." "how long is her brother dead?" "oh, a month--or very near it." "well, i'll go monday fortnight; that'll do, won't it?" it was at last agreed that the parson was to start for grey abbey on the monday week following; that he was to mention to no one where he was going; that he was to tell his wife that he was going on business he was not allowed to talk about;--she would be a very meek woman if she rested satisfied with that!--and that he was to present himself at grey abbey on the following wednesday. "and now," said the parson, with some little hesitation, "my difficulty commences. we country rectors are never rich; but when we've nine children, ballindine, it's rare to find us with money in our pockets. you must advance me a little cash for the emergencies of the road." "my dear fellow! of course the expense must be my own. i'll send you down a note between this and then; i haven't enough about me now. or, stay--i'll give you a cheque," and he turned into the house, and wrote him a cheque for twenty pounds. that'll get the coat into the bargain, thought the rector, as he rather uncomfortably shuffled the bit of paper into his pocket. he had still a gentleman's dislike to be paid for his services. but then, necessity--how stern she is! he literally could not have gone without it. xxvii. mr lynch's last resource on the following morning lord ballindine as he had appointed to do, drove over to dunmore, to settle with martin about the money, and, if necessary, to go with him to the attorney's office in tuam. martin had as yet given daly no answer respecting barry lynch's last proposal; and though poor anty's health made it hardly necessary that any answer should be given, still lord ballindine had promised to see the attorney, if martin thought it necessary. the family were all in great confusion that morning, for anty was very bad--worse than she had ever been. she was in a paroxysm of fever, was raving in delirium, and in such a state that martin and his sister were occasionally obliged to hold her in bed. sally, the old servant, had been in the room for a considerable time during the morning, standing at the foot of the bed with a big tea-pot in her hand, and begging in a whining voice, from time to time, that "miss anty, god bless her, might get a dhrink of tay!" but, as she had been of no other service, and as the widow thought it as well that she should not hear what anty said in her raving, she had been desired to go down-stairs, and was sitting over the fire. she had fixed the big tea-pot among the embers, and held a slop-bowl of tea in her lap, discoursing to nelly, who with her hair somewhat more than ordinarily dishevelled, in token of grief for anty's illness, was seated on a low stool, nursing a candle-stick. "well, nelly," said the prophetic sally, boding evil in her anger--for, considering how long she had been in the family, she had thought herself entitled to hear anty's ravings; "mind, i tell you, good won't come of this. the virgin prothect us from all harum!--it niver war lucky to have sthrangers dying in the house." "but shure miss anty's no stranger." "faix thin, her words must be sthrange enough when the likes o' me wouldn't be let hear 'em. not but what i did hear, as how could i help it? there'll be no good come of it. who's to be axed to the wake, i'd like to know." "axed to the wake, is it? why, shure, won't there be rashions of ating and lashings of dhrinking? the misthress isn't the woman to spare, and sich a frind as miss anty dead in the house. let 'em ax whom they like." "you're a fool, nelly--ax whom they like!--that's asy said. is they to ax barry lynch, or is they to let it alone, and put the sisther into the sod without a word said to him about it? god be betwixt us and all evil"--and she took a long pull at the slop-bowl; and, as the liquid flowed down her throat, she gradually threw back her head till the top of her mop cap was flattened against the side of the wide fire-place, and the bowl was turned bottom upwards, so that the half-melted brown sugar might trickle into her mouth. she then gave a long sigh, and repeated that difficult question--"who is they to ax to the wake?" it was too much for nelly to answer: she re-echoed the sigh, and more closely embraced the candlestick. "besides, nelly, who'll have the money when she's gone?--and she's nigh that already, the blessed virgin guide and prothect her. who'll get all her money?" "why; won't mr martin? sure, an't they as good as man and wife--all as one?" "that's it; they'll be fighting and tearing, and tatthering about that money, the two young men will, you'll see. there'll be lawyering, an' magisthrate's work--an' factions--an' fighthins at fairs; an' thin, as in course the lynches can't hould their own agin the kellys, there'll be undherhand blows, an' blood, an' murdher!--you'll see else." "glory be to god," involuntarily prayed nelly, at the thoughts suggested by sally's powerful eloquence. "there will, i tell ye," continued sally, again draining the tea-pot into the bowl. "sorrow a lie i'm telling you;" and then, in a low whisper across the fire, "didn't i see jist now miss anty ketch a hould of misther martin, as though she'd niver let him go agin, and bid him for dear mercy's sake have a care of barry lynch?--shure i knowed what that meant. and thin, didn't he thry and do for herself with his own hands? didn't biddy say she'd swear she heard him say he'd do it?--and av he wouldn't boggle about his own sisther, it's little he'd mind what he'd do to an out an out inemy like misther martin." "warn't that a knock at the hall-door, sally?" "run and see, girl; may-be it's the docthor back again; only mostly he don't mind knocking much." nelly went to the door, and opened it to lord ballindine, who had left his gig in charge of his servant. he asked for martin, who in a short time, joined him in the parlour. "this is a dangerous place for your lordship, now," said he: "the fever is so bad in the house. thank god, nobody seems to have taken it yet, but there's no knowing." "is she still so bad, martin?" "worse than iver, a dale worse; i don't think it'll last long, now: another bout such as this last 'll about finish it. but i won't keep your lordship. i've managed about the money;"--and the necessary writing was gone through, and the cash was handed to lord ballindine. "you've given over all thoughts then, about lynch's offer--eh, martin?--i suppose you've done with all that, now?" "quite done with it, my lord; and done with fortune-hunting too. i've seen enough this last time back to cure me altogether--at laist, i hope so." "she doesn't mean to make any will, then?" "why, she wishes to make one, but i doubt whether she'll ever be able;" and then martin gave his landlord an account of all that anty had said about her will, her wishes as to the property, her desire to leave something to him (martin) and his sisters: and last he repeated the strong injunctions which anty had given him respecting her poor brother, and her assurance, so full of affection, that had she lived she would have done her best to make him happy as her husband. lord ballindine was greatly affected; he warmly shook hands with martin, told him how highly he thought of his conduct, and begged him to take care that anty had the gratification of making her will as she had desired to do. "the fact," lord ballindine said, "of your being named in the will as her executor will give you more control over barry than anything else could do." he then proposed at once to go, himself, to tuam, and explain to daly what it was miss lynch wished him to do. this lord ballindine did, and the next day the will was completed. for a week or ten days anty remained in much the same condition. after each attack of fever it was expected that she would perish from weakness and exhaustion; but she still held on, and then the fever abated, and doctor colligan thought that it was possible she might recover: she was, however, so dreadfully emaciated and worn out, there was so little vitality left in her, that he would not encourage more than the faintest hope. anty herself was too weak either to hope or fear;--and the women of the family, who from continual attendance knew how very near to death she was, would hardly allow themselves to think that she could recover. there were two persons, however, who from the moment of her amendment felt an inward sure conviction of her convalescence. they were martin and barry. to the former this feeling was of course one of unalloyed delight. he went over to kelly's court, and spoke there of his betrothed as though she were already sitting up and eating mutton chops; was congratulated by the young ladies on his approaching nuptials, and sauntered round the kelly's court shrubberies with frank, talking over his future prospects; asking advice about this and that, and propounding the pros and cons on that difficult question, whether he would live at dunmore, or build a house at toneroe for himself and anty. with barry, however, the feeling was very different: he was again going to have his property wrenched from him; he was again to suffer the pangs he had endured, when first he learned the purport of his father's will; after clutching the fruit for which he had striven, as even he himself felt, so basely, it was again to be torn from him so cruelly. he had been horribly anxious for a termination to anty's sufferings; horribly impatient to feel himself possessor of the whole. from day to day, and sometimes two or three times a day, he had seen dr colligan, and inquired how things were going on: he had especially enjoined that worthy man to come up after his morning call at the inn, and get a glass of sherry at dunmore house; and the doctor had very generally done so. for some time barry endeavoured to throw the veil of brotherly regard over the true source of his anxiety; but the veil was much too thin to hide what it hardly covered, and barry, as he got intimate with the doctor, all but withdrew it altogether. when barry would say, "well, doctor, how is she to-day?" and then remark, in answer to the doctor's statement that she was very bad--"well, i suppose it can't last much longer; but it's very tedious, isn't it, poor thing?" it was plain enough that the brother was not longing for the sister's recovery. and then he would go a little further, and remark that "if the poor thing was to go, it would be better for all she went at once," and expressed an opinion that he was rather ill-treated by being kept so very long in suspense. doctor colligan ought to have been shocked at this; and so he was, at first, to a certain extent, but he was not a man of a very high tone of feeling. he had so often heard of heirs to estates longing for the death of the proprietors of them; he had so often seen relatives callous and indifferent at the loss of those who ought to have been dear to them; it seemed so natural to him that barry should want the estate, that he gradually got accustomed to his impatient inquiries, and listened to, and answered them, without disgust. he fell too into a kind of intimacy with barry; he liked his daily glass, or three or four glasses, of sherry; and besides, it was a good thing for him to stand well in a professional point of view with a man who had the best house in the village, and who would soon have eight hundred a-year. if barry showed his impatience and discontent as long as the daily bulletins told him that anty was still alive, though dying, it may easily be imagined that he did not hide his displeasure when he first heard that she was alive and better. his brow grew very black, his cheeks flushed, the drops of sweat stood on his forehead, and he said, speaking through his closed teeth, "d---- it, doctor, you don't mean to tell me she's recovering now?" "i don't say, mr lynch, whether she is or no; but it's certain the fever has left her. she's very weak, very weak indeed; i never knew a person to be alive and have less life in 'em; but the fever has left her and there certainly is hope." "hope!" said barry--"why, you told me she couldn't live!" "i don't say she will, mr lynch, but i say she may. of course we must do what we can for her," and the doctor took his sherry and went his way. how horrible then was the state of barry's mind! for a time he was absolutely stupified with despair; he stood fixed on the spot where the doctor had left him, realising, bringing home to himself, the tidings which he had heard. his sister to rise again, as though it were from the dead, to push him off his stool! was he to fall again into that horrid low abyss in which even the tuam attorney had scorned him; in which he had even invited that odious huxter's son to marry his sister and live in his house? what! was he again to be reduced to poverty, to want, to despair, by her whom he so hated? could nothing be done?--something must be done--she should not be, could not be allowed to leave that bed of sickness alive. "there must be an end of her," he muttered through his teeth, "or she'll drive me mad!" and then he thought how easily he might have smothered her, as she lay there clasping his hand, with no one but themselves in the room; and as the thought crossed his brain his eyes nearly started from his head, the sweat ran down his face, he clutched the money in his trousers' pocket till the coin left an impression on his flesh, and he gnashed his teeth till his jaws ached with his own violence. but then, in that sick-room, he had been afraid of her; he could not have touched her then for the wealth of the bank of england!--but now! the devil sat within him, and revelled with full dominion over his soul: there was then no feeling left akin to humanity to give him one chance of escape; there was no glimmer of pity, no shadow of remorse, no sparkle of love, even though of a degraded kind; no hesitation in the will for crime, which might yet, by god's grace, lead to its eschewal: all there was black, foul, and deadly, ready for the devil's deadliest work. murder crouched there, ready to spring, yet afraid;--cowardly, but too thirsty alter blood to heed its own fears. theft,--low, pilfering, pettifogging, theft; avarice, lust, and impotent, scalding hatred. controlled by these the black blood rushed quick to and from his heart, filling him with sensual desires below the passions of a brute, but denying him one feeling or one appetite for aught that was good or even human. again the next morning the doctor was questioned with intense anxiety; "was she going?--was she drooping?--had yesterday's horrid doubts raised only a false alarm?" it was utterly beyond barry's power to make any attempt at concealment, even of the most shallow kind. "well, doctor, is she dying yet?" was the brutal question he put. "she is, if anything, rather stronger;" answered the doctor, shuddering involuntarily at the open expression of barry's atrocious wish, and yet taking his glass of wine. "the devil she is!" muttered barry, throwing himself into an arm-chair. he sat there some little time, and the doctor also sat down, said nothing, but continued sipping his wine. "in the name of mercy, what must i do?" said barry, speaking more to himself than to the other. "why, you've enough, mr lynch, without hers; you can do well enough without it." "enough! would you think you had enough if you were robbed of more than half of all you have. half, indeed," he shouted--"i may say all, at once. i don't believe there's a man in ireland would bear it. nor will i." again there was a silence; but still, somehow, colligan seemed to stay longer than usual. every now and then barry would for a moment look full in his face, and almost instantly drop his eyes again. he was trying to mature future plans; bringing into shape thoughts which had occurred to him, in a wild way at different times; proposing to himself schemes, with which his brain had been long loaded, but which he had never resolved on,--which he had never made palpable and definite. one thing he found sure and certain; on one point he was able to become determined: he could not do it alone; he must have an assistant; he must buy some one's aid; and again he looked at colligan, and again his eyes fell. there was no encouragement there, but there was no discouragement. why did he stay there so long? why did he so slowly sip that third glass of wine? was he waiting to be asked? was he ready, willing, to be bought? there must be something in his thoughts--he must have some reason for sitting there so long, and so silent, without speaking a word, or taking his eyes off the fire. barry had all but made up his mind to ask the aid he wanted; but he felt that he was not prepared to do so--that he should soon quiver and shake, that he could not then carry it through. he felt that he wanted spirit to undertake his own part in the business, much less to inspire another with the will to assist him in it. at last he rose abruptly from his chair, and said, "will you dine with me to-day, colligan?--i'm so down in the mouth, so deucedly hipped, it will be a charity." "well," said colligan, "i don't care if i do. i must go down to your sister in the evening, and i shall be near her here." "yes, of course; you'll be near her here, as you say: come at six, then. by the bye, couldn't you go to anty first, so that we won't be disturbed over our punch?" "i must see her the last thing,--about nine, but i can look up again afterwards, for a minute or so. i don't stay long with her now: it's better not." "well, then, you'll be here at six?" "yes, six sharp;" and at last the doctor got up and went away. it was odd that doctor colligan should have sat thus long; it showed a great want of character and of good feeling in him. he should never have become intimate, or even have put up with a man expressing such wishes as those which so often fell from barry's lips. but he was entirely innocent of the thoughts which barry attributed to him. it had never even occurred to him that barry, bad as he was, would wish to murder his sister. no; bad, heedless, sensual as doctor colligan might be, barry was a thousand fathoms deeper in iniquity than he. as soon as he had left the room the other uttered a long, deep sigh. it was a great relief to him to be alone: he could now collect his thoughts, mature his plans, and finally determine. he took his usual remedy in his difficulties, a glass of brandy; and, going out into the garden, walked up and down the gravel walk almost unconsciously, for above an hour. yes: he would do it. he would not be a coward. the thing had been done a thousand times before. hadn't he heard of it over and over again? besides, colligan's manner was an assurance to him that he would not boggle at such a job. but then, of course, he must be paid--and barry began to calculate how much he must offer for the service; and, when the service should be performed, how he might avoid the fulfilment of his portion of the bargain. he went in and ordered the dinner; filled the spirit decanters, opened a couple of bottles of wine, and then walked out again. in giving his orders, and doing the various little things with which he had to keep himself employed, everybody, and everything seemed strange to him. he hardly knew what he was about, and felt almost as though he were in a dream. he had quite made up his mind as to what he would do; his resolution was fixed to carry it through but:--still there was the but,--how was he to open it to doctor colligan? he walked up and down the gravel path for a long time, thinking of this; or rather trying to think of it, for his thoughts would fly away to all manner of other subjects, and he continually found himself harping upon some trifle, connected with anty, but wholly irrespective of her death; some little thing that she had done for him, or ought to have done; something she had said a long time ago, and which he had never thought of till now; something she had worn, and which at the time he did not even know that he had observed; and as often as he found his mind thus wandering, he would start off at a quicker pace, and again endeavour to lay out a line of conduct for the evening. at last, however, he came to the conclusion that it would be better to trust to the chapter of chances: there was one thing, or rather two things, he could certainly do: he could make the doctor half drunk before he opened on the subject, and he would take care to be in the same state himself. so he walked in and sat still before the fire, for the two long remaining hours, which intervened before the clock struck six. it was about noon when the doctor left him, and during those six long solitary hours no one feeling of remorse had entered his breast. he had often doubted, hesitated as to the practicability of his present plan, but not once had he made the faintest effort to overcome the wish to have the deed done. there was not one moment in which he would not most willingly have had his sister's blood upon his hands, upon his brain, upon his soul; could he have willed and accomplished her death, without making himself liable to the penalties of the law. at length doctor colligan came, and barry made a great effort to appear unconcerned and in good humour. "and how is she now, doctor?" he said, as they sat down to table. "is it anty?--why, you know i didn't mean to see her since i was here this morning, till nine o'clock." "oh, true; so you were saying. i forgot. well, will you take a glass of wine?"--and barry filled his own glass quite full. he drank his wine at dinner like a glutton, who had only a short time allowed him, and wished during that time to swallow as much as possible; and he tried to hurry his companion in the same manner. but the doctor didn't choose to have wine forced down his throat; he wished to enjoy himself, and remonstrated against barry's violent hospitality. at last, dinner was over; the things were taken away, they both drew their chairs over the fire, and began the business of the evening--the making and consumption of punch. barry had determined to begin upon the subject which lay so near his heart, at eight o'clock. he had thought it better to fix an exact hour, and had calculated that the whole matter might be completed before colligan went over to the inn. he kept continually looking at his watch, and gulping down his drink, and thinking over and over again how he would begin the conversation. "you're very comfortable here, lynch," said the doctor, stretching his long legs before the fire, and putting his dirty boots upon the fender. "yes, indeed," said barry, not knowing what the other was saying. "all you want's a wife, and you'd have as warm a house as there is in galway. you'll be marrying soon, i suppose?" "well, i wouldn't wonder if i did. you don't take your punch; there's brandy there, if you like it better than whiskey." "this is very good, thank you--couldn't be better. you haven't much land in your own hands, have you?" "why, no--i don't think i have. what's that you're saying?--land?--no, not much: if there's a thing i hate, it's farming." "well, upon my word you're wrong. i don't see what else a gentleman has to do in the country. i wish to goodness i could give up the gallipots [ ] and farm a few acres of my own land. there's nothing i wish so much as to get a bit of land: indeed, i've been looking out for it, but it's so difficult to get." [footnote : gallipots--a gallipot was a small ceramic vessel used by apothecaries to hold medicines. the term was also used colloquially to refer to apothecaries themselves and even physicians (trollope so uses the term in later chapters).] up to this, barry had hardly listened to what the doctor had been saying; but now he was all attention. "so that is to be his price," thought he to himself, "he'll cost me dear, but i suppose he must have it." barry looked at his watch: it was near eight o'clock, but he seemed to feel that all he had drank had had no effect on him: it had not given him the usual pluck; it had not given him the feeling of reckless assurance, which he mistook for courage and capacity. "if you've a mind to be a tenant of mine, colligan, i'll keep a look out for you. the land's crowded now, but there's a lot of them cottier [ ] devils i mean to send to the right about. they do the estate no good, and i hate the sight of them. but you know how the property's placed, and while anty's in this wretched state, of course i can do nothing." [footnote : cottier--an irish tenant renting land directly from the owner, with the price determined by bidding] "will you bear it in mind though, lynch? when a bit of land does fall into your hands, i should be glad to be your tenant. i'm quite in earnest, and should take it as a great favour." "i'll not forget it;" and then he remained silent for a minute. what an opportunity this was for him to lose! colligan so evidently wished to be bribed--so clearly showed what the price was which was to purchase him. but still he could not ask the fatal question. again he sat silent for a while, till he looked at his watch, and found it was a quarter past eight. "never fear," he said, referring to the farm; "you shall have it, and it shall not be the worst land on the estate that i'll give you, you may be sure; for, upon my soul, i have a great regard for you; i have indeed." the doctor thanked him for his good opinion. "oh! i'm not blarneying you; upon my soul i'm not; that's not the way with me at all; and when you know me better you'll say so,--and you may be sure you shall have the farm by michaelmas." and then, in a voice which he tried to make as unconcerned as possible, he continued: "by the bye, colligan, when do you think this affair of anty's _will_ be over? it's the devil and all for a man not to know when he'll be his own master." "oh, you mustn't calculate on your sister's property at all now," said the other, in an altered voice. "i tell you it's very probable she may recover." this again silenced barry, and he let the time go by, till the doctor took up his hat, to go down to his patient. "you'll not be long, i suppose?" said barry. "well, it's getting late," said colligan, "and i don't think i'll be coming back to-night." "oh, but you will; indeed, you must. you promised you would, you know, and i want to hear how she goes on." "well, i'll just come up, but i won't stay, for i promised mrs colligan to be home early." this was always the doctor's excuse when he wished to get away. he never allowed his domestic promises to draw him home when there was anything to induce him to stay abroad; but, to tell the truth, he was getting rather sick of his companion. the doctor took his hat, and went to his patient. "he'll not be above ten minutes or at any rate a quarter of an hour," thought barry, "and then i must do it. how he sucked it all in about the farm!--that's the trap, certainly." and he stood leaning with his back against the mantel-piece, and his coat-laps hanging over his arm, waiting for and yet fearing, the moment of the doctor's return. it seemed an age since he went. barry looked at his watch almost every minute; it was twenty minutes past nine, five-and-twenty--thirty--forty--three quarters of an hour--"by heaven!" said he, "the man is not coming! he is going to desert me--and i shall be ruined! why the deuce didn't i speak out when the man was here!" at last his ear caught the sound of the doctor's heavy foot on the gravel outside the door, and immediately afterwards the door bell was rung. barry hastily poured out a glass of raw spirits and swallowed it; he then threw himself into his chair, and doctor colligan again entered the room. "what a time you've been, colligan! why i thought you weren't coming all night. now, terry, some hot water, and mind you look sharp about it. well, how's anty to-night?" "weak, very weak; but mending, i think. the disease won't kill her now; the only thing is whether the cure will." "well, doctor, you can't expect me to be very anxious about it: unfortunately, we had never any reason to be proud of anty, and it would be humbug in me to pretend that i wish she should recover, to rob me of what you know i've every right to consider my own." terry brought the hot water in, and left the room. "well, i can't say you do appear very anxious about it. i'll just swallow one dandy of punch, and then i'll get home. i'm later now than i meant to be." "nonsense, man. the idea of your being in a hurry, when everybody knows that a doctor can never tell how long he may be kept in a sick-room! but come now, tell the truth; put yourself in my condition, and do you mean to say you'd be very anxious that anty should recover?--would you like your own sister to rise from her death-bed to rob you of everything you have? for, by heaven! it is robbery--nothing less. she's so stiff-necked, that there's no making any arrangement with her. i've tried everything, fair means and foul, and nothing'll do but she must go and marry that low young kelly--so immeasurably beneath her, you know, and of course only scheming for her money. put yourself in my place, i say; and tell me fairly what your own wishes would be?" "i was always fond of my brothers and sisters," answered the doctor; "and we couldn't well rob each other, for none of us had a penny to lose." "that's a different thing, but just supposing you were exactly in my shoes at this moment, do you mean to tell me that you'd be glad she should get well?--that you'd be glad she should be able to deprive you of your property, disgrace your family, drive you from your own home, and make your life miserable for ever after?" "upon my soul i can't say; but good night now, you're getting excited, and i've finished my drop of punch." "ah! nonsense, man, sit down. i've something in earnest i want to say to you," and barry got up and prevented the doctor from leaving the room. colligan had gone so far as to put on his hat and great coat, and now sat down again without taking them off. "you and i, colligan, are men of the world, and too wide awake for all the old woman's nonsense people talk. what can i, or what could you in my place, care for a half-cracked old maid like anty, who's better dead than alive, for her own sake and everybody's else; unless it is some scheming ruffian like young kelly there, who wants to make money by her?" "i'm not asking you to care for her; only, if those are your ideas, it's as well not to talk about them for appearance sake." "appearance sake! there's nothing makes me so sick, as for two men like you and me, who know what's what, to be talking about appearance sake, like two confounded parsons, whose business it is to humbug everybody, and themselves into the bargain. i'll tell you what: had my father--bad luck to him for an old rogue--not made such a will as he did, i'd 've treated anty as well as any parson of 'em all would treat an old maid of a sister; but i'm not going to have her put over my head this way. come, doctor, confound all humbug. i say it openly to you--to please me, anty must never come out of that bed alive." "as if your wishes could make any difference. if it is to be so, she'll die, poor creature, without your saying so much about it; but may-be, and it's very likely too, she'll be alive and strong, after the two of us are under the sod." "well; if it must be so, it must; but what i wanted to say to you is this: while you were away, i was thinking about what you said of the farm--of being a tenant of mine, you know." "we can talk about that another time," said the doctor, who began to feel an excessive wish to be out of the house. "there's no time like the present, when i've got it in my mind; and, if you'll wait, i can settle it all for you to-night. i was telling you that i hate farming, and so i do. there are thirty or five-and-thirty acres of land about the house, and lying round to the back of the town; you shall take them off my hands, and welcome." this was too good an offer to be resisted, and colligan said he would take the land, with many thanks, if the rent any way suited him. "we'll not quarrel about that, you may be sure, colligan," continued barry; "and as i said fifty acres at first--it was fifty acres i think you were saying you wished for--i'll not baulk you, and go back from my own word." "what you have yourself, round the house, 'll be enough; only i'm thinking the rent 'll be too high." "it shall not; it shall be low enough; and, as i was saying, you shall have the remainder, at the same price, immediately after michaelmas, as soon as ever those devils are ejected." "well;" said colligan, who was now really interested, "what's the figure?" barry had been looking steadfastly at the fire during the whole conversation, up to this: playing with the poker, and knocking the coals about. he was longing to look into the other's face, but he did not dare. now, however, was his time; it was now or never: he took one furtive glance at the doctor, and saw that he was really anxious on the subject--that his attention was fixed. "the figure," said he; "the figure should not trouble you if you had no one but me to deal, with. but there'll be anty, confound her, putting her fist into this and every other plan of mine!" "i'd better deal with the agent, i'm thinking," said colligan; "so, good night." "you'll find you'd a deal better be dealing with me: you'll never find an easier fellow to deal with, or one who'll put a better thing in your way." colligan again sat down. he couldn't quite make barry out: he suspected he was planning some iniquity, but he couldn't tell what; and he remained silent, looking full into the other's face till he should go on. barry winced under the look, and hesitated; but at last he screwed himself up to the point, and said, "one word, between two friends, is as good as a thousand. if anty dies of this bout, you shall have the fifty acres, with a lease for perpetuity, at sixpence an acre. come, that's not a high figure, i think." "what?" said colligan, apparently not understanding him, "a lease for perpetuity at how much an acre?" "sixpence--a penny--a pepper-corn--just anything you please. but it's all on anty's dying. while she's alive i can do nothing for the best friend i have." "by the almighty above us," said the doctor, almost in a whisper, "i believe the wretched man means me to murder her--his own sister!" "murder?--who talked or said a word of murder?" said barry, with a hoarse and croaking voice--"isn't she dying as she is?--and isn't she better dead than alive? it's only just not taking so much trouble to keep the life in her; you're so exceeding clever you know!"--and he made a ghastly attempt at smiling. "with any other doctor she'd have been dead long since: leave her to herself a little, and the farm's your own; and i'm sure there'll 've been nothing at all like murder between us." "by heavens, he does!"--and colligan rose quickly from his seat "he means to have her murdered, and thinks to make me do the deed! why, you vile, thieving, murdering reptile!" and as he spoke the doctor seized him by the throat, and shook him violently in his strong grasp--"who told you i was a fit person for such a plan? who told you to come to me for such a deed? who told you i would sell my soul for your paltry land?"--and he continued grasping barry's throat till he was black in the face, and nearly choked. "merciful heaven! that i should have sat here, and listened to such a scheme! take care of yourself," said he; and he threw him violently backwards over the chairs--"if you're to be found in connaught to-morrow, or in ireland the next day, i'll hang you!"--and so saying, he hurried out of the room, and went home. "well," thought he, on his road: "i have heard of such men as that before, and i believe that when i was young i read of such: but i never expected to meet so black a villain! what had i better do?--if i go and swear an information before a magistrate there'll be nothing but my word and his. besides, he said nothing that the law could take hold of. and yet i oughtn't to let it pass: at any rate i'll sleep on it." and so he did; but it was not for a long time, for the recollection of barry's hideous proposal kept him awake. barry lay sprawling among the chairs till the sound of the hall door closing told him that his guest had gone, when he slowly picked himself up, and sat down upon the sofa. colligan's last words were ringing in his ear--"if you're found in ireland the next day, i'll hang you."--hang him!--and had he really given any one the power to speak to him in such language as that? after all, what had he said?--he had not even whispered a word of murder; he had only made an offer of what he would do if anty should die: besides, no one but themselves had heard even that; and then his thoughts went off to another train. "who'd have thought," he said to himself, "the man was such a fool! he meant it, at first, as well as i did myself. i'm sure he did. he'd never have caught as he did about the farm else, only he got afraid--the confounded fool! as for hanging, i'll let him know; it's just as easy for me to tell a story, i suppose, as it is for him." and then barry, too, dragged himself up to bed, and cursed himself to sleep. his waking thoughts, however, were miserable enough. xxviii. fanny wyndham rebels we will now return to grey abbey, lord cashel, and that unhappy love-sick heiress, his ward, fanny wyndham. affairs there had taken no turn to give increased comfort either to the earl or to his niece, during the month which succeeded the news of young harry wyndham's death. the former still adhered, with fixed pertinacity of purpose, to the matrimonial arrangement which he had made with his son. circumstances, indeed, rendered it even much more necessary in the earl's eyes than it had appeared to be when he first contemplated this scheme for releasing himself from his son's pecuniary difficulties. he had, as the reader will remember, advanced a very large sum of money to lord kilcullen, to be repaid out of fanny wyndham's fortune, this money lord kilcullen had certainly appropriated in the manner intended by his father, but it had anything but the effect of quieting the creditors. the payments were sufficiently large to make the whole hungry crew hear that his lordship was paying his debts, but not at all sufficient to satisfy their craving. indeed, nearly the whole went in liquidation of turf engagements, and gambling debts. the jews, money-lenders, and tradesmen merely heard that money was going from lord kilcullen's pocket; but with all their exertions they got very little of it themselves. consequently, claims of all kinds--bills, duns, remonstrances and threats, poured in not only upon the son but also upon the father. the latter, it is true, was not in his own person liable for one penny of them, nor could he well, on his own score, be said to be an embarrassed man; but he was not the less uneasy. he had determined if possible to extricate his son once more, and as a preliminary step had himself already raised a large sum of money which it would much trouble him to pay; and he moreover, as he frequently said to lord kilcullen, would not and could not pay another penny for the same purpose, until he saw a tolerably sure prospect of being repaid out of his ward's fortune. he was therefore painfully anxious on the subject; anxious not only that the matter should be arranged, but that it should be done at once. it was plain that lord kilcullen could not remain in london, for he would be arrested; the same thing would happen at grey abbey, if he were to remain there long without settling his affairs; and if he were once to escape his creditors by going abroad, there would be no such thing as getting him back again. lord cashel saw no good reason why there should be any delay; harry wyndham was dead above a month, and fanny was evidently grieving more for the loss of her lover than that of her brother; she naturally felt alone in the world--and, as lord cashel thought, one young viscount would be just as good as another. the advantages, too, were much in favour of his son; he would one day be an earl, and possess grey abbey. so great an accession of grandeur, dignity, and rank could not but be, as the earl considered, very delightful to a sensible girl like his ward. the marriage, of course, needn't be much hurried; four or five months' time would do for that; he was only anxious that they should be engaged--that lord kilcullen should be absolutely accepted--lord ballindine finally rejected. the earl certainly felt some scruples of conscience at the sacrifice he was making of his ward, and stronger still respecting his ward's fortune; but he appeased them with the reflection that if his son were a gambler, a _roué_, and a scamp, lord ballindine was probably just as bad; and that if the latter were to spend all fanny's money there would be no chance of redemption; whereas he could at any rate settle on his wife a jointure, which would be a full compensation for the loss of her fortune, should she outlive her husband and father-in-law. besides, he looked on lord kilcullen's faults as a father is generally inclined to look on those of a son, whom he had not entirely given up--whom he is still striving to redeem. he called his iniquitous vices, follies--his licentiousness, love of pleasure--his unprincipled expenditure and extravagance, a want of the knowledge of what money was: and his worst sin of all, because the one least likely to be abandoned, his positive, unyielding damning selfishness, he called "fashion"--the fashion of the young men of the day. poor lord cashel! he wished to be honest to his ward; and yet to save his son, and his own pocket at the same time, at her expense: he wished to be, in his own estimation, high-minded, honourable, and disinterested, and yet he could not resist the temptation to be generous to his own flesh and blood at the expense of another. the contest within him made him miserable; but the devil and mammon were too strong for him, particularly coming as they did, half hidden beneath the gloss of parental affection. there was little of the roman about the earl, and he could not condemn his own son; so he fumed and fretted, and twisted himself about in the easy chair in his dingy book-room, and passed long hours in trying to persuade himself that it was for fanny's advantage that he was going to make her lady kilcullen. he might have saved himself all his anxiety. fanny wyndham had much too strong a mind--much too marked a character of her own, to be made lady anything by lord anybody. lord cashel might possibly prevent her from marrying frank, especially as she had been weak enough, through ill-founded pique and anger, to lend him her name for dismissing him; but neither he nor anyone else could make her accept one man, while she loved another, and while that other was unmarried. since the interview between fanny and her uncle and aunt, which has been recorded, she had been nearly as uncomfortable as lord cashel, and she had, to a certain extent, made the whole household as much so as herself. not that there was anything of the kill-joy character in fanny's composition; but that the natural disposition of grey abbey and all belonging to it was to be dull, solemn, slow, and respectable. fanny alone had ever given any life to the place, or made the house tolerable; and her secession to the ranks of the sombre crew was therefore the more remarked. if fanny moped, all grey abbey might figuratively be said to hang down its head. lady cashel was, in every sense of the words, continually wrapped up in wools and worsteds. the earl was always equally ponderous, and the specific gravity of lady selina could not be calculated. it was beyond the power of figures, even in algebraic denominations, to describe her moral weight. and now fanny did mope, and grey abbey was triste [ ] indeed. griffiths in my lady's boudoir rolled and unrolled those huge white bundles of mysterious fleecy hosiery with more than usually slow and unbroken perseverance. my lady herself bewailed the fermentation among the jam-pots with a voice that did more than whine, it was almost funereal. as my lord went from breakfast-room to book-room, from book-room to dressing-room, and from dressing-room to dining-room, his footsteps creaked with a sound more deadly than that of a death-watch. the book-room itself had caught a darker gloom; the backs of the books seemed to have lost their gilding, and the mahogany furniture its french polish. there, like a god, lord cashel sate alone, throned amid clouds of awful dulness, ruling the world of nothingness around by the silent solemnity of his inertia. [footnote : triste--(french) sad, mournful, dull, dreary] lady selina was always useful, but with a solid, slow activity, a dignified intensity of heavy perseverance, which made her perhaps more intolerable than her father. she was like some old coaches which we remember--very sure, very respectable; but so tedious, so monotonous, so heavy in their motion, that a man with a spark of mercury in his composition would prefer any danger from a faster vehicle to their horrid, weary, murderous, slow security. lady selina from day to day performed her duties in a most uncompromising manner; she knew what was due to her position, and from it, and exacted and performed accordingly with a stiff, steady propriety which made her an awful if not a hateful creature. one of her daily duties, and one for the performance of which she had unfortunately ample opportunity, was the consolation of fanny under her troubles. poor fanny! how great an aggravation was this to her other miseries! for a considerable time lady selma had known nothing of the true cause of fanny's gloom; for though the two cousins were good friends, as far as lady selina was capable of admitting so human a frailty as friendship, still fanny could not bring herself to make a confidante of her. her kind, stupid, unpretending old aunt was a much better person to talk to, even though she did arch her eyebrows, and shake her head when lord ballindine's name was mentioned, and assure her niece that though she had always liked him herself, he could not be good for much, because lord kilcullen had said so. but fanny could not well dissemble; she was tormented by lady selina's condolements, and recommendations of gibbon, her encomiums on industry, and anathemas against idleness; she was so often reminded that weeping would not bring back her brother, nor inactive reflection make his fate less certain, that at last she made her monitor understand that it was about lord ballindine's fate that she was anxious, and that it was his coming back which might be effected by weeping--or other measures. lady selina was shocked by such feminine, girlish weakness, such want of dignity and character, such forgetfulness, as she said to fanny, of what was due to her own position. lady selina was herself unmarried, and not likely to marry; and why had she maintained her virgin state, and foregone the blessings of love and matrimony? because, as she often said to herself, and occasionally said to fanny, she would not step down from the lofty pedestal on which it had pleased fortune and birth to place her. she learned, however, by degrees, to forgive, though she couldn't approve, fanny's weakness; she remembered that it was a very different thing to be an earl's niece and an earl's daughter, and that the same conduct could not be expected from fanny wyndham and lady selina grey. the two were sitting together, in one of the grey abbey drawing-rooms, about the middle of april. fanny had that morning again been talking to her guardian on the subject nearest to her heart, and had nearly distracted him by begging him to take steps to make frank understand that a renewal of his visits at grey abbey would not be ill received. lord cashel at first tried to frighten her out of her project by silence, frowns, and looks: but not finding himself successful, he commenced a long oration, in which he broke down, or rather, which he had to cut up into sundry short speeches; in which he endeavoured to make it appear that lord ballindine's expulsion had originated with fanny herself, and that, banished or not banished, the less fanny had to do with him the better. his ward, however, declared, in rather a tempestuous manner, that if she could not see him at grey abbey she would see him elsewhere; and his lordship was obliged to capitulate by promising that if frank were unmarried in twelve months' time, and fanny should then still be of the same mind, he would consent to the match and use his influence to bring it about. this by no means satisfied fanny, but it was all that the earl would say, and she had now to consider whether she would accept those terms or act for herself. had she had any idea what steps she could with propriety take in opposition to the earl, she would have withdrawn herself and her fortune from his house and hands, without any scruples of conscience. but what was she to do? she couldn't write to her lover and ask him to come back to her!--whither could she go? she couldn't well set up house for herself. lady selina was bending over her writing-desk, and penning most decorous notes, with a precision of calligraphy which it was painful to witness. she was writing orders to dublin tradesmen, and each order might have been printed in the complete letter-writer, as a specimen of the manner in which young ladies should address such correspondents. fanny had a volume of french poetry in her hand, but had it been greek prose it would have given her equal occupation and amusement. it had been in her hands half-an-hour, and she had not read a line. "fanny," said lady selina, raising up her thin red spiral tresses from her desk, and speaking in a firm, decided tone, as if well assured of the importance of the question she was going to put; "don't you want some things from ellis's?" "from where, selina?" said fanny, slightly starting. "from ellis's," repeated lady selina. "oh, the man in grafton street.--no, thank you." and fanny returned to her thoughts. "surely you do, fanny," said her ladyship. "i'm sure you want black crape; you were saying so on friday last." "was i?--yes; i think i do. it'll do another time, selina; never mind now." "you had better have it in the parcel he will send to-morrow; if you'll give me the pattern and tell me how much you want, i'll write for it." "thank you, selina. you're very kind, but i won't mind it to-day." "how very foolish of you, fanny; you know you want it, and then you'll be annoyed about it. you'd better let me order it with the other things." "very well, dear: order it then for me." "how much will you want? you must send the pattern too, you know." "indeed, selina, i don't care about having it at all; i can do very well without it, so don't mind troubling yourself." "how very ridiculous, fanny! you know you want black crape--and you must get it from ellis's." lady selina paused for a reply, and then added, in a voice of sorrowful rebuke, "it's to save yourself the trouble of sending jane for the pattern." "well, selina, perhaps it is. don't bother me about it now, there's a dear. i'll be more myself by-and-by; but indeed, indeed, i'm neither well nor happy now." "not well, fanny! what ails you?" "oh, nothing ails me; that is, nothing in the doctor's way. i didn't mean i was ill." "you said you weren't well; and people usually mean by that, that they are ill." "but i didn't mean it," said fanny, becoming almost irritated, "i only meant--" and she paused and did not finish her sentence. lady selina wiped her pen, in her scarlet embroidered pen-wiper, closed the lid of her patent inkstand, folded a piece of blotting-paper over the note she was writing, pushed back the ruddy ringlets from her contemplative forehead, gave a slight sigh, and turned herself towards her cousin, with the purpose of commencing a vigorous lecture and cross-examination, by which she hoped to exorcise the spirit of lamentation from fanny's breast, and restore her to a healthful activity in the performance of this world's duties. fanny felt what was coming; she could not fly; so she closed her book and her eyes, and prepared herself for endurance. "fanny," said lady selina, in a voice which was intended to be both severe and sorrowful, "you are giving way to very foolish feelings in a very foolish way; you are preparing great unhappiness for yourself, and allowing your mind to waste itself in uncontrolled sorrow in a manner--in a manner which cannot but be ruinously injurious. my dear fanny, why don't you do something?--why don't you occupy yourself? you've given up your work; you've given up your music; you've given up everything in the shape of reading; how long, fanny, will you go on in this sad manner?" lady selina paused, but, as fanny did not immediately reply, she continued her speech "i've begged you to go on with your reading, because nothing but mental employment will restore your mind to its proper tone. i'm sure i've brought you the second volume of gibbon twenty times, but i don't believe you've read a chapter this month back. how long will you allow yourself to go on in this sad manner?" "not long, selina. as you say, i'm sad enough." "but is it becoming in you, fanny, to grieve in this way for a man whom you yourself rejected because he was unworthy of you?" "selina, i've told you before that such was not the case. i believe him to be perfectly worthy of me, and of any one much my superior too." "but you did reject him, fanny: you bade papa tell him to discontinue his visits--didn't you?" fanny felt that her cousin was taking an unfair advantage in throwing thus in her teeth her own momentary folly in having been partly persuaded, partly piqued, into quarrelling with her lover; and she resented it as such. "if i did," she said, somewhat angrily, "it does not make my grief any lighter, to know that i brought it on myself." "no, fanny; but it should show you that the loss for which you grieve is past recovery. sorrow, for which there is no cure, should cease to be grieved for, at any rate openly. if lord ballindine were to die you would not allow his death to doom you to perpetual sighs, and perpetual inactivity. no; you'd then know that grief was hopeless, and you'd recover." "but lord ballindine is not dead," said fanny. "ah! that's just the point," continued her ladyship; "he should be dead to you; to you he should now be just the same as though he were in his grave. you loved him some time since, and accepted him; but you found your love misplaced,--unreturned, or at any rate coldly returned. though you loved him, you passed a deliberate judgment on him, and wisely rejected him. having done so, his name should not be on your lips; his form and figure should be forgotten. no thoughts of him should sully your mind, no love for him should be permitted to rest in your heart; it should be rooted out, whatever the exertion may cost you." "selina, i believe you have no heart yourself." "perhaps as much as yourself, fanny. i've heard of some people who were said to be all heart; i flatter myself i am not one of them. i trust i have some mind, to regulate my heart; and some conscience, to prevent my sacrificing my duties for the sake of my heart." "if you knew," said fanny, "the meaning of what love was, you'd know that it cannot be given up in a moment, as you suppose; rooted out, as you choose to call it. but, to tell you the truth, selina, i don't choose to root it out. i gave my word to frank not twelve months since, and that with the consent of every one belonging to me. i owned that i loved him, and solemnly assured him i would always do so. i cannot, and i ought not, and i will not break my word. you would think of nothing but what you call your own dignity; i will not give up my own happiness, and, i firmly believe his, too, for anything so empty." "don't be angry with me, fanny," said lady selina; "my regard for your dignity arises only from my affection for you. i should be sorry to see you lessen yourself in the eyes of those around you. you must remember that you cannot act as another girl might, whose position was less exalted. miss o'joscelyn might cry for her lost lover till she got him back again, or got another; and no one would be the wiser, and she would not be the worse; but you cannot do that. rank and station are in themselves benefits; but they require more rigid conduct, much more control over the feelings than is necessary in a humbler position. you should always remember, fanny, that much is expected from those to whom much is given." "and i'm to be miserable all my life because i'm not a parson's daughter, like miss o'joscelyn!" "god forbid, fanny! if you'd employ your time, engage your mind, and cease to think of lord ballindine, you'd soon cease to be miserable. yes; though you might never again feel the happiness of loving, you might still be far from miserable." "but i can't cease to think of him, selina;--i won't even try." "then, fanny, i truly pity you." "no, selina; it's i that pity you," said fanny, roused to energy as different thoughts crowded to her mind. "you, who think more of your position as an earl's daughter--an aristocrat, than of your nature as a woman! thank heaven, i'm not a queen, to be driven to have other feelings than those of my sex. i do love lord ballindine, and if i had the power to cease to do so this moment, i'd sooner drown myself than exercise it." "then why were you weak enough to reject him?" "because i was a weak, wretched, foolish girl. i said it in a moment of passion, and my uncle acted on it at once, without giving me one minute for reflection--without allowing me one short hour to look into my own heart, and find how i was deceiving myself in thinking that i ought to part from him. i told lord cashel in the morning that i would give him up; and before i had time to think of what i had said, he had been here, and had been turned out of the house. oh, selina! it was very, very cruel in your father to take me at my word so shortly!" and fanny hid her face in her handkerchief, and burst into tears. "that's unfair, fanny; it couldn't be cruel in him to do for you that which he would have done for his own daughter. he thought, and thinks, that lord ballindine would not make you happy." "why should he think so?--he'd no business to think so," sobbed fanny through her tears. "who could have a business to think for you, if not your guardian?" "why didn't he think so then, before he encouraged me to receive him? it was because frank wouldn't do just what he was bid; it was because he wouldn't become stiff, and solemn, and grave like--like--" fanny was going to make a comparison that would not have been flattering either to lady selina or to her father, but she did not quite forget herself, and stopped short without expressing the likeness. "had he spoken against him at first, i would have obeyed; but i will not destroy myself now for his prejudices." and fanny buried her face among the pillows of the sofa, and sobbed aloud. lady selina walked over to the sofa, and stood at the head of it bending over her cousin. she wished to say something to soothe and comfort her, but did not know how; there was nothing soothing or comforting in her nature, nothing soft in her voice; her manner was repulsive, and almost unfeeling; and yet she was not unfeeling. she loved fanny as warmly as she was capable of loving; she would have made almost any personal sacrifice to save her cousin from grief; she would, were it possible, have borne her sorrows herself; but she could not unbend; she could not sit down by fanny's side, and, taking her hand, say soft and soothing things; she could not make her grief easier by expressing hope for the future or consolation for the past. she would have felt that she was compromising truth by giving hope, and dignity by uttering consolation for the loss of that which she considered better lost than retained. lady selina's only recipe was endurance and occupation. and at any rate, she practised what she preached; she was never idle, and she never complained. as she saw fanny's grief, and heard her sobs, she at first thought that in mercy she should now give up the subject of the conversation; but then she reflected that such mercy might be the greatest cruelty, and that the truest kindness would be to prove to fanny the hopelessness of her passion. "but, fanny," she said, when the other's tears were a little subsided, "it's no use either saying or thinking impossibilities. what are you to do? you surely will not willingly continue to indulge a hopeless passion?" "selina, you'll drive me mad, if you go on! let me have my own way." "but, fanny, if your own way's a bad way? surely you won't refuse to listen to reason? you must know that what i say is only from my affection. i want you to look before you; i want you to summon courage to look forward; and then i'm sure your common sense will tell you that lord ballindine can never be anything to you." "look here, selina," and fanny rose, and wiped her eyes, and somewhat composed her ruffled hair, which she shook back from her face and forehead, as she endeavoured to repress the palpitation which had followed her tears; "i have looked forward, and i have determined what i mean to do. it was your father who brought me to this, by forcing me into a childish quarrel with the man i love. i have implored him, almost on my knees, to invite lord ballindine again to grey abbey: he has refused to do so, at any rate for twelve months--" "and has he consented to ask him at the end of twelve months?" asked selina, much astonished, and, to tell the truth, considerably shocked at this instance of what she considered her father's weakness. "he might as well have said twelve years," replied fanny. "how can i, how can any one, suppose that he should remain single for my sake for twelve months, after being repelled without a cause, or without a word of explanation; without even seeing me;--turned out of the house, and insulted in every way? no; whatever he might do, i will not wait twelve months. i'll ask lord cashel once again, and then--" fanny paused for a moment, to consider in what words she would finish her declaration. "well, fanny," said selina, waiting with eager expectation for fanny's final declaration; for she expected to hear her say that she would drown herself, or lock herself up for ever, or do something equally absurd. "then," continued fanny,--and a deep blush covered her face as she spoke, "i will write to lord ballindine, and tell him that i am still his own if he chooses to take me." "oh, fanny! do not say such a horrid thing. write to a man, and beg him to accept you? no, fanny; i know you too well, at any rate, to believe that you'll do that." "indeed, indeed, i will." "then you'll disgrace yourself for ever. oh, fanny! though my heart were breaking, though i knew i were dying for very love, i'd sooner have it break, i'd sooner die at once, than disgrace my sex by becoming a suppliant to a man." "disgrace, selina!--and am i not now disgraced? have i not given him my solemn word? have i not pledged myself to him as his wife? have i not sworn to him a hundred times that my heart was all his own? have i not suffered those caresses which would have been disgraceful had i not looked on myself as almost already his bride? and is it no disgrace, after that, to break my word?--to throw him aside like a glove that wouldn't fit?--to treat him as a servant that wouldn't suit me?--to send him a contemptuous message to be gone?--and so, to forget him, that i might lay myself out for the addresses and admiration of another? could any conduct be worse than that?--any disgrace deeper? oh, selina! i shudder as i think of it. could i ever bring my lips to own affection for another, without being overwhelmed with shame and disgrace? and then, that the world should say that i had accepted, and rejoiced in his love when i was poor, and rejected it with scorn when i was rich! no; i would sooner--ten thousand times sooner my uncle should do it for me! but if he will not write to frank, i will. and though my hand will shake, and my face will be flushed as i do so, i shall never think that i have disgraced myself." "and if, fanny--if, after that he refuses you?" fanny was still standing, and she remained so for a moment or two, meditating her reply, and then she answered:-- "should he do so, then i have the alternative which you say you would prefer; then i will endeavour to look forward to a broken heart, and death, without a complaint and without tears. then, selina," and she tried to smile through the tears which were again running down her cheeks, "i'll come to you, and endeavour to borrow your stoic endurance, and patient industry;" and, as she said so, she walked to the door and escaped, before lady selina had time to reply. xxix. the countess of cashel in trouble after considerable negotiation between the father and the son, the time was fixed for lord kilcullen's arrival at grey abbey. the earl tried much to accelerate it, and the viscount was equally anxious to stave off the evil day; but at last it was arranged that, on the rd of april, he was to make his appearance, and that he should commence his wooing as soon as possible after that day. when this was absolutely fixed, lord cashel paid a visit to his countess, in her boudoir, to inform her of the circumstance, and prepare her for the expected guest. he did not, however, say a word of the purport of his son's visit. he had, at one time, thought of telling the old lady all about it, and bespeaking her influence with fanny for the furtherance of his plan; but, on reconsideration, he reflected that his wife was not the person to be trusted with any intrigue. so he merely told her that lord kilcullen would be at grey abbey in five days; that he would probably remain at home a long time; that, as he was giving up his london vices and extravagances, and going to reside at grey abbey, he wished that the house should be made as pleasant for him as possible; that a set of friends, relatives, and acquaintances should be asked to come and stay there; and, in short, that lord kilcullen, having been a truly prodigal son, should have a fatted calf prepared for his arrival. all this flurried and rejoiced, terrified and excited my lady exceedingly. in the first place it was so truly delightful that her son should turn good and proper, and careful and decorous, just at the right time of life; so exactly the thing that ought to happen. of course young noblemen were extravagant, and wicked, and lascivious, habitual breakers of the commandments, and self-idolators; it was their nature. in lady cashel's thoughts on the education of young men, these evils were ranked with the measles and hooping cough; it was well that they should be gone through and be done with early in life. she had a kind of hazy idea that an opera-dancer and a gambling club were indispensable in fitting a young aristocrat for his future career; and i doubt whether she would not have agreed to the expediency of inoculating a son of hers with these ailments in a mild degree--vaccinating him as it were with dissipation, in order that he might not catch the disease late in life in a violent and fatal form. she had not therefore made herself unhappy about her son for a few years after his first entrance on a life in london, but latterly she had begun to be a little uneasy. tidings of the great amount of his debts reached even her ears; and, moreover, it was nearly time that he should reform and settle down. during the last twelve months she had remarked fully twelve times, to griffiths, that she wondered when kilcullen would marry?--and she had even twice asked her husband, whether he didn't think that such a circumstance would be advantageous. she was therefore much rejoiced to hear that her son was coming to live at home. but then, why was it so sudden? it was quite proper that the house should be made a little gay for his reception; that he shouldn't be expected to spend his evenings with no other society than that of his father and mother, his sister and his cousin; but how was she to get the house ready for the people, and the people ready for the house, at so very short a notice?--what trouble, also, it would be to her!--neither she nor griffiths would know another moment's rest; besides--and the thought nearly drove her into hysterics,--where was she to get a new cook? however, she promised her husband to do her best. she received from him a list of people to be invited, and, merely stipulating that she shouldn't be required to ask any one except the parson of the parish under a week, undertook to make the place as bearable as possible to so fastidious and distinguished a person as her own son. her first confidante was, of course, griffiths; and, with her assistance, the wool and the worsted, and the knitting-needles, the unfinished vallances and interminable yards of fringe, were put up and rolled out of the way; and it was then agreed that a council should be held, to which her ladyship proposed to invite lady selina and fanny. griffiths, however, advanced an opinion that the latter was at present too lack-a-daisical to be of any use in such a matter, and strengthened her argument by asserting that miss wyndham had of late been quite mumchance [ ]. lady cashel was at first rather inclined to insist on her niece being called to the council, but griffiths's eloquence was too strong, and her judgment too undoubted; so fanny was left undisturbed, and lady selina alone summoned to join the aged female senators of grey abbey. [footnote : mumchance--silent and idle] "selina," said her ladyship, as soon as her daughter was seated on the sofa opposite to her mother's easy chair, while griffiths, having shut the door, had, according to custom, sat herself down on her own soft-bottomed chair, on the further side of the little table that always stood at the countess's right hand. "selina, what do you think your father tells me?" lady selina couldn't think, and declined guessing; for, as she remarked, guessing was a loss of time, and she never guessed right. "adolphus is coming home on tuesday." "adolphus! why it's not a month since he was here." "and he's not coming only for a visit; he's coming to stay here; from what your father says, i suppose he'll stay here the greater part of the summer." "what, stay at grey abbey all may and june?" said lady selina, evidently discrediting so unlikely a story, and thinking it all but impossible that her brother should immure himself at grey abbey during the london season. "it's true, my lady," said griffiths, oracularly; as if her word were necessary to place the countess's statement beyond doubt. "yes," continued lady cashel; "and he has given up all his establishment in london--his horses, and clubs, and the opera, and all that. he'll go into parliament, i dare say, now, for the county; at any rate he's coming to live at home here for the summer." "and has he sold all his horses?" asked lady selina. "if he's not done it, he's doing it," said the countess. "i declare i'm delighted with him; it shows such proper feeling. i always knew he would; i was sure that when the time came for doing it, adolphus would not forget what was due to himself and to his family." "if what you say is true, mamma, he's going to be married." "that's just what i was thinking, my lady," said griffiths. "when her ladyship first told me all about it,--how his lordship was coming down to live regular and decorous among his own people, and that he was turning his back upon his pleasures and iniquities, thinks i to myself there'll be wedding favours coming soon to grey abbey." "if it is so, selina, your father didn't say anything to me about it," said the countess, somewhat additionally flustered by the importance of the last suggestion; "and if he'd even guessed such a thing, i'm sure he'd have mentioned it." "it mightn't be quite fixed, you know, mamma: but if adolphus is doing as you say, you may be sure he's either engaged, or thinking of becoming so." "well, my dear, i'm sure i wish it may be so; only i own i'd like to know, because it makes a difference, as to the people he'd like to meet, you know. i'm sure nothing would delight me so much as to receive adolphus's wife. of course she'd always be welcome to lie in here--indeed it'd be the fittest place. but we should be dreadfully put about, eh, griffiths?" "why, we should, my lady; but, to my mind, this would be the only most proper place for my lord's heir to be born in. if the mother and child couldn't have the best of minding here, where could they?" "of course, griffiths; and we wouldn't mind the trouble, on such an occasion. i think the south room would be the best, because of the dressing-room being such a good size, and neither of the fireplaces smoking, you know." "well, i don't doubt but it would, my lady; only the blue room is nearer to your ladyship here, and in course your ladyship would choose to be in and out." and visions of caudle cups, cradles, and monthly nurses, floated over lady cashel's brain, and gave her a kind of dreamy feel that the world was going to begin again with her. "but, mamma, is adolphus really to be here on tuesday?" said lady selina, recalling the two old women from their attendance on the unborn, to the necessities of the present generation. "indeed he is, my dear, and that's what i sent for you for. your papa wishes to have a good deal of company here to meet your brother; and indeed it's only reasonable, for of course this place would be very dull for him, if there was nobody here but ourselves--and he's always used to see so many people; but the worst is, it's all to be done at once, and you know there'll be so much to be got through before we'll be ready for a house full of company,--things to be got from dublin, and the people to be asked. and then, selina," and her ladyship almost wept as the latter came to her great final difficulty--"what are we to do about a cook?--richards'll never do; griffiths says she won't even do for ourselves, as it is." "indeed she won't, my lady; it was only impudence in her coming to such a place at all.--she'd never be able to send a dinner up for eighteen or twenty." "what are we to do, griffiths? what can have become of all the cooks?--i'm sure there used to be cooks enough when i was first married." "well, my lady, i think they must be all gone to england, those that are any good; but i don't know what's come to the servants altogether; as your ladyship says, they're quite altered for the worse since we were young." "but, mamma," said lady selina, "you're not going to ask people here just immediately, are you?" "directly, my dear; your papa wishes it done at once. we're to have a dinner-party this day week--that'll be thursday; and we'll get as many of the people as we can to stay afterwards; and we'll get the o'joscelyns to come on wednesday, just to make the table look not quite so bare, and i want you to write the notes at once. there'll be a great many things to be got from dublin too." "it's very soon after poor harry wyndham's death, to be receiving company," said lady selina, solemnly. "really, mamma, i don't think it will be treating fanny well to be asking all these people so soon. the o'joscelyns, or the fitzgeralds, are all very well--just our own near neighbours; but don't you think, mamma, it's rather too soon to be asking a house-full of strange people?" "well, my love, i was thinking so, and i mentioned it to your father; but he said that poor harry had been dead a month now--and that's true, you know--and that people don't think so much now about those kind of things as they used to; and that's true too, i believe." "indeed you may say that, my lady," interposed griffiths. "i remember when bombazines used to be worn three full months for an uncle or cousin, and now they're hardly ever worn at all for the like, except in cases where the brother or sister of him or her as is dead may be stopping in the house, and then only for a month: and they were always worn the full six months for a brother or sister, and sometimes the twelve months round. your aunt, lady charlotte, my lady, wore hers the full twelve months, when your uncle, lord frederick, was shot by sir patrick o'donnel; and now they very seldom, never, i may say, wear them the six months!--indeed, i think mourning is going out altogether; and i'm very sorry for it, for it's a very decent, proper sort of thing; at least, such was always my humble opinion, my lady." "well; but what i was saying is," continued the countess, "that what would be thought strange a few years ago, isn't thought at all so now; and though i'm sure, selina, i wouldn't like to do anything that looked unkind to fanny, i really don't see how we can help it, as your father makes such a point of it." "i can't say i think it's right, mamma, for i don't. but if you and papa do, of course i've nothing further to say." "well, my love, i don't know that i do exactly think it's right; and i'm sure it's not my wish to be having people, especially when i don't know where on earth to turn for a cook. but what can we do, my dear? adolphus wouldn't stay the third night here, i'm sure, if there was nobody to amuse him; and you wouldn't have him turned out of the house, would you?" "_i_ have him turned out, mamma? god forbid! i'd sooner he should be here than anywhere, for here he must be out of harm's way; but still i think that if he comes to a house of mourning, he might, for a short time, submit to put up with its decent tranquillity." "selina," said the mother, pettishly, "i really thought you'd help me when i've so much to trouble and vex me--and not make any fresh difficulties. how can i help it?--if your father says the people are to come, i can't say i won't let them in. i hope you won't make fanny think i'm doing it from disrespect to her. i'm sure i wouldn't have a soul here for a twelvemonth, on my own account." "i'm sure miss wyndham won't think any such thing, my lady," said griffiths; "will she, lady selina?--indeed, i don't think she'll matter it one pin." "indeed, selina, i don't think she will," said the countess; and then she half whispered to her daughter. "poor fanny! it's not about her brother she's grieving; it's that horrid man, ballindine. she sent him away, and now she wants to have him back. i really think a little company will be the best thing to bring her to herself again." there was a little degree of humbug in this whisper, for her ladyship meant her daughter to understand that she wouldn't speak aloud about fanny's love-affair before griffiths; and yet she had spent many a half hour talking to her factotum on that very subject. indeed, what subject was there of any interest to lady cashel on which she did not talk to griffiths! "well, mamma," said lady selina, dutifully, "i'll not say another word about it; only let me know what you want me to do, and i'll do it. who is it you mean to ask?" "why, first of all, there's the fitzgeralds: your father thinks that lord and lady george would come for a week or so, and you know the girls have been long talking of coming to grey abbey--these two years i believe, and more." "the girls will come, i dare say, mamma; though i don't exactly think they're the sort of people who will amuse adolphus; but i don't think lord george or lady george will sleep away from home. we can ask them, however; mountains is only five miles from here, and i'm sure they'll go back after dinner." "well, my dear, if they will, they must, and i can't help it; only i must say it'll be very ill-natured of them. i'm sure it's a long time since they were asked to stay here." "as you say, mamma, at any rate we can ask them. and who comes next?" "why your father has put down the swinburn people next; though i'm sure i don't know how they are to come so far." "why, mamma, the colonel is a martyr to the gout!" "yes, my lady," said griffiths, "and mrs. ellison is worse again, with rheumatics. there would be nothing to do, the whole time, but nurse the two of them." "never mind, griffiths; you'll not have to nurse them, so you needn't be so ill-natured." "me, ill-natured, my lady? i'm sure i begs pardon, but i didn't mean nothing ill-natured; besides, mrs. ellison was always a very nice lady to me, and i'm sure i'd be happy to nurse her, if she wanted it; only that, as in duty bound, i've your ladyship to look to first, and so couldn't spare time very well for nursing any one." "of course you couldn't, griffiths; but, selina, at any rate you must ask the ellisons: your papa thinks a great deal about the colonel--he has so much influence in the county, and adolphus will very likely stand, now. your papa and the colonel were members together for the county more than forty years since." "well, mamma, i'll write mrs. ellison. shall i say for a week or ten days?" "say for ten days or a fortnight, and then perhaps they'll stay a week. then there's the bishop of maryborough, and mrs. moore. i'm sure adolphus will be glad to meet the bishop, for it was he that christened him." "very well, mamma, i'll write to mrs. moore. i suppose the bishop is in dublin at present?" "yes, my dear, i believe so. there can't be anything to prevent their coming." "only that he's the managing man on the education board, and he's giving up his time very much to that at present. i dare say he'll come, but he won't stay long." "well, selina, if he won't, i can't help it; and i'm sure, now i think about the cook, i don't see how we're to expect anybody to stay. what am i to do, griffiths, about that horrid woman?" "i'll tell you what i was thinking, my lady; only i don't know whether your ladyship would like it, either, and if you didn't you could easily get rid of him when all these people are gone." "get rid of who?" "i was going to say, my lady--if your ladyship would consent to have a man cook for a time, just to try." "then i never will, griffiths: there'd be no peace in the house with him!" "well, your ladyship knows best, in course; only if you thought well of trying it, of course you needn't keep the man; and i know there's murray in dublin, that was cook so many years to old lord galway. i know he's to be heard of at the hotel in grafton street." "i can't bear the thoughts of a man cook, griffiths: i'd sooner have three women cooks, and i'm sure one's enough to plague anybody." "but none's worse, my lady," said griffiths. "you needn't tell me that. i wonder, selina, if i were to write to my sister, whether she could send me over anything that would answer?" "what, from london, my lady?" answered griffiths--"you'd find a london woman cook sent over in that way twice worse than any man: she'd be all airs and graces. if your ladyship thought well of thinking about murray, richards would do very well under him: she's a decent poor creature, poor woman--only she certainly is not a cook that'd suit for such a house as this; and it was only impudence her thinking to attempt it." "but, mamma," said lady selina, "do let me know to whom i am to write, and then you and griffiths can settle about the cook afterwards; the time is so very short that i ought not to lose a post." the poor countess threw herself back in her easy chair, the picture of despair. oh, how much preferable were rolls of worsted and yards of netting, to the toils and turmoil of preparing for, and entertaining company! she was already nearly overcome by the former: she didn't dare to look forward to the miseries of the latter. she already began to feel the ill effects of her son's reformation, and to wish that it had been postponed just for a month or two, till she was a little more settled. "well, mamma," said lady selina, as undisturbed and calm as ever, and as resolved to do her duty without flinching, "shall we go on?" the countess groaned and sighed--"there's the list there, selina, which your father put down in pencil. you know the people as well as i do: just ask them all--" "but, mamma, i'm not to ask them all to stay here:--i suppose some are only to come to dinner?--the o'joscelyns, and the parchments?" "ask the o'joscelyns for wednesday and thursday: the girls might as well stay and sleep here. but what's the good of writing to them?--can't you drive over to the parsonage and settle it all there?--you do nothing but make difficulties, selina, and my head's racking." lady selina sate silent for a short time, conning the list, and endeavouring to see her way through the labyrinth of difficulties which was before her, without further trouble to her mother; while the countess leaned back, with her eyes closed, and her hands placed on the arms of her chair, as though she were endeavouring to get some repose, after the labour she had gone through. her daughter, however, again disturbed her. "mamma," she said, trying by the solemnity of her tone to impress her mother with the absolute necessity she was under of again appealing to her upon the subject, "what _are_ we to do about young men?" "about young men, my dear?" "yes, mamma: there'll be a house-full of young ladies--there's the fitzgeralds--and lady louisa pratt--and miss ellison--and the three o'joscelyns--and not a single young man, except mr o'joscelyn's curate!" "well, my dear, i'm sure mr. hill's a very nice young man." "so he is, mamma; a very good young man; but he won't do to amuse such a quantity of girls. if there were only one or two he'd do very well; besides, i'm sure adolphus won't like it." "why; won't he talk to the young ladies?--i'm sure he was always fond of ladies' society." "i tell you, mamma, it won't do. there'll be the bishop and two other clergymen, and old colonel ellison, who has always got the gout, and lord george, if he comes--and i'm sure he won't. if you want to make a pleasant party for adolphus, you must get some young men; besides, you can't ask all those girls, and have nobody to dance with them or talk to them." "i'm sure, my dear, i don't know what you're to do. i don't know any young men except mr. hill; and there's that young mr. grundy, who lives in dublin. i promised his aunt to be civil to him: can't you ask him down?" "he was here before, mamma, and i don't think he liked it. i'm sure we didn't. he didn't speak a word the whole day he was here. he's not at all the person to suit adolphus." "then, my dear, you _must_ go to your papa, and ask him: it's quite clear i can't make young men. i remember, years ago, there always used to be too many of them, and i don't know where they're all gone to. at any rate, when they do come, there'll be nothing for them to eat," and lady cashel again fell back upon her deficiencies in the kitchen establishment. lady selina saw that nothing more could be obtained from her mother, no further intelligence as regarded the embryo party. the whole burden was to lie on her shoulders, and very heavy she felt it. as far as concerned herself, she had no particular wish for one kind of guest more than another: it was not for herself that she wanted young men; she knew that at any rate there were none within reach whom she could condescend to notice save as her father's guests; there could be no one there whose presence could be to her of any interest: the gouty colonel, and the worthy bishop, would be as agreeable to her as any other men that would now be likely to visit grey abbey. but lady selina felt a real desire that others in the house might be happy while there. she was no flirt herself, nor had she ever been; it was not in her nature to be so. but though she herself might be contented to twaddle with old men, she knew that other girls would not. yet it was not that she herself had no inward wish for that admiration which is desired by nearly every woman, or that she thought a married state was an unenviable one. no; she could have loved and loved truly, and could have devoted herself most scrupulously to the duties of a wife; but she had vainly and foolishly built up for herself a pedestal, and there she had placed herself; nor would she come down to stand on common earth, though apollo had enticed her, unless he came with the coronet of a peer upon his brow. she left her mother's boudoir, went down into the drawing-room, and there she wrote her notes of invitation, and her orders to the tradesmen; and then she went to her father, and consulted him on the difficult subject of young men. she suggested the newbridge barracks, where the dragoons were; and the curragh, where perhaps some stray denizen of pleasure might be found, neither too bad for grey abbey, nor too good to be acceptable to lord kilcullen; and at last it was decided that a certain captain cokely, and mat tierney, should be asked. they were both acquaintances of adolphus; and though mat was not a young man, he was not very old, and was usually very gay. so that matter was settled, and the invitations were sent off. the countess overcame her difficulty by consenting that murray the man cook should be hired for a given time, with the distinct understanding that he was to take himself off with the rest of the guests, and so great was her ladyship's sense of the importance of the negotiation, that she absolutely despatched griffiths to dublin to arrange it, though thereby she was left two whole days in solitary misery at grey abbey; and had to go to bed, and get up, she really hardly knew how, with such assistance as lady selina's maid could give her. when these things were all arranged, selina told her cousin that adolphus was coming home, and that a house full of company had been asked to meet him. she was afraid that fanny would be annoyed and offended at being forced to go into company so soon after her brother's death, but such was not the case. she felt, herself, that her poor brother was not the cause of the grief that was near her heart; and she would not pretend what she didn't really feel. "you were quite right, selina," she said, smiling, "about the things you said yesterday i should want from dublin: now, i shall want them; and, as i wouldn't accept of your good-natured offer, i must take the trouble of writing myself." "if you like it, fanny, i'll write for you," said selina. "oh no, i'm not quite so idle as that"--and she also began her preparations for the expected festivities. little did either of them think that she, fanny wyndham, was the sole cause of all the trouble which the household and neighbourhood were to undergo:--the fatigue of the countess; griffiths's journey; the arrival of the dread man cook; richards's indignation at being made subordinate to such authority; the bishop's desertion of the education board; the colonel's dangerous and precipitate consumption of colchicum; the quarrel between lord and lady george as to staying or not staying; the new dresses of the miss o'joscelyns, which their worthy father could so ill afford; and, above all, the confusion, misery, rage, and astonishment which attended lord kilcullen's unexpected retreat from london, in the middle of the summer. and all in vain! how proud and satisfied lord ballindine might have been, had he been able to see all this, and could he have known how futile was every effort lord cashel could make to drive from fanny wyndham's heart the love she felt for him. the invitations, however, were, generally speaking, accepted. the bishop and his wife would be most happy; the colonel would come if the gout would possibly allow; lady george wrote a note to say they would be very happy to stay a few days, and lord george wrote another soon after to say he was sorry, but that they must return the same evening. the o'joscelyns would be delighted; mat tierney would be very proud; captain cokely would do himself the honour; and, last but not least, mr. murray would preside below stairs--for a serious consideration. what a pity so much trouble should have been taken! they might all have stayed at home; for fanny wyndham will never become lady kilcullen. xxx. lord kilcullen obeys his father on the appointed day, or rather on the night of the appointed day, lord kilcullen reached grey abbey; for it was about eleven o'clock when his travelling-phaëton rattled up to the door. he had been expected to dinner at seven, and the first attempts of murray in the kitchens of grey abbey had been kept waiting for him till half-past eight; but in vain. at that hour the earl, black with ill-humour, ordered dinner; and remarked that he considered it criminal in any man to make an appointment, who was not sufficiently attached to veracity to keep it. the evening was passed in moody silence. the countess was disappointed, for she always contrived to persuade herself that she was very anxious to see her son. lady selina was really vexed, and began to have her doubts as to her brother's coming at all: what was to be done, if it turned out that all the company had been invited for nothing? as to fanny, though very indifferent to the subject of her cousin's coming, she was not at all in a state of mind to dissipate the sullenness which prevailed. the ladies went to bed early, the countess grumbling at her lot, in not being allowed to see her son, and her daughter and niece marching off with their respective candlesticks in solemn silence. the earl retired to his book-room soon afterwards; but he had not yet sat down, when the quick rattle of the wheels was heard upon the gravel before the house. lord cashel walked out into the hall, prepared to meet his son in a befitting manner; that is, with a dignified austerity that could not fail to convey a rebuke even to his hardened heart. but he was balked in his purpose, for he found that lord kilcullen was not alone; mat tierney had come down with him. kilcullen had met his friend in dublin, and on learning that he also was bound for grey abbey on the day but one following, had persuaded him to accelerate his visit, had waited for him, and brought him down in his own carriage. the truth was, that lord kilcullen had thought that the shades of grey abbey would be too much for him, without some genial spirit to enlighten them: he was delighted to find that mat tierney was to be there, and was rejoiced to be able to convey him with him, as a sort of protection from his father's eloquence for the first two days of the visit. "lord kilcullen, your mother and i--" began the father, intent on at once commenting on the iniquity of the late arrival; when he saw the figure of a very stout gentleman, amply wrapped up in travelling habiliments, follow his son into the inner hall. "tierney, my lord," said the son, "was good enough to come down with me. i found that he intended to be here to-morrow, and i told him you and my mother would be delighted to see him to-day instead." the earl shook mr. tierney's hand, and told him how very welcome he was at all times, and especially at present--unexpected pleasures were always the most agreeable; and then the earl bustled about, and ordered supper and wine, and fussed about the bed-rooms, and performed the necessary rites of hospitality, and then went to bed, without having made one solemn speech to his son. so far, lord kilcullen had been successful in his manoeuvre; and he trusted that by making judicious use of mat tierney, he might be able to stave off the evil hour for at any rate a couple of days. but he was mistaken. lord cashel was now too much in earnest to be put off his purpose; he had been made too painfully aware that his son's position was desperate, and that he must at once be saved by a desperate effort, or given over to utter ruin. and, to tell the truth, so heavy were the new debts of which he heard from day to day, so insurmountable seemed the difficulties, that he all but repented that he had not left him to his fate. the attempt, however, must again be made; he was there, in the house, and could not be turned out; but lord cashel determined that at any rate no time should be lost. the two new arrivals made their appearance the next morning, greatly to lady cashel's delight; she was perfectly satisfied with her son's apology, and delighted to find that at any rate one of her expected guests would not fail her in her need. the breakfast went over pleasantly enough, and kilcullen was asking mat to accompany him into the stables, to see what novelties they should find there, when lord cashel spoiled the arrangement by saying, "could you spare me half-an-hour in the bookroom first, kilcullen?" this request, of course, could not be refused; and the father and son walked off, leaving mat tierney to the charity of the ladies. there was much less of flippant overbearing impudence now, about lord kilcullen, much less of arrogance and insult from the son towards the father, than there had been in the previous interview which has been recorded. he seemed to be somewhat in dread, to be cowed, and ill at ease; he tried, however, to assume his usual manner, and followed his father into the book-room with an affected air of indifference, which very ill concealed his real feelings. "kilcullen," began the earl, "i was very sorry to see tierney with you last night. it would have been much better that we should have been alone together, at any rate for one morning. i suppose you are aware that there is a great deal to be talked over between us?" "i suppose there is," said the son; "but i couldn't well help bringing the man, when he told me he was coming here." "he didn't ask you to bring him, i suppose?--but we will not talk about that. will you do me the favour to inform me what your present plans are?" "my present plans, my lord? indeed, i've no plans!--it's a long time since i had a plan of my own. i am, however, prepared to acquiesce entirely in any which you may propose. i have come quite prepared to throw at miss wyndham's feet myself and my fortune." "and do you expect her to accept you?" "you said she would, my lord: so i have taken that for granted. i, at any rate, will ask her; if she refuses me, your lordship will perhaps be able to persuade her to a measure so evidently beneficial to all parties." "the persuading must be with yourself; but if you suppose you can carry her with a high hand, without giving yourself the trouble to try to please her, you are very much mistaken. if you think she'll accept you merely because you ask her, you might save yourself the trouble, and as well return to london at once." "just as you please, my lord; but i thought i came in obedience to your express wishes." "so you did; but, to tell you the truth--your manner in coming is very different from what i would wish it to be. your--" "did you want me to crawl here on my hands and knees?" "i wanted you to come, kilcullen, with some sense of what you owe to those who are endeavouring to rescue you from ruin: with some feeling of, at any rate, sorrow for the mad extravagance of your past career. instead of that, you come gay, reckless, and unconcerned as ever; you pick up the first jovial companion you meet, and with him disturb the house at a most unseasonable hour. you are totally regardless of the appointments you make; and plainly show, that as you come here solely for your own pleasure, you consider it needless to consult my wishes or my comfort. are you aware that you kept your mother and myself two hours waiting for dinner yesterday?" the pathos with which lord cashel terminated his speech--and it was one the thrilling effect of which he intended to be overwhelming--almost restored lord kilcullen to his accustomed effrontery. "my lord," he said, "i did not consider myself of sufficient importance to have delayed your dinner ten minutes." "i have always endeavoured, kilcullen, to show the same respect to you in my house, which my father showed to me in his; but you do not allow me the opportunity. but let that pass; we have more important things to speak of. when last we were here together why did you not tell me the whole truth?" "what truth, my lord?" "about your debts, kilcullen: why did you conceal from me their full amount? why, at any rate, did you take pains to make me think them so much less than they really are?" "conceal, my lord?--that is hardly fair, considering that i told you expressly i could not give you any idea what was the amount i owed. i concealed nothing; if you deceived yourself, the fault was not mine." "you could not but have known that the claims against you were much larger than i supposed them to be--double, i suppose. good heaven!--why in ten years more, at this rate, you would more than consume the fee simple of the whole property! what can i say to you, kilcullen, to make you look on your own conduct in the proper light?" "i think you have said enough for the purpose; you have told me to marry, and i have consented to do so." "do you think, kilcullen, you have spent the last eight years in a way which it can please a father to contemplate? do you think i can look back on your conduct with satisfaction or content? and yet you have no regret to express for the past--no promises to make for the future. i fear it is all in vain. i fear that what i am doing what i am striving to do, is now all in vain. i fear it is hopeless to attempt to recall you from the horrid, reckless, wicked mode of life you have adopted." the sombre mantle of expostulatory eloquence had now descended on the earl, and he continued, turning full upon his victim, and raising and lowering his voice with monotonous propriety.--"i fear it is to no good purpose that i am subjecting your mother and myself to privation, restraint, and inconvenience; that i am straining every nerve to place you again in a position of respectability, a position suitable to my fortune and your own rank. i am endeavouring to retrieve the desperate extravagance--the--i must say--though i do not wish to hurt your feelings, yet i must say, disgraceful ruin of your past career. and how do you help me? what regret do you show? what promises of amendment do you afford? you drive up to my hall-door at midnight with your boon companion; you disturb the whole household at most unseasonable hours, and subject my family to the same disreputable irregularity in which you have yourself so long indulged. can such doings, kilcullen, give me any hopes for the future? can--" "my lord--i am extremely sorry for the dinner: what can i say more? and as for mat tierney, he is your own guest or her ladyship's--not mine. it is my misfortune to have come in the same carriage with him, but that is the extent of my offence." "well, kilcullen; if you think your conduct has always been such as it ought to be, it is of little use for me to bring up arguments to the contrary." "i don't think so, my lord. what can i say more? i have done those things which i ought not to have done. were i to confess my transgressions for the hour together, i could not say more; except that i have left undone the things which i ought to have done. or, do you want me to beat my breast and tear my hair?" "i want you, lord kilcullen, to show some sense of decency--some filial respect." "well, my lord, here i am, prepared to marry a wife of your own choosing, and to set about the business this morning, if you please. i thought you would have called that decent, filial, and respectable." the earl could hardly gainsay this; but still he could not bring himself to give over so soon the unusual pleasure of blowing up his only son. it was so long since lord kilcullen had been regularly in his power, and it might never occur again. so he returned from consideration of the future to a further retrospect on the past. "you certainly have played your cards most foolishly; you have thrown away your money--rather, i should say, my money, in a manner which nothing can excuse or palliate. you might have made the turf a source of gratifying amusement; your income was amply sufficient to enable you to do so; but you have possessed so little self-control, so little judgment, so little discrimination, that you have allowed yourself to be plundered by every blackleg, and robbed by every--everybody in short, who chose to rob you. the same thing has been the case in all your other amusements and pursuits--" "well, my lord, i confess it all; isn't that enough?" "enough, kilcullen!" said the earl, in a voice of horrified astonishment, "how enough?--how can anything be enough after such a course--so wild, so mad, so ruinous!" "for heaven's sake, my lord, finish the list of my iniquities, or you'll make me feel that i am utterly unfit to become my cousin's husband." "i fear you are--indeed i fear you are. are the horses disposed of yet, kilcullen?" "indeed they are not, my lord; nor can i dispose of them. there is more owing for them than they are worth; you may say they belong to the trainer now." "is the establishment in curzon street broken up?" "to tell the truth, not exactly; but i've no thoughts of returning there. i'm still under rent for the house." the cross-examination was continued for a considerable time--till the earl had literally nothing more to say, and lord kilcullen was so irritated that he told his father he would not stand it any longer. then they went into money affairs, and the earl spoke despondingly about ten thousands and twenty thousands, and the viscount somewhat flippantly of fifty thousands and sixty thousands; and this was continued till the earl felt that his son was too deep in the mire to be pulled out, and the son thought that, deep as he was there, it would be better to remain and wallow in it than undergo so disagreeable a process as that to which his father subjected him in extricating him from it. it was settled, however, that mr. jervis, lord cashel's agent, should receive full authority to deal summarily in all matters respecting the horses and their trainers, the house in curzon street, and its inhabitants, and all other appendages and sources of expense which lord kilcullen had left behind him; and that he, kilcullen, should at once commence his siege upon his cousin's fortune. and on this point the son bargained that, as it would be essentially necessary that his spirits should be light and easy, he was not, during the operation, to be subjected to any of his father's book-room conversations: for this he stipulated as an absolute _sine quâ non_ in the negotiation, and the clause was at last agreed to, though not without much difficulty. both father and son seemed to think that the offer should be made at once. lord cashel really feared that his son would be arrested at grey abbey, and he was determined to pay nothing further for him, unless he felt secure of fanny's fortune; and whatever were lord kilcullen's hopes and fears as to his future lot, he was determined not to remain long in suspense, as far as his projected marriage was concerned. he was determined to do his best to accomplish it, for he would have done anything to get the command of ready money; if he was not successful, at any rate he need not remain in the purgatory of grey abbey. the queen's bench would be preferable to that. he was not, however, very doubtful; he felt but little confidence in the constancy of any woman's affection, and a great deal in his own powers of fascination: he had always been successful in his appeals to ladies' hearts, and did not doubt of being so now, when the object of his adoration must, as he thought, be so dreadfully in want of some excitement, something to interest her. any fool might have her now, thought he, and she can't have any violent objection to being lady kilcullen for the present, and lady cashel in due time. he felt, however, something like remorse at the arrangement to which he was a party; it was not that he was about to make a beautiful creature, his own cousin, miserable for life, by uniting her to a spendthrift, a _roué_, and a gambler--such was the natural lot of women in the higher ranks of life--but he felt that he was robbing her of her money. he would have thought it to be no disgrace to carry her off had another person been her guardian. she would then have had fair play, and it would be the guardian's fault if her fortune were not secure. but she had no friend now to protect her: it was her guardian himself who was betraying her to ruin. however, the money must be had, and lord kilcullen was not long in quieting his conscience. "tierney," said kilcullen, meeting his friend after his escape from the book-room; "you are not troubled with a father now, i believe;--do you recollect whether you ever had one?" "well, i can't say i remember just at present," said mat; "but i believe i had a sort of one, once." "i'm a more dutiful son than you," said the other; "i never can forget mine. i have no doubt an alligator on the banks of the nile is a fearful creature--a shark when one's bathing, or a jungle tiger when one's out shooting, ought, i'm sure, to be avoided; but no creature yet created, however hungry, or however savage, can equal in ferocity a governor who has to shell out his cash! i've no wish for a _tête-à-tête_ with any bloody-minded monster; but i'd sooner meet a starved hyena, single-handed in the desert, than be shut up for another hour with my lord cashel in that room of his on the right-hand side of the hall. if you hear of my having beat a retreat from grey abbey, without giving you or any one else warning of my intention, you will know that i have lacked courage to comply with a second summons to those gloomy realms. if i receive another invite such as that i got this morning, i am off." lady cashel's guests came on the day appointed; the carriages were driven up, one after another, in quick succession, about an hour before dinner-time; and, as her ladyship's mind became easy on the score of disappointments, it was somewhat troubled as to the multitude of people to be fed and entertained. murray had not yet forgiven the injury inflicted on him when the family dinner was kept waiting for lord kilcullen, and richards was still pouting at her own degraded position. the countess had spent the morning pretending to make arrangements, which were in fact all settled by griffiths; and when she commenced the operation of dressing herself, she declared she was so utterly exhausted by what she had gone through during the last week, as to be entirely unfit to entertain her company. poor dear lady cashel! was she so ignorant of her own nature as to suppose it possible that she should ever entertain anybody? however, a glass of wine, and some mysterious drops, and a little paint; a good deal of coaxing, the sight of her diamonds, and of a large puce-coloured turban, somewhat revivified her; and she was in her drawing-room in due time, supported by lady selina and fanny, ready to receive her visitors as soon as they should descend from their respective rooms. lady cashel had already welcomed lord george, and shaken hands with the bishop: and was now deep in turnips and ten-pound freeholders with the gouty colonel, who had hobbled into the room on a pair of crutches, and was accommodated with two easy chairs in a corner--one for himself, and the other for his feet. "now, my dear lady george," said the countess, "you must not think of returning to mountains tonight: indeed, we made sure of you and lord george for a week." "my dear lady cashel, it's impossible; indeed, we wished it of all things, and tried it every way: but we couldn't manage it; lord george has so much to do: there's the sessions to-morrow at dunlavin, and he has promised to meet sir glenmalure aubrey, about a road, or a river, or a bridge--i forget which it is; and they must attend to those things, you know, or the tenants couldn't get their corn to market. but you don't know how sorry we are, and such a charming set you have got here!" "well, i know it's no use pressing you; but i can't tell you how vexed i am, for i counted on you, above all, and adolphus will be so sorry. you know lord kilcullen's come home, lady george?" "yes; i was very glad to hear we were to meet him." "oh, yes! he's come to stay here some time, i believe; he's got quite fond of grey abbey lately. he and his father get on so well together, it's quite a delight to me." "oh, it must be, i'm sure," said lady george; and the countess sidled off to the bishop's fat wife. "well, this is very kind of you and the bishop, to come at so short a notice: indeed i hardly dared expect it. i know he has so much to do in dublin with those horrid boards and things." "he is busy there, to be sure, lady cashel; but he couldn't deny himself the pleasure of coming to grey abbey; he thinks so very much of the earl. indeed, he'd contrive to be able to come here, when he couldn't think of going anywhere else." "i'm sure lord cashel feels how kind he is; and so do i, and so does adolphus. lord kilcullen will be delighted to meet you and the bishop." the bishop's wife assured the countess that nothing on earth, at the present moment, would give the bishop so much pleasure as meeting lord kilcullen. "you know the bishop christened him, don't you?" said lady cashel. "no! did he though?" said the bishop's wife; "how very interesting!" "isn't it? and adolphus longs to meet him. he's so fond of everything that's high-minded and talented, adolphus is: a little sarcastic perhaps--i don't mind saying so to you; but that's only to inferior sort of people--not talented, you know: some people are stupid, and adolphus can't bear that." "indeed they are, my lady. i was dining last week at mrs. prijean's, in merrion square; you know mrs. prijean?" "i think i met her at carton, four years ago." "well, she is very heavy: what do you think, lady cashel, she--" "adolphus can't bear people of that sort, but he'll be delighted with the bishop: it's so delightful, his having christened him. adolphus means to live a good deal here now. indeed, he and his father have so much in common that they can't get on very well apart, and i really hope he and the bishop'll see a good deal of each other;" and the countess left the bishop's wife and sat herself down by old mrs. ellison. "my dear mrs. ellison, i am so delighted to see you once again at grey abbey; it's such ages since you were here!" "indeed it is, lady cashel, a very long time; but the poor colonel suffers so much, it's rarely he's fit to be moved; and, indeed, i'm not much better myself. i was not able to move my left shoulder from a week before christmas-day till a few days since!" "you don't say so! rheumatism, i suppose?" "oh, yes--all rheumatism: no one knows what i suffer." "and what do you use for it?" "oh, there's nothing any use. i know the very nature of rheumatism now, i've had it so long--and it minds nothing at all: there's no preventing it, and no curing it. it's like a bad husband, lady cashel; the best way is to put up with it." "and how is the dear colonel, mrs. ellison?" "why, he was just able to come here, and that was all; but he was dying to see lord cashel. he thinks the ministers'll be shaken about this business of o'connell's; and if so, that there'll be a general election, and then what'll they do about the county?" "i'm sure lord cashel wanted to see the colonel on that very subject; so does adolphus--lord kilcullen, you know. i never meddle with those things; but i really think adolphus is thinking of going into parliament. you know he's living here at present: his father's views and his own are so exactly the same on all those sort of things, that it's quite delightful. he's taking a deal of interest about the county lately, is adolphus, and about grey abbey too: he's just the same his father used to be, and that kind of thing is so pleasant, isn't it, mrs ellison?" mrs ellison said it was, and at the same moment groaned, for her shoulder gave her a twinge. the subject of these eulogiums, in the meantime, did not make his appearance till immediately before dinner was announced, and certainly did not evince very strongly the delight which his mother had assured her friends he would feel at meeting them, for he paid but very little attention to any one but mat tierney and his cousin fanny; he shook hands with all the old gentlemen, bowed to all the old ladies, and nodded at the young ones. but if he really felt that strong desire, which his mother had imputed to him, of opening his heart to the bishop and the colonel respecting things temporal and spiritual, he certainly very successfully suppressed his anxiety. he had, during the last two or three days, applied himself to the task of ingratiating himself with fanny. he well knew how to suit himself to different characters, and to make himself agreeable when he pleased; and fanny, though she had never much admired her dissipated cousin, certainly found his conversation a relief after the usual oppressive tedium of grey abbey society. he had not begun by making love to her, or expressing admiration, or by doing or saying anything which could at all lead her to suspect his purpose, or put her on her guard. he had certainly been much more attentive to her, much more intimate with her, than he usually had been in his flying visits to grey abbey; but then he was now making his first appearance as a reformed rake; and besides, he was her first cousin, and she therefore felt no inclination to repel his advances. he was obliged, in performance of a domestic duty, to walk out to dinner with one of lady george's daughters, but he contrived to sit next to fanny--and, much to his father's satisfaction, talked to her during the whole ceremony. "and where have you hidden yourself all the morning, fanny," said he, "that nobody has seen anything of you since breakfast?" "whither have _you_ taken yourself all the day, rather, that you had not a moment to come and look after us? the miss o'joscelyns have been expecting you to ride with them, walk with them, talk with them, and play _la grace_ with them. they didn't give up the sticks till it was quite dark, in the hope of you and mr tierney making your appearance." "well, fanny, don't tell my mother, and i'll tell you the truth:-- promise now." "oh, i'm no tell-tale." "well then," and he whispered into her ear--"i was running away from the miss o'joscelyns." "but that won't do at all; don't you know they were asked here for your especial edification and amusement?" "oh, i know they were. so were the bishop, and the colonel, and lord george, and their respective wives, and mr hill. my dear mamma asked them all here for my amusement; but, you know, one man may lead a horse to water--a hundred can't make him drink. i cannot, cannot drink of the miss o'joscelyns, and the bishop of maryborough." "for shame, adolphus! you ought at any rate to do something to amuse them." "amuse them! my dear fanny, who ever heard of amusing a bishop? but it's very easy to find fault; what have you done, yourself, for their amusement?" "i didn't run away from them; though, had i done so, there would have been more excuse for me than for you." "so there would, fanny," said kilcullen, feeling that she had alluded to her brother's death; "and i'm very, very sorry all these people are here to bore you at such a time, and doubly sorry that they should have been asked on my account. they mistake me greatly, here. they know that i've thought grey abbey dull, and have avoided it; and now that i've determined to get over the feeling, because i think it right to do so, they make it ten times more unbearable than ever, for my gratification! it's like giving a child physic mixed in sugar; the sugar's sure to be the nastiest part of the dose. indeed i have no dislike to grey abbey at present; though i own i have no taste for the sugar in which my kind mother has tried to conceal its proper flavour." "well, make the best of it; they'll all be gone in ten days." "ten days! are they to stay ten days? will you tell me, fanny, what was the object in asking mat tierney to meet such a party?" "to help you to amuse the young ladies." "gracious heavens! does lady cashel really expect mat tierney to play _la grace_ with the miss o'joscelyns?--well, the time will come to an end, i suppose. but in truth i'm more sorry for you than for any one. it was very ill-judged, their getting such a crowd to bore you at such a time," and lord kilcullen contrived to give his voice a tone of tender solicitude. "kilcullen," said the earl, across the table, "you don't hear the bishop. his lordship is asking you to drink wine with him." "i shall be most proud of the honour," said the son, and bobbed his head at the bishop across the table. fanny was on the point of saying something respecting her brother to lord kilcullen, which would have created a kind of confidence between them, but the bishop's glass of wine broke it off, and from that time lord kilcullen was forced by his father into a general conversation with his guests. in the evening there was music and singing. the miss o'joscelyns, and miss fitzgeralds, and mr hill, performed: even mat tierney condescended to amuse the company by singing the "coronation", first begging the bishop to excuse the peculiar allusions to the "_clargy_", contained in one of the verses; and then fanny was asked to sing. she had again become silent, dull, and unhappy, was brooding over her miseries and disappointments, and she declined. lord kilcullen was behind her chair, and when they pressed her, he whispered to her, "don't sing for them, fanny; it's a shame that they should tease you at such a time; i wonder how my mother can have been so thoughtless." fanny persisted in declining to sing--and lord kilcullen again sat down beside her. "don't trouble yourself about them, fanny," said he, "they're just fit to sing to each other; it's very good work for them." "i should think it very good work, as you call it, for myself, too, another time; only i'm hardly in singing humour at present, and, therefore, obliged to you for your assistance and protection." "your most devoted knight as long as this fearful invasion lasts!--your amadis de gaul--your bertrand du guesclin [ ]! and no paladin of old ever attempted to defend a damsel from more formidable foes." [footnote : amadis . . . du guesclin--mediaeval heroes. amadis de gaul was the title hero of a th century romantic novel, probably first written in spanish, which was popular throughout europe. bertrand du guesclin was a historical figure, a fourteenth century french soldier and marshall of france.] "indeed, adolphus, i don't think them so formidable. many of them are my own friends." "is mrs ellison your own friend?--or mrs moore?" "not exactly those two, in particular." "who then? is it miss judith o'joscelyn? or is the reverend mr hill one of those to whom you give that sweetest of all names?" "yes; to both of them. it was only this morning i had a long _tête-à-tête_--" "what, with mr hill?" "no, not with mr hill though it wouldn't be the first even with him, but with judith o'joscelyn. i lent her a pattern for worsted work." "and does that make her your friend? do you give your friendship so easily?" "you forget that i've known her for years." "well, now, i've not. i've seen her about three times in my life, and spoken two words to her perhaps twice; and yet i'll describe her character to you; and if you can say that the description is incorrect, i will permit you to call her your friend." "well, let's hear the character." "it wouldn't be kind in me, though, to laugh at your _friend_." "oh, she's not so especially and particularly my friend that you need mind that." "then you'll promise not to be angry?" "oh no, i won't be angry." "well, then; she has two passions: they are for worsted and hymn-books. she has a moral objection to waltzing. theoretically she disapproves of flirtations: she encourages correspondence between young ladies; always crosses her letters, and never finished one for the last ten years without expressing entire resignation to the will of god,--as if she couldn't be resigned without so often saying so. she speaks to her confidential friends of young men as a very worthless, insignificant race of beings; she is, however, prepared to take the very first that may be unfortunate enough to come in her way; she has no ideas of her own, but is quick enough at borrowing those of other people; she considers herself a profound theologian; dotes on a converted papist, and looks on a puseyite [ ] as something one shade blacker than the devil. now isn't that sufficiently like for a portrait?" [footnote : puseyite--a follower of edward pusey ( - ), one of three scholars at oxford who started a movement critical of the church of england. one of the three, john henry newman, converted to catholicism, and pusey and his followers were accused of advocating catholic practices.] "it's the portrait of a set, i fear, rather than an individual. i don't know that it's particularly like miss o'joscelyn, except as to the worsted and hymn-books." "what, not as to the waltzing, resignation, and worthless young men? come, are they not exactly her traits? does she waltz?" "no, she does not." "and haven't you heard her express a moral objection to it?" "well, i believe i have." "did you ever get a letter from her, or see a letter of hers?" "i don't remember; yes, i did once, a long time ago." "and wasn't she very resigned in it?" "well, i declare i believe she was; and it's very proper too; people ought to be resigned." "oh, of course. and now doesn't she love a convert and hate a puseyite?" "all irish clergyman's daughters do that." "well, fanny, you can't say but that it was a good portrait; and after that, will you pretend to say you call miss o'joscelyn your friend?" "not my very friend of friends; but, as friends go, she's as good as most others." "and who is the friend of friends, fanny?" "come, you're not my father confessor. i'm not to tell you all. if i told you that, you'd make another portrait." "i'm sure i couldn't draw a disparaging picture of anybody you would really call your friend. but indeed i pity you, living among so many such people. there can be nobody here who understands you." "oh, i'm not very unintelligible." "much more so than miss o'joscelyn. i shouldn't wish to have to draw your portrait." "pray don't; if it were frightful i should think you uncivil; and if you made it handsome, i should know you were flattering. besides, you don't know enough of me to tell me my character." "i think i do; but i'll study it a little more before i put it on the canvass. some likenesses are very hard to catch." fanny felt, when she went to bed, that she had spent a pleasanter evening than she usually did, and that it was a much less nuisance to talk to her cousin adolphus than to either his father, mother, or sister; and as she sat before her fire, while her maid was brushing her hair, she began to think that she had mistaken his character, and that he couldn't be the hard, sensual, selfish man for which she had taken him. her ideas naturally fell back to frank and her love, her difficulties and sorrows; and, before she went to sleep, she had almost taught herself to think that she might make lord kilcullen the means of bringing lord ballindine back to grey abbey. she had, to be sure, been told that her cousin had spoken ill of frank; that it was he who had been foremost in decrying lord ballindine's folly and extravagance; but she had never heard him do so; she had only heard of it through lord cashel; and she quite ceased to believe anything her guardian might say respecting her discarded lover. at any rate she would try. some step she was determined to take about lord ballindine; and, if her cousin refused to act like a cousin and a friend, she would only be exactly where she was before. xxxi. the two friends the next three days passed slowly and tediously for most of the guests assembled at grey abbey. captain cokely, and a mr battersby, came over from newbridge barracks, but they did not add much to the general enjoyment of the party, though their arrival was hailed with delight by some of the young ladies. at any rate they made the rooms look less forlorn in the evenings, and made it worth the girls' while to put on their best bibs and tuckers. "but what's the use of it at all?" said matilda fitzgerald to little letty o'joscelyn, when she had spent three-quarters of an hour in adjusting her curls, and setting her flounces properly, on the evening before the arrival of the two cavalry officers; "not a soul to look at us but a crusty old colonel, a musty old bishop, and a fusty old beau!" "who's the old beau?" said letty. "why, that mr tierney. i can't conceive how lady cashel can have asked us to meet such a set," and matilda descended, pouting, and out of humour. but on the next day she went through her work much more willingly, if not more carefully. "that captain cokely's a very nice fellow," said matilda; "the best of that newbridge set, out and out." "well now, i really think he's not so nice as mr battersby," said letty. "i'm sure he's not so good-looking." "oh, battersby's only a boy. after all, letty, i don't know whether i like officers so much better than other men,"--and she twisted her neck round to get a look at her back in the pier-glass, and gave her dress a little pull just above her bustle. "i'm sure i do," said letty; "they've so much more to say for themselves, and they're so much smarter." "why, yes, they are smarter," said matilda; "and there's nothing on earth so dowdy as an old black coat, but, then, officers are always going away: you no sooner get to know one or two of a set, and to feel that one of them is really a darling fellow, but there, they are off--to jamaica, china, hounslow barracks, or somewhere; and then it's all to do over again." "well, i do wish they wouldn't move them about quite so much." "but let's go down. i think i'll do now, won't i?" and they descended, to begin the evening campaign. "wasn't miss wyndham engaged to some one?" said old mrs ellison to mrs moore. "i'm sure some one told me so." "oh, yes, she was," said mrs moore; "the affair was settled, and everything arranged; but the man was very poor, and a gambler,--lord ballindine: he has the name of a property down in mayo somewhere; but when she got all her brother's money, lord cashel thought it a pity to sacrifice it,--so he got her out of the scrape. a very good thing for the poor girl, for they say he's a desperate scamp." "well, i declare i think," said mrs ellison, "she'll not have far to look for another." "what, you think there's something between her and lord kilcullen?" said mrs moore. "it looks like it, at any rate, don't it?" said mrs ellison. "well, i really think it does," said mrs moore; "i'm sure i'd be very glad of it. i know he wants money desperately, and it would be such a capital thing for the earl." "at any rate, the lady does not look a bit unwilling," said mrs ellison. "i suppose she's fond of rakish young men. you say lord ballindine was of that set; and i'm sure lord kilcullen's the same,--he has the reputation, at any rate. they say he and his father never speak, except just in public, to avoid the show of the thing." and the two old ladies set to work to a good dish of scandal. "miss wyndham's an exceedingly fine girl," said captain cokely to mat tierney, as they were playing a game of piquet in the little drawing-room. "yes," said mat; "and she's a hundred thousand exceedingly fine charms too, independently of her fine face." "so i hear," said cokely; "but i only believe half of what i hear about those things." "she has more than that; i know it." "has she though? faith, do you know i think kilcullen has a mind to keep it in the family. he's very soft on her, and she's just as sweet to him. i shouldn't be surprised if he were to marry now, and turn steady." "not at all; there are two reasons against it. in the first place, he's too much dipped for even fanny's fortune to be any good to him; and secondly, she's engaged." "what, to ballindine?" said cokely. "exactly so," said mat. "ah, my dear fellow, that's all off long since. i heard kilcullen say so myself. i'll back kilcullen to marry her against ballindine for a hundred pounds." "done," said mat; and the bet was booked. the same evening, tierney wrote to dot blake, and said in a postscript, "i know you care for ballindine; so do i, but i don't write to him. if he really wants to secure his turtle-dove, he should see that she doesn't get bagged in his absence. kilcullen is here, and i tell you he's a keen sportsman. they say it's quite up with him in london, and i should be sorry she were sacrificed: she seems a nice girl." lord kilcullen had ample opportunities of forwarding his intimacy with fanny, and he did not neglect them. to give him his due, he played his cards as well as his father could wish him. he first of all overcame the dislike with which she was prepared to regard him; he then interested her about himself; and, before he had been a week at grey abbey, she felt that she had a sort of cousinly affection for him. he got her to talk with a degree of interest about himself; and when he could do that, there was no wonder that tierney should have fears for his friend's interests. not that there was any real occasion for them. fanny wyndham was not the girl to be talked out of, or into, a real passion, by anyone. "now, tell me the truth, fanny," said kilcullen, as they were sitting over the fire together in the library, one dark afternoon, before they went to dress for dinner; "hadn't you been taught to look on me as a kind of ogre--a monster of iniquity, who spoke nothing but oaths, and did nothing but sin?" "not exactly that: but i won't say i thought you were exactly just what you ought to be." "but didn't you think i was exactly what i ought not to have been? didn't you imagine, now, that i habitually sat up all night, gambling, and drinking buckets of champagne and brandy-and-water? and that i lay in bed all day, devising iniquity in my dreams? come now, tell the truth, and shame the devil; if i am the devil, i know people have made me out to be." "why, really, adolphus, i never calculated how your days and nights were spent. but if i am to tell the truth, i fear some of them might have been passed to better advantage." "which of us, fanny, mightn't, with truth, say the same of ourselves?" "of course, none of us," said fanny; "don't think i'm judging you; you asked me the question,--and i suppose you wanted an answer." "i did; i wanted a true one--for though you may never have given yourself much trouble to form an opinion about me, i am anxious that you should do so now. i don't want to trouble you with what is done and past; i don't want to make it appear that i have not been thoughtless and imprudent--wicked and iniquitous, if you are fond of strong terms; neither do i want to trouble you with confessing all my improprieties, that i may regularly receive absolution. but i do wish you to believe that i have done nothing which should exclude me from your future good opinion; from your friendship and esteem." "i am not of an unforgiving temperament, even had you done anything for me to forgive: but i am not aware that you have." "no; nothing for you to forgive, in the light of an offence to yourself; but much, perhaps, to prevent your being willing to regard me as a personal friend. we're not only first cousins, fanny, but are placed more closely together than cousins usually are. you have neither father nor mother; now, also, you have no brother," and he took her hands in his own as he said so. "who should be a brother to you, if i am not? who, at any rate, should you look on as a friend, if not on me? nobody could be better, i believe, than selina; but she is stiff, and cold--unlike you in everything. i should be so happy if i could be the friend--the friend of friends you spoke of the other evening; if i could fill the place which must be empty near your heart. i can never be this to you, if you believe that anything in my past life has been really disgraceful. it is for this reason that i want to know what you truly think of me. i won't deny that i am anxious you should think well of me:--well, at any rate for the present, and the future, and charitably as regards the past." fanny had been taken much by surprise by the turn her cousin had given to the conversation; and was so much affected, that, before he had finished, she was in tears. she had taken her hand out of his, to put her handkerchief to her eyes, and as she did not immediately answer, he continued: "i shall probably be much here for some time to come--such, at least, are my present plans; and i hope that while i am, we shall become friends: not such friends, fanny, as you and judith o'joscelyn--friends only of circumstance, who have neither tastes, habits, or feelings in common--friends whose friendship consists in living in the same parish, and meeting each other once or twice a week; but friends in reality--friends in confidence--friends in mutual dependence--friends in love--friends, dear fanny, as cousins situated as we are should be to each other." fanny's heart was very full, for she felt how much, how desperately, she wanted such a friend as kilcullen described. how delightful it would be to have such a friend, and to find him in her own cousin! the whole family, hitherto, were so cold to her--so uncongenial. the earl she absolutely disliked; she loved her aunt, but it was only because she was her aunt--she couldn't like her; and though she loved lady selina, and, to a degree, admired her, it was like loving a marble figure. there was more true feeling in what kilcullen had now said to her, than in all that had fallen from the whole family for the four years she had lived at grey abbey, and she could not therefore but close on the offer of his affection. "shall we be such friends, then?" said he; "or, after all, am i too bad? have i too much of the taint of the wicked world to be the friend of so pure a creature as you?" "oh no, adolphus; i'm sure i never thought so," said she. "i never judged you, and indeed i am not disposed to do so now. i'm too much in want of kindness to reject yours,--even were i disposed to do so, which i am not." "then, fanny, we are to be friends--true, loving, trusting friends?" "oh, yes!" said fanny. "i am really, truly grateful for your affection and kindness. i know how precious they are, and i will value them accordingly." again lord kilcullen took her hand, and pressed it in his; and then he kissed it, and told her she was his own dear cousin fanny; and then recommended her to go and dress, which she did. he sat himself down for a quarter of an hour, ruminating, and then also went off to dress; but, during that quarter of an hour, very different ideas passed through his mind, than such as those who knew him best would have given him credit for. in the first place, he thought that he really began to feel an affection for his cousin fanny, and to speculate whether it were absolutely within the verge of possibility that he should marry her--retrieve his circumstances--treat her well, and live happily for the rest of his life as a respectable nobleman. for two or three minutes the illusion remained, till it was banished by retrospection. it was certainly possible that he should marry her: it was his full intention to do so: but as to retrieving his circumstances and treating her well!--the first was absolutely impossible--the other nearly so; and as to his living happily at grey abbey as a family man, he yawned as he felt how impossible it would be that he should spend a month in such a way, let alone a life. but then fanny wyndham was so beautiful, so lively, so affectionate, so exactly what a cousin and a wife ought to be: he could not bear to think that all his protestations of friendship and love had been hypocritical; that he could only look upon her as a gudgeon, and himself as a bigger fish, determined to swallow her! yet such must be his views regarding her. he departed to dress, absolutely troubled in his conscience. and what were fanny's thoughts about her cousin? she was much surprised and gratified, but at the same time somewhat flustered and overwhelmed, by the warmth and novelty of his affection. however, she never for a moment doubted his truth towards her, or had the slightest suspicion of his real object. her chief thought was whether she could induce him to be a mediator for her, between lord cashel and lord ballindine. during the next two days he spoke to her a good deal about her brother--of whom, by-the-bye, he had really known nothing. he contrived, however, to praise him as a young man of much spirit and great promise; then he spoke of her own large fortune, asked her what her wishes were about its investment, and told her how happy he would be to express those wishes at once to lord cashel, and to see that they were carried out. once or twice she had gradually attempted to lead the conversation to lord ballindine, but kilcullen was too crafty, and had prevented her; and she had not yet sufficient courage to tell him at once what was so near her heart. "fanny," said lady selina, one morning, about a week after the general arrival of the company at grey abbey, and when some of them had taken their departure, "i am very glad to see you have recovered your spirits: i know you have made a great effort, and i appreciate and admire it." "indeed, selina, i fear you are admiring me too soon. i own i have been amused this week past, and, to a certain degree, pleased; but i fear you'll find i shall relapse. there's been no radical reform; my thoughts are all in the same direction as they were." "but the great trial in this world is to behave well and becomingly in spite of oppressive thoughts: and it always takes a struggle to do that, and that struggle you've made. i hope it may lead you to feel that you may be contented and in comfort without having everything which you think necessary to your happiness. i'm sure i looked forward to this week as one of unmixed trouble and torment; but i was very wrong to do so. it has given me a great deal of unmixed satisfaction." "i'm very glad of that, selina, but what was it? i'm sure it could not have come from poor mrs ellison, or the bishop's wife; and you seemed to me to spend all your time in talking to them. virtue, they say, is its own reward: i don't know what other satisfaction you can have had from them." "in the first place, it has given me great pleasure to see that you were able to exert yourself in company, and that the crowd of people did not annoy you: but i have chiefly been delighted by seeing that you and adolphus are such good friends. you must think, fanny, that i am anxious about an only brother--especially when we have all had so much cause to be anxious about him; and don't you think it must be a delight to me to find that he is able to take pleasure in your society? i should be doubly pleased, doubly delighted, if i could please him myself. but i have not the vivacity to amuse him." "what nonsense, selina! don't say that." "but it's true, fanny; i have not; and grey abbey has become distasteful to him because we are all sedate, steady people. perhaps some would call us dull, and heavy; and i have grieved that it should be so, though i cannot alter my nature; but you are so much the contrary--there is so much in your character like his own, before he became fond of the world, that i feel he can become attached to and fond of you; and i am delighted to see that he thinks so himself. what do you think of him, now that you have seen more of him than you ever did before?" "indeed," said fanny, "i like him very much." "he is very clever, isn't he? he might have been anything if he had given himself fair play. he seems to have taken greatly to you." "oh yes; we are great friends:" and then fanny paused--"so great friends," she continued, looking somewhat gravely in lady selina's face, "that i mean to ask the greatest favour of him that i could ask of anyone: one i am sure i little dreamed i should ever ask of him." "what is it, fanny? is it a secret?" "indeed it is, selina; but it's a secret i will tell you. i mean to tell him all i feel about lord ballindine, and i mean to ask him to see him for me. adolphus has offered to be a brother to me, and i mean to take him at his word." lady selina turned very pale, and looked very grave as she replied, "that is not giving him a brother's work, fanny. a brother should protect you from importunity and insult, from injury and wrong; and that, i am sure, adolphus would do: but no brother would consent to offer your hand to a man who had neglected you and been refused, and who, in all probability, would now reject you with scorn if he has the opportunity--or if not that, will take you for your money's sake. that, fanny, is not a brother's work; and it is an embassy which i am sure adolphus will not undertake. if you take my advice you will not ask him." as lady selina finished speaking she walked to the door, as if determined to hear no reply from her cousin; but, as she was leaving the room, she fancied that she heard her sobbing, and her heart softened, and she again turned towards her and said, "god knows, fanny, i do not wish to be severe or ill-natured to you; i would do anything for your comfort and happiness, but i cannot bear to think that you should"--lady selina was puzzled for a word to express her meaning--"that you should forget yourself," and she attempted to put her arm round fanny's waist. but she was mistaken; fanny was not sobbing, but was angry; and what selina now said about her forgetting herself, did not make her less so. "no," she said, withdrawing herself from her cousin's embrace and standing erect, while her bosom was swelling with indignation: "i want no affection from you, selina, that is accompanied by so much disapprobation. you don't wish to be severe, only you say that i am likely to forget myself. forget myself!" and fanny threw back her beautiful head, and clenched her little fists by her side: "the other day you said 'disgrace myself', and i bore it calmly then; but i will not any longer bear such imputations. i tell you plainly, selina, i will not forget myself, nor will i be forgotten. nor will i submit to whatever fate cold, unfeeling people may doom me, merely because i am a woman and alone. i will not give up lord ballindine, if i have to walk to his door and tell him so. and were i to do so, i should never think that i had forgotten myself." "listen to me, fanny," said selina. "wait a moment," continued fanny, "i have listened enough: it is my turn to speak now. for one thing i have to thank you: you have dispelled the idea that i could look for help to anyone in this family. i will not ask your brother to do anything for me which you think so disgraceful. i will not subject him to the scorn with which you choose to think my love will be treated by him who loved me so well. that you should dare to tell me that he who did so much for my love should now scorn it!--oh, selina, that i may live to forget that you said those words!" and fanny, for a moment, put her handkerchief to her eyes--but it was but for a moment. "however," she continued, "i will now act for myself. as you think i might forget myself, i tell you i will do it in no clandestine way. i will write to lord ballindine, and i will show my letter to my uncle. the whole house shall read it if they please. i will tell lord ballindine all the truth--and if lord cashel turns me from his house, i shall probably find some friend to receive me, who may still believe that i have not forgotten myself." and fanny wyndham sailed out of the room. lady selina, when she saw that she was gone, sat down on the sofa and took her book. she tried to make herself believe that she was going to read; but it was no use: the tears dimmed her eyes, and she put the book down. the same evening the countess sent for selina into her boudoir, and, with a fidgety mixture of delight and surprise, told her that she had a wonderful piece of good news to communicate to her. "i declare, my dear," she said, "it's the most delightful thing i've heard for years and years; and it's just exactly what i had planned myself, only i never told anybody. dear me; it makes me so happy!" "what is it, mamma?" "your papa has been talking to me since dinner, my love, and he tells me adolphus is going to marry fanny wyndham." "going to marry whom?" said lady selina, almost with a shout. "fanny, i say: it's the most delightful match in the world: it's just what ought to be done. i suppose they won't have the wedding before summer; though may is a very nice month. let me see; it only wants three weeks to may." "mamma, what are you talking about?--you're dreaming." "dreaming, my dear? i'm not dreaming at all: it's a fact. who'd've thought of all this happening so soon, out of this party, which gave us so much trouble! however, i knew your father was right. i said all along that he was in the right to ask the people." "mamma," said lady selina, gravely, "listen to me: calmly now, and attentively. i don't know what papa has told you; but i tell you fanny does not dream of marrying adolphus. he has never asked her, and if he did she would never accept him. fanny is more than ever in love with lord ballindine." the countess opened her eyes wide, and looked up into her daughter's face, but said nothing. "tell me, mamma, as nearly as you can recollect, what it is papa has said to you, that, if possible, we may prevent mischief and misery. papa couldn't have said that fanny had accepted adolphus?" "he didn't say exactly that, my dear; but he said that it was his wish they should be married; that adolphus was very eager for it, and that fanny had received his attentions and admiration with evident pleasure and satisfaction. and so she has, my dear; you couldn't but have seen that yourself." "well, mamma, what else did papa say?" "why, he said just what i'm telling you: that i wasn't to be surprised if we were called on to be ready for the wedding at a short notice; or at any rate to be ready to congratulate fanny. he certainly didn't say she had accepted him. but he said he had no doubt about it; and i'm sure, from what was going on last week, i couldn't have any doubt either. but he told me not to speak to anyone about it yet; particularly not to fanny; only, my dear, i couldn't help, you know, talking it over with you;" and the countess leaned back in her chair, very much exhausted with the history she had narrated. "now, mamma, listen to me. it is not many hours since fanny told me she was unalterably determined to throw herself at lord ballindine's feet." "goodness gracious me, how shocking!" said the countess. "she even said that she would ask adolphus to be the means of bringing lord ballindine back to grey abbey." "lord have mercy!" said the countess. "i only tell you this, mamma, to show you how impossible it is that papa should be right." "what are we to do, my dear? oh, dear, there'll be such a piece of work! what a nasty thing fanny is. i'm sure she's been making love to adolphus all the week!" "no, mamma, she has not. don't be unfair to fanny. if there is anyone in fault it is adolphus; but, as you say, what shall we do to prevent further misunderstanding? i think i had better tell papa the whole." and so she did, on the following morning. but she was too late; she did not do it till after lord kilcullen had offered and had been refused. xxxii. how lord kilcullen fares in his wooing about twelve o'clock the same night, lord kilcullen and mat tierney were playing billiards, and were just finishing their last game: the bed-candles were lighted ready for them, and tierney was on the point of making the final hazard. "so you're determined to go to-morrow, mat?" said kilcullen. "oh, yes, i'll go to-morrow: your mother'll take me for a second paddy rea, else," said mat. "who the deuce was paddy rea?" "didn't you ever hear of paddy rea?--michael french of glare abbey--he's dead now, but he was alive enough at the time i'm telling you of, and kept the best house in county clare--well, he was coming down on the limerick coach, and met a deuced pleasant, good-looking, talkative sort of a fellow a-top of it. they dined and got a tumbler of punch together at roscrea; and when french got down at bird hill, he told his acquaintance that if he ever found himself anywhere near ennis, he'd be glad to see him at glare abbey. he was a hospitable sort of a fellow, and had got into a kind of way of saying the same thing to everybody, without meaning anything except to be civil--just as i'd wish a man good morning. well, french thought no more about the man, whose name he didn't even know; but about a fortnight afterwards, a hack car from ennis made its appearance at glare abbey, and the talkative traveller, and a small portmanteau, had soon found their way into the hail. french was a good deal annoyed, for he had some fashionables in the house, but he couldn't turn the man out; so he asked his name, and introduced paddy rea to the company. how long do you think he stayed at glare abbey?" "heaven only knows!--three months." "seventeen years!" said mat. "they did everything to turn him out, and couldn't do it. it killed old french; and at last his son pulled the house down, and paddy rea went then, because there wasn't a roof to cover him. now i don't want to drive your father to pull down this house, so i'll go to-morrow." "the place is so ugly, that if you could make him do so, it would be an advantage; but i'm afraid the plan wouldn't succeed, so i won't press you. but if you go, i shan't remain long. if it was to save my life and theirs, i can't get up small talk for the rector and his curate." "well, good night," said mat; and the two turned off towards their bed-rooms. as they passed from the billiard-room through the hall, lord cashel shuffled out of his room, in his slippers and dressing-gown. "kilcullen," said he, with a great deal of unconcerned good humour affected in his tone, "just give me one moment--i've a word to say to you. goodnight, mr tierney, goodnight; i'm sorry to hear we're to lose you to-morrow." lord kilcullen shrugged his shoulders, winked at his friend and then turned round and followed his father. "it's only one word, kilcullen," said the father, who was afraid of angering or irritating his son, now that he thought he was in so fair a way to obtain the heiress and her fortune. "i'll not detain you half a minute;" and then he said in a whisper, "take my advice, kilcullen, and strike when the iron's hot." "i don't quite understand you, my lord," said his son, affecting ignorance of his father's meaning. "i mean, you can't stand better than you do with fanny: you've certainly played your cards admirably, and she's a charming girl, a very charming girl, and i long to know that she's your own. take my advice and ask her at once." "my lord," said the dutiful son, "if i'm to carry on this affair, i must be allowed to do it in my own way. you, i dare say, have more experience than i can boast, and if you choose to make the proposal yourself to miss wyndham on my behalf, i shall be delighted to leave the matter in your hands; but in that case, i shall choose to be absent from grey abbey. if you wish me to do it, you must let me do it when i please and how i please." "oh, certainly, certainly, kilcullen," said the earl; "i only want to point out that i think you'll gain nothing by delay." "very well, my lord. good night." and lord kilcullen went to bed, and the father shuffled back to his study. he had had three different letters that day from lord kilcullen's creditors, all threatening immediate arrest unless he would make himself responsible for his son's debts. no wonder that he was in a hurry, poor man! and lord kilcullen, though he had spoken so coolly on the subject, and had snubbed his father, was equally in a hurry. he also received letters, and threats, and warnings, and understood, even better than his father did, the perils which awaited him. he knew that he couldn't remain at grey abbey another week; that in a day or two it wouldn't be safe for him to leave the house; and that his only chance was at once to obtain the promise of his cousin's hand, and then betake himself to some place of security, till he could make her fortune available. when fanny came into the breakfast-room next morning, he asked her to walk with him in the demesne after breakfast. during the whole of the previous evening she had sat silent and alone, pretending to read, although he had made two or three efforts to engage her in conversation. she could not, however, refuse to walk with him, nor could she quite forgive herself for wishing to do so. she felt that her sudden attachment for him was damped by what had passed between her and lady selina; but she knew, at the same time, that she was very unreasonable for quarrelling with one cousin for what another had said. she accepted his invitation, and shortly after breakfast went upstairs to get ready. it was a fine, bright, april morning, though the air was cold, and the ground somewhat damp; so she put on her boa and strong boots, and sallied forth with lord kilcullen; not exactly in a good humour, but still feeling that she could not justly be out of humour with him. at the same moment, lady selina knocked at her father's door, with the intention of explaining to him how impossible it was that fanny should be persuaded to marry her brother. poor lord cashel! his life, at that time, was certainly not a happy one. the two cousins walked some way, nearly in silence. fanny felt very little inclined to talk, and even kilcullen, with all his knowledge of womankind--with all his assurance, had some difficulty in commencing what he had to get said and done that morning. "so grey abbey will once more sink into its accustomed dullness," said he. "cokely went yesterday, and tierney and the ellisons go to-day. don't you dread it, fanny?" "oh, i'm used to it: besides, i'm one of the component elements of the dullness, you know. i'm a portion of the thing itself: it's you that must feel it." "i feel it? i suppose i shall. but, as i told you before, the physic to me was not nearly so nauseous as the sugar. i'm at any rate glad to get rid of such sweetmeats as the bishop and mrs ellison;" and they were both silent again for a while. "but you're not a portion of the heaviness of grey abbey, fanny," said he, referring to what she had said. "you're not an element of its dullness. i don't say this in flattery--i trust nothing so vile as flattery will ever take place between us; but you know yourself that your nature is intended for other things; that you were not born to pass your life in such a house as this, without society, without excitement, without something to fill your mind. fanny, you can't be happy here, at grey abbey." happy! thought fanny to herself. no, indeed, i'm not happy! she didn't say so, however; and kilcullen, after a little while, went on speaking. "i'm sure you can't be comfortable here. you don't feel it, i dare say, so intolerable as i do; but still you have been out enough, enough in the world, to feel strongly the everlasting do-nothingness of this horrid place. i wonder what possesses my father, that he does not go to london--for your sake if for no one else's. it's not just of him to coop you up here." "indeed it is, adolphus," said she. "you mistake my character. i'm not at all anxious for london parties and gaiety. stupid as you may think me, i'm quite as well contented to stay here as i should be to go to london." "do you mean me to believe," said kilcullen, with a gentle laugh, "that you are contented to live and die in single blessedness at grey abbey?--that your ambition does not soar higher than the interchange of worsted-work patterns with miss o'joscelyn?" "i did not say so, adolphus." "what is your ambition then? what kind and style of life would you choose to live? come, fanny, i wish i could get you to talk with me about yourself. i wish i could teach you to believe how anxious i am that your future life should be happy and contented, and at the same time splendid and noble, as it should be. i'm sure you must have ambition. i have studied lavater [ ] well enough to know that such a head and face as yours never belonged to a mind that could satisfy itself with worsted-work." [footnote : lavater--johann kaspar lavater ( - ), swiss writer whose only widely read book was a tract on physiognomy (physiognomische fragmente zur beförderung der menschenkenntnis und menschenliebe). the victorians put much stock in physiognomy.] "you are very severe on the poor worsted-work." "but am i not in the right?" "decidedly not. lavater, and my head and face, have misled you." "nonsense, fanny. do you mean to tell me that you have no aspiration for a kind of life different from this you are leading?--if so, i am much disappointed in you; much, very much astray in my judgment of your character." then he walked on a few yards, looking on the ground, and said, "come, fanny, i am talking very earnestly to you, and you answer me only in joke. you don't think me impertinent, do you, to talk about yourself?" "impertinent, adolphus--of course i don't." "why won't you talk to me then, in the spirit in which i am talking to you? if you knew, fanny, how interested i am about you, how anxious that you should be happy, how confidently i look forward to the distinguished position i expect you to fill--if you could guess how proud i mean to be of you, when you are the cynosure of all eyes--the admired of all admirers--admired not more for your beauty than your talent--if i could make you believe, fanny, how much i expect from you, and how fully i trust that my expectations will be realised, you would not, at any rate, answer me lightly." "adolphus," said fanny, "i thought there was to be no flattering between us?" "and do you think i would flatter you? do you think i would stoop to flatter you? oh! fanny, you don't understand me yet; you don't at all understand, how thoroughly from the heart i'm speaking--how much in earnest i am; and, so far from flattering you, i am quite as anxious to find fault with you as i am to praise you, could i feel that i had liberty to do so." "pray do," said fanny: "anything but flattery; for a friend never flatters." but kilcullen had intended to flatter his fair cousin, and he had been successful. she was gratified and pleased by his warmth of affection. "pray do," repeated fanny; "i have more faults than virtues to be told of, and so i'm afraid you'll find out, when you know me better." "to begin, then," said kilcullen, "are you not wrong--but no, fanny, i will not torment you now with a catalogue of faults. i did not ask you to come out with me for that object. you are now in grief for the death of poor harry"--fanny blushed as she reflected how much more poignant a sorrow weighed upon her heart--"and are therefore unable to exert yourself; but, as soon as you are able--when you have recovered from this severe blow, i trust you will not be content to loiter and dawdle away your existence at grey abbey." "not the whole of it," said fanny. "none of it," replied her cousin. "every month, every day, should have its purpose. my father has got into a dull, heartless, apathetic mode of life, which suits my mother and selina, but which will never suit you. grey abbey is like the dead sea, of which the waters are always bitter as well as stagnant. it makes me miserable, dearest fanny, to see you stifled in such a pool. your beauty, talents, and energies--your disposition to enjoy life, and power of making it enjoyable for others, are all thrown away. oh, fanny, if i could rescue you from this!" "you are inventing imaginary evils," said she; "at any rate they are not palpable to my eyes." "that's it; that's just what i fear," said the other, "that time, habit, and endurance may teach you to think that nothing further is to be looked for in this world than vegetation at grey abbey, or some other place of the kind, to which you may be transplanted. i want to wake you from such a torpor; to save you from such ignominy. i wish to restore you to the world." "there's time enough, adolphus; you'll see me yet the gayest of the gay at almack's." "ah! but to please me, fanny, it must be as one of the leaders, not one of the led." "oh, that'll be in years to come: in twenty years' time; when i come forth glorious in a jewelled turban, and yards upon yards of yellow satin--fat, fair, and forty. i've certainly no ambition to be one of the leaders yet." lord kilcullen walked on silent for a considerable time, during which fanny went on talking about london, almack's, and the miserable life of lady patronesses, till at last she also became silent, and began thinking of lord ballindine. she had, some little time since, fully made up her mind to open her heart to lord kilcullen about him, and she had as fully determined not to do so after what selina had said upon the subject; but now she again wavered. his manner was so kind and affectionate, his interest in her future happiness appeared to be so true and unaffected: at any rate he would not speak harshly or cruelly to her, if she convinced him how completely her happiness depended on her being reconciled to lord ballindine. she had all but brought herself to the point; she had almost determined to tell him everything, when he stopped rather abruptly, and said, "i also am leaving grey abbey again, fanny." "leaving grey abbey?" said fanny. "you told me the other day you were going to live here," "so i intended; so i do intend; but still i must leave it for a while. i'm going about business, and i don't know how long i may be away. i go on saturday." "i hope, adolphus, you haven't quarrelled with your father," said she. "oh, no," said he: "it is on his advice that i am going. i believe there is no fear of our quarrelling now. i should rather say i trust there is none. he not only approves of my going, but approves of what i am about to do before i go." "and what is that?" "i had not intended, fanny, to say what i have to say to you for some time, for i feel that different circumstances make it premature. but i cannot bring myself to leave you without doing so;" and again he paused and walked on a little way in silence--"and yet," he continued, "i hardly know how to utter what i wish to say; or rather what i would wish to have said, were it not that i dread so much the answer you may make me. stop, fanny, stop a moment; the seat is quite dry; sit down one moment." fanny sat down in a little alcove which they had reached, considerably embarrassed and surprised. she had not, however, the most remote idea of what he was about to say to her. had any other man in the world, almost, spoken to her in the same language, she would have expected an offer; but from the way in which she had always regarded her cousin, both heretofore, when she hardly knew him, and now, when she was on such affectionate terms with him, she would as soon have thought of receiving an offer from lord cashel as from his son. "fanny," he said, "i told you before that i have my father's warmest and most entire approval for what i am now going to do. should i be successful in what i ask, he will be delighted; but i have no words to tell you what my own feelings will be. fanny, dearest fanny," and he sat down close beside her--"i love you better--ah! how much better, than all the world holds beside. dearest, dearest fanny, will you, can you, return my love?" "adolphus," said fanny, rising suddenly from her seat, more for the sake of turning round so as to look at him, than with the object of getting from him, "adolphus, you are joking with me." "no, by heavens then," said he, following her, and catching her hand; "no man in ireland is this moment more in earnest: no man more anxiously, painfully in earnest. oh, fanny! why should you suppose that i am not so? how can you think i would joke on such a subject? no: hear me," he said, interrupting her, as she prepared to answer him, "hear me out, and then you will know how truly i am in earnest." "no, not a word further!" almost shrieked fanny--"not a word more, adolphus--not a syllable; at any rate till you have heard me. oh, you have made me so miserable!" and fanny burst into tears. "i have spoken too suddenly to you, fanny; i should have given you more time--i should have waited till--" "no, no, no," said fanny, "it is not that--but yes; what you say is true: had you waited but one hour--but ten minutes--i should have told you that which would for ever have prevented all this. i should have told you, adolphus, how dearly, how unutterably i love another." and fanny again sat down, hid her face in her handkerchief against the corner of the summer-house, and sobbed and cried as though she were broken-hearted: during which time kilcullen stood by, rather perplexed as to what he was to say next, and beginning to be very doubtful as to his ultimate success. "dear fanny!" he said, "for both our sakes, pray try to be collected: all my future happiness is at this moment at stake. i did not bring you here to listen to what i have told you, without having become too painfully sure that your hand, your heart, your love, are necessary to my happiness. all my hopes are now at stake; but i would not, if i could, secure my own happiness at the expense of yours. pray believe me, fanny, when i say that i love you completely, unalterably, devotedly: it is necessary now for my own sake that i should say as much as that. having told you so much of my own heart, let me hear what you wish to tell me of yours. oh, that i might have the most distant gleam of hope, that it would ever return the love which fills my own!" "it cannot, adolphus--it never can," said she, still trying to hide her tears. "oh, why should this bitter misery have been added!" she then rose quickly from her seat, wiped her eyes, and, pushing back her hair, continued, "i will no longer continue to live such a life as i have done--miserable to myself, and the cause of misery to others. adolphus,--i love lord ballindine. i love him with, i believe, as true and devoted a love as woman ever felt for a man. i valued, appreciated, gloried in your friendship; but i can never return your, love. my heart is wholly, utterly, given away; and i would not for worlds receive it back, till i learn from his own mouth that he has ceased to love me." "oh, fanny! my poor fanny!" said kilcullen; "if such is the case, you are really to be pitied. if this be true, your condition is nearly as unhappy as my own." "i am unhappy, very unhappy in your love," said fanny, drawing herself up proudly; "but not unhappy in my own. my misery is that i should be the cause of trouble and unhappiness to others. i have nothing to regret in my own choice." "you are harsh, fanny. it may be well that you should be decided, but it cannot become you also to be unfeeling. i have offered to you all that a man can offer; my name, my fortune, my life, my heart; though you may refuse me, you have no right to be offended with me." "oh, adolphus!" said she, now in her turn offering him her hand: "pray forgive me: pray do not be angry. heaven knows i feel no offence: and how strongly, how sincerely, i feel the compliment you have offered me. but i want you to see how vain it would be in me to leave you--leave you in any doubt. i only spoke as i did to show you i could not think twice, when my heart was given to one whom i so entirely love, respect--and--and approve." lord kilcullen's face became thoughtful, and his brow grew black: he stood for some time irresolute what to say or do. "let us walk on, fanny, for this is cold and damp," he said, at last. "let us go back to the house, then." "as you like, fanny. oh, how painful all this is! how doubly painful to know that ray own love is hopeless, and that yours is no less so. did you not refuse lord ballindine?" "if i did, is it not sufficient that i tell you i love him? if he were gone past all redemption, you would not have me encourage you while i love another?" "i never dreamed of this! what, fanny, what are your hopes? what is it you wish or intend? supposing me, as i wish i were, fathoms deep below the earth, what would you do? you cannot marry lord ballindine." "then i will marry no one," said fanny, striving hard to suppress her tears, and barely succeeding. "good heavens!" exclaimed kilcullen; "what an infatuation is this!"--and then again he walked on silent a little way. "have you told any one of this, fanny?--do they know of it at grey abbey? come, fanny, speak to me: forget, if you will, that i would be your lover: remember me only as your cousin and your friend, and speak to me openly. do they know that you have repented of the refusal you gave lord ballindine?" "they all know that i love him: your father, your mother, and selina." "you don't say my father?" "yes," said fanny, stopping on the path, and speaking with energy, as she confronted her cousin. "yes, lord cashel. he, above all others, knows it. i have told him so almost on my knees. i have implored him, as a child may implore her father, to bring back to me the only man i ever loved. i have besought him not to sacrifice me. oh! how i have implored him to spare me the dreadful punishment of my own folly--wretchedness rather--in rejecting the man i loved. but he has not listened to me; he will never listen to me, and i will never ask again. he shall find that i am not a tree or a stone, to be planted or placed as he chooses. i will not again be subjected to what i have to-day suffered. i will not--i will not--" but fanny was out of breath; and could not complete the catalogue of what she would not do. "and did you intend to tell me all this, had i not spoken to you as i have done?" said kilcullen. "i did," said she. "i was on the point of telling you everything: twice i had intended to do so. i intended to implore you, as you loved me as your cousin, to use your exertions to reconcile my uncle and lord ballindine--and now instead of that--" "you find i love you too well myself?" "oh, forget, adolphus, forget that the words ever passed your lips. you have not loved me long, and therefore will not continue to love me, when you know i never can be yours: forget your short-lived love; won't you, adolphus?"--and she put her clasped hands upon his breast--"forget,--let us both forget that the words were ever spoken. be still my cousin, my friend, my brother; and we shall still both be happy." different feelings were disturbing lord kilcullen's breast--different from each other, and some of them very different from those which usually found a place there. he had sought fanny's hand not only with most sordid, but also with most dishonest views: he not only intended to marry her for her fortune, but also to rob her of her money; to defraud her, that he might enable himself once more to enter the world of pleasure, with the slight encumbrance of a wretched wife. but, in carrying out his plan, he had disturbed it by his own weakness: he had absolutely allowed himself to fall in love with his cousin; and when, as he had just done, he offered her his hand, he was quite as anxious that she should accept him for her own sake as for that of her money. he had taught himself to believe that she would accept him, and many misgivings had haunted him as to the ruined state to which he should bring her as his wife. but these feelings, though strong enough to disturb him, were not strong enough to make him pause: he tried to persuade himself that he could yet make her happy, and hurried on to the consummation of his hopes. he now felt strongly tempted to act a generous part; to give her up, and to bring lord ballindine back to her feet; to deserve at any rate well of her, and leave all other things to chance. but lord kilcullen was not accustomed to make such sacrifices: he had never learned to disregard himself; and again and again he turned it over in his mind--"how could he get her fortune?--was there any way left in which he might be successful?" "this is child's play, fanny," he said. "you may reject me: to that i have nothing further to say, for i am but an indifferent wooer; but you can never marry lord ballindine." "oh, adolphus, for mercy's sake don't say so!" "but i do say so, fanny. god knows, not to wound you, or for any unworthy purpose, but because it is so. he was your lover, and you sent him away; you cannot whistle him back as you would a dog." fanny made no answer to this, but walked on towards the house, anxious to find herself alone in her own room, that she might compose her mind and think over all that she had heard and said; nor did lord kilcullen renew the conversation till he got to the house. he could not determine what to do. under other circumstances it might, he felt, have been wise for him to wait till time had weakened fanny's regret for her lost lover; but in his case this was impracticable; if he waited anywhere it would be in the queen's bench. and yet, he could not but feel that, at present, it was hopeless for him to push his suit. they reached the steps together, and as he opened the front door, fanny turned round to wish him good morning, as she was hurrying in; but he stopped her, and said, "one word more, fanny, before we part. you must not refuse me; nor must we part in this way. step in here; i will not keep you a minute;" and he took her into a room off the hall--"do not let us be children, fanny; do not let us deceive each other, or ourselves: do not let us persist in being irrational if we ourselves see that we are so;" and he paused for a reply. "well, adolphus?" was all she said. "if i could avoid it," continued he, "i would not hurt your feelings; but you must see, you must know, that you cannot marry lord ballindine."--fanny, who was now sitting, bit her lips and clenched her hands, but she said nothing; "if this is so--if you feel that so far your fate is fixed, are you mad enough to give yourself up to a vain and wicked passion--for wicked it will be? will you not rather strive to forget him who has forgotten you?" "that is not true," interposed fanny. "his conduct, unfortunately, proves that it is too true," continued kilcullen. "he has forgotten you, and you cannot blame him that he should do so, now that you have rejected him; but he neglected you even before you did so. is it wise, is it decorous, is it maidenly in you, to indulge any longer in so vain a passion? think of this, fanny. as to myself, heaven knows with what perfect truth, with what true love, i offered you, this morning, all that a man can offer: how ardently i hoped for an answer different from that you have now given me. you cannot give me your heart now; love cannot, at a moment, be transferred. but think, fanny, think whether it is not better for you to accept an offer which your friends will all approve, and which i trust will never make you unhappy, than to give yourself up to a lasting regret,--to tears, misery, and grief." "and would you take my hand without my heart?" said she. "not for worlds," replied the other, "were i not certain that your heart would follow your hand. whoever may be your husband, you will love him. but ask my mother, talk to her, ask her advice; she at any rate will only tell you that which must be best for your own happiness. go to her, fanny; if her advice be different from mine, i will not say a word farther to urge my suit." "i will go to no one," said fanny, rising. "i have gone to too many with a piteous story on my lips. i have no friend, now, in this house. i had still hoped to find one in you, but that hope is over. i am, of course, proud of the honour your declaration has conveyed; but i should be wicked indeed if i did not make you perfectly understand that it is one which i cannot accept. whatever may be your views, your ideas, i will never marry unless i thoroughly love, and feel that i am thoroughly loved by my future husband. had you not made this ill-timed declaration--had you not even persisted in repeating it after i had opened my whole heart to you, i could have loved and cherished you as a brother; under no circumstances could i ever have accepted you as a husband. good morning." and she left him alone, feeling that he could have but little chance of success, should he again renew the attempt. he did not see her again till dinner-time, when she appeared silent and reserved, but still collected and at her ease; nor did he speak to her at dinner or during the evening, till the moment the ladies were retiring for the night. he then came up to her as she was standing alone turning over some things on a side-table, and said, "fanny, i probably leave grey abbey to-morrow. i will say good bye to you tonight." "good bye, adolphus; may we both be happier when next we meet," said she. "my happiness, i fear, is doubtful: but i will not speak of that now. if i can do anything for yours before i go, i will. fanny, i will ask my father to invite lord ballindine here. he has been anxious that we should be married: when i tell him that that is impossible, he may perhaps be induced to do so." "do that," said fanny, "and you will be a friend to me. do that, and you will be more than a brother to me." "i will; and in doing so i shall crush every hope that i have had left in me." "do not say so, adolphus:--do not--" "you'll understand what i mean in a short time. i cannot explain everything to you now. but this will i do; i will make lord cashel understand that we never can be more to each other than we are now, and i will advise him to seek a reconciliation with lord ballindine. and now, good bye," and he held out his hand. "but i shall see you to-morrow." "probably not; and if you do, it will be but for a moment, when i shall have other adieux to make." "good bye, then, adolphus; and may god bless you; and may we yet live to have many happy days together," and she shook hands with him, and went to her room. xxxiii. lord kilcullen makes another visit to the book-room lord cashel's plans were certainly not lucky. it was not that sufficient care was not used in laying them, nor sufficient caution displayed in maturing them. he passed his time in care and caution; he spared no pains in seeing that the whole machinery was right; he was indefatigable in deliberation, diligent in manoeuvring, constant in attention. but, somehow, he was unlucky; his schemes were never successful. in the present instance he was peculiarly unfortunate, for everything went wrong with him. he had got rid of an obnoxious lover, he had coaxed over his son, he had spent an immensity of money, he had undergone worlds of trouble and self-restraint;--and then, when he really began to think that his ward's fortune would compensate him for this, his own family came to him, one after another, to assure him that he was completely mistaken--that it was utterly impossible that such a thing as a family marriage between the two cousins could never take place, and indeed, ought not to be thought of. lady selina gave him the first check. on the morning on which lord kilcullen made his offer, she paid her father a solemn visit in his book-room, and told him exactly what she had before told her mother; assured him that fanny could not be induced, at any rate at present, to receive her cousin as her lover; whispered to him, with unfeigned sorrow and shame, that fanny was still madly in love with lord ballindine; and begged him to induce her brother to postpone his offer, at any rate for some months. "i hate lord ballindine's very name," said the earl, petulant with irritation. "we none of us approve of him, papa: we don't think of supposing that he could now be a fitting husband for fanny, or that they could possibly ever be married. of course it's not to be thought of. but if you would advise adolphus not to be premature, he might, in the end, be more successful." "kilcullen has made his own bed and he must lie in it; i won't interfere between them," said the angry father. "but if you were only to recommend delay," suggested the daughter; "a few months' delay; think how short a time harry wyndham has been dead!" lord cashel knew that delay was death in this case, so he pished, and hummed, and hawed; quite lost the dignity on which he piqued himself, and ended by declaring that he would not interfere; that they might do as they liked; that young people would not be guided, and that he would not make himself unhappy about them. and so, lady selina, crestfallen and disappointed, went away. then, lady cashel, reflecting on what her daughter had told her, and yet anxious that the marriage should, if possible, take place at some time or other, sent griffiths down to her lord, with a message--"would his lordship be kind enough to step up-stairs to her ladyship?" lord cashel went up, and again had all the difficulties of the case opened out before him. "but you see," said her ladyship, "poor fanny--she's become so unreasonable--i don't know what's come to her--i'm sure i do everything i can to make her happy: but i suppose if she don't like to marry, nobody can make her." "make her?--who's talking of making her?" said the earl. "no, of course not," continued the countess; "that's just what selina says; no one can make her do anything, she's got so obstinate, of late: but it's all that horrid lord ballindine, and those odious horses. i'm sure i don't know what business gentlemen have to have horses at all; there's never any good comes of it. there's adolphus--he's had the good sense to get rid of his, and yet fanny's so foolish, she'd sooner have that other horrid man--and i'm sure he's not half so good-looking, nor a quarter so agreeable as adolphus." all these encomiums on his son, and animadversions on lord ballindine, were not calculated to put the earl into a good humour; he was heartily sick of the subject; thoroughly repented that he had not allowed his son to ruin himself in his own way; detested the very name of lord ballindine, and felt no very strong affection for his poor innocent ward. he accordingly made his wife nearly the same answer he had made his daughter, and left her anything but comforted by the visit. it was about eleven o'clock on the same evening, that lord kilcullen, after parting with fanny, opened the book-room door. he had been quite sincere in what he had told her. he had made up his mind entirely to give over all hopes of marrying her himself, and to tell his father that the field was again open for lord ballindine, as far as he was concerned. there is no doubt that he would not have been noble enough to do this, had he thought he had himself any chance of being successful; but still there was something chivalrous in his resolve, something magnanimous in his determination to do all he could for the happiness of her he really loved, when everything in his own prospects was gloomy, dark, and desperate. as he entered his father's room, feeling that it would probably be very long before he should be closeted with him again, he determined that he would not quietly bear reproaches, and even felt a source of satisfaction in the prospect of telling his father that their joint plans were overturned--their schemes completely at an end. "i'm disturbing you, my lord, i'm afraid," said the son, walking into the room, not at all with the manner of one who had any hesitation at causing the disturbance. "who's that?" said the earl--"adolphus?--no--yes. that is, i'm just going to bed; what is it you want?" the earl had been dozing after all the vexations of the day. "to tell the truth, my lord, i've a good deal that i wish to say: will it trouble you to listen to me?" "won't to-morrow morning do?" "i shall leave grey abbey early to-morrow, my lord; immediately after breakfast." "good heavens, kilcullen! what do you mean? you're not going to run off to london again?" "a little farther than that, i'm afraid, will be necessary," said the son. "i have offered to miss wyndham--have been refused--and, having finished my business at grey abbey, your lordship will probably think that in leaving it i shall be acting with discretion." "you have offered to fanny and been refused!" "indeed i have; finally and peremptorily refused. not only that: i have pledged my word to my cousin that i will never renew my suit." the earl sat speechless in his chair--so much worse was this catastrophe even than his expectations. lord kilcullen continued. "i hope, at any rate, you are satisfied with me. i have not only implicitly obeyed your directions, but i have done everything in my power to accomplish what you wished. had my marriage with my cousin been a project of my own, i could not have done more for its accomplishment. miss wyndham's affections are engaged; and she will never, i am sure, marry one man while she loves another." "loves another--psha!" roared the earl. "is this to be the end of it all? after your promises to me--after your engagement! after such an engagement, sir, you come to me and talk about a girl loving another? loving another! will her loving another pay your debts?" "exactly the reverse, my lord," said the son. "i fear it will materially postpone their payment." "well, sir," said the earl. he did not exactly know how to commence the thunder of indignation with which he intended to annihilate his son, for certainly kilcullen had done the best in his power to complete the bargain. but still the storm could not be stayed, unreasonable as it might be for the earl to be tempestuous on the occasion. "well, sir," and he stood up from his chair, to face his victim, who was still standing--and, thrusting his hands into his trowsers' pockets, frowned awfully--"well, sir; am i to be any further favoured with your plans?" "i have none, my lord," said kilcullen; "i am again ready to listen to yours." "my plans?--i have no further plans to offer for you. you are ruined, utterly ruined: you have done your best to ruin me and your mother; i have pointed out to you, i arranged for you, the only way in which your affairs could be redeemed; i made every thing easy for you." "no, my lord: you could not make it easy for me to get my cousin's love." "don't contradict me, sir. i say i did. i made every thing straight and easy for you: and now you come to me with a whining story about a girl's love! what's her love to me, sir? where am i to get my thirty thousand pounds, sir?--and my note of hand is passed for as much more, at this time twelve-month! where am i to raise that, sir? do you remember that you have engaged to repay me these sums?--do you remember that, or have such trifles escaped your recollection?" "i remember perfectly well, my lord, that if i married my cousin, you were to repay yourself those sums out of her fortune. but i also remember, and so must you, that i beforehand warned you that i thought she would refuse me." "refuse you," said the earl, with a contortion of his nose and lips intended to convey unutterable scorn; "of course she refused you, when you asked her as a child would ask for an apple, or a cake! what else could you expect?" "i hardly think your lordship knows--" "don't you hardly think?--then i do know; and know well too. i know you have deceived me, grossly deceived me--induced me to give you money--to incur debts, with which i never would have burdened myself had i not believed you were sincere in your promise. but you have deceived me, sir--taken me in; for by heaven it's no better!--it's no better than downright swindling--and that from a son to his father! but it's for the last time; not a penny more do you get from me: you can ruin the property; indeed, i believe you have; but, for your mother's and sister's sake, i'll keep till i die what little you have left me." lord cashel had worked himself up into a perfect frenzy, and was stamping about the room as he uttered this speech; but, as he came to the end of it, he threw himself into his chair again, and buried his face in his hands. lord kilcullen was standing with his back resting against the mantel-piece, with a look of feigned indifference on his face, which he tried hard to maintain. but his brow became clouded, and he bit his lips when his father accused him of swindling; and he was just about to break forth into a torrent of recrimination, when lord cashel turned off into a pathetic strain, and kilcullen thought it better to leave him there. "what i'm to do, i don't know; what i am to do, i do not know!" said the earl, beating the table with one hand, and hiding his face with the other. "sixty thousand pounds in one year; and that after so many drains!--and there's only my own life--there's only my own life!"--and then there was a pause for four or five minutes, during which lord kilcullen took snuff, poked the fire, and then picked up a newspaper, as though he were going to read it. this last was too much for the father, and he again roared out, "well, sir, what are you standing there for? if you've nothing else to say; why don't you go? i've done with you--you can not get more out of me, i promise you!" "i've a good deal to say before i go, my lord," said kilcullen. "i was waiting till you were disposed to listen to me. i've a good deal to say, indeed, which you must hear; and i trust, therefore, you will endeavour to be cool, whatever your opinions may be about my conduct." "cool?--no, sir, i will not be cool. you're too cool yourself!" "cool enough for both, you think, my lord." "kilcullen," said the earl, "you've neither heart nor principle: you have done your worst to ruin me, and now you come to insult me in my own room. say what you want to say, and then leave me." "as to insulting language, my lord, i think you need not complain, when you remember that you have just called me a swindler, because i have been unable to accomplish your wish and my own, by marrying my cousin. however, i will let that pass. i have done the best i could to gain that object. i did more than either of us thought it possible that i should do, when i consented to attempt it. i offered her my hand, and assured her of my affection, without falsehood or hypocrisy. my bargain was that i should offer to her. i have done more than that, for i have loved her. i have, however, been refused, and in such a manner as to convince me that it would be useless for me to renew my suit. if your lordship will allow me to advise you on such a subject, i would suggest that you make no further objection to fanny's union with lord ballindine. for marry him she certainly will." "what, sir?" again shouted lord cashel. "i trust fanny will receive no further annoyance on the subject. she has convinced me that her own mind is thoroughly made up; and she is not the person to change her mind on such a subject." "and haven't you enough on hand in your own troubles, but what you must lecture me about my ward?--is it for that you have come to torment me at this hour? had not you better at once become her guardian yourself, sir, and manage the matter in your own way?" "i promised fanny i would say as much to you. i will not again mention her name unless you press me to do so." "that's very kind," said the earl. "and now, about myself. i think your lordship will agree with me that it is better that i should at once leave grey abbey, when i tell you that, if i remain here, i shall certainly be arrested before the week is over, if i am found outside the house. i do not wish to have bailiffs knocking at your lordship's door, and your servants instructed to deny me." "upon my soul, you are too good." "at any rate," said kilcullen, "you'll agree with me that this is no place for me to remain in." "you're quite at liberty to go," said the earl. "you were never very ceremonious with regard to me; pray don't begin to be so now. pray go--to-night if you like. your mother's heart will be broken, that's all." "i trust my mother will be able to copy your lordship's indifference." "indifference! is sixty thousand pounds in one year, and more than double within three or four, indifference? i have paid too much to be indifferent. but it is hopeless to pay more. i have no hope for you; you are ruined, and i couldn't redeem you even if i would. i could not set you free and tell you to begin again, even were it wise to do so; and therefore i tell you to go. and now, good night; i have not another word to say to you," and the earl got up as if to leave the room. "stop, my lord, you must listen to me," said kilcullen. "not a word further. i have heard enough;" and he put out the candles on the book-room table, having lighted a bed candle which he held in his hand. "pardon me, my lord," continued the son, standing just before his father, so as to prevent his leaving the room; "pardon me, but you must listen to what i have to say." "not another word--not another word. leave the door, sir, or i will ring for the servants to open it." "do so," said kilcullen, "and they also shall hear what i have to say. i am going to leave you to-morrow, perhaps for ever; and you will not listen to the last word i wish to speak to you?" "i'll stay five minutes," said the earl, taking out his watch, "and then i'll go; and if you attempt again to stop me, i'll ring the bell for the servants." "thank you, my lord, for the five minutes; it will be time enough. i purpose leaving grey abbey to-morrow, and i shall probably be in france in three days' time. when there, i trust i shall cease to trouble you; but i cannot, indeed i will not go, without funds to last me till i can make some arrangement. your lordship must give me five hundred pounds. i have not the means even of carrying myself from hence to calais." "not one penny. not one penny--if it were to save you from the gaol to-morrow! this is too bad!" and the earl again walked to the door, against which lord kilcullen leaned his back. "by heaven, sir, i'll raise the house if you think to frighten me by violence!" "i'll use no violence, but you must hear the alternative: if you please it, the whole house shall hear it too. if you persist in refusing the small sum i now ask--" "i will not give you one penny to save you from gaol. is that plain?" "perfectly plain, and very easy to believe. but you will give more than a penny; you would even give more than i ask, to save yourself from the annoyance you will have to undergo." "not on any account will i give you one single farthing." "very well. then i have only to tell you what i must do. of course, i shall remain here. you cannot turn me out of your house, or refuse me a seat at your table." "by heavens, though, i both can and will!" "you cannot, my lord. if you think of it, you'll find you cannot, without much disagreeable trouble. an eldest son would be a very difficult tenant to eject summarily: and of my own accord i will not go without the money i ask." "by heavens, this exceeds all i ever heard. would you rob your own father?" "i will not rob him, but i'll remain in his house. the sheriff's officers, doubtless, will hang about the doors, and be rather troublesome before the windows; but i shall not be the first irish gentleman that has remained at home upon his keeping. and, like other irish gentlemen, i will do so rather than fall into the hands of these myrmidons. i have no wish to annoy you; i shall be most sorry to do so; most sorry to subject my mother to the misery which must attend the continual attempts which will be made to arrest me; but i will not put my head into the lion's jaw." "this is the return for what i have done for him!" ejaculated the earl, in his misery. "unfortunate reprobate! unfortunate reprobate!--that i should be driven to wish that he was in gaol!" "your wishing so won't put me there, my lord. if it would i should not be weak enough to ask you for this money. do you mean to comply with my request?" "i do not, sir: not a penny shall you have--not one farthing more shall you get from me." "then good night, my lord. i grieve that i should have to undergo a siege in your lordship's house, more especially as it is likely to be a long one. in a week's time there will be a '_ne exeat_' [ ] issued against me, and then it will be too late for me to think of france." and so saying, the son retired to his own room, and left the father to consider what he had better do in his distress. [footnote : ne exeat--(latin) "let him not leave"; a legal writ forbidding a person to leave the jurisdiction of the court] lord cashel was dreadfully embarrassed. what lord kilcullen said was perfectly true; an eldest son was a most difficult tenant to eject; and then, the ignominy of having his heir arrested in his own house, or detained there by bailiffs lurking round the premises! he could not determine whether it would be more painful to keep his son, or to give him up. if he did the latter, he would be driven to effect it by a most disagreeable process. he would have to assist the officers of the law in their duty, and to authorise them to force the doors locked by his son. the prospect, either way, was horrid. he would willingly give the five hundred pounds to be rid of his heir, were it not for his word's sake, or rather his pride's sake. he had said he would not, and, as he walked up and down the room he buttoned up his breeches pocket, and tried to resolve that, come what come might, he would not expedite his son's departure by the outlay of one shilling. the candles had been put out, and the gloom of the room was only lightened by a single bed-room taper, which, as it stood near the door, only served to render palpable the darkness of the further end of the chamber. for half an hour lord cashel walked to and fro, anxious, wretched, and in doubt, instead of going to his room. how he wished that lord ballindine had married his ward, and taken her off six months since!--all this trouble would not then have come upon him. and as he thought of the thirty thousand pounds that he had spent, and the thirty thousand more that he must spend, he hurried on with such rapidity that in the darkness he struck his shin violently against some heavy piece of furniture, and, limping back to the candlestick, swore through his teeth--"no, not a penny, were it to save him from perdition! i'll see the sheriff's officer. i'll see the sheriff himself, and tell him that every door in the house--every closet--every cellar, shall be open to him. my house shall enable no one to defy the law." and, with this noble resolve, to which, by the bye, the blow on his shin greatly contributed, lord cashel went to bed, and the house was at rest. about nine o'clock on the following morning lord kilcullen was still in bed, but awake. his servant had been ordered to bring him hot water, and he was seriously thinking of getting up, and facing the troubles of the day, when a very timid knock at the door announced to him that some stranger was approaching. he adjusted his nightcap, brought the bed-clothes up close to his neck, and on giving the usual answer to a knock at the door, saw a large cap introduce itself, the head belonging to which seemed afraid to follow. "who's that?" he called out. "it's me, my lord," said the head, gradually following the cap. "griffiths, my lord." "well?" "lady selina, my lord; her ladyship bids me give your lordship her love, and would you see her ladyship for five minutes before you get up?" lord kilcullen having assented to this proposal, the cap and head retired. a second knock at the door was soon given, and lady selina entered the room, with a little bit of paper in her hand. "good morning, adolphus," said the sister. "good morning, selina," said the brother. "it must be something very particular, which brings you here at this hour." "it is indeed, something very particular. i have been with papa this morning, adolphus: he has told me of the interview between you last night." "well." "oh, adolphus! he is very angry--he's--" "so am i, selina. i am very angry, too;--so we're quits. we laid a plan together, and we both failed, and each blames the other; so you need not tell me anything further about his anger. did he send any message to me?" "he did. he told me i might give you this, if i would undertake that you left grey abbey to-day:" and lady selina held up, but did not give him, the bit of paper. "what a dolt he is." "oh, adolphus!" said selina, "don't speak so of your father." "so he is: how on earth can you undertake that i shall leave the house?" "i can ask you to give me your word that you will do so; and i can take back the check if you refuse," said lady selina, conceiving it utterly impossible that one of her own family could break his word. "well, selina, i'll answer you fairly. if that bit of paper is a cheque for five hundred pounds, i will leave this place in two hours. if it is not--" "it is," said selina. "it is a cheque for five hundred pounds, and i may then give it to you?" "i thought as much," said lord kilcullen; "i thought he'd alter his mind. yes, you may give it me, and tell my father i'll dine in london to-morrow evening." "he says, adolphus, he'll not see you before you go." "well, there's comfort in that, anyhow." "oh, adolphus! how can you speak in that manner now?--how can you speak in that wicked, thoughtless, reckless manner?" said his sister. "because i'm a wicked, thoughtless, reckless man, i suppose. i didn't mean to vex you, selina; but my father is so pompous, so absurd, and so tedious. in the whole of this affair i have endeavoured to do exactly as he would have me; and he is more angry with me now, because his plan has failed, than he ever was before, for any of my past misdoings.--but let me get up now, there's a good girl; for i've no time to lose." "will you see your mother before you go, adolphus?" "why, no; it'll be no use--only tormenting her. tell her something, you know; anything that won't vex her." "but i cannot tell her anything about you that will not vex her." "well, then, say what will vex her least. tell her--tell her. oh, you know what to tell her, and i'm sure i don't." "and fanny: will you see her again?" "no," said kilcullen. "i have bid her good bye. but give her my kindest love, and tell her that i did what i told her i would do." "she told me what took place between you yesterday." "why, selina, everybody tells you everything! and now, i'll tell you something. if you care for your cousin's happiness, do not attempt to raise difficulties between her and lord ballindine. and now, i must say good bye to you. i'll have my breakfast up here, and go directly down to the yard. good bye, selina; when i'm settled i'll write to you, and tell you where i am." "good bye, adolphus; god bless you, and enable you yet to retrieve your course. i'm afraid it is a bad one;" and she stooped down and kissed her brother. he was as good as his word. in two hours' time he had left grey abbey. he dined that day in dublin, the next in london, and the third in boulogne; and the sub-sheriff of county kildare in vain issued half-a-dozen writs for his capture. xxxiv. the doctor makes a clean breast of it we will now return for a while to dunmore, and settle the affairs of the kellys and lynches, which we left in rather a precarious state. barry's attempt on doctor colligan's virtue was very unsuccessful, for anty continued to mend under the treatment of that uncouth but safe son of galen. as colligan told her brother, the fever had left her, though for some time it was doubtful whether she had strength to recover from its effects. this, however, she did gradually; and, about a fortnight after the dinner at dunmore house, the doctor told mrs kelly and martin that his patient was out of danger. martin had for some time made up his mind that anty was to live for many years in the character of mrs martin, and could not therefore be said to be much affected by the communication. but if he was not, his mother was. she had made up her mind that anty was to die; that she was to pay for the doctor--the wake, and the funeral, and that she would have a hardship and grievance to boast of, and a subject of self-commendation to enlarge on, which would have lasted her till her death; and she consequently felt something like disappointment at being ordered to administer to anty a mutton chop and a glass of sherry every day at one o'clock. not that the widow was less assiduous, or less attentive to anty's wants now that she was convalescent; but she certainly had not so much personal satisfaction, as when she was able to speak despondingly of her patient to all her gossips. "poor cratur!" she used to say--"it's all up with her now; the lord be praised for all his mercies. she's all as one as gone, glory be to god and the blessed virgin. shure no good ever come of ill-got money;--not that she was iver to blame. thank the lord, av' i have a penny saved at all, it was honestly come by; not that i shall have when this is done and paid for, not a stifle; (stiver [ ] mrs kelly probably meant)--but what's that!" and she snapped her fingers to show that the world's gear was all dross in her estimation.--"she shall be dacently sthretched, though she is a lynch, and a kelly has to pay for it. whisper, neighbour; in two years' time there'll not be one penny left on another of all the dirthy money sim lynch scraped together out of the gutthers." [footnote : stiver--a dutch coin worth almost nothing] there was a degree of triumph in these lamentations, a tone of self-satisfied assurance in the truth of her melancholy predictions, which showed that the widow was not ill at ease with herself. when anty was declared out of danger, her joy was expressed with much more moderation. "yes, thin," she said to father pat geoghegan, "poor thing, she's rallying a bit. the docthor says maybe she'll not go this time; but he's much in dread of a re-claps--" "relapse, mrs kelly, i suppose?" "well, relapse, av' you will, father pat--relapse or reclaps, it's pretty much the same i'm thinking; for she'd niver get through another bout. god send we may be well out of the hobble this day twelvemonth. martin's my own son, and ain't above industhrying, as his father and mother did afore him, and i won't say a word agin him; but he's brought more throuble on me with them lynches than iver i knew before. what has a lone woman like me, father pat, to do wid sthrangers like them? jist to turn their backs on me when i ain't no furder use, and to be gitting the hights of insolence and abuse, as i did from that blagguard barry. he'd betther keep his toe in his pump and go asy, or he'll wake to a sore morning yet, some day." doctor colligan, also, was in trouble from his connection with the lynches: not that he had any dissatisfaction at the recovery of his patient, for he rejoiced at it, both on her account and his own. he had strongly that feeling of self-applause, which must always be enjoyed by a doctor who brings a patient safely through a dangerous illness. but barry's iniquitous proposal to him weighed heavy on his conscience. it was now a week since it had been made, and he had spoken of it to no one. he had thought much and frequently of what he ought to do; whether he should publicly charge lynch with the fact; whether he should tell it confidentially to some friend whom he could trust; or whether--by far the easiest alternative, he should keep it in his own bosom, and avoid the man in future as he would an incarnation of the devil. it preyed much upon his spirits, for he lived in fear of barry lynch--in fear lest he should determine to have the first word, and, in his own defence, accuse him (colligan) of the very iniquity which he had himself committed. nothing, the doctor felt, would be too bad or too false for barry lynch; nothing could be more damnable than the proposal he had made; and yet it would be impossible to convict him, impossible to punish him. he would, of course, deny the truth of the accusation, and probably return the charge on his accuser. and yet colligan felt that he would be compromising the matter, if he did not mention it to some one; and that he would outrage his own feelings if he did not express his horror at the murder which he had been asked to commit. for one week these feelings quite destroyed poor colligan's peace of mind; during the second, he determined to make a clean breast of it; and, on the first day of the third week, after turning in his mind twenty different people--martin kelly--young daly--the widow--the parish priest--the parish parson--the nearest stipendiary magistrate--and a brother doctor in tuam, he at last determined on going to lord ballindine, as being both a magistrate and a friend of the kellys. doctor colligan himself was not at all acquainted with lord ballindine: he attended none of the family, who extensively patronised his rival, and he had never been inside kelly's court house. he felt, therefore, considerable embarrassment at his mission; but he made up his mind to go, and, manfully setting himself in his antique rickety gig, started early enough, to catch lord ballindine, as he thought, before he left the house after breakfast. lord ballindine had spent the last week or ten days restlessly enough. armstrong, his clerical ambassador, had not yet started on his mission to grey abbey, and innumerable difficulties seemed to arise to prevent his doing so. first of all, the black cloth was to be purchased, and a tailor, sufficiently adept for making up the new suit, was to be caught. this was a work of some time; for though there is in the west of ireland a very general complaint of the stagnation of trade, trade itself is never so stagnant as are the tradesmen, when work, is to be done; and it is useless for a poor wight to think of getting his coat or his boots, till such time as absolute want shall have driven the artisan to look for the price of his job--unless some private and underhand influence be used, as was done in the case of jerry blake's new leather breeches. this cause of delay was, however, not mentioned to lord ballindine; but when it was well got over, and a neighbouring parson procured to preach on the next sunday to mrs o'kelly and the three policemen who attended ballindine church, mrs armstrong broke her thumb with the rolling-pin while making a beef pudding for the family dinner, and her husband's departure was again retarded. and then, on the next sunday, the neighbouring parson could not leave his own policemen, and the two spinsters, who usually formed his audience. all this tormented lord ballindine. and he was really thinking of giving up the idea of sending mr armstrong altogether, when he received the following letter from his friend dot blake. limmer's hotel. april, . dear frank, one cries out, "what are you at?" the other, "what are you after?" every one is saying what a fool you are! kilcullen is at grey abbey, with the evident intention of superseding you in possession of miss w----, and, what is much more to his taste, as it would be to mine, of her fortune. mr t. has written to me _from grey abbey_, where he has been staying: he is a good-hearted fellow, and remembers how warmly you contradicted the report that your match was broken off. for heaven's sake, follow up your warmth of denial with some show of positive action, a little less cool than your present quiescence, or you cannot expect that any amount of love should be strong enough to prevent your affianced from resenting your conduct. i am doubly anxious; quite as anxious that kilcullen, whom i detest, should not get young wyndham's money, as i am that you should. he is utterly, _utterly_ smashed. if he got double the amount of fanny wyndham's cash, it could not keep him above water for more than a year or so; and then she must go down with him. i am sure the old fool, his father, does not half know the amount of his son's liabilities, or he could not be heartless enough to consent to sacrifice the poor girl as she will be sacrificed, if kilcullen gets her. i am not usually very anxious about other people's concerns; but i do feel anxious about this matter. i want to have a respectable house in the country, in which i can show my face when i grow a little older, and be allowed to sip my glass of claret, and talk about my horses, in spite of my iniquitous propensities--and i expect to be allowed to do so at kelly's court. but, if you let miss wyndham slip through your fingers, you won't have a house over your head in a few years' time, much less a shelter to offer a friend. for god's sake, start for grey abbey at once. why, man alive, the ogre can't eat you! the whole town is in the devil of a ferment about brien. of course you heard the rumour, last week, of his heels being cracked? some of the knowing boys want to get out of the trap they are in; and, despairing of bringing the horse down in the betting by fair means, got a boy out of scott's stables to swear to the fact. i went down at once to yorkshire, and published a letter in _bell's life_ last saturday, stating that he is all right. this you have probably seen. you will be astonished to hear it, but i believe lord tattenham corner got the report spread. for heaven's sake don't mention this, particularly not as coming from me. they say that if brien does the trick, he will lose more than he has made these three years, and i believe he will. he is nominally at to ; but you can't get to anything like a figure from a safe party. for heaven's sake go to grey abbey, and at once. always faithfully, w. blake. this letter naturally increased lord ballindine's uneasiness, and he wrote a note to mr armstrong, informing him that he would not trouble him to go at all, unless he could start the next day. indeed, that he should then go himself, if mr armstrong did not do so. this did not suit mr armstrong. he had made up his mind to go; he could not well return the twenty pounds he had received, nor did he wish to forego the advantage which might arise from the trip. so he told his wife to be very careful about her thumb, made up his mind to leave the three policemen for once without spiritual food, and wrote to lord ballindine to say that he would be with him the next morning, immediately after breakfast, on his road to catch the mail-coach at ballyglass. he was as good as his word, or rather better; for he breakfasted at kelly's court, and induced lord ballindine to get into his own gig, and drive him as far as the mail-coach road. "but you'll be four or five hours too soon," said frank; "the coach doesn't pass ballyglass till three." "i want to see those cattle of rutledge's. i'll stay there, and maybe get a bit of luncheon; it's not a bad thing to be provided for the road." "i'll tell you what, though," said frank. "i want to go to tuam, so you might as well get the coach there; and if there's time to spare, you can pay your respects to the bishop." it was all the same to mr armstrong, and the two therefore started for tuam together. they had not, however, got above half way down the avenue, when they saw another gig coming towards them; and, after sundry speculations as to whom it might contain, mr armstrong pronounced the driver to be "that dirty gallipot, colligan." it was colligan; and, as the two gigs met in the narrow road, the dirty gallipot took off his hat, and was very sorry to trouble lord ballindine, but had a few words to say to him on very important and pressing business. lord ballindine touched his hat, and intimated that he was ready to listen, but gave no signs of getting out of his gig. "my lord," said colligan, "it's particularly important, and if you could, as a magistrate, spare me five minutes." "oh, certainly, mr colligan," said frank; "that is, i'm rather hurried--i may say very much hurried just at present. but still--i suppose there's no objection to mr armstrong hearing what you have to say?" "why, my lord," said colligan, "i don't know. your lordship can judge yourself afterwards; but i'd rather--" "oh, i'll get down," said the parson. "i'll just take a walk among the trees: i suppose the doctor won't be long?" "if you wouldn't mind getting into my buggy, and letting me into his lordship's gig, you could be following us on, mr armstrong," suggested colligan. this suggestion was complied with. the parson and the doctor changed places; and the latter, awkwardly enough, but with perfect truth, whispered his tale into lord ballindine's ear. at first, frank had been annoyed at the interruption; but, as he learned the cause of it, he gave his full attention to the matter, and only interrupted the narrator by exclamations of horror and disgust. when doctor colligan had finished, lord ballindine insisted on repeating the whole affair to mr armstrong. "i could not take upon myself," said he, "to advise you what to do; much less to tell you what you should do. there is only one thing clear; you cannot let things rest as they are. armstrong is a man of the world, and will know what to do; you cannot object to talking the matter over with him." colligan consented: and armstrong, having been summoned, drove the doctor's buggy up alongside of lord ballindine's gig. "armstrong," said frank, "i have just heard the most horrid story that ever came to my ears. that wretch, barry lynch, has tried to induce doctor colligan to poison his sister!" "what!" shouted armstrong; "to poison his sister?" "gently, mr armstrong; pray don't speak so loud, or it'll be all through the country in no time." "poison his sister!" repeated armstrong. "oh, it'll hang him! there's no doubt it'll hang him! of course you'll take the doctor's information?" "but the doctor hasn't tendered me any information," said frank, stopping his horse, so that armstrong was able to get close up to his elbow. "but i presume it is his intention to do so?" said the parson. "i should choose to have another magistrate present then," said frank. "really, doctor colligan, i think the best thing you can do is to come before myself and the stipendiary magistrate at tuam. we shall be sure to find brew at home to-day." "but, my lord," said colligan, "i really had no intention of doing that. i have no witnesses. i can prove nothing. indeed, i can't say he ever asked me to do the deed: he didn't say anything i could charge him with as a crime: he only offered me the farm if his sister should die. but i knew what he meant; there was no mistaking it: i saw it in his eye." "and what did you do, doctor colligan, at the time?" said the parson. "i hardly remember," said the doctor; "i was so flurried. but i know i knocked him down, and then i rushed out of the room. i believe i threatened i'd have him hung." "but you did knock him down?" "oh, i did. he was sprawling on the ground when i left him." "you're quite sure you knocked him down?" repeated the parson. "the divil a doubt on earth about that!" replied colligan. "i tell you, when i left the room he was on his back among the chairs." "and you did not hear a word from him since?" "not a word." "then there can't be any mistake about it, my lord," said armstrong. "if he did not feel that his life was in the doctor's hands, he would not put up with being knocked down. and i'll tell you what's more--if you tax him with the murder, he'll deny it and defy you; but tax him with having been knocked down, and he'll swear his foot slipped, or that he'd have done as much for the doctor if he hadn't run away. and then ask him why the doctor knocked him down?--you'll have him on the hip so." "there's something in that," said frank; "but the question is, what is doctor colligan to do? he says he can't swear any information on which a magistrate could commit him." "unless he does, my lord," said armstrong, "i don't think you should listen to him at all; at least, not as a magistrate." "well, doctor colligan, what do you say?" "i don't know what to say, my lord. i came to your lordship for advice, both as a magistrate and as a friend of the young man who is to marry lynch's sister. of course, if you cannot advise me, i will go away again." "you won't come before me and mr brew, then?" "i don't say i won't," said colligan; "but i don't see the use. i'm not able to prove anything." "i'll tell you what, ballindine," said the parson; "only i don't know whether it mayn't be tampering with justice--suppose we were to go to this hell-hound, you and i together, and, telling him what we know, give him his option to stand his trial or quit the country? take my word for it, he'd go; and that would be the best way to be rid of him. he'd leave his sister in peace and quiet then, to enjoy her fortune." "that's true," said frank; "and it would be a great thing to rid the country of him. do you remember the way he rode a-top of that poor bitch of mine the other day--goneaway, you know; the best bitch in the pack?" "indeed i do," said the parson; "but for all that, she wasn't the best bitch in the pack: she hadn't half the nose of gaylass." "but, as i was saying, armstrong, it would be a great thing to rid the country of barry lynch." "indeed it would." "and there'd be nothing then to prevent young kelly marrying anty at once." "make him give his consent in writing before you let him go," said armstrong. "i'll tell you what, doctor colligan," said frank; "do you get into your own gig, and follow us on, and i'll talk the matter over with mr armstrong." the doctor again returned to his buggy, and the parson to his own seat, and lord ballindine drove off at a pace which made it difficult enough for doctor colligan to keep him in sight. "i don't know how far we can trust that apothecary," said frank to his friend. "he's an honest man, i believe," said armstrong, "though he's a dirty, drunken blackguard." "maybe he was drunk this evening, at lynch's?" "i was wrong to call him a drunkard. i believe he doesn't get drunk, though he's always drinking. but you may take my word for it, what he's telling you now is as true as gospel. if he was telling a lie from malice, he'd be louder, and more urgent about it: you see he's half afraid to speak, as it is. he would not have come near you at all, only his conscience makes him afraid to keep the matter to himself. you may take my word for it, ballindine, barry lynch did propose to him to murder his sister. indeed, it doesn't surprise me. he is so utterly worthless." "but murder, armstrong! downright murder; of the worst kind; studied--premeditated. he must have been thinking of it, and planning it, for days. a man may be worthless, and yet not such a wretch as that would make him. can you really think he meant colligan to murder his sister?" "i can, and do think so," said the parson. "the temptation was great: he had been waiting for his sister's death; and he could not bring himself to bear disappointment. i do not think he could do it with his own hand, for he is a coward; but i can quite believe that he could instigate another person to do it." "then i'd hang him. i wouldn't raise my hand to save him from the rope!" "nor would i: but we can't hang him. we can do nothing to him, if he defies us; but, if he's well handled, we can drive him from the country." the lord and the parson talked the matter over till they reached dunmore, and agreed that they would go, with colligan, to barry lynch; tell him of the charge which was brought against him, and give him his option of standing his trial, or of leaving the country, under a written promise that he would never return to it. in this case, he was also to write a note to anty, signifying his consent that she should marry martin kelly, and also execute some deed by which all control over the property should be taken out of his own hands; and that he should agree to receive his income, whatever it might be, through the hands of an agent. there were sundry matters connected with the subject, which were rather difficult of arrangement. in the, first place, frank was obliged, very unwillingly, to consent that mr armstrong should remain, at any rate one day longer, in the country. it was, however, at last settled that he should return that night and sleep at kelly's court. then lord ballindine insisted that they should tell young kelly what they were about, before they went to barry's house, as it would be necessary to consult him as to the disposition he would wish to have made of the property. armstrong was strongly against this measure,--but it was, at last, decided on; and then they had to induce colligan to go with them. he much wished them to manage the business without him. he had had quite enough of dunmore house; and, in spite of the valiant manner in which he had knocked its owner down the last time he was there, seemed now quite afraid to face him. but mr armstrong informed him that he must go on now, as he had said so much, and at last frightened him into an unwilling compliance. the three of them went up into the little parlour of the inn, and summoned martin to the conference, and various were the conjectures made by the family as to the nature of the business which brought three such persons to the inn together. but the widow settled them all by asserting that "a kelly needn't be afeared, thank god, to see his own landlord in his own house, nor though he brought an attorney wid him as well as a parson and a docther." and so, martin was sent for, and soon heard the horrid story. not long after he had joined them, the four sallied out together, and meg remarked that something very bad was going to happen, for the lord never passed her before without a kind word or a nod; and now he took no more notice of her than if it had been only sally herself that met him on the stairs. xxxv. mr lynch bids farewell to dunmore poor martin was dreadfully shocked; and not only shocked, but grieved and astonished. he had never thought well of his intended brother-in-law, but he had not judged him so severely as mr armstrong had done. he listened to all lord ballindine said to him, and agreed as to the propriety of the measures he proposed. but there was nothing of elation about him at the downfall of the man whom he could not but look on as his enemy: indeed, he was not only subdued and modest in his demeanour, but he appeared so reserved that he could hardly be got to express any interest in the steps which were to be taken respecting the property. it was only when lord ballindine pointed out to him that it was his duty to guard anty's interests, that he would consent to go to dunmore house with them, and to state, when called upon to do so, what measures he would wish to have adopted with regard to the property. "suppose he denies himself to us?" said frank, as the four walked across the street together, to the great astonishment of the whole population. "if he's in the house, i'll go bail we won't go away without seeing him," said the parson. "will he be at home, kelly, do you think?" "indeed he will, mr armstrong," said martin; "he'll be in bed and asleep. he's never out of bed, i believe, much before one or two in the day. it's a bad life he's leading since the ould man died." "you may say that," said the doctor:--"cursing and drinking; drinking and cursing; nothing else. you'll find him curse at you dreadful, mr armstrong, i'm afraid." "i can bear that, doctor; it's part of my own trade, you know; but i think we'll find him quiet enough. i think you'll find the difficulty is to make him speak at all. you'd better be spokesman, my lord, as you're a magistrate." "no, armstrong, i will not. you're much more able, and more fitting: if it's necessary for me to act as a magistrate, i'll do so--but at first we'll leave him to you." "very well," said the parson; "and i'll do my best. but i'll tell you what i am afraid of: if we find him in bed we must wait for him, and when the servant tells him who we are, and mentions the doctor's name along with yours, my lord, he'll guess what we're come about, and he'll be out of the window, or into the cellar, and then there'd be no catching him without the police. we must make our way up into his bed-room." "i don't think we could well do that," said the doctor. "no, armstrong," said lord ballindine. "i don't think we ought to force ourselves upstairs: we might as well tell all the servants what we'd come about." "and so we must," said armstrong, "if it's necessary. the more determined we are--in fact, the rougher we are with him, the more likely we are to bring him on his knees. i tell you, you must have no scruples in dealing with such a fellow; but leave him to me;" and so saying, the parson gave a thundering rap at the hail door, and in about one minute repeated it, which brought biddy running to the door without shoes or stockings, with her hair streaming behind her head, and, in her hand, the comb with which she had been disentangling it. "is your master at home?" said armstrong. "begorra, he is," said the girl out of breath. "that is, he's not up yet, nor awake, yer honer," and she held the door in her hand, as though this answer was final. "but i want to see him on especial and immediate business," said the parson, pushing back the door and the girl together, and walking into the hall. "i must see him at once. mr lynch will excuse me: we've known each other a long time." "begorra, i don't know," said the girl, "only he's in bed and fast. couldn't yer honer call agin about four or five o'clock? that's the time the masther's most fittest to be talking to the likes of yer honer." "these gentlemen could not wait," said the parson. "shure the docther there, and mr martin, knows well enough i'm not telling you a bit of a lie, misther armstrong," said the girl. "i know you're not, my good girl; i know you're not telling a lie;--but, nevertheless, i must see mr lynch. just step up and wake him, and tell him i'm waiting to say two words to him." "faix, yer honer, he's very bitther intirely, when he's waked this early. but in course i'll be led by yer honers. i'll say then, that the lord, and parson armstrong, and the docther, and mr martin, is waiting to spake two words to him. is that it?" "that'll do as well as anything," said armstrong; and then, when the girl went upstairs, he continued, "you see she knew us all, and of course will tell him who we are; but i'll not let him escape, for i'll go up with her," and, as the girl slowly opened her master's bed-room door, mr armstrong stood close outside it in the passage. after considerable efforts, biddy succeeded in awaking her master sufficiently to make him understand that lord ballindine, and doctor colligan were downstairs, and that parson armstrong was just outside the bed-room door. the poor girl tried hard to communicate her tidings in such a whisper as would be inaudible to the parson; but this was impossible, for barry only swore at her, and asked her "what the d---- she meant by jabbering there in that manner?" when, however, he did comprehend who his visitors were, and where they were, he gnashed his teeth and clenched his fist at the poor girl, in sign of his anger against her for having admitted so unwelcome a party; but he was too frightened to speak. mr armstrong soon put an end to this dumb show, by walking into the bed-room, when the girl escaped, and he shut the door. barry sat up in his bed, rubbed his eyes, and stared at him, but he said nothing. "mr lynch," said the parson, "i had better at once explain the circumstances which have induced me to make so very strange a visit." "confounded strange, i must say! to come up to a man's room in this way, and him in bed!" "doctor colligan is downstairs--" "d---- doctor colligan! he's at his lies again, i suppose? much i care for doctor colligan." "doctor colligan is downstairs," continued mr armstrong, "and lord ballindine, who, you are aware, is a magistrate. they wish to speak to you, mr lynch, and that at once." "i suppose they can wait till a man's dressed?" "that depends on how long you're dressing, mr lynch." "upon my word, this is cool enough, in a man's own house!" said barry. "well, you don't expect me to get up while you're there, i suppose?" "indeed i do, mr lynch: never mind me; just wash and dress yourself as though i wasn't here. i'll wait here till we go down together." "i'm d----d if i do," said barry. "i'll not stir while you remain there!" and he threw himself back in the bed, and wrapped the bedclothes round him. "very well," said mr armstrong; and then going out on to the landing-place, called out over the banisters--"doctor--doctor colligan! tell his lordship mr lynch objects to a private interview: he had better just step down to the court-house, and issue his warrant. you might as well tell constable nelligan to be in the way." "d----n!" exclaimed barry, sitting bolt upright in his bed. "who says i object to see anybody? mr armstrong, what do you go and say that for?" mr armstrong returned into the room. "it's not true. i only want to have my bed-room to myself, while i get up." "for once in the way, mr lynch, you must manage to get up although your privacy be intruded on. to tell you the plain truth, i will not leave you till you come downstairs with me, unless it be in the custody of a policeman. if you will quietly dress and come downstairs with me, i trust we may be saved the necessity of troubling the police at all." barry, at last, gave way, and, gradually extricating himself from the bedclothes, put his feet down on the floor, and remained sitting on the side of his bed. he leaned his head down on his hands, and groaned inwardly; for he was very sick, and the fumes of last night's punch still disturbed his brain. his stockings and drawers were on; for terry, when he put him to bed, considered it only waste of time to pull them off, for "shure wouldn't they have jist to go on agin the next morning?" "don't be particular, mr lynch: never mind washing or shaving till we're gone. we won't keep you long, i hope." "you're very kind, i must say," said barry. "i suppose you won't object to my having a bottle of soda water?"--and he gave a terrible tug at the bell. "not at all--nor a glass of brandy in it, if you like it. indeed, mr lynch, i think that, just at present, it will be the better thing for you." barry got his bottle of soda water, and swallowed about two glasses of whiskey in it, for brandy was beginning to be scarce with him; and then commenced his toilet. he took parson armstrong's hint, and wasn't very particular about it. he huddled on his clothes, smoothed his hair with his brush, and muttering something about it's being their own fault, descended into the parlour, followed by mr armstrong. he made a kind of bow to lord ballindine; took no notice of martin, but, turning round sharp on the doctor, said: "of all the false ruffians, i ever met, colligan--by heavens, you're the worst! there's one comfort, no man in dunmore will believe a word you say." he then threw himself back into the easy chair, and said, "well, gentlemen--well, my lord--here i am. you can't say i'm ashamed to show my face, though i must say your visit is not made in the genteelest manner." "mr lynch," said the parson, "do you remember the night doctor colligan knocked you down in this room? in this room, wasn't it, doctor?" "yes; in this room," said the doctor, rather _sotto voce_. "do you remember the circumstance, mr lynch?" "it's a lie!" said barry. "no it's not," said the parson. "if you forget it, i can call in the servant to remember so much as that for me; but you'll find it better, mr lynch, to let us finish this business among ourselves. come, think about it. i'm sure you remember being knocked down by the doctor." "i remember a scrimmage there was between us. i don't care what the girl says, she didn't see it. colligan, i suppose, has given her half-a-crown, and she'd swear anything for that." "well, you remember the night of the scrimmage?" "i do: colligan got drunk here one night. he wanted me to give him a farm, and said cursed queer things about my sister. i hardly know what he said; but i know i had to turn him out of the house, and there was a scrimmage between us." "i see you're so far prepared, mr lynch: now, i'll tell you my version of the story.--martin kelly, just see that the door is shut. you endeavoured to bribe doctor colligan to murder your own sister." "it's a most infernal lie!" said barry. "where's your evidence?--where's your evidence? what's the good of your all coming here with such a story as that? where's your evidence?" "you'd better be quiet, mr lynch, or we'll adjourn at once from here to the open court-house." "adjourn when you like; it's all one to me. who'll believe such a drunken ruffian as that colligan, i'd like to know? such a story as that!" "my lord," said armstrong, "i'm afraid we must go on with this business at the court-house. martin, i believe i must trouble you to go down to the police barrack." and the whole party, except barry, rose from their seats. "what the devil are you going to drag me down to the court-house for, gentlemen?" said he. "i'll give you any satisfaction, but you can't expect i'll own to such a lie as this about my sister. i suppose my word's as good as colligan's, gentlemen? i suppose my character as a protestant gentleman stands higher than his--a dirty papist apothecary. he tells one story; i tell another; only he's got the first word of me, that's all. i suppose, gentlemen, i'm not to be condemned on the word of such a man as that?" "i think, mr lynch," said armstrong, "if you'll listen to me, you'll save yourself and us a great deal of trouble. you asked me who my witness was: my witness is in this house. i would not charge you with so horrid, so damnable a crime, had i not thoroughly convinced myself you were guilty--now, do hold your tongue, mr lynch, or i will have you down to the court-house. we all know you are guilty, you know it yourself--" "i'm--" began barry. "stop, mr lynch; not one word till i've done; or what i have to say, shall be said in public. we all know you are guilty, but we probably mayn't be able to prove it--" "no, i should think not!" shouted barry. "we mayn't be able to prove it in such a way as to enable a jury to hang you, or, upon my word, i wouldn't interfere to prevent it: the law should have its course. i'd hang you with as little respite as i would a dog." barry grinned horribly at this suggestion, but said nothing, and the parson continued: "it is not the want of evidence that stands in the way of so desirable a proceeding, but that doctor colligan, thoroughly disgusted and shocked at the iniquity of your proposal--" "oh, go on, mr armstrong!--go on; i see you are determined to have it all your own way, but my turn'll come soon." "i say that doctor colligan interrupted you before you fully committed yourself." "fully committed myself, indeed! why, colligan knows well enough, that when he got up in such a fluster, there'd not been a word at all said about anty." "hadn't there, mr lynch?--just now you said you turned the doctor out of your house for speaking about your sister. you're only committing yourself. i say, therefore, the evidence, though quite strong enough to put you into the dock as a murderer in intention, might not be sufficient to induce a jury to find you guilty. but guilty you would be esteemed in the mind of every man, woman, and child in this county: guilty of the wilful, deliberate murder of your own sister." "by heavens i'll not stand this!" exclaimed barry.--"i'll not stand this! i didn't do it, mr armstrong. i didn't do it. he's a liar, lord ballindine: upon my sacred word and honour as a gentleman, he's a liar. why do you believe him, when you won't believe me? ain't i a protestant, mr armstrong, and ain't you a protestant clergyman? don't you know that such men as he will tell any lie; will do any dirty job? on my sacred word of honour as a gentleman, lord ballindine, he offered to poison anty, on condition he got the farm round the house for nothing!--he knows it's true, and why should you believe him sooner than me, mr armstrong?" barry had got up from his seat, and was walking up and down the room, now standing opposite lord ballindine, and appealing to him, and then doing the same thing to mr armstrong. he was a horrid figure: he had no collar round his neck, and his handkerchief was put on in such a way as to look like a hangman's knot: his face was blotched, and red, and greasy, for he had neither shaved nor washed himself since his last night's debauch; he had neither waistcoat nor braces on, and his trousers fell on his hips; his long hair hung over his eyes, which were bleared and bloodshot; he was suffering dreadfully from terror, and an intense anxiety to shift the guilt from himself to doctor colligan. he was a most pitiable object--so wretched, so unmanned, so low in the scale of creation. lord ballindine did pity his misery, and suggested to mr armstrong whether by any possibility there could be any mistake in the matter--whether it was possible doctor colligan could have mistaken lynch's object?--the poor wretch jumped at this loop-hole, and doubly condemned himself by doing so. "he did, then," said barry; "he must have done so. as i hope for heaven, lord ballindine, i never had the idea of getting him to--to do anything to anty. i wouldn't have done it for worlds--indeed i wouldn't. there must be some mistake, indeed there must. he'd been drinking, mr armstrong--drinking a good deal that night--isn't that true, doctor colligan? come, man, speak the truth--don't go and try and hang a fellow out of mistake! his lordship sees it's all a mistake, and of course he's the best able to judge of the lot here; a magistrate, and a nobleman and all. i know you won't see me wronged, lord ballindine, i know you won't. i give you my sacred word of honour as a gentleman, it all came from mistake when we were both drunk, or nearly drunk. come, doctor colligan, speak man--isn't that the truth? i tell you, mr armstrong, lord ballindine's in the right of it. there is some mistake in all this." "as sure as the lord's in heaven," said the doctor, now becoming a little uneasy at the idea that lord ballindine should think he had told so strange a story without proper foundation--"as sure as the lord's in heaven, he offered me the farm for a reward, should i manage to prevent his sister's recovery." "what do you think, mr armstrong?" said lord ballindine. "think!" said the parson--"there's no possibility of thinking at all. the truth becomes clearer every moment. why, you wretched creature, it's not ten minutes since you yourself accused doctor colligan of offering to murder your sister! according to your own showing, therefore, there was a deliberate conversation between you; and your own evasion now would prove which of you were the murderer, were any additional proof wanted. but it is not. barry lynch, as sure as you now stand in the presence of your creator, whose name you so constantly blaspheme, you endeavoured to instigate that man to murder your own sister." "oh, lord ballindine!--oh, lord ballindine!" shrieked barry, in his agony, "don't desert me! pray, pray don't desert me! i didn't do it--i never thought of doing it. we were at school together, weren't we?--and you won't see me put upon this way. you mayn't think much of me in other things, but you won't believe that a school-fellow of your own ever--ever--ever--" barry couldn't bring himself to use the words with which his sentence should be finished, and so he flung himself back into his armchair and burst into tears. "you appeal to me, mr lynch," said lord ballindine, "and i must say i most firmly believe you to be guilty. my only doubt is whether you should not at once be committed for trial at the next assizes." "oh, my g----!" exclaimed barry, and for some time he continued blaspheming most horribly--swearing that there was a conspiracy against him--accusing mr armstrong, in the most bitter terms, of joining with doctor colligan and martin kelly to rob and murder him. "now, mr lynch," continued the parson, as soon as the unfortunate man would listen to him, "as i before told you, i am in doubt--we are all in doubt--whether or not a jury would hang you; and we think that we shall do more good to the community by getting you out of the way, than by letting you loose again after a trial which will only serve to let everyone know how great a wretch there is in the county. we will, therefore, give you your option either to stand your trial, or to leave the country at once--and for ever." "and my property?--what's to become of my property?" said barry. "your property's safe, mr lynch; we can't touch that. we're not prescribing any punishment to you. we fear, indeed we know, you're beyond the reach of the law, or we shouldn't make the proposal." barry breathed freely again as he heard this avowal. "but you're not beyond the reach of public opinion--of public execration--of general hatred, and of a general curse. for your sister's sake--for the sake of martin kelly, who is going to marry the sister whom you wished to murder, and not for your own sake, you shall be allowed to leave the country without this public brand being put upon your name. if you remain, no one shall speak to you but as to a man who would have murdered his sister: murder shall be everlastingly muttered in your ears; nor will your going then avail you, for your character shall go with you, and the very blackguards with whom you delight to assort, shall avoid you as being too bad even for their society. go now, mr lynch--go at once;--leave your sister to happiness which you cannot prevent; and she at least shall know nothing of your iniquity, and you shall enjoy the proceeds of your property anywhere you will--anywhere, that is, but in ireland. do you agree to this?" "i'm an innocent man, mr armstrong. i am indeed." "very well," said the parson, "then we may as well go away, and leave you to your fate. come, lord ballindine, we can have nothing further to say," and they again all rose from their seats. "stop, mr armstrong; stop," said barry. "well," said the parson; for barry repressed the words which were in his mouth, when he found that his visitors did stop as he desired them. "well, mr lynch, what have you further to say." "indeed i am not guilty." mr armstrong put on his hat and rushed to the door--"but--" continued barry. "i will have no 'buts,' mr lynch; will you at once and unconditionally agree to the terms i have proposed?" "i don't want to live in the country," said barry; "the country's nothing to me." "you will go then, immediately?" said the parson. "as soon as i have arranged about the property, i will," said barry. "that won't do," said the parson. "you must go at once, and leave your property to the care of others. you must leave dunmore _to-day_, for ever." "to-day!" shouted barry. "yes, to-day. you can easily get as far as roscommon. you have your own horse and car. and, what is more, before you go, you must write to your sister, telling her that you have made up your mind to leave the country, and expressing your consent to her marrying whom she pleases." "i can't go to-day," said barry, sulkily. "who's to receive my rents? who'll send me my money?--besides--besides. oh, come--that's nonsense. i ain't going to be turned out in that style." "you ain't in earnest, are you, about his going to-day?" whispered frank to the parson. "i am, and you'll find he'll go, too," said armstrong. "it must be to-day--this very day, mr lynch. martin kelly will manage for you about the property." "or you can send for mr daly, to meet you at roscommon," suggested martin. "thank you for nothing," said barry; "you'd better wait till you're spoken to. i don't know what business you have here at all." "the business that all honest men have to look after all rogues," said mr armstrong. "come, mr lynch, you'd better make up your mind to prepare for your journey." "well, i won't--and there's an end of it," said barry. "it's all nonsense. you can't do anything to me: you said so yourself. i'm not going to be made a fool of that way--i'm not going to give up my property and everything." "don't you know, mr lynch," said the parson, "that if you are kept in jail till april next, as will be your fate if you persist in staying at dunmore tonight, your creditors will do much more damage to your property, than your own immediate absence will do? if mr daly is your lawyer, send for him, as martin kelly suggests. i'm not afraid that he will recommend you to remain in the country, even should you dare to tell him of the horrid accusation which is brought against you. but at any rate make up your mind, for if you do stay in dunmore tonight it shall be in the bridewell, and your next move shall be to galway." barry sat silent for a while, trying to think. the parson was like an incubus upon him, which he was totally unable to shake off. he knew neither how to resist nor how to give way. misty ideas got into his head of escaping to his bed-room and blowing his own brains out. different schemes of retaliation and revenge flitted before him, but he could decide on nothing. there he sat, silent, stupidly gazing at nothing, while lord ballindine and mr armstrong stood whispering over the fire. "i'm afraid we're in the wrong: i really think we are," said frank. "we must go through with it now, any way," said the parson. "come, mr lynch, i will give you five minutes more, and then i go;" and he pulled out his watch, and stood with his back to the fire, looking at it. lord ballindine walked to the window, and martin kelly and doctor colligan sat in distant parts of the room, with long faces, silent and solemn, breathing heavily. how long those five minutes appeared to them, and how short to barry! the time was not long enough to enable him to come to any decision: at the end of the five minutes he was still gazing vacantly before him: he was still turning over in his brain, one after another, the same crowd of undigested schemes. "the time is out, mr lynch: will you go?" said the parson. "i've no money," hoarsely croaked barry. "if that's the only difficulty, we'll raise money for him," said frank. "i'll advance him money," said martin. "do you mean you've no money at all?" said the parson. "don't you hear me say so?" said barry. "and you'll go if you get money--say ten pounds?" said the parson. "ten pounds! i can go nowhere with ten pounds. you know that well enough." "i'll give him twenty-five," said martin. "i'm sure his sister'll do that for him." "say fifty," said barry, "and i'm off at once." "i haven't got it," said martin. "no," said the parson; "i'll not see you bribed to go: take the twenty-five--that will last you till you make arrangements about your property. we are not going to pay you for going, mr lynch." "you seem very anxious about it, any way." "i am anxious about it," rejoined the parson. "i am anxious to save your sister from knowing what it was that her brother wished to accomplish." barry scowled at him as though he would like, if possible, to try his hand at murdering him; but he did not answer him again. arrangements were at last made for barry's departure, and off he went, that very day--not to roscommon, but to tuam; and there, at the instigation of martin, daly the attorney took upon himself the division and temporary management of the property. from thence, with martin's, or rather with his sister's twenty-five pounds in his pocket, he started to that elysium for which he had for some time so ardently longed, and soon landed at boulogne, regardless alike of his sister, his future brother, lord ballindine, or mr armstrong. the parson had found it quite impossible to carry out one point on which he had insisted. he could not induce barry lynch to write to his sister: no, not a line; not a word. had it been to save him from hanging he could hardly have induced himself to write those common words, "_dear sister_". "oh! you can tell her what you like," said he. "it's you're making me go away at once in this manner. tell her whatever confounded lies you like; tell her i'm gone because i didn't choose to stay and see her make a fool of herself--and that's the truth, too. if it wasn't for that i wouldn't move a step for any of you." he went, however, as i have before said, and troubled the people of dunmore no longer, nor shall he again trouble us. "oh! but martin, what nonsense!" said the widow, coaxingly to her son, that night before she went to bed. "the lord wouldn't be going up there just to wish him good bye--and parson armstrong too. what the dickens could they be at there so long? come, martin--you're safe with me, you know; tell us something about it now." "nonsense, mother; i've nothing to tell: barry lynch has left the place for good and all, that's all about it." "god bless the back of him, thin; he'd my lave for going long since. but you might be telling us what made him be starting this way all of a heap." "don't you know, mother, he was head and ears in debt?" "don't tell me," said the widow. "parson armstrong's not a sheriff's officer, that he should be looking after folks in debt." "no, mother, he's not, that i know of; but he don't like, for all that, to see his tithes walking out of the country." "don't be coming over me that way, martin. barry lynch, nor his father before him, never held any land in ballindine parish." "didn't they--well thin, you know more than i, mother, so it's no use my telling you," and martin walked off to bed. "i'll even you, yet, my lad," said she, "close as you are; you see else. wait awhile, till the money's wanting, and then let's see who'll know all about it!" and the widow slapped herself powerfully on that part where her pocket depended, in sign of the great confidence she had in the strength of her purse. "did i manage that well?" said the parson, as lord ballindine drove him home to kelly's court, as soon as the long interview was over. "if i can do as well at grey abbey, you'll employ me again, i think!" "upon my word, then, armstrong," said frank, "i never was in such hot water as i have been all this day: and, now it's over, to tell you the truth, i'm sorry we interfered. we did what we had no possible right to do." "nonsense, man. you don't suppose i'd have dreamed of letting him off, if the law could have touched him? but it couldn't. no magistrates in the county could have committed him; for he had done, and, as far as i can judge, had said, literally nothing. it's true we know what he intended; but a score of magistrates could have done nothing with him: as it is, we've got him out of the country: he'll never come back again." "what i mean is, we had no business to drive him out of the country with threats." "oh, ballindine, that's nonsense. one can keep no common terms with such a blackguard as that. however, it's done now; and i must say i think it was well done." "there's no doubt of your talent in the matter, armstrong: upon my soul i never saw anything so cool. what a wretch--what an absolute fiend the fellow is!" "bad enough," said the parson. "i've seen bad men before, but i think he's the worst i ever saw. what'll mrs o'kelly say of my coming in this way, without notice?" the parson enjoyed his claret at kelly's court that evening, after his hard day's work, and the next morning he started for grey abbey. xxxvi. mr armstrong visits grey abbey on a delicate mission lord cashel certainly felt a considerable degree of relief when his daughter told him that lord kilcullen had left the house, and was on his way to dublin, though he had been forced to pay so dearly for the satisfaction, had had to falsify his solemn assurance that he would not give his son another penny, and to break through his resolution of acting the roman father [ ]. he consoled himself with the idea that he had been actuated by affection for his profligate son; but such had not been the case. could he have handed him over to the sheriff's officer silently and secretly, he would have done so; but his pride could not endure the reflection that all the world should know that bailiffs had forced an entry into grey abbey. [footnote : roman father--lucius junius brutus, legendary founder of the roman republic, was said to have passed sentence of death on his two sons for participating in a rebellion.] he closely questioned lady selina, with regard to all that had passed between her and her brother. "did he say anything?" at last he said--"did he say anything about--about fanny?" "not much, papa; but what he did say, he said with kindness and affection," replied her ladyship, glad to repeat anything in favour of her brother. "affection--pooh!" said the earl. "he has no affection; no affection for any one; he has no affection even for me.--what did he say about her, selina?" "he seemed to wish she should marry lord ballindine." "she may marry whom she pleases, now," said the earl. "i wash my hands of her. i have done my best to prevent what i thought a disgraceful match for her--" "it would not have been disgraceful, papa, had she married him six months ago." "a gambler and a _roué_!" said the earl, forgetting, it is to be supposed, for the moment, his own son's character. "she'll marry him now, i suppose, and repent at her leisure. i'll give myself no further trouble about it." the earl thought upon the subject, however, a good deal; and before mr armstrong's arrival he had all but made up his mind that he must again swallow his word, and ask his ward's lover back to his house. he had at any rate become assured that if he did not do so, some one else would do it for him. mr armstrong was, happily, possessed of a considerable stock of self-confidence, and during his first day's journey, felt no want of it with regard to the delicate mission with which he was entrusted. but when he had deposited his carpet-bag at the little hotel at kilcullen bridge, and found himself seated on a hack car, and proceeding to grey abbey, he began to feel that he had rather a difficult part to play; and by the time that the house was in sight, he felt himself completely puzzled as to the manner in which he should open his negotiation. he had, however, desired the man to drive to the house, and he could not well stop the car in the middle of the demesne, to mature his plans; and when he was at the door he could not stay there without applying for admission. so he got his card-case in his hand, and rang the bell. after a due interval, which to the parson did not seem a bit too long, the heavy-looking, powdered footman appeared, and announced that lord cashel was at home; and, in another minute mr armstrong found himself in the book-room. it was the morning after lord kilcullen's departure, and lord cashel was still anything but comfortable. her ladyship had been bothering him about the poor boy, as she called her son, now that she learned he was in distress; and had been beseeching him to increase his allowance. the earl had not told his wife the extent of their son's pecuniary delinquencies, and consequently she was greatly dismayed when her husband very solemnly said, "my lady, lord kilcullen has no longer any allowance from me." "good gracious!" screamed her ladyship; "no allowance?--how is the poor boy to live?" "that i really cannot tell. i cannot even guess; but, let him live how he may, i will not absolutely ruin myself for his sake." the interview was not a comfortable one, either to the father or mother. lady cashel cried a great deal, and was very strongly of opinion that her son would die of cold and starvation: "how could he get shelter or food, any more than a common person, if he had no allowance? mightn't he, at any rate, come back, and live at grey abbey?--that wouldn't cost his father anything." and then the countess remembered how she had praised her son to mrs ellison, and the bishop's wife; and she cried worse than ever, and was obliged to be left to griffiths and her drops. this happened on the evening of lord kilcullen's departure, and on the next morning her ladyship did not appear at breakfast. she was weak and nervous, and had her tea in her own sitting-room. there was no one sitting at breakfast but the earl, fanny, and lady selina, and they were all alike, stiff, cold, and silent. the earl felt as if he were not at home even in his own breakfast-parlour; he felt afraid of his ward, as though he were conscious that she knew how he had intended to injure her: and, as soon as he had swallowed his eggs, he muttered something which was inaudible to both the girls, and retreated to his private den. he had not been there long before the servant brought in our friend's name. "the rev. george armstrong", written on a plain card. the parson had not put the name of his parish, fearing that the earl, knowing from whence he came, might guess his business, and decline seeing him. as it was, no difficulty was made, and the parson soon found himself _tête-à-tête_ with the earl. "i have taken the liberty of calling on you, lord cashel," said mr armstrong, having accepted the offer of a chair, "on a rather delicate mission." the earl bowed, and rubbed his hands, and felt more comfortable than he had done for the last week. he liked delicate missions coming to him, for he flattered himself that he knew how to receive them in a delicate manner; he liked, also, displaying his dignity to strangers, for he felt that strangers stood rather in awe of him: he also felt, though he did not own it to himself, that his manner was not so effective with people who had known him some time. "i may say, a very delicate mission," said the parson; "and one i would not have undertaken had i not known your lordship's character for candour and honesty." lord cashel again bowed and rubbed his hands. "i am, my lord, a friend of lord ballindine; and as such i have taken the liberty of calling on your lordship." "a friend of lord ballindine?" said the earl, arching his eyebrows, and assuming a look of great surprise. "a very old friend, my lord; the clergyman of his parish, and for many years an intimate friend of his father. i have known lord ballindine since he was a child." "lord ballindine is lucky in having such a friend: few young men now, i am sorry to say, care much for their father's friends. is there anything, mr armstrong, in which i can assist either you or his lordship?" "my lord," said the parson, "i need not tell you that before i took the perhaps unwarrantable liberty of troubling you, i was made acquainted with lord ballindine's engagement with your ward, and with the manner in which that engagement was broken off." "and your object is, mr armstrong--?" "my object is to remove, if possible, the unfortunate misunderstanding between your lordship and my friend." "misunderstanding, mr armstrong?--there was no misunderstanding between us. i really think we perfectly understood each other. lord ballindine was engaged to my ward; his engagement, however, being contingent on his adoption of a certain line of conduct. this line of conduct his lordship did not adopt; perhaps, he used a wise discretion; however, i thought not. i thought the mode of life which he pursued--" "but--" "pardon me a moment, mr armstrong, and i shall have said all which appears to me to be necessary on the occasion; perhaps more than is necessary; more probably than i should have allowed myself to say, had not lord ballindine sent as his ambassador the clergyman of his parish and the friend of his father," and lord cashel again bowed and rubbed his hands. "i thought, mr armstrong, that your young friend appeared wedded to a style of life quite incompatible with his income--with his own income as a single man, and the income which he would have possessed had he married my ward. i thought that their marriage would only lead to poverty and distress, and i felt that i was only doing my duty to my ward in expressing this opinion to her. i found that she was herself of the same opinion; that she feared a union with lord ballindine would not ensure happiness either to him or to herself. his habits were too evidently those of extravagance, and hers had not been such as to render a life of privation anything but a life of misery." "i had thought--" "one moment more, mr armstrong, and i shall have done. after mature consideration, miss wyndham commissioned me to express her sentiments,--and i must say they fully coincided with my own,--to lord ballindine, and to explain to him, that she found herself obliged to--to--to retrace the steps which she had taken in the matter. i did this in a manner as little painful to lord ballindine as i was able. it is difficult, mr armstrong, to make a disagreeable communication palatable; it is very difficult to persuade a young man who is in love, to give up the object of his idolatry; but i trust lord ballindine will do me the justice to own that, on the occasion alluded to, i said nothing unnecessarily harsh--nothing calculated to harass his feelings. i appreciate and esteem lord ballindine's good qualities, and i much regretted that prudence forbad me to sanction the near alliance he was anxious to do me the honour of making with me." lord cashel finished his harangue, and felt once more on good terms with himself. he by no means intended offering any further vehement resistance to his ward's marriage. he was, indeed, rejoiced to have an opportunity of giving way decently. but he could not resist the temptation of explaining his conduct, and making a speech. "my lord," said the parson, "what you tell me is only a repetition of what i heard from my young friend." "i am glad to hear it. i trust, then, i may have the pleasure of feeling that lord ballindine attributes to me no personal unkindness?" "not in the least, lord cashel; very far from it. though lord ballindine may not be--may not hitherto have been, free from the follies of his age, he has had quite sense enough to appreciate your lordship's conduct." "i endeavoured, at any rate, that it should be such as to render me liable to no just imputation of fickleness or cruelty." "no one would for a moment accuse your lordship of either. it is my knowledge of your lordship's character in this particular which has induced me to undertake the task of begging you to reconsider the subject. lord ballindine has, you are aware, sold his race-horses." "i had heard so, mr armstrong; though, perhaps, not on good authority." "he has; and is now living among his own tenantry and friends at kelly's court. he is passionately, devotedly attached to your ward, lord cashel; and with a young man's vanity he still thinks that she may not be quite indifferent to him." "it was at her own instance, mr armstrong, that his suit was rejected." "i am well aware of that, my lord. but ladies, you know, do sometimes mistake their own feelings. miss wyndham must have been attached to my friend, or she would not have received him as her lover. will you, my lord, allow me to see miss wyndham? if she still expresses indifference to lord ballindine, i will assure her that she shall be no further persecuted by his suit. if such be not the case, surely prudence need not further interfere to prevent a marriage desired by both the persons most concerned. lord ballindine is not now a spendthrift, whatever he may formerly have been; and miss wyndham's princely fortune, though it alone would never have induced my friend to seek her hand, will make the match all that it should be. you will not object, my lord, to my seeing miss wyndham?" "mr armstrong--really--you must be aware such a request is rather unusual." "so are the circumstances," replied the parson. "they also are unusual. i do not doubt miss wyndham's wisdom in rejecting lord ballindine, when, as you say, he appeared to be wedded to a life of extravagance. i have no doubt she put a violent restraint on her own feelings; exercised, in fact, a self-denial which shows a very high tone of character, and should elicit nothing but admiration; but circumstances are much altered." lord cashel continued to raise objections to the parson's request, though it was, throughout the interview, his intention to accede to it. at last, he gave up the point, with much grace, and in such a manner as he thought should entitle him to the eternal gratitude of his ward, lord ballindine, and the parson. he consequently rang the bell, and desired the servant to give his compliments to miss wyndham and tell her that the rev. mr armstrong wished to see her, alone, upon business of importance. mr armstrong felt that his success was much greater than he had had any reason to expect, from lord ballindine's description of his last visit at grey abbey. he had, in fact, overcome the only difficulty. if miss wyndham really disliked his friend, and objected to the marriage, mr armstrong was well aware that he had only to return, and tell his friend so in the best way he could. if, however, she still had a true regard for him, if she were the fanny wyndham ballindine had described her to be, if she had ever really been devoted to him, if she had at all a wish in her heart to see him again at her feet, the parson felt that he would have good news to send back to kelly's court; and that he would have done the lovers a service which they never could forget. "at any rate, mr armstrong," said lord cashel, as the parson was bowing himself backwards out of the room, "you will join our family circle while you are in the neighbourhood. whatever may be the success of your mission--and i assure you i hope it may be such as will be gratifying to you, i am happy to make the acquaintance of any friend of lord ballindine's, when lord ballindine chooses his friends so well." (this was meant as a slap at dot blake.) "you will give me leave to send down to the town for your luggage." mr armstrong made no objection to this proposal, and the luggage was sent for. the powder-haired servant again took him in tow, and ushered him out of the book-room, across the hall through the billiard-room, and into the library; gave him a chair, and then brought him a newspaper, giving him to understand that miss wyndham would soon be with him. the parson took the paper in his hands, but he did not trouble himself much with the contents of it. what was he to say to miss wyndham?--how was he to commence? he had never gone love-making for another in his life; and now, at his advanced age, it really did come rather strange to him. and then he began to think whether she were short or tall, dark or fair, stout or slender. it certainly was very odd, but, in all their conversations on the subject, lord ballindine had never given him any description of his inamorata. mr armstrong, however, had not much time to make up his mind on any of these points, for the door opened, and miss wyndham entered. she was dressed in black, for she was, of course, still in mourning for her brother; but, in spite of her sable habiliments, she startled the parson by the brilliance of her beauty. there was a quiet dignity of demeanour natural to fanny wyndham; a well-balanced pose, and a grace of motion, which saved her from ever looking awkward or confused. she never appeared to lose her self-possession. though never arrogant, she seemed always to know what was due to herself. no insignificant puppy could ever have attempted to flirt with her. when summoned by the servant to meet a strange clergyman alone in the library, at the request of lord cashel, she felt that his visit must have some reference to her lover; indeed, her thoughts for the last few days had run on little else. she had made up her mind to talk to her cousin about him; then, her cousin had matured that determination by making love to her himself: then, she had talked to him of lord ballindine, and he had promised to talk to his father on the same subject; and she had since been endeavouring to bring herself to make one other last appeal to her uncle's feelings. her mind was therefore, full of lord ballindine, when she walked into the library. but her face was no tell-tale; her gait and demeanour were as dignified as though she had no anxious love within her heart--no one grand desire, to disturb the even current of her blood. she bowed her beautiful head to mr armstrong as she walked into the room, and, sitting down herself, begged him to take a chair. the parson had by no means made up his mind as to what he was to say to the young lady, so he shut his eyes, and rushed at once into the middle of his subject. "miss wyndham," he said, "i have come a long way to call on you, at the request of a friend of yours--a very dear and old friend of mine--at the request of lord ballindine." fanny's countenance became deeply suffused at her lover's name, but the parson did not observe it; indeed he hardly ventured to look in her face. she merely said, in a voice which seemed to him to be anything but promising, "well, sir?" the truth was, she did not know what to say. had she dared, she would have fallen on her knees before her lover's friend, and sworn to him how well she loved him. "when lord ballindine was last at grey abbey, miss wyndham, he had not the honour of an interview with you." "no, sir," said fanny. her voice, look, and manner were still sedate and courtly; her heart, however, was beating so violently that she hardly knew what she said. "circumstances, i believe, prevented it," said the parson. "my friend, however, received, through lord cashel, a message from you, which--which--which has been very fatal to his happiness." fanny tried to say something, but she was not able. "the very decided tone in which your uncle then spoke to him, has made lord ballindine feel that any further visit to grey abbey on his own part would be an intrusion." "i never--" said fanny, "i never--" "you never authorised so harsh a message, you would say. it is not the harshness of the language, but the certainty of the fact, that has destroyed my friend's happiness. if such were to be the case--if it were absolutely necessary that the engagement between you and lord ballindine should be broken off, the more decided the manner in which it were done, the better. lord ballindine now wishes--i am a bad messenger in such a case as this, miss wyndham: it is, perhaps, better to tell you at once a plain tale. frank has desired me to tell you that he loves you well and truly; that he cannot believe you are indifferent to him; that your vows, to him so precious, are still ringing in his ears; that he is, as far as his heart is concerned, unchanged; and he has commissioned me to ascertain from yourself, whether you--have really changed your mind since he last had the pleasure of seeing you." the parson waited a moment for an answer, and then added, "lord ballindine by no means wishes to persecute you on the subject; nor would i do so, if he did wish it. you have only to tell me that you do not intend to renew your acquaintance with lord ballindine, and i will leave grey abbey." fanny still remained silent. "say the one word 'go', miss wyndham, and you need not pain yourself by any further speech. i will at once be gone." fanny strove hard to keep her composure, and to make some fitting reply to mr armstrong, but she was unable. her heart was too full; she was too happy. she had, openly, and in spite of rebuke, avowed her love to her uncle, her aunt, to lady selina, and her cousin. but she could not bring herself to confess it to mr armstrong. at last she said: "i am much obliged to you for your kindness, mr armstrong. perhaps i owe it to lord ballindine to--to . . . i will ask my uncle, sir, to write to him." "i shall write to lord ballindine this evening, miss wyndham; will you intrust me with no message? i came from him, to see you, with no other purpose. i must give him some news: i must tell him i have seen you. may i tell him not to despair?" "tell him--tell him--" said fanny,--and she paused to make up her mind as to the words of her message,--"tell him to come himself." and, hurrying from the room, she left the parson alone, to meditate on the singular success of his mission. he stood for about half an hour, thinking over what had occurred, and rejoicing greatly in his mind that he had undertaken the business. "what fools men are about women!" he said at last, to himself. "they know their nature so well when they are thinking and speaking of them with reference to others; but as soon as a man is in love with one himself, he is cowed! he thinks the nature of one woman is different from that of all others, and he is afraid to act on his general knowledge. well; i might as well write to him! for, thank god, i can send him good news"--and he rang the bell, and asked if his bag had come. it had, and was in his bed-room. "could the servant get him pen, ink, and paper?" the servant did so; and, within two hours of his entering the doors of grey abbey, he was informing his friend of the success of his mission. xxxvii. veni; vidi; vici [ ] [footnote : veni; vidi; vici--(latin) julius caesar's terse message to the senate announcing his victory over king pharnaces ii of pontus in b.c.: "i came, i saw, i conquered."] the two following letters for lord ballindine were sent off, in the grey abbey post-bag, on the evening of the day on which mr armstrong had arrived there. they were from mr armstrong and lord cashel. that from the former was first opened. grey abbey, april, dear frank, you will own i have not lost much time. i left kelly's court the day before yesterday and i am already able to send you good news. i have seen lord cashel, and have found him anything but uncourteous. i have also seen miss wyndham, and though she said but little to me, that little was just what you would have wished her to say. she bade me tell you to come yourself. in obedience to her commands, i do hereby require you to pack yourself up, and proceed forthwith to grey abbey. his lordship has signified to me that it is his intention, in his own and lady cashel's name, to request the renewed pleasure of an immediate, and, he hopes, a prolonged visit from your lordship. you will not, my dear frank, i am sure, be such a fool as to allow your dislike to such an empty butter-firkin as this earl, to stand in the way of your love or your fortune. you can't expect miss wyndham to go to you, so pocket your resentment like a sensible fellow, and accept lord cashel's invitation as though there had been no difference between you. i have also received an invite, and intend staying here a day or two. i can't say that, judging from the master of the house, i think that a prolonged sojourn would be very agreeable. i have, as yet, seen none of the ladies, except my embryo lady ballindine. i think i have done my business a little in the _veni vidi vici_ style. what has effected the change in lord cashel's views, i need not trouble myself to guess. you will soon learn all about it from miss wyndham. i will not, in a letter, express my admiration, &c., &c., &c. but i will proclaim in connaught, on my return, that so worthy a bride was never yet brought down to the far west. lord cashel will, of course, have some pet bishop or dean to marry you; but, after what has passed, i shall certainly demand the privilege of christening the heir. believe me, dear frank, your affectionate friend, george armstrong. lord cashel's letter was as follows. it cost his lordship three hours to compose, and was twice copied. i trust, therefore, it is a fair specimen of what a nobleman ought to write on such an occasion. grey abbey, april, . my dear lord, circumstances, to which i rejoice that i need not now more particularly allude, made your last visit at my house a disagreeable one to both of us. the necessity under which i then laboured, of communicating to your lordship a decision which was likely to be inimical to your happiness, but to form which my duty imperatively directed me, was a source of most serious inquietude to my mind. i now rejoice that that decision was so painful to you--has been so lastingly painful; as i trust i may measure your gratification at a renewal of your connection with my family, by the acuteness of the sufferings which an interruption of that connexion has occasioned you. i have, i can assure you, my lord, received much pleasure from the visit of your very estimable friend, the reverend mr armstrong; and it is no slight addition to my gratification on this occasion, to find your most intimate friendship so well bestowed. i have had much unreserved conversation to-day with mr armstrong, and i am led by him to believe that i may be able to induce you to give lady cashel and myself the pleasure of your company at grey abbey. we shall be truly delighted to see your lordship, and we sincerely hope that the attractions of grey abbey may be such as to induce you to prolong your visit for some time. perhaps it might be unnecessary for me now more explicitly to allude to my ward; but still, i cannot but think that a short but candid explanation of the line of conduct i have thought it my duty to adopt, may prevent any disagreeable feeling between us, should you, as i sincerely trust you will, do us the pleasure of joining our family circle. i must own, my dear lord, that, a few months since, i feared you were wedded to the expensive pleasures of the turf.--your acceptance of the office of steward at the curragh meetings confirmed the reports which reached me from various quarters. my ward's fortune was then not very considerable; and, actuated by an uncle's affection for his niece as well as a guardian's caution for his ward, i conceived it my duty to ascertain whether a withdrawal from the engagement in contemplation between miss wyndham and yourself would be detrimental to her happiness. i found that my ward's views agreed with my own. she thought her own fortune insufficient, seeing that your habits were then expensive: and, perhaps, not truly knowing the intensity of her own affection, she coincided in my views. you are acquainted with the result. these causes have operated in inducing me to hope that i may still welcome you by the hand as my dear niece's husband. her fortune is very greatly increased; your character is--i will not say altered--is now fixed and established. and, lastly and chiefly, i find--i blush, my lord, to tell a lady's secret--that my ward's happiness still depends on you. i am sure, my dear lord, i need not say more. we shall be delighted to see you at your earliest convenience. we wish that you could have come to us before your friend left, but i regret to learn from him that his parochial duties preclude the possibility of his staying with us beyond thursday. i shall anxiously wait for your reply. in the meantime i beg to assure you, with the joint kind remembrances of all our party, that i am, most faithfully yours, cashel. mr armstrong descended to the drawing-room, before dinner, looking most respectable, with a stiff white tie and the new suit expressly prepared for the occasion. he was introduced to lady cashel and lady selina as a valued friend of lord ballindine, and was received, by the former at least, in a most flattering manner. lady selina had hardly reconciled herself to the return of lord ballindine. it was from no envy at her cousin's happiness; she was really too high-minded, and too falsely proud, also, to envy anyone. but it was the harsh conviction of her mind, that no duties should be disregarded, and that all duties were disagreeable: she was always opposed to the doing of anything which appeared to be the especial wish of the person consulting her; because it would be agreeable, she judged that it would be wrong. she was most sincerely anxious for her poor dependents, but she tormented them most cruelly. when biddy finn wished to marry, lady selina told her it was her duty to put a restraint on her inclinations; and ultimately prevented her, though there was no objection on earth to tony mara; and when the widow cullen wanted to open a little shop for soap and candles, having eight pounds ten shillings left to stock it, after the wake and funeral were over, lady selina told the widow it was her duty to restrain her inclination, and she did so; and the eight pounds ten shillings drifted away in quarters of tea, and most probably, half noggins of whiskey. in the same way, she could not bring herself to think that fanny was doing right, in following the bent of her dearest wishes--in marrying this man she loved so truly. she was weak; she was giving way to temptation; she was going back from her word; she was, she said, giving up her claim to that high standard of feminine character, which it should be the proudest boast of a woman to maintain. it was in vain that her mother argued the point with her in her own way. "but why shouldn't she marry him, my dear," said the countess, "when they love each other--and now there's plenty of money and all that; and your papa thinks it's all right? i declare i can't see the harm of it." "i don't say there's harm, mother," said lady selina; "not absolute harm; but there's weakness. she had ceased to esteem lord ballindine." "ah, but, my dear, she very soon began to esteem him again. poor dear! she didn't know how well she loved him." "she ought to have known, mamma--to have known well, before she rejected him; but, having rejected him, no power on earth should have induced her to name him, or even to think of him again. she should have been dead to him; and he should have been the same as dead to her." "well, i don't know," said the countess; "but i'm sure i shall be delighted to see anybody happy in the house again, and i always liked lord ballindine myself. there was never any trouble about his dinners or anything." and lady cashel was delighted. the grief she had felt at the abrupt termination of all her hopes with regard to her son had been too much for her; she had been unable even to mind her worsted-work, and griffiths had failed to comfort her; but from the moment that her husband had told her, with many hems and haws, that mr armstrong had arrived to repeat lord ballindine's proposal, and that he had come to consult her about again asking his lordship to grey abbey, she became happy and light-hearted; and, before griffiths had left her for the night, she had commenced her consultations as to the preparations for the wedding. xxxviii. wait till i tell you there was no one at dinner that first evening, but mr armstrong, and the family circle; and the parson certainly felt it dull enough. fanny, naturally, was rather silent; lady selina did not talk a great deal; the countess reiterated, twenty times, the pleasure she had in seeing him at grey abbey, and asked one or two questions as to the quantity of flannel it took to make petticoats for the old women in his parish; but, to make up the rest, lord cashel talked incessantly. he wished to show every attention to his guest, and he crammed him with ecclesiastical conversation, till mr armstrong felt that, poor as he was, and much as his family wanted the sun of lordly favour, he would not give up his little living down in connaught, where, at any rate, he could do as he pleased, to be domestic chaplain to lord cashel, with a salary of a thousand a-year. the next morning was worse, and the whole of the long day was insufferable. he endeavoured to escape from his noble friend into the demesne, where he might have explored the fox coverts, and ascertained something of the sporting capabilities of the country; but lord cashel would not leave him alone for an instant; and he had not only to endure the earl's tediousness, but also had to assume a demeanour which was not at all congenial to his feelings. lord cashel would talk church and ultra-protestantism to him, and descanted on the abominations of the national system, and the glories of sunday-schools. now, mr armstrong had no leaning to popery, and had nothing to say against sunday schools; but he had not one in his own parish, in which, by the bye, he was the father of all the protestant children to be found there--without the slightest slur upon his reputation be it said. lord cashel totally mistook his character, and mr armstrong did not know how to set him right; and at five o'clock he went to dress, more tired than he ever had been after hunting all day, and then riding home twelve miles on a wet, dark night, with a lame horse. to do honour to her guest lady cashel asked mr o'joscelyn, the rector, together with his wife and daughters, to dine there on the second day; and mr armstrong, though somewhat afraid of brother clergymen, was delighted to hear that they were coming. anything was better than another _tête-à-tête_ with the ponderous earl. there were no other neighbours near enough to grey abbey to be asked on so short a notice; but the rector, his wife, and their daughters, entered the dining-room punctually at half-past six. the character and feelings of mr o'joscelyn were exactly those which the earl had attributed to mr armstrong. he had been an orangeman [ ], and was a most ultra and even furious protestant. he was, by principle, a charitable man to his neighbours; but he hated popery, and he carried the feeling to such a length, that he almost hated papists. he had not, generally speaking, a bad opinion of human nature; but he would not have considered his life or property safe in the hands of any roman catholic. he pitied the ignorance of the heathen, the credulity of the mahommedan, the desolateness of the jew, even the infidelity of the atheist; but he execrated, abhorred, and abominated the church of rome. "anathema maranatha [ ]; get thee from me, thou child of satan--go out into utter darkness, thou worker of iniquity--into everlasting lakes of fiery brimstone, thou doer of the devil's work--thou false prophet--thou ravenous wolf!" such was the language of his soul, at the sight of a priest; such would have been the language of his tongue, had not, as he thought, evil legislators given a licence to falsehood in his unhappy country, and rendered it impossible for a true churchman openly to declare the whole truth. [footnote : orangeman--a member of the orange order, a militant irish protestant organization founded in and named after william of orange, who in deposed his father-in-law, catholic king james ii, became king william iii, and helped establish protestant faith as a prerequisite for succession to the english throne. the orange order is still exists and remains rabidly anti-catholic.] [footnote : anathema maranatha--an extreme form of excommunication from the catholic church formulated by the fathers of the fourth council of toledo. the person so excommunicated is also condemned to damnation at the second coming.] but though mr o'joscelyn did not absolutely give utterance to such imprecations as these against the wolves who, as he thought, destroyed the lambs of his flock,--or rather, turned his sheep into foxes,--yet he by no means concealed his opinion, or hid his light under a bushel. he spent his life--an eager, anxious, hard-working life, in denouncing the scarlet woman of babylon and all her abominations; and he did so in season and out of season: in town and in country; in public and in private; from his own pulpit, and at other people's tables; in highways and byways; both to friends--who only partly agreed with him, and to strangers, who did not agree with him at all. he totally disregarded the feelings of his auditors; he would make use of the same language to persons who might in all probability be romanists, as he did to those whom he knew to be protestants. he was a most zealous and conscientious, but a most indiscreet servant of his master. he made many enemies, but few converts. he rarely convinced his opponents, but often disgusted his own party. he had been a constant speaker at public meetings; an orator at the rotunda, and, on one occasion, at exeter hall. but even his own friends, the ultra protestants, found that he did the cause more harm than good, and his public exhibitions had been as much as possible discouraged. apart from his fanatical enthusiasm, he was a good man, of pure life, and simple habits; and rejoiced exceedingly, that, in the midst of the laxity in religious opinions which so generally disfigured the age, his wife and his children were equally eager and equally zealous with himself in the service of their great master. a beneficed clergyman from the most benighted, that is, most papistical portion of connaught, would be sure, thought mr o'joscelyn, to have a fellow-feeling with him; to sympathise with his wailings, and to have similar woes to communicate. "how many protestants have you?" said he to mr armstrong, in the drawing-room, a few minutes after they had been introduced to each other. "i had two hundred and seventy in the parish on new year's day; and since that we've had two births, and a very proper church of england police-serjeant has been sent here, in place of a horrid papist. we've a great gain in serjeant woody, my lord." "in one way we certainly have, mr o'joscelyn," said the earl. "i wish all the police force were protestants; i think they would be much more effective. but serjeant carroll was a very good man; you know he was removed from hence on his promotion." "i know he was, my lord--just to please the priests just because he was a papist. do you think there was a single thing done, or a word said at petty sessions, but what father flannery knew all about it?--yes, every word. when did the police ever take any of father flannery's own people?" "didn't serjeant carroll take that horrible man leary, that robbed the old widow that lived under the bridge?" said the countess. "true, my lady, he did," said mr o'joscelyn; "but you'll find, if you inquire, that leary hadn't paid the priest his dues, nor yet his brother. how a protestant government can reconcile it to their conscience--how they can sleep at night, after pandering to the priests as they daily do, i cannot conceive. how many protestants did you say you have, mr armstrong?" "we're not very strong down in the west, mr o'joscelyn," said the other parson. "there are usually two or three in the kelly's court pew. the vicarage pew musters pretty well, for mrs armstrong and five of the children are always there. then there are usually two policemen, and the clerk; though, by the bye, he doesn't belong to the parish. i borrowed him from claremorris." mr o'joscelyn gave a look of horror and astonishment. "i can, however, make a boast, which perhaps you cannot, mr joscelyn: all my parishioners are usually to be seen in church, and if one is absent i'm able to miss him." "it must paralyse your efforts, preaching to such a congregation," said the other. "do not disparage my congregation," said mr armstrong, laughing; "they are friendly and neighbourly, if not important in point of numbers; and, if i wanted to fill my church, the roman catholics think so well of me, that they'd flock in crowds there if i asked them; and the priest would show them the way--for any special occasion, i mean; if the bishop came to see me, or anything of that kind." mr o'joscelyn was struck dumb; and, indeed, he would have had no time to answer if the power of speech had been left to him, for the servant announced dinner. the conversation was a little more general during dinner-time, but after dinner the parish clergyman returned to another branch of his favourite subject. perhaps, he thought that mr armstrong was himself not very orthodox; or, perhaps, that it was useless to enlarge on the abominations of babylon to a protestant peer and a protestant parson; but, on this occasion, he occupied himself with the temporal iniquities of the roman catholics. the trial of o'connell and his fellow-prisoners had come to an end, and he and they, with one exception, had just. commenced their period of imprisonment. the one exception was a clergyman, who had been acquitted. he had in some way been connected with mr o'joscelyn's parish; and, as the parish priest and most of his flock were hot repealers, there was a good deal of excitement on the occasion,--rejoicings at the priest's acquittal, and howlings, yellings, and murmurings at the condemnation of the others. "we've fallen on frightful days, mr armstrong," said mr o'joscelyn: "frightful, lawless, dangerous days." "we must take them as we find them, mr o'joscelyn." "doubtless, mr armstrong, doubtless; and i acknowledge his infinite wisdom, who, for his own purposes, now allows sedition to rear her head unchecked, and falsehood to sit in the high places. they are indeed dangerous days, when the sympathy of government is always with the evil doers, and the religion of the state is deserted by the crown." "why, god bless me! mr o'joscelyn!--the queen hasn't turned papist, and the repealers are all in prison, or soon will be there." "i don't mean the queen. i believe she is very good. i believe she is a sincere protestant, god bless her;" and mr o'joscelyn, in his loyalty, drank a glass of port wine; "but i mean her advisers. they do not dare protect the protestant faith: they do not dare secure the tranquillity of the country." "are not o'connell and the whole set under conviction at this moment? i'm no politician myself, but the only question seems to be, whether they haven't gone a step too far?" "why did they let that priest escape them?" said mr o'joscelyn. "i suppose he was not guilty;" said mr armstrong; "at any rate, you had a staunch protestant jury." "i tell you the priests are at the head of it all. o'connell would be nothing without them; he is only their creature. the truth is, the government did not dare to frame an indictment that would really lead to the punishment of a priest. the government is truckling to the false hierarchy of rome. look at oxford,--a jesuitical seminary, devoted to the secret propagation of romish falsehood.--go into the churches of england, and watch their bowings, their genuflexions, their crosses and their candles; see the demeanour of their apostate clergy; look into their private oratories; see their red-lettered prayer-books, their crucifixes, and images; and then, can you doubt that the most dreadful of all prophecies is about to be accomplished?" "but i have not been into their closets, mr o'joscelyn, nor yet into their churches lately, and therefore i have not seen these things; nor have i seen anybody who has. have you seen crucifixes in the rooms of church of england clergymen? or candles on the altar-steps of english churches?" "god forbid that i should willingly go where such things are to be seen; but of the fearful fact there is, unfortunately, no doubt. and then, as to the state of the country, we have nothing round us but anarchy and misrule: my life, mr armstrong, has not been safe any day this week past." "good heaven, mr o'joscelyn--your life not safe! i thought you were as quiet here, in kildare, as we are in mayo." "wait till i tell you, mr armstrong: you know this priest, whom they have let loose to utter more sedition?--he was coadjutor to the priest in this parish." "was he? the people are not attacking you, i suppose, because he's let loose?" "wait till i tell you. no; the people are mad because o'connell and his myrmidons are to be locked up; and, mingled with their fury on this head are their insane rejoicings at the escape of this priest. they are, therefore,--or were, till saturday last, howling for joy and for grief at the same time. oh! such horrid howls, mr armstrong. i declare, mr armstrong, i have trembled for my children this week past." the earl, who well knew mr o'joscelyn, and the nature of his grievances, had heard all these atrocities before; and, not being very excited by their interest, had continued sipping his claret in silence till he began to doze; and, by the time the worthy parson had got to the climax of his misery, the nobleman was fast asleep. "you don't mean that the people made any attack on the parsonage?" said mr armstrong. "wait till i tell you, mr armstrong," replied the other. "on thursday morning last they all heard that o'connell was a convicted felon." "conspirator, i believe? mr o'joscelyn." "conspiracy is felony, mr armstrong--and that their priest had been let loose. it was soon evident that no work was to be done that day. they assembled about the roads in groups; at the chapel-door; at priest flannery's house; at the teetotal reading-room as they call it, where the people drink cordial made of whiskey, and disturb the neighbourhood with cracked horns; and we heard that a public demonstration was to be made." "was it a demonstration of joy or of grief?" "both, mr armstrong! it was mixed. they were to shout and dance for joy about father tyrrel; and howl and curse for grief about o'connell; and they did shout and howl with a vengeance. all thursday, you would have thought that a legion of devils had been let loose into kilcullen." "but did they commit any personal outrages, mr o'joscelyn?" "wait till i tell you. i soon saw how the case was going to be, and i determined to be prepared. i armed myself, mr armstrong; and so did mrs o'joscelyn. mrs o'joscelyn is a most determined woman--a woman of great spirit; we were resolved to protect our daughters and our infants from ill-usage, as long as god should leave us the power to do so. we both armed ourselves with pistols, and i can assure you that, as far as ammunition goes, we were prepared to give them a hot reception." "dear me! this must have been very unpleasant to mrs o'joscelyn." "oh, she's a woman of great nerve, mr armstrong. mary is a woman of very great nerve. i can assure you we shall never forget that thursday night. about seven in the evening it got darkish, but the horrid yells of the wild creatures had never ceased for one half-hour; and, a little after seven, twenty different bonfires illuminated the parish. there were bonfires on every side of us: huge masses of blazing turf were to be seen scattered through the whole country." "did they burn any thing except the turf, mr o'joscelyn?" "wait till i tell you, mr armstrong. i shall never forget that night; we neither of us once lay down; no, not for a moment. about eight, the children were put to bed; but with their clothes and shoes on, for there was no knowing at what moment and in how sudden a way the poor innocents might be called up. my daughters behaved admirably; they remained quite quiet in the drawing-room till about eleven, when we had evening worship, and then they retired to rest. their mother, however, insisted that they should not take off their petticoats or stockings. at about one, we went to the hall-door: it was then bright moonlight--but the flames of the surrounding turf overpowered the moon. the whole horizon was one glare of light." "but were not the police about, mr o'joscelyn?" "oh, they were about, to be sure, poor men; but what could they do? the government now licenses every outrage." "but what _did_ the people do?" said mr armstrong. "wait till i tell you. they remained up all night; and so did we, you may be sure. mary did not rise from her chair once that night without a pistol in her hand. we heard the sounds of their voices continually, close to the parsonage gate; we could see them in the road, from the windows--crowds of them--men, women and children; and still they continued shouting. the next morning they were a little more quiet, but still the parish was disturbed: nobody was at work, and men and women stood collected together in the roads. but as soon as it was dusk, the shoutings and the bonfires began again; and again did i and mrs o'joscelyn prepare for a night of anxious watching. we sat up all friday night, mr armstrong." "with the pistols again?" "indeed we did; and lucky for us that we did so. had they not known that we were prepared, i am convinced the house would have been attacked. our daughters sat with us this night, and we were so far used to the state of disturbance, that we were able to have a little supper." "you must have wanted that, i think." "indeed we did. about four in the morning, i dropped asleep on the sofa; but mary never closed her eyes." "did they come into the garden at all, or near the house?" "no, they did not. and i am very thankful they refrained from doing so, for i determined to act promptly, mr armstrong, and so was mary--that is, mrs o'joscelyn. we were both determined to fire, if we found our premises invaded. thank god the miscreants did not come within the gate." "you did not suffer much, then, except the anxiety, mr o'joscelyn?" "god was very merciful, and protected us; but who can feel safe, living in such times, and among such a people? and it all springs from rome; the scarlet woman is now in her full power, and in her full deformity. she was smitten down for a while, but has now risen again. for a while the right foot of truth was on her neck; for a while she lay prostrated before the strength of those, who by god's grace, had prevailed against her. but the latter prophecies which had been revealed to us, are now about to be accomplished. it is well for those who comprehend the signs of the coming time." "suppose we join the ladies," said the earl, awakened by the sudden lull in mr o'joscelyn's voice. "but won't you take a glass of madeira first, mr armstrong?" mr armstrong took his glass of madeira, and then went to the ladies; and the next morning, left grey abbey, for his own parish. well; thought he to himself, as he was driven through the park, in the earl's gig, i'm very glad i came here, for frank's sake. i've smoothed his way to matrimony and a fortune. but i don't know anything which would induce me to stay a week at grey abbey. the earl is bad--nearly unbearable; but the parson!--i'd sooner by half be a roman myself, than think so badly of my neighbours as he does. many a time since has he told in connaught, how mr o'joscelyn. and mary, his wife, sat up two nights running, armed to the teeth, to protect themselves from the noisy repealers of kilcullen. mr armstrong arrived safely at his parsonage, and the next morning he rode over to kelly's court. but lord ballindine was not there. he had started for grey abbey almost immediately on receiving the two letters which we have given, and he and his friend had passed each other on the road. xxxix. it never rains but it pours when frank had read his two letters from grey abbey, he was in such a state of excitement as to be unable properly to decide what he would immediately do. his first idea was to gallop to tuam, as fast as his best horse would carry him; to take four horses there, and not to stop one moment till he found himself at grey abbey: but a little consideration showed him that this would not do. he would not find horses ready for him on the road; he must take some clothes with him; and it would be only becoming in him to give the earl some notice of his approach. so he at last made up his mind to postpone his departure for a few hours. he was, however, too much overcome with joy to be able to do anything rationally. his anger against the earl totally evaporated; indeed, he only thought of him now as a man who had a house in which he could meet his love. he rushed into the drawing-room, where his mother and sisters were sitting, and, with the two letters open in his hand, proclaimed his intention of leaving home that day. "goodness gracious, frank! and where are you going?" said mrs o'kelly. "to grey abbey." "no!" said augusta, jumping up from her chair. "i am so glad!" shouted sophy, throwing down her portion of the worsted-work sofa. "you have made up your difference, then, with miss wyndham?" said the anxious mother. "i am so glad! my own dear, good, sensible frank!" "i never had any difference with fanny," said he. "i was not able to explain all about it, nor can i now: it was a crotchet of the earl's--only some nonsense; however, i'm off now--i can't wait a day, for i mean to write to say i shall be at grey abbey the day after to-morrow, and i must go by dublin. i shall be off in a couple of hours; so, for heaven's sake, sophy, look sharp and put up my things." the girls both bustled out of the room, and frank was following them, but his mother called him back. "when is it to be, frank? come tell me something about it. i never asked any questions when i thought the subject was a painful one." "god bless you, mother, you never did. but i can tell you nothing--only the stupid old earl has begged me to go there at once. fanny must settle the time herself: there'll be settlements, and lawyer's work." "that's true, my love. a hundred thousand pounds in ready cash does want looking after. but look here, my dear; fanny is of age, isn't she?" "she is, mother." "well now, frank, take my advice; they'll want to tie up her money in all manner of ways, so as to make it of the least possible use to you, or to her either. they always do; they're never contented unless they lock up a girl's money, so that neither she nor her husband can spend the principal or the interest. don't let them do it, frank. of course she will be led by you, let them settle whatever is fair on her; but don't let them bother the money so that you can't pay off the debts. it'll be a grand thing, frank, to redeem the property." frank hemmed and hawed, and said he'd consult his lawyer in dublin before the settlements were signed; but declared that he was not going to marry fanny wyndham for her money. "that's all very well, frank," said the mother; "but you know you could not marry her without the money, and mind, it's now or never. think what a thing it would be to have the property unencumbered!" the son hurried away to throw himself at the feet of his mistress, and the mother remained in her drawing-room, thinking with delight on the renovated grandeur of the family, and of the decided lead which the o'kellys would again be able to take in connaught. fanny's joy was quite equal to that of her lover, but it was not shown quite so openly. her aunt congratulated her most warmly; kissed her twenty times; called her her own dear, darling niece, and promised her to love her husband, and to make him a purse if she could get griffiths to teach her that new stitch; it looked so easy she was sure she could learn it, and it wouldn't tease her eyes. lady selina also wished her joy; but she did it very coldly, though very sensibly. "believe me, my dear fanny, i am glad you should have the wish of your heart. there were obstacles to your union with lord ballindine, which appeared to be insurmountable, and i therefore attempted to wean you from your love. i hope he will prove worthy of that love, and that you may never have cause to repent of your devotion to him. you are going greatly to increase your cares and troubles; may god give you strength to bear them, and wisdom to turn them to advantage!" the earl made a very long speech to her, in which there were but few pauses, and not one full stop. fanny was not now inclined to quarrel with him; and he quite satisfied himself that his conduct, throughout, towards his ward, had been dignified, prudent, consistent, and disinterested. these speeches and congratulations all occurred during the period of mr armstrong's visit, and fanny heard nothing more about her lover, till the third morning after that gentleman's departure; the earl announced then, on entering the breakfast-room, that he had that morning received a communication from lord ballindine, and that his lordship intended reaching grey abbey that day in time for dinner. fanny felt herself blush, but she said nothing; lady selina regretted that he had had a very wet day yesterday, and hoped he would have a fine day to-day; and lady cashel was overcome at the reflection that she had no one to meet him at dinner, and that she had not yet suited herself with a cook. "dear me," exclaimed her ladyship; "i wish we'd got this letter yesterday; no one knows now, beforehand, when people are coming. i'm sure it usen't to be so. i shall be so glad to see lord ballindine; you know, fanny, he was always a great favourite of mine. do you think, selina, the o'joscelyns would mind coming again without any notice? i'm sure i don't know--i would not for the world treat lord ballindine shabbily; but what can i do, my dear?" "i think, my lady, we may dispense with any ceremony now, with lord ballindine," said the earl. "he will, i am sure, be delighted to be received merely as one of the family. you need not mind asking the o'joscelyns to-day." "do you think not? well, that's a great comfort: besides, lord ballindine never was particular. but still, fanny, had i known he was coming so soon, i would have had murray down from dublin again at once, for mrs richards is not a good cook." during the remainder of the morning, fanny was certainly very happy; but she was very uneasy. she hardly knew how to meet lord ballindine. she felt that she had treated him badly, though she had never ceased to love him dearly; and she also thought she owed him much for his constancy. it was so good of him to send his friend to her--and one to whom her uncle could not refuse admission; and then she thought she had treated mr armstrong haughtily and unkindly. she had never thanked him for all the trouble he had taken; she had never told him how very happy he had made her; but she would do so at some future time, when he should be an honoured and a valued guest in her own and her husband's house. but how should she receive her lover? would they allow her to be alone with him, if only for a moment, at their first meeting? oh! how she longed for a confidante! but she could not make a confidante of her cousin. twice she went down to the drawing-room, with the intention of talking of her love; but lady selina looked so rigid, and spoke so rigidly, that she could not do it. she said such common-place things, and spoke of lord ballindine exactly as she would of any other visitor who might have been coming to the house. she did not confine herself to his eating and drinking, as her mother did; but she said, he'd find the house very dull, she was afraid--especially as the shooting was all over, and the hunting very nearly so; that he would, however, probably be a good deal at the curragh races. fanny knew that her cousin did not mean to be unkind; but there was no sympathy in her: she could not talk to her of the only subject which occupied her thoughts; so she retreated to her own room, and endeavoured to compose herself. as the afternoon drew on, she began to wish that he was not coming till to-morrow. she became very anxious; she must see him, somewhere, before she dressed for dinner; and she would not, could not, bring herself to go down into the drawing-room, and shake hands with him, when he came, before her uncle, her aunt, and her cousin. she was still pondering on the subject, when, about four o'clock in the afternoon, she got a message from her aunt, desiring her to go to her in her boudoir. "that'll do, griffiths," said the countess, as fanny entered her room; "you can come up when i ring. sit down, fanny; sit down, my dear. i was thinking lord ballindine will soon be here." "i suppose he will, aunt. in his letter to lord cashel, he said he'd be here before dinner." "i'm sure he'll be here soon. dear me; i'm so glad it's all made up between you. i'm sure, fanny, i hope, and think, and believe, you'll be very, very happy." "dear aunt"--and fanny kissed lady cashel. a word of kindness to her then seemed invaluable. "it was so very proper in lord ballindine to give up his horses, and all that sort of thing," said the countess; "i'm sure i always said he'd turn out just what he should be; and he is so good-tempered. i suppose, dear, you'll go abroad the first thing?" "i haven't thought of that yet, aunt," said fanny, trying to smile. "oh, of course you will; you'll go to the rhine, and switzerland, and como, and rome, and those sort of places. it'll be very nice: we went there--your uncle and i--and it was delightful; only i used to be very tired. it wasn't then we went to rome though. i remember now it was after adolphus was born. poor adolphus!" and her ladyship sighed, as her thoughts went back to the miseries of her eldest born. "but i'll tell you why i sent for you, my dear: you know, i must go downstairs to receive lord ballindine, and tell him how glad i am that he's come back; and i'm sure i am very glad that he's coming; and your uncle will be there. but i was thinking you'd perhaps sooner see him first alone. you'll be a little flurried, my dear,--that's natural; so, if you like, you can remain up here, my dear, in my room, quiet and comfortable, by yourself; and griffiths shall show lord ballindine upstairs, as soon as he leaves the drawing-room." "how very, very kind of you, dear aunt!" said fanny, relieved from her most dreadful difficulty. and so it was arranged. lady cashel went down into the drawing-room to await her guest, and fanny brought her book into her aunt's boudoir, and pretended she would read till lord ballindine disturbed her. i need hardly say that she did not read much. she sat there over her aunt's fire, waiting to catch the sound of the wheels on the gravel at the front door. at one moment she would think that he was never coming--the time appeared to be so long; and then again, when she heard any sound which might be that of his approach, she would again wish to have a few minutes more to herself. at length, however, she certainly did hear him. there was the quick rattle of the chaise over the gravel, becoming quicker and quicker, till the vehicle stopped with that kind of plunge which is made by no other animal than a post-horse, and by him only at his arrival at the end of a stage. then the steps were let down with a crash--she would not go to the window, or she might have seen him; she longed to do so, but it appeared so undignified. she sat quite still in her chair; but she heard his quick step at the hail door; she was sure--she could have sworn to his step--and then she heard the untying of cords, and pulling down of luggage. lord ballindine was again in the house, and the dearest wish of her heart was accomplished. she felt that she was trembling. she had not yet made up her mind how she would receive him--what she would first say to him--and certainly she had no time to do so now. she got up, and looked in her aunt's pier-glass. it was more a movement of instinct than one of premeditation; but she thought she had never seen herself look so wretchedly. she had, however, but little time, either for regret or improvement on that score, for there were footsteps in the corridor. he couldn't have stayed a moment to speak to anyone downstairs--however, there he certainly was; she heard griffiths' voice in the passage, "this way, my lord--in my lady's boudoir;" and then the door opened, and in a moment she was in her lover's arms. "my own fanny!--once more my own!" "oh, frank! dear frank!" lord ballindine was only ten minutes late in coming down to dinner, and miss wyndham not about half an hour, which should be considered as showing great moderation on her part. for, of course, frank kept her talking a great deal longer than he should have done; and then she not only had to dress, but to go through many processes with her eyes, to obliterate the trace of tears. she was, however, successful, for she looked very beautiful when she came down, and so dignified, so composed, so quiet in her happiness, and yet so very happy in her quietness. fanny was anything but a hypocrite; she had hardly a taint of hypocrisy in her composition, but her looks seldom betrayed her feelings. there was a majesty of beauty about her, a look of serenity in her demeanour, which in public made her appear superior to all emotion. frank seemed to be much less at his ease. he attempted to chat easily with the countess, and to listen pleasantly to the would-be witticisms of the earl; but he was not comfortable, he did not amalgamate well with the family; had there been a larger party, he could have talked all dinner-time to his love; but, as it was, he hardly spoke a word to her during the ceremony, and indeed, but few during the evening. he did sit next to her on the sofa, to be sure, and watched the lace she was working; but he could not talk unreservedly to her, when old lady cashel was sitting close to him on the other side, and lady selina on a chair immediately opposite. and then, it is impossible to talk to one's mistress, in an ordinary voice, on ordinary subjects, when one has not seen her for some months. a lover is never so badly off as in a family party: a _tête-à-tête_, or a large assembly, are what suit him best: he is equally at his ease in either; but he is completely out of his element in a family party. after all, lady cashel was right; it would have been much better to have asked the o'joscelyns. the next morning, frank underwent a desperate interview in the book-room. his head was dizzy before lord cashel had finished half of what he had to say. he commenced by pointing out with what perfect uprightness and wisdom he had himself acted with regard to his ward; and lord ballindine did not care to be at the trouble of contradicting him. he then went to the subject of settlements, and money matters: professed that he had most unbounded confidence in his young friend's liberality, integrity, and good feeling; that he would be glad to listen, and, he had no doubt, to accede to any proposals made by him: that he was quite sure lord ballindine would make no proposal which was not liberal, fair, and most proper; and he said a great deal more of the kind, and then himself proposed to arrange his ward's fortune in such a way as to put it quite beyond her future husband's control. on this subject, however, frank rather nonplussed the earl by proposing nothing, and agreeing to nothing; but simply saying that he would leave the whole matter in the hands of the lawyers. "quite right, my lord, quite right," said lord cashel, "my men of business, green and grogram, will manage all that. they know all about fanny's property; they can draw out the settlements, and grogram can bring them here, and we can execute them: that'll be the simplest way." "i'll write to mr cummings, then, and tell him to wait on messrs. green and grogram. cummings is a very proper man: he was recommended to me by guinness." "oh, ah--yes; your attorney, you mean?" said the earl. "why, yes, that will be quite proper, too. of course mr cummings will see the necessity of absolutely securing miss wyndham's fortune." nothing further, however, was said between them on the subject; and the settlements, whatever was their purport, were drawn out without any visible interference on the part of lord ballindine. but mr grogram, the attorney, on his first visit to grey abbey on the subject, had no difficulty in learning that miss wyndham was determined to have a will of her own in the disposition of her own money. fanny told her lover the whole episode of lord kilcullen's offer to her; but she told it in such a way as to redound rather to her cousin's credit than otherwise. she had learned to love him as a cousin and a friend, and his ill-timed proposal to her had not destroyed the feeling. a woman can rarely be really offended at the expression of love, unless it be from some one unfitted to match with her, either in rank or age. besides, fanny thought that lord kilcullen had behaved generously to her when she so violently repudiated his love: she believed that it had been sincere; she had not even to herself accused him of meanness or treachery; and she spoke of him as one to be pitied, liked, and regarded; not as one to be execrated and avoided. and then she confessed to frank all her fears respecting himself; how her heart would have broken, had he taken her own rash word as final, and so deserted her. she told him that she had never ceased to love him, for a day; not even on that day when, in her foolish spleen, she had told her uncle she was willing to break off the match; she owned to him all her troubles, all her doubts; how she had made up her mind to write to him, but had not dared to do so, lest his answer should be such as would kill her at once. and then she prayed to be forgiven for her falseness; for having consented, even for a moment, to forget the solemn vows she had so often repeated to him. frank stopped her again and again in her sweet confessions, and swore the blame was only his. he anathematised himself, his horses, and his friends, for having caused a moment's uneasiness to her; but she insisted on receiving his forgiveness, and he was obliged to say that he forgave her. with all his follies, and all his weakness, lord ballindine was not of an unforgiving temperament: he was too happy to be angry with any one, now. he forgave even lord cashel; and, had he seen lord kilcullen, he would have been willing to give him his hand as to a brother. frank spent two or three delightful weeks, basking in the sunshine of fanny's love, and lord cashel's favour. nothing could be more obsequiously civil than the earl's demeanour, now that the matter was decided. every thing was to be done just as lord ballindine liked; his taste was to be consulted in every thing; the earl even proposed different visits to the curragh; asked after the whereabouts of fin m'coul and brien boru; and condescended pleasantly to inquire whether dot blake was prospering as usual with his favourite amusement. at length, the day was fixed for the marriage. it was to be in the pleasant, sweet-smelling, grateful month of may,--the end of may; and lord and lady ballindine were then to start for a summer tour, as the countess had proposed, to see the rhine, and switzerland, and rome, and those sort of places. and now, invitations were sent, far and wide, to relatives and friends. lord cashel had determined that the wedding should be a great concern. the ruin of his son was to be forgotten in the marriage of his niece. the bishop of maryborough was to come and marry them; the ellisons were to come again, and the fitzgeralds: a duchess was secured, though duchesses are scarce in ireland; and great exertions were made to get at a royal prince, who was commanding the forces in the west. but the royal prince did not see why he should put himself to so much trouble, and he therefore sent to say that he was very sorry, but the peculiar features of the time made it quite impossible for him to leave his command, even on so great a temptation; and a paragraph consequently found its way into the papers, very laudatory of his royal highness's military energy and attention. mrs o'kelly and her daughters received a very warm invitation, which they were delighted to accept. sophy and augusta were in the seventh heaven of happiness, for they were to form a portion of the fair bevy of bridesmaids appointed to attend fanny wyndham to the altar. frank rather pished and poohed at all these preparations of grandeur; he felt that when the ceremony took place he would look like the ornamental calf in the middle of it; but, on the whole, he bore his martyrdom patiently. four spanking bays, and a new chariot ordered from hutton's, on the occasion, would soon carry him away from the worst part of it. lord cashel was in the midst of his glory: he had got an occupation and he delighted in it. lady selina performed her portion of the work with exemplary patience and attention. she wrote all the orders to the tradesmen, and all the invitations; she even condescended to give advice to fanny about her dress; and to griffiths, about the arrangement of the rooms and tables. but poor lady cashel worked the hardest of all,--her troubles had no end. had she known what she was about to encounter, when she undertook the task of superintending the arrangements for her niece's wedding, she would never have attempted it: she would never have entered into negotiations with that treacherous murray--that man cook in dublin--but have allowed mrs richards to have done her best,--or her worst,--in her own simple way, in spite of the duchess and the bishop, and the hopes of a royal prince indulged in by lord cashel. she did not dare to say as much to her husband, but she confessed to griffiths that she was delighted when she heard his royal highness would not come. she was sure his coming would not make dear fanny a bit happier, and she really would not have known what to do with him after the married people were gone. frank received two letters from dot blake during his stay at grey abbey. in the former he warmly congratulated him on his approaching nuptials, and strongly commended him on his success in having arranged matters. "you never could have forgiven yourself," he said, "had you allowed miss wyndham's splendid fortune to slip through your hands. i knew you were not the man to make a vain boast of a girl's love, and i was therefore sure that you might rely on her affection. i only feared you might let the matter go too far. you know i strongly advised you not to marry twenty thousand pounds. i am as strongly of opinion that you would be a fool to neglect to marry six times as much. you see i still confine myself to the money part of the business, as though the lady herself were of no value. i don't think so, however; only i know you never would have lived happily without an easy fortune." and then he spoke of brien boru, and informed lord ballindine that that now celebrated nag was at the head of the list of the derby horses; that it was all but impossible to get any odds against him at all;--that the whole betting world were talking of nothing else; that three conspiracies had been detected, the object of which was to make him safe--that is, to make him very unsafe to his friends; that scott's foreman had been offered two thousand to dose him; and that scott himself slept in the stable with him every night, to prevent anything like false play. the second letter was written by dot, at epsom, on the th of may, thirty minutes after the great race had been run. it was very short; and shall therefore be given entire. epsom, derby day, race just over. god bless you, my dear boy--brien has done the trick, and done it well! butler rode him beautifully, but he did not want any riding; he's the kindest beast ever had a saddle on. the stakes are close on four thousand pounds: your share will do well to pay the posters, &c., for yourself and my lady, on your wedding trip. i win well--very well; but i doubt the settling. we shall have awful faces at the corner next week. you'll probably have heard all about it by express before you get this. in greatest haste, yours, w. blake. the next week, the following paragraph appeared in "bell's life in london." it never rains but it pours. it appears pretty certain, now, that brien boru is not the property of the gentleman in whose name he has run; but that he is owned by a certain noble lord, well known on the irish turf, who has lately, however, been devoting his time to pursuits more pleasant and more profitable than the cares of the stable--pleasant and profitable as it doubtless must be to win the best race of the year. the pick-up on the derby is about four thousand pounds, and brien boru is certainly the best horse of his year. but lord ballindine's matrimonial pick-up is, we are told, a clear quarter of a million; and those who are good judges declare that no more beautiful woman than the future lady ballindine will have graced the english court for many a long year. his lordship, on the whole, is not doing badly. lord cashel, also, congratulated frank on his success on the turf, in spite of the very decided opinion he had expressed on the subject, when he was endeavouring to throw him on one side. "my dear ballindine," he said, "i wish you joy with all my heart: a most magnificent animal, i'm told, is brien, and still partly your own property, you say. well; it's a great triumph to beat those english lads on their own ground, isn't it? and thorough irish blood, too!--thorough irish blood! he has the 'paddy whack' strain in him, through the dam--the very best blood in ireland. you know, my mare 'dignity', that won the oaks in ' , was by 'chanticleer', out of 'floribel', by 'paddy whack.' you say you mean to give up the turf, and you know i've done so, too. but, if you ever do change your mind--should you ever run horses again--take my advice, and stick to the 'paddy whack' strain. there's no beating the real 'paddy whack' blood." on the st of may, , lord ballindine and fanny wyndham were married. the bishop "turned 'em off iligant," as a wag said in the servants' hall. there was a long account of the affair in the "morning post" of the day; there were eight bridesmaids, all of whom, it was afterwards remarked, were themselves married within two years of the time; an omen which was presumed to promise much continued happiness to lord and lady ballindine, and all belonging to them. murray, the man cook, did come down from dublin, just in time; but he behaved very badly. he got quite drunk on the morning of the wedding. he, however, gave richards an opportunity of immortalising herself. she behaved, on the trying occasion, so well, that she is now confirmed in her situation; and lady cashel has solemnly declared that she will never again, on any account, be persuaded to allow a man cook to enter the house. lady selina--she would not officiate as one of the bridesmaids--is still unmarried; but her temper is not thereby soured, nor her life embittered. she is active, energetic, and good as ever: and, as ever, cold, hard, harsh, and dignified. lord kilcullen has hardly been heard of since his departure from grey abbey. it is known that he is living at baden, but no one knows on what. his father never mentions his name; his mother sometimes talks of "poor adolphus;" but if he were dead and buried he could not give less trouble to the people of grey abbey. no change has occurred, or is likely to take place, in the earl himself--nor is any desirable. how could he change for the better? how could he bear his honours with more dignity, or grace his high position with more decorum? every year since the marriage of his niece, he has sent lord and lady ballindine an invitation to grey abbey; but there has always been some insuperable impediment to the visit. a child had just been born, or was just going to be born; or mrs o'kelly was ill; or one of the miss o'kellys was going to be married. it was very unfortunate, but lord and lady ballindine were never able to get as far as grey abbey. great improvements have been effected at kelly's court. old buildings have been pulled down, and additions built up; a great many thousand young trees have been planted, and some miles of new roads and walks constructed. the place has quite an altered appearance; and, though connaught is still connaught, and county mayo is the poorest part of it, lady ballindine does not find kelly's court unbearable. she has three children already, and doubtless will have many more. her nursery, therefore, prevents her from being tormented by the weariness of the far west. lord ballindine himself is very happy. he still has the hounds, and maintains, in the three counties round him, the sporting pre-eminence, which has for so many years belonged to his family. but he has no race-horses. his friend, dot, purchased the lot of them out and out, soon after the famous derby; and a very good bargain, for himself, he is said to have made. he is still intimate with lord ballindine, and always spends a fortnight with him at kelly's court during the hunting-season. sophy o'kelly married a blake, and augusta married a dillon; and, as they both live within ten miles of kelly's court. and their husbands are related to all the blakes and all the dillons; and as ballindine himself is the head of all the kellys, there is a rather strong clan of them. about five-and-twenty cousins muster together in red coats and top-boots, every tuesday and friday during the hunting-season. it would hardly be wise, in that country, to quarrel with a kelly, a dillon, or a blake. xl. conclusion we must now return to dunmore, and say a few parting words of the kellys and anty lynch; and then our task will be finished. it will be remembered that that demon of dunmore, barry lynch, has been made to vanish: like lord kilcullen, he has gone abroad; he has settled himself at an hotel at boulogne, and is determined to enjoy himself. arrangements have been made about the property, certainly not very satisfactory to barry, because they are such as make it necessary for him to pay his own debts; but they still leave him sufficient to allow of his indulging in every vice congenial to his taste; and, if he doesn't get fleeced by cleverer rogues than himself--which, however, will probably be the case--he will have quite enough to last him till he has drunk himself to death. after his departure, there was nothing to delay anty's marriage, but her own rather slow recovery. she has no other relatives to ask, no other friends to consult. now that barry was gone she was entirely her own mistress, and was quite willing to give up her dominion over herself to martin kelly. she had, however, been greatly shaken; not by illness only, but by fear also--her fears of barry and for barry. she still dreamed while asleep, and thought while awake, of that horrid night when he crept up to her room and swore that he would murder her. this, and what she had suffered since, had greatly weakened her, and it was some time before doctor colligan would pronounce her convalescent. at last, however, the difficulties were overcome; all arrangements were completed. anty was well; the property was settled; martin was impatient; and the day was fixed. there was no bishop, no duchess, no man-cook, at the wedding-party given on the occasion by mrs kelly; nevertheless, it was, in its way, quite as grand an affair as that given by the countess. the widow opened her heart, and opened her house. her great enemy, barry lynch, was gone--clean beaten out of the field--thoroughly vanquished; as far as ireland was concerned, annihilated; and therefore, any one else in the three counties was welcome to share her hospitality. oh, the excess of delight the widow experienced in speaking of barry to one of her gossips, as the "poor misfortunate crature!" daly, the attorney, was especially invited, and he came. moylan also was asked, but he stayed away. doctor colligan was there, in great feather; had it not been for him, there would probably have been no wedding at all. it would have been a great thing if lord ballindine could have been got to grace the party, though only for ten minutes; but he was at that time in switzerland with his own bride, so he could not possibly do so. "well, ma'am," said mrs costelloe, the grocer's wife, from tuam, an old friend of the widow, who had got into a corner with her to have a little chat, and drink half-a-pint of porter before the ceremony,--"and i'm shure i wish you joy of the marriage. faux, i'm tould it's nigh to five hundred a-year, miss anty has, may god bless and incrase it! well, martin has his own luck; but he desarves it, he desarves it." "i don't know so much about luck thin, mrs costelloe," said the widow, who still professed to think that her son gave quite as much as he got, in marrying anty lynch; "i don't know so much about luck: martin was very well as he was; his poor father didn't lave him that way that he need be looking to a wife for mains, the lord be praised." "and that's thrue, too, mrs kelly," said the other; "but miss anty's fortune ain't a bad step to a young man, neither. why, there won't be a young gintleman within tin--no, not within forty miles, more respectable than martin kelly; that is, regarding mains." "and you needn't stop there, ma'am, neither; you may say the very same regarding characther, too--and family, too, glory be to the virgin. i'd like to know where some of their ancesthers wor, when the kellys of ould wor ruling the whole counthry?" "thrue for you, my dear; i'd like to know, indeed: there's nothing, afther all, like blood, and a good characther. but is it thrue, mrs kelly, that martin will live up in the big house yonder?" "where should a man live thin, mrs costelloe, when he gets married, but jist in his own house? why for should he not live there?" "that's thrue agin, to be shure: but yet, only to think martin--living in ould sim lynch's big house! i wondther what ould sim would say, hisself, av he could only come back and see it!" "i'll tell you what he'd say thin, av he tould the thruth; he'd say there was an honest man living there, which wor niver the case as long as any of his own breed was in it--barring anty, i main; she's honest and thrue, the lord be good to her, the poor thing. but the porter's not to your liking, mrs costelloe--you're not tasting it at all this morning." no one could have been more humble and meek than was anty herself, in the midst of her happiness. she had no idea of taking on herself the airs of a fine lady, or the importance of an heiress; she had no wish to be thought a lady; she had no wish for other friends than those of her husband, and his family. she had never heard of her brother's last horrible proposal to doctor colligan, and of the manner in which his consent to her marriage had been obtained; nor did martin intend that she should hear it. she had merely been told that her brother had found that it was for his advantage to leave the neighbourhood altogether; that he had given up all claim to the house; and that his income was to be sent to him by a person appointed in the neighbourhood to receive it. anty, however, before signing her own settlement, was particularly careful that nothing should be done, injurious to her brother's interest, and that no unfair advantage should be taken of his absence. martin, too, was quiet enough on the occasion. it was arranged that he and his wife, and at any rate one of his sisters, should live at dunmore house; and that he should keep in his own hands the farm near dunmore, which old sim had held, as well as his own farm at toneroe. but, to tell the truth, martin felt rather ashamed of his grandeur. he would much have preferred building a nice snug little house of his own, on the land he held under lord ballindine; but he was told that he would be a fool to build a house on another man's ground, when he had a very good one ready built on his own. he gave way to such good advice, but he did not feel at all happy at the idea; and, when going up to the house, always felt an inclination to shirk in at the back-way. but, though neither the widow nor martin triumphed aloud at their worldly prosperity, the two girls made up for their quiescence. they were full of nothing else; their brother's fine house--anty's great fortune; their wealth, prosperity, and future station and happiness, gave them subjects of delightful conversation among their friends. meg. moreover, boasted that it was all her own doing; that it was she who had made up the match; that martin would never have thought of it but for her,--nor anty either, for the matter of that. "and will your mother be staying down at the shop always, the same as iver?" said matilda nolan, the daughter of the innkeeper at tuam. "'deed she says so, then," said jane, in a tone of disappointment; for her mother's pertinacity in adhering to the counter was, at present, the one misery of her life. "and which of you will be staying here along with her, dears?" said matilda. "she'll be wanting one of you to be with her, any ways." "oh, turn about, i suppose," said jane. "she'll not get much of my company, any way," said meg. "i've had enough of the nasty place, and now martin has a dacent house to put over our heads, and mainly through my mains i may say, i don't see why i'm to be mewing myself up in such a hole as this. there's room for her up in dunmore house, and wilcome, too; let her come up there. av she mains to demain herself by sticking down here, she may stay by herself for me." "but you'll take your turn, meg?" said jane. "it'll be a very little turn, then," said meg; "i'm sick of the nasty ould place; fancy coming down here, matilda, to the tobacco and sugar, after living up there a month or so, with everything nice and comfortable! and it's only mother's whims, for she don't want the shop. anty begged and prayed of her for to come and live at dunmore house for good and all; but no; she says she'll never live in any one's house that isn't her own." "i'm not so, any way," said jane; "i'd be glad enough to live in another person's house av i liked it." "i'll go bail you would, my dear," said matilda; "willing enough--especially john dolan's." "oh! av i iver live in that it'll be partly my own, you know; and may-be a girl might do worse." "that's thrue, dear," said matilda; "but john dolan's not so soft as to take any girl just as she stands. what does your mother say about the money part of the business?" and so the two friends put their heads together, to arrange another wedding, if possible. martin and anty did not go to visit switzerland, or rome, as soon as they were married; but they took a bathing-lodge at renvill, near galway, and with much difficulty, persuaded mrs kelly to allow both her daughters to accompany them. and very merry they all were. anty soon became a different creature from what she ever had been: she learned to be happy and gay; to laugh and enjoy the sunshine of the world. she had always been kind to others, and now she had round her those who were kind and affectionate to her. her manner of life was completely changed: indeed, life itself was an altered thing to her. it was so new to her to have friends; to be loved; to be one of a family who regarded and looked up to her. she hardly knew herself in her new happiness. they returned to dunmore in the early autumn, and took up their residence at sim lynch's big house, as had been arranged. martin was very shy about it: it was long before he talked about it as his house, or his ground, or his farm; and it was long before he could find himself quite at home in his own parlour. many attempts were made to induce the widow to give up the inn, and shift her quarters to the big house, but in vain. she declared that, ould as she was, she wouldn't think of making herself throublesome to young folks; who, may-be, afther a bit, would a dail sooner have her room than her company: that she had always been misthress, and mostly masther too, in her own house, glory be to god; and that she meant to be so still; and that, poor as the place was, she meant to call it her own. she didn't think herself at all fit company for people who lived in grand houses, and had their own demesnes, and gardens, and the rest of it; she had always lived where money was to be made, and she didn't see the sense of going, in her old age, to a place where the only work would be how to spend it. some folks would find it was a dail asier to scatther it than it wor to put it together. all this she said and a great deal more, which had her character not been known, would have led people to believe that her son was a spendthrift, and that he and anty were commencing life in an expensive way, and without means. but then, the widow kelly _was_ known, and her speeches were only taken at their value. she so far relaxed, however, that she spent every sunday at the house; on which occasions she invariably dressed herself with all the grandeur she was able to display, and passed the whole afternoon sitting on a sofa, with her hands before her, trying to look as became a lady enjoying herself in a fine drawing-room. her sundays were certainly not the comfort to her, which they had been when spent at the inn; but they made her enjoy, with a keener relish, the feeling of perfect sovereignty when she returned to her own domains. i have nothing further to tell of mr and mrs kelly. i believe doctor colligan has been once called in on an interesting occasion, if not twice; so it is likely that dunmore house will not be left without an heir. i have also learned, on inquiry, that margaret and jane kelly have both arranged their own affairs to their own satisfaction. google books (the new york public library) transcriber's notes: . page scan source: google books https://books.google.com/books?id=ieggaaaamaaj (the new york public library) the lost parchment _a detective story_ by fergus hume author of "the mystery of a hansom cab," "the mystery queen," "the rainbow feather," "red money," "the sealed message," "the secret passage," "the steel crown," etc. g. w. dillingham company publishers new york copyright, , by g. w. dillingham company _the lost parchment_ press of j. j. little & ives co. new york contents chapter i. schoolfellows ii. the vicar iii. lovers iv. the cottage v. a revelation vi. counsels opinion vii. a nine days wonder viii. mallien speaks ix. a serious position x. dorinda xi. carringtons advice xii. on the track xiii. confession xiv. a clue xv. circumstantial evidence xvi. a new witness xvii. difficulties xviii. setting a trap xix. resurgam xx. a weird story xxi. a final surprise the lost parchment. chapter i schoolfellows "so this is your kingdom, hendle?" said the visitor, looking round the garden which glowed with rainbow tints in the hot july sunshine; "and a very jolly kingdom it is. when did you enter into it?" "when i was fifteen, twelve years ago," replied the squire, smiling. "don't you remember how i wrote and told you of the death of my father? you had just left school for the 'varsity. those were capital days at rugby, weren't they, carrington?" "they were. i have had few capital days since." "but surely at oxford----" carrington shrugged his shoulders and made a frank admission. "oh, yes! oxford was all right until my father died and left me without a sixpence. it was hard work, i can tell you, qualifying for the bar on next to nothing. and i can't say that i have made my fortune as a barrister. you, lucky dog, don't need to bother about pounds, shillings, and pence." "i have certainly nothing to complain of on that score," said hendle in a satisfied tone and extending his cigarette case. "it was a pity we drifted apart, carrington, as we were such chums at rugby. i might have helped you." "you were always a good chap, hendle, and that is why i took to you, when we were in our teens. but we saw nothing of each other all these years because you had money and i hadn't. besides, you went to cambridge, while i patronized oxford. it is my fault that our friendship has not continued unbroken, as i never answered your many letters. but you see i was always too much involved in law studies to bother. you, i presume, were looking after your snug little kingdom." hendle nodded. "i am a very stay-at-home person, and the place requires a good deal of supervision." "lucky dog!" repeated the barrister. "you have a fine income, too." "so-so. four thousand a year." "the deuce! and, like bottom, i support life on sixpence a day, which, unlike bottom, i have to earn. there is no theseus to give me a pension." "you didn't seem to be so very hard up when i met you six months ago in the _criterion restaurant_," said the young squire dryly. "oh, one has to keep up some sort of appearance and dress in purple and fine linen, even if one cannot afford to do so," answered carrington easily. "it is only your rich man who can dispense with solomon-in-all-his-glory raiment, old fellow. anyhow, poor or rich, i was delighted to meet you again." "were you?" hendle appeared to be a trifle sceptical. "you didn't hurry yourself to come down to barship anyhow." "i didn't; that's a fact. i thought you might fancy that i would borrow, if i came too speedily. hence the six months' hesitation." "oh, rot! you know that i'm not the sort of fellow to grudge a loan to an old school chum if he asks for it." "you were always a good chap, hendle," said carrington again. "but i am not going to ask. i have bread and butter, if not jam, and one must be grateful for the necessities of life in these hard times." hendle nodded with a lazy laugh and the young men lighted fresh cigarettes as they crossed the lawn to gain the avenue which sloped gradually for a quarter of a mile in the direction of the village. behind them they left a delightfully ugly mansion of georgian architecture mellowed by time into positive beauty. the big house--its local name--draped itself majestically in dark trailing ivy, showing here and there the bland softened hue of its ruddy brick walls. "my mind to me a kingdom is," quoted carrington with a backward glance at the peace and beauty they were leaving. "a poetic, but truly unsatisfactory saying, hendle. your acres are a more tangible possession than the stuff of which dreams are made. let us go hence." the squire in his simple honesty laughed at the fantastic remarks of his visitor, not guessing that a considerable amount of acid envy underlay the amiable compliments. hendle was one of those honorable, good-natured creatures, who believed that his fellow-men were as open-minded and straightforward as he was himself. his florid complexion, fair crisp hair, big limbs and general air of latent strength revealed plainly his saxon ancestry, and he resembled a good-natured bull content with plentiful grass and water and the freedom of wide meadows. he was markedly good-looking, with sleepy blue eyes and a heavy moustache of a russet hue, which he usually tugged at to help on his slow-moving thoughts. his name, rupert, suggested swift dash and impetuous daring. but there was nothing of these things about this somewhat drowsy giant, although he had ample courage when necessary. it took much to rouse him, but once the dam of his self-restraint broke, everything and everyone were swept away like straws in a torrent of berserk fury. when rupert did fight, nothing could stand against his enormous physical power; and the use of this, being tempered by strong common-sense, invariably gained him the victory. but he usually preferred peace to war, and it took much to stimulate his passions to an outbreak. dean carrington himself was to his friend like a georgian rapier to a crusader's sword. he was small and lean, quick-witted and nimble, with dark hair and dark eyes and a swarthy complexion. his clean-shaven face with its regular features and keen expression suggested the born intriguer, who gained his ends rather by cunning than force. always perfectly dressed, always amiable, an accomplished squire-of-dames, well-read and yet a man-of-the-world, carrington was the exact opposite of hendle, and perhaps had made him his friend because of the vast difference in their natures. having a more alert though not a stronger mind, he dominated rupert in a most dexterous manner, never showing the iron hand without its velvet glove. nevertheless, this ascendency had been achieved at rugby, and owed its strength to the admiration of the dull boy for the clever boy; to the hero-worship of the younger for the older. but if carrington was now thirty, rupert was now twenty-seven, and might not be so easily mastered, presuming, as might be the case, the latter had developed qualities with which the former could not cope. this remained to be seen, and it was to see, that carrington had come down for a saturday to monday rest. now that he judged rupert to be much the same and saw how luxurious were his surroundings, the astute barrister determined to reëstablish his sway over a wealthy friend too long neglected. therefore he made himself delightfully agreeable. he had spent saturday and sunday with the squire, and now was strolling through the village on monday afternoon, before catching the evening train. so far, owing to rupert's frank intimacy, he foresaw no obstacle to his making use of the young man. but there was one possibility to be reckoned with, which had to be looked into, and this carrington approached in a roundabout manner, after his usual custom. "a delightful place," said the barrister with a sigh of pleasure, as they sauntered along the cobblestone street, with its quaint houses on either side. "you are a king here. when you conduct the queen to the throne at the big house, the serfs will lie down and allow you both to walk over them." "i haven't any wish to walk over them," said hendle, shrugging his mighty shoulders, "and i don't think the villagers would like to hear you call them serfs, carrington." "pooh! they wouldn't know the meaning of the word. and, after all, it is only my picturesque way of speaking. but you evade my question." "i didn't know you asked any. you simply made a remark." "the lord mend your wit, then. i must be plain, i see. what about a wife?" "oh, that's all arranged for," replied the squire stolidly, and with never a blush, so matter-of-fact was he. "and you never told me," murmured carrington reproachfully. "you never asked me." "no," said the other, wondering at this phlegmatic nature. "i didn't." then he lapsed into musing, and rupert, never a talker at the best of times, strode beside him silent and comfortably happy. so the possibility had become a probability, and a feminine influence had to be reckoned with after all. this was what carrington had dreaded, and he blamed himself for not having asked the question before. had he done so, he might have been introduced to the lady and then would have been able to judge what sort of a marplot she would prove to be. however, he hoped to meet her when he next came down, which would be very soon, and meanwhile, true to his plan of campaign, he laughed amiably at rupert's reticence. "you always did take things stolidly at school, hendle," he said, arching his finely penciled eyebrows, "and you have not changed in this respect. who is she?" "my cousin--a third or fourth cousin. we have known each other all our lives, and that is why we know we will be happy." "familiarity doesn't breed contempt in this case, then," said the barrister lightly. "as you have known her all her life, i presume she lives hereabouts?" "oh, yes. at the other end of the village." "i should like to see her," suggested carrington persuasively. "next time you come down you shall. i shall ask her father and dorinda to dinner at the big house." "who is her father?" "a second or third cousin of mine." "what is his name?" "mallien--julius mallien." "i am little the wiser," said the barrister ironically, "and i don't want to exercise my profession of cross-examining people in the country. can't you give me details?" "i am," said the other, slightly surprised. "i am giving you details." "yes, when i ask you incessant questions. but make some sort of a speech. i want to know what kind of a person mallien is; i want a description of the lady; i desire to learn what the father does, and if he will give his daughter a dowry. in fact, i wish to know all about it, as naturally i take the greatest interest in the welfare of my old school chum." "good old man," said rupert, giving carrington's arm so affectionate a squeeze that the barrister winced with the pain. "well, mallien's a beast, like timon of athens--you remember the play we read at school. i don't like mallien, as he's always grousing at everyone and everything." "you give me the key to his character by mentioning timon. your future father-in-law is a misanthrope." rupert nodded. "very much so. and dorinda is----" "an angel. i know what you are about to say." "i don't think you do. dorinda is a good sort." "is that all the praise you can bestow on your future wife?" "it's all she wants. dorinda doesn't like compliments." "what an unnatural girl!" laughed carrington, "and her looks?" hendle filled his pipe while he replied and halted in the village square while he did so. "she's got black hair and blue eyes and a ripping figure and is heaps cleverer than i am." "what a bald description! has she two eyes and a nose with a mouth under it?" "how you chaff, carrington. however, when you come down again, you will see dorinda for herself. hallo, here's kit." "who is kit?" questioned the other, as a smart motor car slipped easily out of the crooked street to halt in the square, as the village green was grandiloquently entitled. "the son of my housekeeper, mrs. beatson." "that sour-looking woman with the hard eye?" "the same. she has been hammered hard by misfortune, but is a lady born and bred for all that. morning, kit." "good morning, squire. hot, isn't it? i can only get some sort of wind by running the machine at top speed." "you'll be roped in by the police if you don't mind your eye, kit. my friend, mr. dean carrington. this is mr. christopher beatson, carrington. he's a reckless hero, who plays with the whiskers of death on all and every occasion." "that is the habit of the present generation," said carrington, with a nod to the handsome young fellow in the car. "motors, aeroplanes, scenic railways and looping-the-loop. youth enjoys nothing nowadays unless it has in it an element of danger. to go out and never know if you will be home to supper, mr. beatson: that is your delight." "there is much truth in what you say, mr. carrington," returned kit, laughing. "after all, it's life." "this is the frantic age," said hendle sententiously. "how's business, kit?" "ripping! i sold three cars last week on behalf of the firm. one to a lady." "who was taken with your good looks, i suppose. take care miss tollart doesn't grow jealous, kit." "you will have your joke, mr. hendle," answered beatson, his bronzed skin growing crimson and his brown eyes sparkling. "but sophy knows that i have to play up to the customers to get the stuff sold." he turned from the wheel to look round generally. "have you seen her? she's to meet me here and go with me for a spin." just then miss tollart appeared hurrying to the rendezvous as fast as her hobble-skirt would permit. she revealed herself as a fine-looking and decidedly flamboyant young woman with an independent air which suggested the suffragist. it could easily be seen, and by a less observant person than carrington, that kit would be known as "mrs. beatson's husband" when the ring was on the lady's finger. his chin betrayed a rather weak nature, and his eyes had much too kind a look in them to hint at mastery, while the tall black-browed young woman, who swung toward the group with the air of conquering semiramis, appeared quite capable of dominating an empire, much less a husband. carrington did not envy kit's approaching connubial bliss. "mr. carrington, miss tollart," said the squire, introducing his friend to the new arrival. "carrington, miss tollart is the daughter of our doctor." sophy winced at the mention of her father and carrington wondered why she should. however, the emotion passed in a flash and miss tollart inspected the barrister much as a naturalist inspects a microbe under the microscope. the sniff with which she concluded her scrutiny hinted at dissatisfaction, if not at contempt. but then sophy as an ardent suffragist never did think much of the male, and straightway flew her colors in the face of this particular one. "i am going to elbowsham to speak at a meeting, squire. have i your good wishes?" "that you will come home safe and sound?" queried hendle with twinkling eyes. "you have. don't insult the crowd more than you can help, miss tollart." "i shall not conceal my opinions," retorted the lady, tightening her lips. "ah!" carrington looked her up and down, "in that case i am glad mr. beatson and his car will be at hand to rescue you." "i can fight my own battles," said miss tollart coolly. "but i see that you don't believe in votes for women." "my dear lady," replied carrington smoothly, "when i am in your presence i believe in anything you like to advance." sophy sniffed. "hedging!" she observed aggressively. "men never can give a straight answer. i only wish," she continued as she turned to hendle, "that i could infect dorinda with my ardor. but she won't uphold the banner, and sulks in her tent." "i am afraid that i have exhausted all my persuasive power in inducing her to join me as my future wife," said the squire politely. sophy nodded her approval. "dorinda's a nice girl and a good girl, and a very pretty girl," she said, in her deep-toned voice, "but she is as weak as any man in this village. as weak as you are, squire, as the vicar, as my father, and you know what he is." she winced again, then turned aggressively on kit. "but i can't stay here all day, as the meeting at elbowsham is waiting. five miles, kit; you must do it in five minutes." "what about the police?" asked carrington. "i despise the police," cried miss tollart, as she was borne away hurriedly by her lover to prevent further trouble. "they know me." carrington looked leisurely after the machine until it vanished and sophy's trumpet tones of defiance died away. "what an uncomfortable young woman," he observed, turning toward his friend. "oh, sophy's a good sort," said hendle soberly. "she's had heaps of trouble." "it doesn't seem to have knocked much sense into her, anyway. trouble. bother, i see. her father, i expect?" the squire looked astonished. "yes. but how you guessed----" "i saw her wince when you and she mentioned dr. tollart," explained the barrister. they crossed the green, passing an ancient cross of worn stone, which stood in the center of a vast expanse of grass burnt brown with the long-enduring heat. round the square were various cottages with white-washed walls and thatched roofs, each standing in its own tiny garden brilliant with flowers. _the hendle inn_, with the arms of the family swinging from a signpost, was the largest building in sight, and presented an attractive sight to an artist, since it dated from tudor times, and its upper story overhung the lower. with its red-tiled roof and dark oaken beams deeply embedded in its flint and stone walls it caught the eye of carrington straightway. he had seen it before, but its quaint beauty lured him again to contemplation. "that's a delightful old inn," he said, looking backward as they passed out of the square. "quite the place for an adventure." "there are no adventures in barship," replied the squire heavily. "we are very dull people hereabouts. leigh is our bright and shining light, as he goes in for old manuscripts and ancient buildings and queer customs and----" "in a word, leigh is an archæologist," interrupted carrington, who found rupert somewhat prolix. "and who is leigh?" "if we had gone to church yesterday, you would have seen him in the pulpit, carrington. he is the vicar, and, if you don't mind being blamed for nonattendance, we are going to look him up now." "oh, i don't mind in the least," said the barrister briskly. "if he talks religion, i can talk science. argument is always amusing with a fanatic." "i don't think leigh is a fanatic. he is fonder of his hobby than of his profession. but he's all right as a parson, although he doesn't visit his parishioners as often as i could wish. yonder's the church where all my people are buried. picturesque?" the barrister gave the building his grave approval "but everything is picturesque about here in the best style of art. you ought to be happy." "i am. very happy. but i shall be happier when i marry dorinda!" "amen to that. and let me be your best man," said carrington gaily. "if dorinda doesn't mind, yes," replied hendle, exasperatingly matter of fact. chapter ii the vicar by this time the squire and his friend were approaching a rickety five-barred gate which stood wide open, as the hinges being useless, it could not easily be shut. passing through this, they advanced up a wide untidy drive overgrown with grass, and this dismal path conducted them to a weedy stony expanse, girdled by an uncultivated jungle. flowers, shrubs, herbs, trees, docks and darnels were all mixed up together in a way, suggesting only too clearly the sluggard's garden and almost aggressively presented an aspect of decay. the vicarage thoroughly matched this desolation, although in skilful hands it could have been made into a most charming residence. carrington viewed this deadly solitude with disgust. "are you taking me to see the ruins of babylon?" he asked, noting that even the blazing sunshine could not impart an aspect of cheerfulness to the place. "is your vicar an owl or a jackal that he can live here?" hendle laughed deeply and pulled at his pipe. "leigh is too much wrapped up in his hobby to care about the necessaries of life." "he might care for the decencies, anyway," retorted the barrister. "as the lord of the manor, why don't you insist upon his keeping the place in repair?" "the living is not in my gift, carrington, and i have no right to interfere in any way. leigh is the last descendant of an old family who camped ages ago in this parish. the living is all that remains of what they once possessed, and the vicar exists on a miserable stipend of two hundred a year." "and you have four thousand per annum.--what about your tithes?" "tithes come from land, and save the park i have no land. my grandfather sold what we owned and invested the proceeds in various companies. my income is derived from stocks and shares. my tithe represents a small amount." "still, you might house your spiritual adviser better, hendle." "i don't think so. i look after the poor in the parish, and as one of the churchwardens i see that the church is all right. if leigh choses to live in this way i can't prevent him. he's quite happy so long as he has a bed and a fire and a roof, with bread and cheese and his beloved books. what is the use of my giving him money to buy more volumes?" carrington nodded comprehendingly. "i understand. there are some people you cannot help, however much you may wish to." "precisely," murmured the big man indolently. "leigh knows that i am willing to do anything in reason, but that i don't hold with his wasting money on books. his time also. the parson is here to look after his cure of souls; not to encourage a selfish hobby. leigh loves books and dreams books and lives books and would spend a fortune in buying books. there is nothing he would not do to purchase more." "a kind of clerical eugene aram?" "oh, no," replied rupert hastily. "leigh would never do wrong even to gratify his craze for books. he is a gentle soul." "a character at all events, if nothing else," observed the barrister dryly. in response to hendle's loud rapping on the rusty panels of the door with the knob of his walking stick a slovenly, fat, old female waddled into sight, wiping her hands on a coarse apron. her stout looks were in direct contradiction to the lean appearance of the place; but, judging from her inflamed countenance, these might have been due to a constant consumption of beer. she was arrayed in a dingy cotton gown, so dirty that it was difficult to guess at its original color, and her gray hair was as dishevelled as her shoes and stockings were untidy. this frowzy lady, who answered to the odd name of selina jabber, received the visitors with a good-natured smile which twinkled all over her plump face. "to think, sir, that you should find me like this before i'm smartened for the afternoon," she cried, volubly addressing rupert; "but washing has to be done, say what you like, though i do say that the master don't give me more to do than my weakness can deal with." talking all the time, the housekeeper had conducted the amused men through an entrance hall, narrowed by books heaped on the oilcloth, through a passage lined with crowded shelves and into a large bare room which appeared to be built up of many volumes. the walls could not be seen for these, and they were also piled in little heaps on the uncarpeted floor. the only articles of furniture were a large round table covered with green baize, standing directly in front of the undraped window, and a chair before it in which mr. leigh sat with a heavy tome on his knee. in spite of the sunshine pouring in, the apartment looked bleak and dreary, as there was no fireplace and no adornments or comforts of any sort. the vicar, a tall, lean, dreamy man with an ascetic, clean-shaven face and calm blue eyes, raised his head in response to the continuous ding-dong of mrs. jabber's voice: "mr. hendle and a gent from london, sir; mr. hendle and a gent from london, sir; mr. hendle and----" "that will do, mrs. jabber," interrupted the vicar in a dignified manner, and revealing the pundit in tone and accent. "you can go." "you mustn't mind mrs. jabber, rupert," said the vicar mildly. "she is quite a character. and this----" "is my friend, mr. carrington. i wished him to meet you before he went away." "i am pleased to see you, mr. carrington," said leigh, offering a dry, cold hand and giving the barrister a more searching glance than one would have expected from so mild a man. "i fancy i remember rupert mentioning you as an old schoolfellow of rugby days." "oh, yes. we were great friends at school, and i am glad to renew our acquaintance, as you may guess, mr. leigh." "quite so, quite so. and what's doing in london?" inquired the vicar in a weary manner as if he felt it incumbent upon him to manufacture conversation in which he took not the slightest interest. rupert sat down on one pile of books--as there were no chairs--and carrington on another pile, while the barrister gave the latest metropolitan gossip and the squire smoked stolidly. mr. leigh drew up his threadbare black trousers, showing socks of different color and pattern, and sat down to take his book again on his knee. his face was handsome in a refined and gentle way: he had scanty white hair and excellent teeth, which looked genuine: hands and feet slender and elegant, suggested race, and he had the stooping shoulders of a student. carrington, observing him narrowly while he talked in a desultory manner, saw that here was the last withered branch of an ancient family tree. the sap of the race was exhausted in simon leigh, and he looked as though his frail organization could not last much longer. there was no fire in him: only the slowly fading heat of dying ashes. remembering what hendle had said about the vicar's craze for books he attempted to interest him in that direction, as mr. leigh appeared to be wholly indifferent to news of the busy world. "you are fond of archæology, i believe, sir," mentioned the barrister, glancing round the truly scholarly room. "i am devoted to it, mr. carrington," replied the student, his calm eyes flashing into vivid life. "antiquities, ancient customs, the usages of the middle ages and classic times, together with the traditions of religious belief and ceremony appeal more to my understanding than anything else." "humph!" grunted the squire pointedly, "surely as a parson----" "we have frequently argued on the subject, you hint at, rupert," said mr. leigh hastily. "but as your views differ from mine, we have, as yet, not arrived at any agreement. as a parson i trust that i do my duty, though it may be that i am not the ideal of a parish priest." hendle colored at this dignified rebuke. "i apologize, sir, but you rather mistake my true meaning. what i implied was that you are more of a scholar than a parson." "i admit that, rupert. had i lived in monastic days, i should have been a hermit or a monk. my wants are few, and i do not seek the loaves and fishes of ecclesiastical preferment. the services of the church; occasional visits to my parishioners and giving of what alms my small means allow are my duties as a clerk in holy orders. but what time otherwise is at my disposal i give to books, to the examination of old buildings, to the study of ancient customs, and such-like matters. you see i am frank, mr. carrington." "and very original," said the barrister heartily, "it is a great pleasure to meet one whose views are other than commonplace. and what a tremendous number of books you have." "you are like that clergyman in scott's novel, _st. ronan's well_," said hendle, removing his pipe for a moment. "what's his name--cargill." "i never waste my hours reading novels," said leigh loftily. "i should think they would be more entertaining than these parchments," suggested carrington, looking at the writing table, which was littered profusely with dusty documents covered with crabbed characters. "no! no! no!" cried leigh vivaciously, and laid a thin hand on his beloved dry-as-dust pamphlets. "nothing can be more entertaining than deciphering these deeds. leases and proclamations, accounts and registrations: all of various reigns and all written in the dog latin of knightly days. and it ill becomes you, rupert," added the vicar in a mildly jesting way, "to reproach me with my besetting sin, when you pander to it by permitting me access to your muniment room." "muniment room," echoed the barrister. "it would not interest you, mr. carrington, believe me," said the vicar jealously, "as young men do not care to inspect such treasures. i can tell you all about the most interesting documents and can show you what is worthy of note, if indeed you care for such lofty learning. but don't meddle with the chest and its contents, i beg. they are too valuable to be lightly handled." rupert laughed and nodded. "i believe that mr. leigh grudges even me meddling with the deeds and documents. he thinks that i am an unworthy guardian of such literary treasures." "i think they are quite safe," said carrington, looking with disdain on the time-worn and soiled parchments rustling under the vicar's thin fingers. "no one will seek to deprive mr. leigh of his weary delights." "weary! ah, my dear sir, you don't know what joy it is to pore over these glorious relics of monkish days. they give in wonderful detail the history of barship, when it was quite a noted port." "port? why, it's an inland parish." "now it is," cried the vicar eagerly and now settled in the saddle of his hobby-horse, "but in the reign of henry iii, barship was built round a commodious harbor. the sea has retired these many miles, and the village which was once a bustling town is now scarcely known." "well, i must say that information is very interesting," said carrington. "isn't it? and there are many other things just as interesting. i am writing a history of our parish from these documents here and others which are in the muniment room of the big house. it will take me years to complete, but when ready it will form a book of surpassing interest." at this moment, carrington heard the door open softly. he turned his head, as did rupert at the sound, to see a stout, black-bearded man standing on the threshold. he came in with a padding step like a cat, and scowled when he saw that the vicar had visitors. "how are you, mr. mallien?" said hendle with a good-natured nod. "this is my friend carrington, who was at school with me." "how do," said mallien gruffly, and with an air of resenting carrington's return greeting. "beastly day--far too hot. pouf! how this room smells of sheepskin. why don't you drag leigh out for a walk, rupert?" "the age of miracles is past," said the young squire dryly. "you see that even your entrance cannot rouse the vicar from his studies." "vicar! vicar!" said mallien gruffly and tapped the parson's shoulder. "go away! go away! i'm busy," said leigh peevishly; then, keeping his finger on a line of crabbed writing he had reached, he looked up. "oh, mr. mallien, i beg pardon. what do you want?" "dorinda has brought you some flowers for the altar," said mallien, "so i came with her. she _would_ drag me out, although i didn't want to tire myself on this hot day." "is the day hot?" inquired the vicar absently. "flowers. thank you. mrs. jabber has the key of the church." "is dorinda here!" questioned hendle, making for the door with alacrity; "i must go and see her. look after carrington," he called back as he disappeared, and the vicar shook his head irritably at the sound of his raised voice. mallien did not obey his cousin's request by making himself agreeable to the visitor who was thus given into his charge. he stared at carrington and carrington stared at him, while mr. leigh droned in an undertone like a bee over his newly discovered fact of military occupation. the barrister saw before him a little man, less in height than himself and considerably stouter, dressed comfortably in a suit of loosely fitting gray homespun. mallien's most noticeable point was the extraordinary quantity of jewelry he wore, which suggested jewish blood. and indeed his face with its hooked nose and deeply black eyes hinted at the hebrew. his dark hair and dark beard were flecked with gray, but his fresh, unwrinkled complexion made him appear much younger than he really was. he did not look at all an amiable person. and carrington quite believed that rupert had spoken truly when he had hinted at his cousin's misanthropic nature. here assuredly was timon of athens in modern dress, glaring at the barrister as if he wondered why he presumed to exist. the man's manner was disagreeable and when he spoke his speech was pointedly aggressive. "i know why you are staring," said mr. mallien in abrupt and unfriendly tone. "everyone stares in the same way, confound their insolence. it's my jewelry, isn't it?" "why, yes!" said carrington, matching this insolence. "you are as bedizened as a hindoo idol on its feast day." "you speak plainly," growled mallien with a crushing look. "so do you," retorted carrington, who was not to be crushed. "we are well matched, it seems." "i am older than you and require to be treated politely," snapped the other. "because everyone has hitherto gone down before your bullying ways, confound you," replied the barrister, getting in his thrust. "don't you find plain speech a refreshing novelty?" "ah! what," mr. leigh looked up. "presently, mrs. jabber--presently. i am not yet hungry. go away. oh, mallien, i beg your pardon! when did you arrive? will you stop to luncheon?" "and eat the potted tongue your housekeeper has been talking about to dorinda?" queried mallien with grim rudeness. "no thanks. i have more regard for my stomach." the vicar scarcely heard the retort, as he had already returned to the study of his soiled parchment. "do you know of any spot in the parish where a circumvallation is discernible, mr. mallien?" he said, half to himself. "no, sir, i don't. and as i have no aeroplane i can't soar to the clouds where your wits are at present. i shall take my leave straightway. good day;" and he departed forthwith. carrington, amused by mallien's brusque leave-taking, picked up his cap to follow so judicious an example since the vicar, really being in the clouds, was unable to attend to chance visitors. "good day, mr. leigh," he said, moving toward the door; but, no notice being taken, he repeated his farewell in louder tones. "good day, mr. leigh." "oh, good day, good day, good day," snapped the student irritably. leaving mr. leigh murmuring comments, and fumbling amongst the flotsam and jetsam of the middle ages, the barrister walked leisurely along the book-lined passage, through the book-littered entrance hall and emerged into the desolation of the surrounding jungle. rupert and miss mallien were conspicuous by their absence, and the gruff individual left in charge of carrington was waiting restlessly. he waved his hand when the visitor appeared. "did you ever see such a pig sty?" he growled with the voice of an ourangoutang, which beast he greatly resembled, "and leigh is exactly suited to it. as the man is so are his surroundings: his mind is as muddled as his garden. and this addle-pated parson is supposed to be the spiritual father of the parish. pah! come and look at the lordly pleasure grounds. rupert asked me to look after you, so i must, i suppose. did you ever see such a rotten place?" he asked contemptuously. "oh, yes! you are showing me nothing new," replied carrington, who took a delight in exasperating the man's temper. "i shan't show you anything more," growled mallien sullenly, "and after all i'm dashed silly to bother myself in this way." "oh, i don't quite see----oh!" his face twisted with pain as he spoke. "what's the matter with you?" demanded mallien crossly. "toothache! i have had a twinge or two lately and i expect that this damp place"--carrington looked up at the dark overhanging boughs--"has brought back the pain. i shall have to see a doctor when i go to town." "you can see a doctor here, if you like," said mallien roughly, and pushed his way back to the avenue. "dr. tollart lives at the end of the village. anyone will tell you where he is to be found." "thanks," said the barrister as they paused by the rickety gate. "you are kinder than you mean to be." "i'm not. i want to get rid of you," fumed mallien, turning on his heel. "you can go to the doctor or to the devil for all i care." carrington saw the little man vanishing with great speed round the corner and laughed at the oddity of his character. then he walked through the village and soon found tollart's house. the doctor proved to be within and speedily gave his patient something to take away the aching. it was only a makeshift of course, but carrington was glad enough to get rid of the uncomfortable feeling. after paying half a crown he went away leisurely, and by the time he reached the gates of the park felt much better. strolling up the avenue, carrington suddenly began to shiver in the warm sunshine, and was greatly surprised that he should do so. it seemed unreasonable and certainly was unexpected. "strange," he muttered with a shrug; "now a superstitious person would say that i was walking over my grave. pooh!" he laughed, but nevertheless shivered again. chapter iii lovers in justice to handle, it must be said that he by no means intended to desert his friend, even though the enthralling society of dorinda might have proved an excuse for his forgetfulness. but far from wishing for the barrister's absence, rupert had left a message with his future father-in-law, requesting carrington to see the church, after taking leave of the vicar. out of what the yankees term "sheer cussedness," mallien had not delivered the message, and every moment hendle expected the appearance of his friend, quite ignorant that carrington was already on his way to the big house. and thinking that the barrister was being entertained--as one of his cynical character would be--by mallien's rudeness and leigh's quaint ways, the young squire forgot all about his old school chum for the time being. this was very natural, seeing that dorinda was beside him, and he therefore had no eyes or ears save for her. "get a can of water," directed dorinda, as they passed from the vicarage jungle into the trim slopes of the churchyard, "and bring it to me as soon as possible. you will find me in the porch arranging the flowers." readily consenting to this division of labor, the squire went to find mrs. jabber and the necessary can, while dorinda, already possessed of the key, unlocked the great oaken door under the porch. with her arms filled with roses, she entered into the chill twilight of the little fane: chill because the thick walls prevented the summer heat from penetrating into the interior of the building and twilight since the sunshine was more or less baffled by the stained glass of the windows. as the girl passed up the central aisle, round her were the squat norman pillars, above her loomed the criss-cross rafters of time-darkened oak, and beneath her feet was the storied pavement inlaid with many a quaintly lettered brass plate praising the virtues of the dead in monkish latin. before her, under the glorious hues of the east window, rose the altar, draped in white and gold with single and triple silver candlesticks glittering on either side of the tall brass cross. the vases--also silver--were filled with mixed ill-chosen flowers gathered anyhow and arranged anyhow by mrs. jabber, whose eye was anything but artistic. after breathing a short prayer, dorinda, who had left her roses on a convenient seat, took the vases off the altar and out of the church. having shaken out the flowers, she brought her crimson blooms into the porch and sat down on the side seat to fulfil what was to her a very pleasant duty. rupert arrived with the can of water, and the information--obtained from mrs. jabber--that both mallien and carrington had gone home. "i expect your father forgot to deliver my message," said the squire, setting down the green can and taking a seat opposite to the girl. "it is more likely that my father never intended to give it," replied dorinda with a shrug. "why shouldn't he?" "because it was a reasonable thing to do, and my father is never reasonable, as you know." "carrington will think me rude." "not if he can see through a brick wall. and from what you have told me about him, rupert, i think his eyes are quite keen enough to do so. there is one thing to be said," observed miss mallien, rather piqued by the barrister's neglect, "that your friend isn't anxious to see me." "on the contrary, he is very eager," rupert assured her hastily. "does his going back to the big house look like it?" "ah, i expect he had some delicacy in interrupting our _tête-à-tête_, dorinda." "there's something in that," replied miss mallien, dexterously binding her bunches of roses loosely together, "and his action speaks well for him. perhaps i shall like him better than i expect to, rupert." the squire looked up in astonishment from his task of brimming the altar vases with spring water. "why shouldn't you like him in any case?" "well," dorinda placed a bunch of flowers in a vase and put her head on one side to note the effect, "you say that mr. carrington is cynical, and i don't like cynical people. i have had so much cynicism from my father that it is impossible to stand more of it from another person." "oh, it's only a pose with carrington. he's really a good fellow." "if he is, why can't he show that he is? my dear rupert, i never did believe in those people, who have hearts of gold and bad manners: who lend you money with a blow, and with the best intentions bully you into cheerfulness." "what odd things you say, dorinda," murmured rupert, not knowing if she was speaking in earnest or in fun. "carrington hasn't bad manners unless his going away without seeing you----" "no! no! that may be delicacy," she interrupted swiftly. "i dare say he's really a nice man, and i shall like him very much. but remember, dear, that knowing you has raised my standard. i shall expect him to be very, very nice." "oh, dorinda, don't put me on a pedestal," said hendle, at once dismayed and pleased. "i am a very prosaic person." "then i like prosaic persons." "and carrington is very brilliant," went on rupert stolidly, as he tugged at his moustache to induce thoughts for his friend's defense. "you are quite brilliant enough for me, my dear boy." she rose suddenly, and taking his face between her hands kissed him twice. "there and there. why are you so exasperatingly modest?" "am i?" asked rupert, wondering why he had received the caress. dorinda laughed. indeed, she could do nothing else, since hendle was so very literal in his acceptation of her remarks. "you're a sweet-tempered donkey, my dear," she said lightly. "now you take those two vases and i'll take these two. come along." shortly the altar glowed with the crimson splendor of the roses, and their delicate fragrance was wafted through the chancel. then the lovers left the church and sauntered back to the vicarage, with the key for mrs. jabber, with offended dignity. miss mallien was well worth looking at, as she was a gracious and stately maiden, well fitted to be the mate of the saxon giant. dorinda was as tall for a woman as rupert was for a man, and carried herself with the same imposing dignity. her dark hair and deeply blue eyes hinted at an irish strain, and her vivacity was also hibernian. but to this fascination, which had to do with the race of the sister isle, dorinda added much english common sense, so that her romantic dreams never overrode her matter-of-fact instincts. she loved her cousin for his staunch honesty and attractive simplicity of character, since in these qualities he represented the exact opposite of her father. for this last-mentioned individual, whom she had the misfortune to call her parent, dorinda did not entertain much respect, and hoped by marrying rupert to escape from a companionship which was very disagreeable to her. it was only hendle's wealth which induced mallien to consent to the marriage; but, even had he objected, dorinda would have held to her engagement. rupert was her man of men, and, while he held her hands and looked at her with grave admiration, she thought how fortunate she was in securing such a mate. she esteemed his devotion more than much fine gold. "my father will be waiting for me at the cottage," said dorinda; as she strolled away again. "a little disappointment won't harm him," said hendle coolly, for he had not much sympathy with mallien's selfish nature; "and i want you to meet carrington. he leaves for london after dinner, and you won't meet him again for some time. say yes." "yes," responded dorinda, who really felt considerable curiosity concerning the object of hendle's rugby hero worship; "but father will be cross." "i never knew father when he wasn't cross," retorted her lover, as they resumed their walk and entered the village square. "he's an infliction. i tell you what, dorinda, the best thing we can do is to marry before the roses fade." "oh, rupert, you are getting quite poetical." "am i?" asked rupert, surprised. "that's strange, when i don't like poetry." "i must teach you to like it, dear." "hum!" said rupert, rather at sea, "you mean, i suppose, that we have much to learn from one another." "something of that sort." "you shall do exactly as you like, dear," said her lover, as they came in sight of the house. "why, here is mrs. beatson." a tall, lean woman, with a sour and discontented face and an elegant figure issued from a side walk with a basket of flowers. anyone could see that hendle's housekeeper was a lady by birth, just as anyone could see that she was not an amiable woman. she was like mallien, and had a tendency to look upon human beings as her mortal enemies, since, liking luxury, she had never been able to indulge her fancies. left a widow with one son, she had taken the post of housekeeper some five years before carrington's visit, and on the whole performed her duties admirably. but, being disappointed in not leading an idle life with sufficient money to gratify her whims, she always went about with an aggrieved air. it was only rupert's kind-heartedness which permitted her to stay at the big house, and visitors--carrington among them--wondered how he could put up with such a wet blanket. few people care to have a kind of christian martyr at their elbow from morning to night. "how are you, miss mallien?" said mrs. beatson, greeting dorinda stiffly. "i am just gathering flowers for the dinner table. you will have an early dinner to-night, mr. hendle, will you not, as mr. carrington is leaving early?" "yes. i think i told you, mrs. beatson. we dine at six-thirty. by the way, i met kit in the village; he looks well." "he never comes near me to see if he's well or ill," rejoined the housekeeper bitterly. "he's a bad boy." "oh, no, mrs. beatson," chimed in dorinda. "kit is a very good boy. we are all very fond of him." "ah, you don't know him as well as i do," said mrs. beatson, shaking her head sadly. "he is--but i need not tell you, as you will find out soon enough for yourselves. excuse me, mr. hendle, and you, miss mallien, but i must go in with my flowers. and there is mr. carrington at the drawing-room window." with a stiff bow mrs. beatson disappeared, while dorinda shrugged her shoulders. she never approved of mrs. beatson's martyr-like airs, which were wholly unnecessary, seeing what a comfortable situation she had. however, there was no time to think about the widow, for carrington, slipping out of the front door, came down the terrace steps. he looked young and handsome and debonair, evidently presenting his very best side for the inspection of his friend's betrothed. indeed, having caught sight of the couple from the drawing-room window, he had hastened to come out, with the intention of breaking the ice with the young lady in a light and airy manner. mr. carrington had a great belief in first impressions. "i have eaten all the cakes and have drunk all the tea, hendle," he said, gaily; "but, had i known that miss mallien was to honor the tea table, i should have restrained my appetite. how do you do, miss mallien? since hendle will not introduce me, i must do myself. behold a briefless barrister, dean carrington by name, who is delighted to meet you." "thank you," replied dorinda, shaking hands, and wondering why the man was so emphatically agreeable. perhaps a touch of her father's misanthropy made her suspicious, or perhaps carrington rather overdid his welcome. "i am glad to meet you. rupert has often spoken about you." "i hope he has said nice things," rattled on the barrister, as the trio returned to the house. "you see, he only remembers what a nice person i was at rugby, and it is years since we met. i may have changed for the worse." "i don't see any change in you," replied hendle, with mild surprise. "don't undervalue yourself, carrington. why didn't you come on to the church?" "perhaps you didn't know that we were there," suggested dorinda. "my father may have forgotten to deliver rupert's message." "oh no. the message was delivered right enough, miss mallien. but i have been young myself, and never, never, never spoil sport." "you talk as if you were a hundred," remarked hendle, as they began the meal. "so i am, in experience of the seamy side of life. you, my dear fellow, are about five years of age. i expect you have found that out, miss mallien. he is the most unsophisticated youth, who has been wrapped up in cotton wool all his life, knowing disagreeables only from the newspapers and novels." "i think that rupert is less unsophisticated than you think," replied dorinda, a trifle dryly, for she did not admire carrington's easy tone of patronage toward her lover. "and why do you say that you expect i have found that out? i may be unsophisticated also." "you are everything that is charming," said carrington alertly, "but, having met your father, i think that you are not to be taken in by people." dorinda colored, knowing well what the keen-witted barrister meant. however, she endeavored to turn his point by altering slightly a well-worn quotation. "to know him is a liberal education, i suppose you mean," she said, lightly. "don't take my father too seriously, mr. carrington. his bark is worse than his bite." "oh, i am sure of that," replied carrington, who was sure of nothing of the sort. "we both barked at one another until the vicarage jungle rang. we hope to meet again, miss mallien, and renew our contest of wits. by the way, to go to another subject--the vicar. what a man, and what surroundings!" "he is quite a character," laughed dorinda, "but the dearest old man in the world." the conversation continued, mostly in a bantering way, for some time, and then, tea finished, rupert proposed to see dorinda to the gates of the park. "if you don't mind being left alone, carrington." "not at all; not at all. gather ye rosebuds," said the barrister, lightly; "good day and good-bye until our next happy meeting, miss mallien." with a smile which masked her true feelings--for she resented carrington's manner; it seemed to her while having tea that he had attempted to make rupert look small--dorinda passed out of the drawing-room and into the hall. hendle put on his cap and accompanied her down the avenue, while the barrister stood at the door and waved a farewell. but when they were far enough away to prevent seeing or hearing, his brow grew dark. "confound that hendle," he muttered; "he has all the good things of this world. a fine house; a large income; a delightful betrothed, and magnificent health. if i were an envious man--ha!" he drew a long breath, and then turned sharply, as some one passed through the hall. it was mrs. beatson, who always had a habit of coming and going in a ghostly fashion. carrington was not sure if she had overheard, as he always was suspicious of people's sharp ears. and he had spoken somewhat loud. however, if she had been eavesdropping, there was nothing for it but to risk the chance of her repeating his not very wise speech to hendle. however, again, the barrister thought that if the housekeeper did babble, he would be quite able to deal with such a fool as the squire. therefore he gave mrs. beatson a bland smile, which she returned with a sour one, and climbed up the stairs to his room. meanwhile, at the gate, hendle was asking dorinda a question. "i think you'll find me a dull sort of fellow after carrington," he said ruefully. "my dear," replied the girl, throwing her arms round his neck. "i would not exchange you for one hundred and ten carringtons." "you don't like him?" questioned hendle, greatly surprised. "no," answered miss mallien, "i don't. he's double-faced. we'll hand him over to father. he can deal with him," and in spite of hendle's objections, she went away repeating her doubts of the brilliant barrister. chapter iv the cottage for a widower with one grown-up daughter, mr. julius mallien was very well off on an income of five hundred a year, for which he did not do a stroke of work. like the lilies of the field he toiled not, neither did he spin, and, if not quite a solomon-in-all-his-glory, he was quite comfortable, enjoying some of the luxuries of life as well as all the necessities. born lazy and idle, he had never earned a single penny for himself during the fifty-odd years of his existence. first he had lived on his father and mother; afterward on his wife. now that all three were dead, he managed to exist in a pleasantly easy way on the accumulated moneys they had left him. his picturesque six-roomed cottage, standing in a quarter acre of garden on the outskirts of barship, was rented from the squire at twenty pounds a year, yet he grumbled like an irish tenant at the exactions of his landlord. dorinda, with the aid of one small servant, looked after the house, and mallien was quite untroubled with domestic details. his daughter catered for him in strict accordance with his tastes, wholly setting her own aside, and from one year to another there was no change in the economy of the establishment. it therefore came about in quite a natural manner that mr. mallien spent the greater part of his income on himself. "i shall allow you so much for housekeeping and so much to dress on," he said to dorinda, when she returned from school to become his companion, or rather his domestic drudge. "one hundred pounds yearly must cover all expenses, food, servants, clothes and rent; and if you exceed that, you'll hear about it." as it took dorinda some time to get used to this scrimping, she frequently made mistakes, and did hear about it. in fact, she was scolded so often that she became quite callous to her father's tempers, and finally, when he went too far, the girl who was not lacking in spirit, told him what she thought of his selfish conduct. there was a royal row, in which dorinda came off best, and when things were again settled mallien was careful not to provoke her anger again more than his disagreeable temper could help. on the whole, father and daughter got on very well together, but there was little affection displayed by either of them: on mallien's part because he hated what he called sentiment, and on dorinda's because her egotistical parent always kept her at arm's length. the boy-and-girl love of miss mallien for her cousin, which had strengthened into the staunch love of man and woman, was the sole thing which enabled the girl to endure the drab existence at the cottage. it was always something to look forward to that one day she would become rupert's wife, and then would be quit forever of her father's uncomfortable whims. not that mallien gave his daughter much of his society. his hobby was jewel collecting, and dorinda took no interest in such things. for a woman, she was inexplicably indifferent to gems, and lace, and clothes and amusement, so that her father voted her a bore and went his own way. in his particular room--which was the most comfortable in the cottage--he remained, constantly arranging and polishing and admiring the precious stones in their many mahogany cases. not being rich, his collection was necessarily a small one, although every jewel represented a bargain and had a history attached to it. but mallien was always lamenting that he could not purchase historic gems, and envied the long purse of his cousin, the young squire. however, he hoped to draw upon this when dorinda became mrs. hendle, as rupert had promised to double his income to make up for the loss of the girl. she objected. "i feel as if father was selling me," she told rupert when matters were settled on this basis. "he won't feel my being away a bit, except that he will miss his favorite dishes and the way in which i manage to make both ends meet. you shouldn't have agreed, rupert." "my dear," said her lover, with much common sense. "i think it is cheap at the price, to get rid of such a disagreeable man. what i give your father will enable him to indulge more freely in his expensive hobby; consequently, he will leave us alone." "no, he won't," contradicted dorinda, who knew her father's persistence. "when he hears of some particularly rare jewel, he will come and bother you for money to buy it." "he won't get it," retorted rupert, dryly. "i can be quite as obstinate as your father. with what he has, he will have one thousand a year, so he must do the best he can with that. i am doing my best to settle things fairly and peacefully, but if your father wants trouble, i am not the man to deny him any in reason." dorinda laughed and gave way, although she still resented her father making money out of her marriage. but mallien, being one of those men who is a curse to himself and to everyone around him, could not be treated in any other way, and could make himself very disagreeable when on his mettle. besides, dorinda knowing what rupert's temper was when aroused, dreaded lest there should be an open quarrel. mallien would certainly have come off worst in any encounter; but, as he was her father, she did not wish for such a _contretemps_. she and rupert had been engaged for two years when carrington came down to barship, and hitherto all had gone smoothly. but a few days after the barrister's departure, mallien began to make himself unpleasant. "i don't see why rupert can't marry you next month," he said, fretfully, one morning at breakfast. "you've been engaged long enough." "so we both think," replied dorinda, who was pouring out the coffee, looking particularly fresh and charming in a white linen frock. "but you have always objected, you know." "i don't wish to lose my daughter," growled the misanthrope, clutching at his black beard and scowling. "that is very sweet of you, father, but you mustn't sacrifice five hundred a year for my society." "what do you mean by that, you minx?" "is it so hard to understand?" asked dorinda coolly. "it's not what a daughter should say to a father." "well, you see, so much depends upon the sort of father one says it to." "honor your father and your mother," quoted mallien, crossly. "parents, be mindful of your children," retorted the girl. "oh, i can match you, quotation for quotation, if you like, father; i have been exercising my memory in this respect when talking to mr. carrington." "carrington! carrington. i forbid you to mention his name. i have already given you my opinion of that impertinent pig----" "frequently," interpolated dorinda crisply. "----and i won't allow him to be spoken of. you have just mentioned the reason why i think you should get married straightway." dorinda set down the marmalade with surprise. "what can mr. carrington have to do with our marriage?" she inquired, staring. mallien wriggled. "rupert's a fool to bring the fellow down here," he burst out furiously. "he's a sponge, and a son of the horse-leech, who will get all the money he can from rupert." "i don't see why you should say that," protested the girl. "mr. carrington did not give me that impression." "well, he gave it to me," grumbled her father, eating sullenly; "and if you allow him to get hold of rupert--who is a fool, as i said before--your marriage will be indefinitely postponed. i won't have it; i won't have it, i tell you," cried the stout little man, jumping up in a fine rage. "if rupert's money should be given to anyone, it should be given to me." "well, as soon as i am rupert's wife, you will have five hundred a year," said dorinda soothingly. "what's five hundred a year?" said mallien, contemptuously. "i want the whole four thousand. there's a blue sapphire in paris i wish to get hold of." dorinda shrugged her shoulders calmly, being quite used to her father's explosive nature. "you can't expect rupert to give you all his income," she observed in measured tones. "he is paying a good price for me, seeing that i go to him without a dowry." "you shall have my jewels and my income when i die," growled her father, as he sat down again. "any money he gives me, comes back to you. but if rupert was to die----" "father!" dorinda uttered a startled cry of pain. "there! there!" snarled mallien testily. "i don't mean that he is going to die, you silly girl. but he's mortal and _may_ die." "god forbid! but if he did----" she hesitated, then uttered the word faintly, "--die?" "then i would have the big house and the four thousand a year," said mallien brutally. "you seem to forget that we are both descended from john hendle, who died in the waterloo year." "i have never given a thought to it," said dorinda uneasily, as she did not approve of her father starting this hare. "well, you ought to think of it. we descend from the elder son of john hendle, and are the older branch." "but rupert descends through the male line, while we come through the female, father," protested the girl, puzzled by this genealogical conversation. "pooh! pooh! there's no entail. don't look so astonished, dorinda; i don't mean to say that i have any claim, though, if everyone had their rights, we should be at the big house and rupert in his beastly cottage. there would be no need for you to marry him then." dorinda rose with great dignity. "i marry rupert because i love him, and if he was a pauper, i should still love him." "oh, you could love him as much as you like," said her father, carelessly, "but if he were really a pauper, you shouldn't marry him. i'd see to that." dorinda walked round the table and bent over her father with a look on her face which made him push back his chair. "you would see to nothing," she said, very distinctly, and bringing her face close to that of mallien. "it is my will and pleasure to marry rupert, and nothing you can say or do will prevent my becoming his wife. you understand?" "who said anything otherwise," growled mallien savagely, yet retreating dexterously. "as things stand, i am willing you should marry him. and, as you talk to me in that way, the sooner you become his wife and leave me alone the better it will be. marry to-morrow if you like." "i see," said dorinda, whose face was perfectly colorless. "you want the extra five hundred a year to buy this blue sapphire you speak of." "partly. but i also want you to marry rupert before carrington--the beast--squeezes him like a lemon." "there is no chance of any squeezing," said dorinda coldly. "rupert is quite capable of looking after himself, even if mr. carrington were after his money, which i see no reason to think that he is." "i do! carrington's a man on the market, if you know what that means." "i don't. what does it mean?" "one who lives from hand to mouth; one who is always on the make; one who doesn't mind what he does so long as he can extract a fiver. rupert's a fool, and carrington isn't. there, you have my opinion in a nutshell." "i think you are making a great fuss over nothing, father," said dorinda, with disdain. "but i am glad that mr. carrington's visit is likely to hasten our marriage. we can get married next month, and then you can buy the sapphire when we are on our honeymoon." "sensible girl!" mallien stood up and wiped his bearded mouth. "well, now that we understand one another----?" "do we understand one another?" asked dorinda, irritated by the whole unnecessary conversation. "yes!" replied her father, tartly. "i have given my consent to your marriage taking place at an early date----" "because you want the five hundred a year to buy the blue sapphire." "don't be silly. and i have warned you against letting that flipperty-flap carrington gain too much influence over rupert." "a quite unnecessary warning," said the girl, coldly. "you don't like mr. carrington, because he held his own against you." "insolent beast!" growled mallien, bristling. "and i think you said that you did not like him yourself." "i said that i did not trust him; but he is amusing enough to like as a companion for all that." "you'll find him very amusing when he rifles rupert's pockets," sneered the gentle parent, fuming at her opposition. "i don't think that there is the least chance of his doing that, as rupert--i said this before--is well able to look after himself. besides, you have no grounds for saying that mr. carrington is a scamp." "a look is enough for me." "it's not enough to take away a man's character. and this talk of our being descended from john hendle? what do you mean by that?" "i don't mean anything particular," responded mallien, honestly enough. "it was leigh who put it into my head." "the vicar. and what does he know of our family history?" "much more than we do. he has been scrambling through the papers in the muniment room at the big house." "well, rupert gave him permission to look out any documents likely to prove necessary for writing the history of the parish. you know he is writing a book." mallien nodded. "he found letters, written by john hendle, which showed how much our ancestor regretted that the estates should go to frederick hendle." "that is the younger son from whom rupert is descended?" "exactly. he was a bad lot apparently, leigh says. walter, who was the eldest son and our progenitor, was killed in the battle of waterloo, and he seems to have been the old man's favorite. if walter had lived, we should have inherited the big house and the estates." "well, father," answered dorinda with a shrug; "walter didn't live, and we did not inherit the estates, so i don't see what is the use of talking." "i didn't say that there was any use," retorted mallien crossly, "only i thought that the piece of family history discovered by mr. leigh might interest you." "it does in a way. but, after all, these family troubles happened nearly one hundred years ago." dorinda was looking out of the window as she made this remark, and broke off suddenly. "strange!" she said, staring into the garden. "what is strange?" "that we should have been talking of mr. leigh, for here he is with titus ark as his shadow, as usual. i wonder why he always has titus at his heels?" "it's a very necessary precaution," said mallien, grimly; "otherwise, leigh is so absent-minded that he would get lost. leigh has only come to look again at that yucatan diary, which my father left me." "does he want to see it?" asked dorinda, forgetting that leigh had seen the diary before. "yes. your grandfather, as you know, was something of an explorer, and searched for hidden treasure among the buried cities of central america. i was telling leigh about the diary, and he wants to have another look at it," mallien chuckled. "i shouldn't wonder if the old man wanted to go to yucatan himself, since he is cracked on old buildings." by this time, the vicar was knocking at the door, and titus ark was staring sourly round the garden. he was the sexton and the vicar's shadow, a dour ancient, who said little and thought much. dorinda, not wishing to see the vicar, who rather bored her with his archeological discourses, went into the kitchen to attend to her domestic duties, while her father opened the front door to receive his visitors in his usual ungracious manner. "what on earth brings you here, vicar?" he demanded brusquely, although he had just explained to his daughter why the visit had been made; "and why do you always have that old ass at your heels, mr. simon leigh, parson of barship parish, god help the people?" grumbled mallien, as he pushed his visitor into a chair and banged the door. "titus," said leigh in his precise tones. "oh, we were boys together--that is, he was a young man when i was a boy. poor fellow, his generation lies under the ground, so i take him about to comfort him with talk about old times. he quite brightens up when we have our talks and walks." "i'd brighten him if i had the power," growled the gracious host. "he ought to be under the turf with his confounded generation, or in the workhouse. i don't see any use for such a stiff-jointed old skeleton being above ground." "he is eighty," said mr. leigh, placidly. "great age. a comfortable room this, mr. mallien; there is something of the sybarite about you." "don't call names, vicar. the room is less like a pig sty than yours, and that is the best to be said about it." "i often wonder, mr. mallien, that with your bringing up, you have not learned better manners," said leigh, putting on his pince-nez and blinking. "you are certainly a most ill-conducted person. you should marry, and see if the softening influence of the feminine nature----" mallien turned from a cupboard of black oak, in which he was rummaging, and answered viciously. "i have been married." "dear me," mused the vicar, as if aware of this for the first time, "so you have been. and how is miss dorinda?" "i believe his wits are going," grumbled mallien to himself: then raised his voice. "she's busy, and can't waste her time in seeing you. here"--he flung a heavy sheaf of papers on the table--"this is the diary kept by my silly father when he was treasure hunting in yucatan. old fool, he got nothing but rheumatism. if he'd found gold and jewels, there would have been some sense in his explorations. don't you think so? don't you think so? don't you? oh, hang you, vicar; one might as well call the dead." leigh nodded absently, for the sound rather than the sense of this polite speech had reached him. already he had opened the manuscript diary at random and, with his nose close to the pages, was pouring over the faded writing. mr. mallien growled as usual, and walked across to the mantelpiece to pick up his pipe for a morning smoke. when blue clouds made a haze round the eagerly reading parson, mr. mallien brought out a handful of precious stones of little value from his trousers pocket, and began to fiddle with them, after his ordinary fashion. he strewed ruby and emerald and moonstone about the table, where a shaft of sunlight struck across the room, and watched the many colored sparkles, emitted by the tiny gems. leigh, taking no notice, turned over page after page with great interest. after a long while he grunted and spoke, maliciously anxious to spoil the scholar's pleasure if he could. "dull stuff my father wrote, didn't he?" "dear me, mr. mallien, are you there? dull stuff. oh, dear me, no. most interesting. these maya buildings are quite fascinating, and the manuscripts he discovered, and the stone carvings, and the hieroglyphics, similar to those of egypt. yes," went on the vicar dreamily, "i must go there." "go there; go to yucatan," cried mallien, staring; "an old buffer like you?" "yes, sir," said the vicar with dignity. "for quite a year since you mentioned the diary of your father, it has been in my mind to fit out an expedition to so interesting a place." "how can you fit out an expedition on your income?" "money. ah yes, i shall require money, of course." "and a jolly lot, too. expeditions are not fitted out for nothing." "i believe not," murmured mr. leigh, again dipping into the manuscript. "well, well, the money will be forthcoming." "who will give it to you?" asked mallien contemptuously. "i thought that rupert----?" "pooh! you might as well try and get blood out of a stone, mr. leigh. and why the dickens should he give you money to go on a wild-goose chase? rupert is a wise man, and keeps his cash in his pocket, as i'd do if i had his income." "would you not give me the money if you had four thousand a year?" asked the vicar, with an extraordinarily keen look. mallien stared, quite unable to speak, so indignant was he at the audacity of the parson. "give it to you?" he burst out. "i'd give it to nobody." "ah, then i hope you'll never get money," said mr. leigh, placidly, "you would make bad use of it." "i would," retorted the gracious host, "if i gave it to you to make ducks and drakes of in expeditions. you can be buried less expensively in england than in yucatan, believe me." "i have no idea of being buried anywhere," said the vicar with dignity, and yet with a scared look which puzzled mallien. "i am old, it is true, but my health is good and i live a reasonable life." "you wouldn't if you went exploring yucatan," retorted the other. "i would take the risk of that, mr. mallien. the place is so interesting"--his nose was glued to the manuscript again--"that i really must raise the money and go. i have plans--oh yes, i have plans to get it." "you won't from rupert." "nor from you, apparently," said leigh, who appeared to be much more alert than usual, "but i prefer rupert's youth to your avaricious age. however, i shall come again and resume my reading of this manuscript--unless you will let me take it away." "i'll do nothing of the kind, nor help your expedition," said mallien grimly, "nor even give you the rubbish my father wrote." "rubbish," cried the parson indignantly; "that diary is worth all the property which john hendle left to the son he didn't love. well! well, it's a case of pearls before swine," and, paying back mallien in his own coin, by making this remark, the vicar departed with his shadow at his heels. "old fool," commented mallien; "but i wish john hendle had made that will." chapter v a revelation it was with joy and relief that dorinda communicated her father's decision to rupert, and he was as pleased as she was at the prospect of their speedy marriage. hitherto mallien, not wishing to make himself uncomfortable by losing his housekeeper--which dorinda really was--had always objected to the performance of the ceremony. certainly he gained five hundred a year when the two became one; but, during the twenty-four months of the official engagement, this fond parent had not been in particular want of money, and in any case had always borrowed what small sums he required from his liberal-minded cousin, at intervals. but now his heart was set upon purchasing the blue sapphire which he had mentioned to dorinda, and it was not likely that rupert would give him the price of that. therefore, to get his new income assured, he allowed the young couple to have their own way. also--and this had a good deal to do with the granted permission--he really dreaded lest carrington should obtain any influence over the young squire, and thought that the gaining of such could best be prevented by giving rupert his desire. with dorinda beside him, it was unlikely that hendle would allow carrington to draw on his purse. seeing that miss mallien had a small opinion of her father, and spoke to him pretty freely on subjects of dispute between them, it seemed strange that she should have laid such stress on obtaining his consent to the marriage. but dorinda, considering that her father was her father, in spite of his unamiable nature, wished him to exercise this last act of paternal authority. she would not have been happy had she provoked a quarrel by going contrary to his views, and so had waited until he thought fit to issue his commands. had mallien, indeed, wholly forbidden the marriage taking place, dorinda would have rebelled, but she gave way on the minor point of an unusually long engagement. she saw rupert almost daily; they understood one another thoroughly, and, as both were young, there was no particular hurry. nevertheless, the girl was pleased at the lordly permission of her irritating parent, and set about her preparations straightway. it was now july, and after a conversation with rupert, it was decided that the rev. simon leigh should make them man and wife toward the end of august. and dorinda confessed to her future husband, that she would be glad to escape from the constant society of her father, who of late had been unusually trying. on his side, rupert was extremely glad to get the dearest girl in the world all to himself. so the important matter was settled, and hendle returned to the big house very contented with the world in general and with himself in particular. in his delight he called in mrs. beatson to the library to inform her of his intended change of life, although he rather dreaded the woeful looks and sad words with which she would receive his communication. mrs. beatson made her appearance, looking more like a christian martyr than ever, but assumed her most gracious and lady-like manner to hear what her young master had to say. she greatly resembled that painfully well-bred gentlewoman, mrs. sparsit, in dickens' story, and, like her, was a housekeeper very much against her will. "wish me joy, mrs. beatson," said rupert gaily, when the martyr made her sour appearance. "i am going to be married." "so i have understood for two years, mr. hendle." "quite so. i have been engaged to miss mallien for quite that time. but we are to be married toward the end of next month." "indeed!" mrs. beatson looked dismayed. "isn't that rather sudden?" "sudden!" rupert swung round his chair and looked puzzled. "how can it be sudden after my being engaged for twenty-four months?" "i only mean, mr. hendle, that i should have thought it necessary for you to consider the matter carefully for six months before fixing the day. marriage, mr. hendle, is a serious matter." "it is a very delightful matter, mrs. beatson, considering who the lady is." "ah!" mrs. beatson crossed her hands and cast up her eyes with a melancholy expression, "so we all say until we are married. i suppose, mr. hendle, you intend to give me notice?" "indeed, i intend to give you nothing of the sort," said rupert bluffly. "all the difference will be that my wife will give you orders instead of me." mrs. beatson looked as though this would make a very great difference indeed, as she much preferred to have a master than a mistress. all the same, she looked relieved when she learned that her situation was not in danger. "i am glad to stay on, mr. hendle," she said, with the air of making a concession. "i look on the big house as in some sense my home." "that's all right. continue to look upon it as your home, until kit marries miss tollart and you go to live with them." "pardon me, mr. hendle," said mrs. beatson with icy scorn; "but you little know my nature when you suggest such a thing. i don't approve of sophy tollart, whose views regarding our sex are anything but pacific. besides, young people rarely take the advice of those who are older and wiser than they are; consequently, it is best for them to live by themselves. would you like mr. mallien to dwell at the big house when you wed with his daughter?" "good lord, no," replied hendle hastily. "it is the last thing either i or miss mallien would desire. we can manage our own affairs." "so you think, mr. hendle; but the mistakes you will make will be endless." "nonsense, i am not a fool, and miss mallien has plenty of good sense." "sense isn't experience," lamented mrs. beatson, shaking her head and smiling in a most dreary manner. "however, i am no prophetess of evil, and wish you and miss mallien well. but mistakes you will make, say what you will, and sorrow will come to you as it comes to all." "there! there! don't croak any more, mrs. beatson." "me croak," repeated the lady in surprise. "why, i am trying to look on the bright side of things, for whatever you may say there is always a black side." "well, well," observed rupert testily, for her words and manner irritated his usually steady nerves. "we'll wait and see what happens. never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you, is a very good proverb." "i annoy you by speaking the truth," remarked the good lady with a superior smile. "ah, that is always the way with the young, sir. however, you have only to say the word and i go." "i don't want you to go." "you may not, mr. hendle, but miss mallien will." "not at all. she is quite willing that you should stay." "so she says, but i have my doubts;" and mrs. beatson groaned, being quite sure in her own mind that dorinda wished to turn her out to die by the wayside. "however, this is a world of sorrow, and when i am starved to death, perhaps you may be sorry for your harsh treatment." "wait until the harsh treatment takes place," retorted rupert, who would have liked to shake her into common sense. "meanwhile, i have told you of my intention to get married next month." "there's many a slip between the cup and the lip," said mrs. beatson, mysteriously; "but the less talked about is the soonest forgotten." after which cryptic speech she drifted toward the door, as if her legs were taking her in a direction contrary to that expressed by her will. "the rev. mr. leigh is in the muniment room, mr. hendle," she said, pausing on the threshold, "and expressed a wish to see you." "you might ask him to stay to dinner," said rupert, glancing at his watch. mrs. beatson departed firmly convinced that her master really intended to dismiss her and had only broken the ice with his information about the marriage, so that she might be prepared to be turned out to die. with this in her mind, she hovered uneasily about the dining-room and drawing-room both before and after dinner, in the hope of catching some stray word, which might reveal rupert's expected treachery. meanwhile rupert, after a hearty laugh at mrs. beatson's cheerful manner of looking at the future, went upstairs to dress for dinner. "hang mrs. beatson," he thought, when he descended to the drawing-room. "i do wish she would keep her dismals to herself. she's about as cheerful as tombs, and not at all the person to have in the house of a young married couple," and from this mental speech it may be guessed that the dreary old lady was within an ace of being dismissed, as she dreaded, although such an idea had never entered her master's mind until she began her wailing. mr. leigh, who had brushed and washed at mrs. beatson's request, for he was dusty and grimy after his work in the muniment room, was wandering about the big drawing-room, peering at pictures and statues and old silver through his pince-nez. he turned to greet rupert in his usual mild absent-minded way, when the young squire, smartly groomed and eminently handsome, entered. "quite greek," murmured the vicar, balancing himself on his toes and with his hands behind his back. "i must say that your looks are in your favor, rupert. for the well-being of the race you should marry and beget children." "well, i am going to," said hendle, used to the vicar's eccentric speeches. "i make dorinda my wife next month." "oh, indeed," said mr. leigh alertly. "dorinda is a very desirable damsel. i hope you will be happy." "you seem to have your doubts, from the tone you use," remarked rupert dryly. mr. leigh shook his head. "life has its troubles," he observed sententiously. "for heaven's sake, vicar, don't croak. i have had enough of that from mrs. beatson," a remark which the housekeeper, hovering outside the door, overheard and registered in her mind as a bad omen for her future continuance at the big house. "i beg your pardon," went on the squire, rather ashamed of his momentary irritability, "but i do wish people would look on marriage as marriage and not as a funeral." "of course, of course," ruminated mr. leigh. "one is always sure of a funeral, though not of a marriage." "vicar!" burst out the young man, much vexed at this persistent lamentation, "you are--well." he linked his arm in that of mr. leigh, knowing it was useless to argue, "you are hungry and there's the gong." "am i hungry?" mr. leigh asked, when he was being conducted into the dining-room. "really i believe i am. for three or four hours i have been busy in the muniment room." "i wonder you don't grow tired of fumbling amongst those dusty parchments." "no! no! no! they are most interesting. yet," went on the vicar, as he spread his napkin across his spare knees. "i may have to postpone my history of barship parish after all--until i return from yucatan, that is." "yucatan!" rupert nodded to the butler that he should fill mr. leigh's glass with sherry, for the vicar was too absent-minded to give the order. "where is yucatan?" mr. leigh devoted his attention to the soup, and then looked up dreamily. "yucatan," he repeated. "dear me, rupert, your geographical knowledge is limited." "i never was a particularly good scholar," said the squire apologetically, "and yucatan is some out-of-the-way place, i take it." "it is in central america, and is concerned with the maya civilization." "oh, now i know what you are talking about. you refer to that diary of old frank mallien, which his son has. dorinda told me that you went occasionally to see it at my cousin's cottage." "yes," said mr. leigh, more wide awake than usual; "and, although i have been many times for the last year, mallien always tells me over again that it is his father's manuscript when he explored central america. he thinks that i am wanting in common sense, i fancy. but i let him talk on rudely, as he does talk, rupert. after all, the diary is so interesting, that mallien's brusque manners are well worth putting up with for the sake of my acquiring the information it contains." "what does it contain?" asked rupert, more for the sake of promoting conversation than because he cared. "an account of a dead and gone civilization," said the vicar in a dreamy tone, and scarcely knowing that fish had been placed before him. "tombs, cities, stone carvings and manuscripts, deposited with mummies. yes, there certainly must have been some communication between yucatan and egypt. le plongue says--dear me, i forget what he does say. however, i can see into the matter for myself when i go there." "go to yucatan--to central america," said hendle staring. "why, at your age, it is dangerous to attempt such an expedition." mr. leigh only caught the last word. "expedition! yes! it will be costly, as mallien, in his rude way, observed. but i have arranged how to get the money, rupert. a thousand pounds--perhaps more. really i am not sure what it will cost. but we can arrange the sum later." "we?" rupert stared harder than ever. "you and i," said leigh placidly. "after all, i am glad you have the money and not mallien, as you are more likely to do what i want than he is. a dour man, grasping and avaricious." rupert glanced at the butler and the footman. "i don't quite understand," he said, in a puzzled way. "perhaps you will explain." in his turn leigh, following hendle's eyes, glanced at the servants. "when we are alone i can tell you all about it over our coffee." more bewildered than ever and, in a vague way, sensing danger, rupert would have asked for an explanation. but the servants being present, he decided to wait until he was alone with his erratic friend. therefore the conversation passed on to other subjects connected with mr. leigh's discoveries in the muniment room, of various documents connected with the behavior of dead and buried hendles toward the parish. rupert said very little. what with mrs. beatson's gloom and the vicar's cryptic utterances, he felt as though some storm were approaching, and was anxious for the meal to end, so that he could go to the root of the matter. all the same, he laughed at himself for entertaining such a wild fancy. there was no quarter of the heavens from which any storm, big or little, could blow, as all was serene and bright. and, as hendle happened to be one of those very material persons who only believe in what can be seen, heard or touched, he scouted the idea of any premonition heralding any possible evil. yet the premonition was in his consciousness sure enough, and the young man, prosaic as ever, put it down to indigestion. a weaker explanation considering his splendid health can scarcely be imagined. when the dinner was over, mr. leigh, who had contented himself with a single glass of port wine to round off the entertainment, rose more briskly than usual, and announced his wish to go. "you must not mind my speedy departure, rupert," he said, slipping his pince-nez into his waistcoat pocket; "but i have much work to do in connection with my proposed expedition. i hope titus ark is waiting to accompany me home. i told him to call for me about half-past six." "ark is waiting in the kitchen," said rupert, after a quiet word with the pompous butler. "he came at six and has stayed on. there is no hurry for you to go, mr. leigh. remember you have something to tell me," and hendle, taking the old man's arm, led him gently but firmly into the drawing room. "something to tell you," repeated the vicar puzzled; then suddenly his face cleared. "oh, dear me, yes; how fortunate you reminded me, rupert. it has to do with john hendle." "john hendle. do you mean my great-great-grandfather----" "who died in the waterloo year. yes, i do. when we are alone,"--mr. leigh broke off and glanced meaningly at the footman who was bringing in the coffee. "it is lucky you reminded me," he ended aimlessly, "very lucky. my expedition, ah yes, this hangs on that and that on this." "what on earth are you talking about?" questioned hendle, much vexed at all this unnecessary mystery. "sit down and drink your coffee and tell me all about it. you don't smoke, i know, but i shall." "certainly, certainly," murmured leigh vaguely, "of course, your marriage with your cousin will bring together the two branches of the family. that, in the long run, will put things right." "put what things right?" "money matters." hendle echoed the word and stared. "i wish you would talk plainly," he said, with some irritation. "oh, certainly. i am rather apt to wander in worldly matters." leigh cleared his throat and sat up briskly with all his wits about him for once in his dreamy life. "mallien is descended from walter hendle, and you from frederick hendle, their father john being your common ancestor." "yes, that is so. but mallien descends through the female line, although he is the elder branch of the family." "there is no entail?" "no. if there was, it would be in my favor, as i descend through the male heirs. but what does all this mean?" "i shall tell you if you will allow me to collect my thoughts. while searching in the muniment room, rupert, i came across letters of john hendle, which show that he loved his elder son walter and greatly disliked his younger son frederick. walter was a brave man, who fought for his country and who died at waterloo. frederick, as the letters say, was a scamp--what in those days was known as a blood. reckless, extravagant and evil, he alienated his father's affections, and john hendle desired to disinherit him." "it is the first time i have heard of frederick's iniquity," said rupert with a shrug, "and i see little use in raking up the evil done by a man who lived about one hundred years ago." leigh took no notice of this observation. "john desired that his granddaughter eunice, the child of his favorite son walter, should inherit. as the property was entirely at his own disposal, he made a will in her favor." rupert jumped up so suddenly that he upset his coffee. "what?" "pray don't act in so excitable a manner, rupert," protested the vicar, raising his thin hand. "you irritate my nerves." "but--but--what you say--oh, it's absurd," stammered the squire. "there was never any question about frederick's inheriting the property. i don't know much about the matter, as the thing didn't interest me. but, if frederick inherited wrongly, surely the question would have been raised before." "how could it be when the will in favor of eunice was missing?" "missing?" "yes. john made the will and apparently died suddenly before he could make it public. i found it," said mr. leigh slowly, "in the chest." "in the muniment room?" "yes. it is a will drawn up quite legally on parchment as was the case in those days, although i don't think wills are drawn up now on----" "oh, never mind these minor points," broke in rupert hastily. "you say that you found a will, made by john hendle, leaving the property to eunice, from whom my cousin mallien is descended?" "i did. some weeks ago i came across the document. but i did not say anything until i ascertained for myself as to which of you two was the right person to have the money. i am inclined to think that you had better keep it, rupert, since mallien is so avaricious, and will not help anyone--not even me, when i desire money for my expedition to forward the cause of science." "if this will is in order," said rupert, rising to pace the long room, and feeling painfully agitated. "mallien should have the property." "i fear so; i fear so," murmured the vicar uncomfortably. "the same leaves the property unreservedly to his grandmother eunice. i have not told mallien, who would undoubtedly contest your right to the estates, as i do not consider him a fit and proper person to have much money." "right is right," said hendle, whose face was pale and whose lips were dry. "if mallien is the rightful heir, he must be placed in possession. but all this may be a mistake on your part. where is the will?" mr. leigh looked nervous and distressed. "dear me, rupert, i am afraid i have mislaid it. i took it home to study it at my convenience, so as to make sure that it really gave the property to eunice. i did examine it, and became quite positive that mallien is the rightful heir. then, somehow--you know how absent-minded i am--i laid it aside and since have not been able to find it. i have searched without result." "you should have given it to me at once," said hendle, severely. "but, my dear boy, i had your interest at heart," protested the vicar, wiping his forehead. "i know how quixotic you are, and guessed that you would give the property to mallien without demur, if the will was correct, which i fear it is. for your own sake i took time to consider the discovery i had made." "you must find the will at once," commanded rupert manfully, "and it must be submitted to the lawyers. if mallien is the heir, mallien gets the money." mr. leigh rose, much agitated. "i don't think he should get it, rupert. he is a greedy man, who would only hoard up gold and make a bad use of newly acquired wealth. i tell you he declined to help me to fit out my expedition. i know you will, so you ought to keep the money." "how can you advise me to be so dishonest," cried the squire, indignantly, "you who are a clergyman of the church of england?" "i have the greater sense of right from being so," rejoined the vicar, quite tartly for so amiable a man. "and when i remember that you and yours have enjoyed the property for one hundred years, it seems ridiculous to hand it over to another man." "who belongs to the elder branch, remember," said rupert swiftly. "and who is, according to your reading of this newly discovered will, the rightful heir." he took a turn up and down the room, then stopped to face the vicar who was fidgeting on the hearth rug. "you must turn your house upside down to find the will, mr. leigh, and it must be handed over to our family lawyers, so that mallien may be placed in possession of the property forthwith." "rupert, i implore you not to act hastily or foolishly. say nothing about this belated testament, which will do mallien more harm than good considering his greedy and misanthropic nature. i will look for it and will give it to you. throw it into the chest again." "no! no! no! i would never have a moment's peace if i did that. i know that mallien is not the man to have too much money, but i can't help that. if he is the rightful heir, he must enter into his kingdom. besides, if i marry dorinda, the property will come back to me, representing the younger branch." "if mallien gets the property," said mr. leigh deliberately, "he will not allow you to marry dorinda." "i can trust her," said rupert curtly. "quite so. but you will have no money to marry her, and mallien will cut her off with a shilling. he is quite capable of doing so." hendle knew this well enough and reflected for a few moments. "say nothing to mallien or to anyone," he remarked finally, "until you find the will and we can look over it together." "oh, i shall certainly hold my tongue," said the vicar quickly. "believe me, it is only my esteem for you which makes me urge you not to notice the will. sleep on the question, rupert, for the morning is wiser than the night. this matter will remain strictly between ourselves. now good night; good night." hendle shook hands, not objecting to the vicar's abrupt departure, and when alone groaned over the unexpected fulfilment of his premonition. chapter vi counsel's opinion when hendle, having a weight on his mind, woke shortly after dawn, he remembered the vicar's proverb, and thought that it might be true. morning certainly was wiser than the night with him, as he began to ask himself why he should be so much disturbed over an unproven matter. leigh certainly asserted positively that he had found a hundred-year-old will, made in favor of the elder branch of the hendle family, and, undoubtedly, he spoke in a way which appeared to be genuine. but then, the vicar was a queer, eccentric person, who sometimes believed his visions to be facts, and who had on occasions some difficulty in distinguishing between the real and the unreal. in a perfectly honest way he might be making a mistake, and rupert, turning over the matter before rising, hoped fervently that such might prove to be the case. on the other hand, unless mr. leigh's statement had some foundation, in fact, it seemed improbable that he would even think of such a thing. there had never been any question as to the legitimacy of hendle holding the property, and after a whole century had elapsed, it seemed strange that such an odd question should be raised. assuredly the vicar must have found something which had to do with the inheritance of the estates by the elder branch, else the fantastic idea would not have entered his rather wavering mind. but the will might not be good in law; it might have been signed and not witnessed, or there might be some flaw in its drawing up which would nullify its provisions. if this was the case, rupert was far too sensible to think of surrendering his lands and income to a man, who, on the face of it, would make a bad use of the same. on the other hand, if the will was quite in order, the squire was honest enough to step down from his throne and allow the rightful king to take his seat thereon, evil as might prove to be his rule. the whole question of right or wrong turned on the production of the will. having reached this point in his meditations, rupert arose, and cleared his brain by a cold bath. it would be foolish to say that he was not worried, for he felt very much upset, as was natural, seeing there was a chance of his being reduced to the condition of a pauper. mallien was not rich, but he had enough to live on, so the acquisition of more money would only result in his greater extravagance in the purchase of jewels. but if the will proved to be legal, hendle foresaw that he--the squire of barship--would be turned out of his pleasant home without a single penny and without any means of earning one. he had no profession; he had no trade; he was not over-clever, and mallien--he was sure of this--would not allow him anything out of the estate. this was uncomfortable enough in itself for a young man who liked the good things of this life, but there was worse to follow. he would lose dorinda, since her father would undoubtedly prevent the marriage with a pauper. the girl herself, as rupert had said to the vicar, would remain true; but how could he ask her to become his wife, when he could not support himself, much less a helpmate? it was all very painful and very disagreeable, and rupert descended to breakfast with a bad appetite. "you don't look at all well, mr. hendle," remarked mrs. beatson, when she came for orders after breakfast. "perhaps you are sickening for a fever." "not at all," replied her master, more crossly than he was accustomed to speak to this dismal woman. "i have had a wakeful night, that's all." "ah well, sir, it's natural, considering you are going to take such a serious step as marriage without thinking about it." rupert allowed mrs. beatson a certain amount of latitude, but here she overstepped the mark. he passed over her observation in silence, and gave his orders for the day. "i shall have dinner at eight," he remarked, having arranged matters, "as i am going to town and will not be back until late." "going to see the lawyers, i suppose, sir," mentioned the housekeeper with an odd look on her dreary face. rupert looked up suddenly, wondering why she had made such a pertinent observation, for it was in his mind to do what she had suggested. "why do you suppose that, mrs. beatson?" "well, sir, it's only natural, as no doubt there are marriage settlements to be prepared, and all must be in order for the ceremony." mrs. beatson said this glibly enough, and her reason appeared to be very plausible. nevertheless, her glance was so significant that hendle wondered if she had guessed his trouble. it seemed to be incredible, since leigh had promised to hold his tongue until the matter was properly threshed out. yet there was a certain malicious triumph lurking in the housekeeper's look, which hinted that she was rejoicing at his approaching downfall. after swift reflection rupert thought that he was mistaken, and was in the position of a man who sees a bird in every bush. he therefore ignored mrs. beatson's remark and merely repeated that he would return late to dine. the woman hesitated for a moment, as if she wished to speak more plainly, then tossed her head and glided out in her ghostly way. rupert frowned, for her behavior made him uncomfortable. yet it was impossible that she should know anything of the thunderbolt which had struck him. and after all, as the squire reflected when he started to walk to the railway station, the thunderbolt had not yet reached its mark and might not reach it at all. only an examination of the will would prove if he was a rich man or a pauper, and in his anxiety to learn this, hendle called in at the vicarage as he passed the rickety gate. strange to say, mr. leigh proved to be absent, as he had gone to see a dying parishioner. it was only a short walk to the little wayside station, at which the london trains stopped occasionally during the day. rupert caught the ten o'clock train easily, and, although it was very full, managed to secure a compartment to himself. here, when the engine started, he gave himself up to meditation, not, as it may be guessed, of the most pleasant kind. hendle, as mrs. beatson ignorantly or knowingly had suggested, really intended to consult lawyers. but, before going to his family solicitors, he thought that he would ask the opinion of counsel in the person of carrington, as it struck him that there might be a statute of limitations in connection with long-lost wills. even if there were, rupert knew, in his own heart, that if mallien proved to be the rightful owner of the property, he--the present owner--would never be able to take advantage of any law quibble. it all depended on the will, for, if not produced, he would not be required--even by his own uneasy conscience--to surrender his house and income. he wondered if leigh had lost the will forever, in which case things could remain as they were; he wondered if there was a will at all, or, if there was, whether the vicar might not have made a mistake; he wondered if the will were found, if it would be all shipshape, so as to deprive him of his kingdom. indeed, hendle wondered in a more or less worried way throughout the journey to town, and stepped out onto the platform of the liverpool street station in anything but a happy frame of mind. carrington had envied him his wealth and quiet existence; it was anything but quiet now, and the wealth--if the vicar proved to be correct--was about to take wings to itself and fly away into mallien's gaping pockets. in a dismal frame of mind, rupert took a taxi to friars inn. it was in this set of tall buildings that carrington had his chambers for business purposes. "hendle!" said the barrister, when his visitor was ushered into a bare room sparsely furnished and looking very businesslike, "this is a surprise. how are you, old chap; not up to much, from the look of you." "i'm bothered out of my life," replied hendle, taking the cane chair--a most uncomfortable one--which was pointed out to him. "oh, i think there is sufficient life left in you to stand a trifle more strain," was carrington's flippant observation, as he resumed his seat at a very businesslike desk. "i can't guess in any way what can bother you." "no one, but the wearer, knows where the shoe pinches," quoted hendle grimly. "quite so, and no one ever will know unless the wearer explains the bad fit, my friend. bothered? you! with beeves and lands and money, and the promise of a beautiful and desirable damsel to be your wife." "that's just it," said the visitor, seizing the opening. "i may lose all these things, carrington." the barrister wheeled his chair round to stare, and his keen dark face was alive with curiosity. "have you been outrunning the constable?" he asked; "has the lady changed her mind? has----" "you are wide of the mark. to put the matter in a nutshell, it's a will." "a will! what about it?" "this much. it exists and may disinherit me." "the deuce. in whose favor?" "in favor of julius mallien, my cousin." "then he will have his rights, if he has a leg to stand on," said carrington grimly. "mallien struck me as a man who would go through fire and water for himself. why did your father make a will in his favor?" "he did not. the will was made one hundred years ago, by john hendle, from whom mallien and i are descended." "one hundred years ago," echoed the barrister puzzled. "then how comes it you have to do with it now?" "leigh found it in the muniment room." "confound his zeal. but still i don't quite understand. perhaps you will tell me the whole story from the beginning. i suppose you have come to ask my advice as a friend?" "yes, and as a barrister." "my best forensic lore is at your disposal. well?" hendle at once began his explanation, and, as he proceeded, became much too restless to remain seated. midway in the recital he started to his feet and began to pace the narrow limits of the office. shading his eyes with his hand and drawing figures on the blotting paper, carrington listened to the rather amazing story of leigh's discovery, and when in possession of the facts looked rather skeptical. "i understand that you have not seen the will?" "no. leigh, as is natural with so untidy a man, has mislaid it." "then how do you know the will exists?" "leigh says so." "humph!" carrington threw down his pencil and leaned back with a doubtful look. "i think the vicar's wits must be wool-gathering. he has no enmity against you, i suppose?" "enmity?" hendle stopped in his walk and stared. "i mean he is your friend." "oh, yes. leigh and i are great friends." "and his attitude toward mallien?" "he doesn't like him overmuch. mallien is so rude to him." "and to everyone," finished carrington with a shrug. "a most disagreeable person. well, as leigh likes you and doesn't like your cousin, i take it he could not have invented this story to do you out of the property in mallien's favor." "no. leigh is the best of good fellows, though rather eccentric. he must have found the will; it is impossible that he could have suggested its existence otherwise." "i suppose not," murmured carrington vaguely; then glanced shrewdly at his client. "does he know your family history?" "everyone in barship knows that," replied hendle, dropping again into his chair with a sigh. "there is nothing to know really, as we have always been a dull, homely lot of people." "tell me how your descent runs from john hendle?" "in the direct male line. frederick, the son; henry, the grandson; charles, the great-grandson, and myself, the great-great-grandson." "and mallien's descent?" "he comes in the female line from walter, the eldest son of john hendle. eunice, the daughter of walter and the granddaughter of john, married george filbert. mrs. filbert had a daughter anne, who married frank mallien, and her son is julius, my cousin, who has, as you know, a daughter." "dorinda, to whom you are engaged," commented carrington; "that marriage will bring the elder and the younger branches of the family together. a very good arrangement. will julius marry again?" "i don't think so. he hates women." "i should think every single member of the sex returned the compliment. but what i mean is, that when you marry miss mallien, the money will come to you and her when her father dies." "it should, as we two represent the elder and younger branches of the family, joined, as you observed. but mallien is quite capable of leaving the money elsewhere out of devilment. he tolerates me because i lend him money, and he has very little affection for dorinda. we are to marry next month, because i have promised mallien five hundred a year when i make dorinda my wife, and he is now in a hurry for the money. but," added rupert anxiously, "if he knew that he was the rightful heir, he would forbid the marriage." "it is probable he would, since he has such a sweet nature," said carrington dryly; "but would miss mallien obey him?" "no. she loves me too well for that. but, of course, if i lose the property, i am reduced to pauperism pure and simple, and could scarcely ask the girl to share my nothing." the barrister nodded sympathetically. "it's a beastly position," he said, after a pause, "especially as you haven't been brought up to earn your own living in any way. but, of course, we are building on sand. nobody but this weird parson has seen the will, so it may not exist." "i don't see why leigh should think of such a thing if the will does not exist," said rupert impatiently. "true enough. well, let us grant that the will does exist and leaves the property to eunice filbert, from whom mallien traces his descent. still, possession is nine points of the law, and your lot has held the property for close upon one hundred years. there is a statute of limitations." "oh!" rupert looked up eagerly. "i had an idea that there might be. then, if i take your meaning correctly, since this will has only been found after so long a period, the statute operates against its being legal?" "well, it might operate or it might not; it all depends upon the circumstances of the case. mostly the statute of limitations would operate. the will was never filed in the probate court, i take it?" "no. until leigh found it i expect no one but its maker and his witnesses knew of its existence, and they are all dead, ages ago. but i thought wills were filed at somerset house?" "now they are. but in they were filed at the probate court at canterbury." "well," said hendle restlessly. "the question is, what am i to do?" "well, obviously the first thing is to get possession of the will and in that way learn exactly how things stand with regard to mallien. john hendle may not have cut off his second son frederick entirely." "he may not," assented rupert dubiously; "on the other hand he may. leigh certainly gave me to understand that everything had been left to eunice, who afterward married filbert. if such is the case, you may be sure that mallien will take everything, and will decline to give me a penny." "just like him. but the statute of limitations----" "i shall not take advantage of that," interrupted hendle firmly. "if the will does make mallien the heir by descent, he shall have the property." "but, my dear man," cried the barrister, starting to his feet, "that is quixotic. why leave yourself without a penny, especially when mallien is such an unamiable person?" "it's hard, i grant," replied rupert ruefully; "yet, as an honest man, what else can i do?" "it seems to me that there is a limit to honesty," said carrington tartly. "i scarcely think that i could act so quixotically if i had to do with the matter. however, we can discuss this point when the will is in your possession, and we can make sure that what leigh says is true. when do you hope to get it?" "well, i don't know. leigh said that he had mislaid it and would search for it, so i have called this morning on the chance that he might have found it. he was absent attending to a dying woman, and of course i couldn't interrupt him at his business. i left a message that i would call again when i returned this evening." "when do you return?" "by the seven o'clock train. i shall arrive in time for dinner. i told mrs. beatson that i would dine at eight." "if leigh finds the will, i presume he will bring it to you this evening at the big house?" "he might and he might not. and in any case i shall call." carrington considered the remark for a few moments and stared out of the window at the chimney pots. "i don't think that i would call if i were you, hendle," he said at length. "why not?" "because this case needs a more careful handling than you are able to give it, my friend. leave leigh alone until to-morrow, and i'll come down some time about midday to interview the vicar along with you." "it's very good of you, carrington," said the perplexed squire gratefully. "i don't expect one night will make any difference, as i shall be certain of the bad news soon enough. i'll wait until you can go with me to-morrow to the vicarage; perhaps, by then, leigh will have found the will." "i don't leave the vicarage until he has found it," said carrington grimly. "it's too important a document to be left in the hands of a shiftless creature such as leigh. he is quite capable of taking it to mallien, if it is in favor of mallien's grandmother, as he asserts." hendle, standing up to go away, shook his head. "i don't think he will go past me," he remarked slowly. "in the first place, he dislikes mallien because of mallien's brusque manners, and in the second mallien refused, out of his present income, to help him to fit out an expedition to yucatan." "central america. why does the vicar want to go there?" "oh, he's been reading some diary of mallien's father, describing certain researches amongst buried cities in those wilds, and wants to go there and look up things for himself." "i dare say if you finance this expedition, leigh will say nothing about the will--that is, if he has already said nothing to anyone," said carrington. "he told me that he had not. save you and i no one knows about leigh's discovery. it's just as well that mallien doesn't know," ended rupert, with a shrug, "or he would tear down the vicarage, or rob it, to get the testament which would make him a rich man." "well, i don't think a weak old buffer like leigh could put up much fight, handle. well, my advice is for you to hold your tongue, and refrain from seeing leigh until to-morrow afternoon. then we can tackle him together. buck up and face the music, old chap," added the barrister, clapping his friend on the back, "after all, the thing may prove to be a false alarm. i don't place much reliance on that dreaming parson." "nor do i," answered rupert, as he took his leave, "but, in this case, i fancy there must be a fire to account for the smoke. leigh could not have invented a will which does not exist. well then, good-bye. i shall see you to-morrow." "at one o'clock or thereabouts; anyhow, before two. meanwhile, don't see anyone and particularly not miss mallien. she is sure to spot your dismals, and if she begins to question you may give yourself away." rupert halted on the threshold, hesitating for a while, but finally promised not to see dorinda. then, as there was nothing else to be done, he went to a matinée of a successful play to distract his mind, and returned, as he had arranged, in time for his eight o'clock dinner. after the meal, he spent a very dull evening, reading the newspapers and playing patience. but for his promise to carrington he would have walked to the cottage to see dorinda, and he sorely felt the want of her society at this crisis. however, he saw the wisdom of the barrister's advice, not to acquaint her with the trouble until more was ascertained for certain, lest, by arousing mallien's suspicions, that gentleman might learn too much. and mallien was very quick as a rule to guess that something was being kept from him. so rupert possessed his soul in patience and retired to bed early. after a somewhat restless night, he descended to breakfast to find that ill news travels fast. it was mrs. beatson who conveyed this especial information, and she did so with delight, always anxious to pass on any news of any disaster. "oh, mr. hendle," she cried, bursting into the breakfast room without knocking; "such a terrible thing has happened! mr. leigh is dead! mr. leigh has been murdered!" chapter vii a nine days' wonder the information concerning the vicar's violent death was so extraordinary and so wholly unexpected that rupert could not believe it to be entirely true. however, mrs. beatson's tempestuous announcement spoiled his breakfast, and, leaving the meal unfinished, the squire hurried down to the village. here everything was in a state of commotion, as it was rarely that so untoward an event disturbed the placidity of barship. no one--from the flying rumors hendle gathered during his progress--appeared to be acquainted with the exact facts of the case. some said that mr. leigh had committed suicide; others, that a burglar, surprised at midnight, had struck the blow; while a few declared that the vicar was only wounded and would recover. but when hendle reached the untidy house, he learned from the tearful mrs. jabber that the information was only too true. mr. leigh, with a nasty ragged wound on his right temple, had been found dead in his study at seven o'clock in the morning, and kensit, the village constable, was already on the premises looking into the matter along with dr. tollart. the two, it seemed, had arrived simultaneously, kensit having picked up the doctor on the road. "and you could have knocked me down with a feather when them two walked in," wailed mrs. jabber, who was all rags and tears; "me expecting to be taken to jail straight off, though being, as you may guess, sir, as innocent as new-born infants. ten o'clock was the hour as me and jabber went to bed, as i can take my alfred davit in any court of lawr, and never a sound or a whisper did we hear, both being heavy sleepers. and when i come with a duster and a broom into the library, to clean it for the day, there i sees that blessed man lying on the floor under his writing table bleeding like a pig, face downward. as you may think, sir, i went white, and felt my inwards quaking, as i said to jabber when we took someat strong later to keep our legs from giving way. i hollered and jabber come to see if i was in a fit. then says he, 'this is murder,' and runs out to shriek for the perlice, which is here with dr. tollart, hardly sober if you can believe me, sir. and that's the bible truth of the whole thing, as i'd swear on my mother's corpse, though she's been an angel these many years. and what 'ull happen to me and jabber," ended the good lady, dissolving in many tears, "is more than i can say, having no gift in prophets." considering her prolixity, mrs. jabber's account was fairly clear, and the chubby policeman was inclined to believe that she spoke the truth. he informed the squire that he had already sent to tarhaven for his inspector, and that dr. tollart was examining the body with a view to learning the exact cause of death. "though to be sure, sir, that isn't hard to see," said kensit, who was of a more chatty disposition than his position warranted. "there's a knock on the head as 'ud kill a navvy, much less a delicate gentleman as we know mr. leigh always was. he was struck down by a loaded cane or a bludgeon, unexpected like, if my experience goes for anything." "but who on earth could have murdered him, kensit?" asked rupert, greatly puzzled. "mr. leigh was such a harmless man and had no enemies." "p'raps a burglar, sir," suggested the constable wisely. "but who would commit a burglary here?" said rupert, looking round the entrance hall where they were standing. "there is nothing to carry off except books, and no man would risk a rope round his neck for such antique rubbish." "true enough, mr. hendle. and, knowing that he had nothing worth stealing, mr. leigh never bothered himself to lock up the house at night. there's no catches to speak of on the windows, and the bolts of the doors ain't up to much. anyone could walk in and walk out at any time without trouble, as he did." "oh. then you think that the assassin was a man?" "well, sir, i don't suppose a female would come along assaulting people with blows on the back of the head. to be sure, there's miss sophy tollart, who is a suffragist," mused the constable; "but mr. leigh never argued with her over them votes for women as i've ever heard." in spite of the seriousness of the case, hendle could not help smiling. "i think we can acquit miss tollart, kensit," he observed. "the militant suffragist destroys property and not human beings. ah, here is the doctor. well?" tollart emerged into the hall as the squire spoke, but did not seem to be over-eager to reply. he was a tall, bulky man, with a large red perspiring face, eyes like poached eggs, and a loose mouth suggestive of the hard drinker. as mrs. jabber had hinted, he had already had his morning dram, and his wits seemed to be muddled. not at all the man, as rupert thought with some disgust, to examine a murdered fellow-mortal's remains. "whew, isn't it hot, hendle?" he remarked, mopping his streaming face with a dingy handkerchief. "that in there"--he jerked his head toward the study--"will have to be buried pretty smart; it won't keep long. the sooner he's under ground the better." "he won't be put under ground," said kensit, smartly. "the leighs have their family vault, you know, doctor." "well! well, vault or grave, the weather's too hot to keep the thing sweet," was tollart's unpleasant reply. "nice business, isn't it, hendle? i always thought that the old man would be knocked on the head." "why?" asked the squire, and kensit looked the same question. "why!"--tollart leaned against the pile of books near the wall, as his constant nipping made him shaky on his ponderous legs--"why, because he never locked up the house, and it stands away from the village in quite a lonely fashion. anyone could break in here, or rather walk in, as leigh never bothered about bolts and bars." "there was nothing to guard, tollart. i don't think it was worth any burglar's while to risk his neck for nothing." "the man who downed leigh was of a different opinion," said tollart grimly. "do you think a burglar killed him, sir?" asked kensit anxiously. "who else?" "but mrs. jabber says that there is nothing missing." "isn't there? how does she know? anyhow, his papers and books are all turned topsy-turvy. the burglar had a good hunt for loot, anyhow." "the room is rather in a mess," observed kensit thoughtfully. "it always was in a mess," said rupert, with a shrug. "when did the death take place, doctor?" "judging from the condition of the corpse i should say at eleven o'clock last night, hendle. did you see any stranger about the village when you were on your rounds last night, kensit?" "not a soul, sir. but at eleven o'clock," kensit reflected for a moment, "i was at the other end of the village. but when i passed the vicarage about ten there was no one to be seen and nothing suspicious visible. the gate was open, as usual, and the door i expect was simply jammed to, as it usually was. mrs. jabber saw the vicar last, just before she went to bed with her husband at ten o'clock, and she left him busy at his writing and books as usual. i suppose the blow on the head killed him, sir?" "partly it was the blow on the head and partly heart disease," mumbled tollart, staring at the two men with a glazed eye. "leigh never was very strong, and i always told him to take care of his heart." "i never knew it was weak," observed rupert, "and he could not have thought so himself, as he was contemplating an expedition to central america." "sheer madness," muttered tollart. "however, he's gone on a longer journey now, hendle. kensit, when is your inspector coming?" "i expect him here every moment, sir." "well, the sooner he comes the better, as that corpse must be screwed down without delay. have the inquest this afternoon if you can. it will be a mere formality, as the cause of death is apparent enough. there, you won't want me here now. i'll be at home at one if the inspector from tarhaven wants me, kensit. meanwhile i'm off to get a drink. thirsty weather," and the doctor stumbled away in a hurry to get some beer. "i don't think the weather makes much difference to the doctor's thirst, sir," said kensit disapprovingly, and his chubby face looked severe. "however, it ain't any of my business, mr. hendle. you'll excuse me, sir, but i'll go and see that no one enters that library. nothing must be touched until my inspector sees the room. you haven't any idea as to who killed mr. leigh, sir?" "not the least idea," replied rupert, lingering at the hall door. "i saw the vicar the night before last when he dined with me, and yesterday morning i called to see him on my way to london." "so mrs. jabber said, and she said also, sir, that you said you'd call in the evening." "i did, but did not," rupert hesitated, for kensit was looking at him keenly. "i really hadn't very much to say to him, and intended to call this morning." "do you know if he expected visitors, sir?" "no. he made no mention to me of expecting any." "then it was a burglar," declared kensit, positively. hendle shrugged his shoulders. "i don't see what there was to steal," he replied carelessly, and then he went away, after leaving a message that he would like to interview the tarhaven inspector when he was at leisure. there was a crowd round the rickety gate--now closed for the first time for many years--but a policeman, summoned by kensit from a neighboring village, was on guard, and would not allow anyone to enter. he saluted rupert as he passed out, and the young man mechanically touched his hat in response. down the road he came suddenly upon old titus ark, who was ruminating against a stone wall, looking more prehistoric than ever. the ancient grunted as the young squire sauntered along thoughtfully in the blazing sunshine, and raised a gnarled hand to his battered hat. considering that he was leigh's bodyguard, who followed him everywhere like a dog, hendle expected to find the old man tearful with the weakness of age. but titus was smiling in a way which showed his toothless gums, and piped out an ordinary greeting, quite oblivious of the tremendous event which was disturbing the village. "morning, squoire," said ark, with his usual grunt. "fine weather fur they crops i du think. hor! hor! hor!" rupert stopped to rebuke this levity. "don't you know that mr. leigh is dead?" "oh, no, he bain't dead," said the ancient easily. "a knock on the head don't settle such as he." "nonsense, man! why, the vicar was extremely weak, and a mere tap would settle him. what are you talking about?" "about muster leigh. hor! hor! hor! he ain't dead. i've seen him dead afore, but he nivir come my way fur the berryin', squoire." "he'll come your way this time, titus, i am afraid," replied rupert, wondering why the old man was so stubborn. he surmised that, as leigh--according to the doctor--had heart disease, he must have fainted at times in ark's presence, which would account for the sexton's saying he had seen him dead. "i suppose you don't know who murdered him?" "he bain't murdered, squoire." "then you don't know who struck him?" said hendle, amending his question. "naw. muster leigh, he said good-bye to me last night at six when he left mussus pattens, who is my datter. she's taken a turn for the better." "i'm glad to hear it, titus. did mr. leigh say if he expected any visitor last night?" "naw," said the ancient again. "he niwer told naught to i, squoire. you can ask him himself when he comes aloive again." plainly ark declined to believe that his lifelong friend was dead, and it seemed useless to impress him with the undoubted fact. he complained that the policeman would not allow him to enter the vicarage, and that no one would take any notice of his protestations that leigh was not dead. rupert, although in a hurry to return to his unfinished breakfast, stayed to persuade titus to take a more reasonable view of the situation. "dr. tollart says that mr. leigh has passed away. besides the knock on the head he had heart disease, and either the one or the other was enough to kill him." "dr. tollart," grunted ark stolidly, "he be better wi beer than wi curing folk. i nivir heard tell as muster leigh had heart-badness. he be aloive, i tell ee, squoire." "well, titus, have your own way. but it will be your duty within a couple of days if not less, seeing that the weather is hot, to put our late vicar in his family vault." "oh, i'll put him there, squoire; but he bain't dead fur all that. hor! hor! hor!" with another shrug rupert passed on, and returned to the big house to find dorinda. she greeted him hastily and appeared to be very dismayed at the dreadful news of the vicar's murder. "who could have hurt him, rupert?" she asked, again and again. "he had no enemies. he would not have harmed a fly." "i'm sure i can't tell you, dear. kensit seems to think that it was a burglar did the trick." "but there was nothing in the vicarage to rob," protested dorinda. "just what i say. however, some burglar from london might have believed that leigh was a miser and had treasure." "has any stranger from london been seen about the village?" "no. kensit can't make head nor tail of it," rupert shook his head and thought for a moment. "unless some very startling evidence turns up, dorinda, i don't believe that the truth will ever become known. what does your father say, dear?" "nothing. you know father did not care much for mr. leigh. he told me that he was sorry, but that leigh was a fool, or he would have locked up his house regularly every night." "your father hasn't much sympathy, dorinda." "he never has. you know how badly he thinks of everyone. what is to be done about the murder, rupert?" "the inspector from tarhaven is coming to-day, and he will arrange for an inquest this afternoon or to-morrow. upon what evidence is obtainable will depend the next step. i expect the body"--dorinda quivered and turned pale--"will be buried almost immediately." "why. don't they keep bodies a week?" "sometimes. but in this case, tollart says that the sooner poor leigh is buried the better. the corpse"--rupert hesitated--"won't keep." "oh, don't"--dorinda made a wry face--"poor mr. leigh. he was such a good man, rupert. who inherits his books, which are all he has left." "i think there's a distant cousin of sorts, a ship captain. he won't benefit much by leigh's death. i wonder if the old man made a will." "oh, yes. he told me a year ago that he had, but did not mention to whom he had left his library. you are the executor." "am i, indeed? that is news to me, as leigh never asked my permission. however"--hendle was thinking of the probability of his ancestor's will being among the papers and books--"it is just as well under the circumstances." "what do you mean by that?" hendle tugged at his moustache and replied in an embarrassed fashion, "oh, nothing, only i can look after things better than a stranger, you know. by the way, dorinda, i forgot to tell you that carrington is coming down by the midday train." "coming again so soon," said dorinda, remembering her father's warnings against the barrister, "and why?" "only about some business i went up to town about yesterday," answered rupert confusedly. "will you walk with me to the station to meet him?" "no," said the girl promptly. "i don't want to meet mr. carrington again. i don't like him overmuch." "ah, you've been listening to your father, dear. mallien likes no one." "i saw mr. carrington myself, rupert, and i didn't like him. i don't require my father to judge for me." "what a spitfire you are!" laughed hendle, putting his arm round her waist. "because i want you all to myself, and i think mr. carrington is not a good friend for you." "jealous." "sensible. there, rupert, don't worry me." she slipped out of his arms, much to his surprise, and he showed his feelings so visibly that she colored. "i am rather out of sorts this morning," she said hurriedly. "father has been rather trying." "never mind, dear; in a month you will be with me forever." "i hope so," sighed dorinda, "but somehow this death of the vicar suggests to me the possibility that something will occur to prevent our marriage." "oh, nonsense!" rupert stared. "what could prevent our marriage?" "it's only a feeling," persisted dorinda, "and i dare say it is a foolish, silly feeling; but it's here for all that," and she laid her hand on her heart. rupert took as much pains to argue away this fancy as he had done to argue away the fancy of titus ark. but dorinda was quite as stubborn in her belief that evil fortune was coming to prevent the marriage, as the sexton was that leigh was alive. finally, because rupert laughed at her, she parted from him rather irritated at the corner, where he branched off to the station road. she would not even look back when her lover went away, and rupert walked on to meet carrington with the reflection that women were kittle cattle, as the scotch say. as a rule, dorinda was amiable and calm, so it seemed strange that she should be so easily annoyed this morning. but there was a reasonable excuse after all, as hendle concluded, since the girl, always having been markedly friendly with the vicar, the poor man's violent death naturally shocked and upset her greatly. moreover, the heartless comments which mallien the cynic was more than likely to make, assuredly would add to dorinda's distress. by the time he reached the station, rupert had explained away to his own satisfaction the unusual emotion of the girl. true to his promise carrington arrived by the midday train and hopped out onto the platform as lively as a cricket. in gray flannels, a straw hat and brown shoes, the barrister looked handsome, well-bred and very much alive. the sight of his keen face and intelligent dark eyes comforted hendle, as he knew that carrington, if anyone, would be helpful in the matter of the vicar's mysterious murder. "here you are and here i am, hendle," cried the new arrival briskly, as he gave up his ticket and walked out of the station along with the squire. "i say, old chap, you're worrying considerably over this will business. there's a drawn, tired look on your face, which shows that you haven't slept a wink." "well, i didn't have a particularly restful night," admitted the other with a sigh. "and what has happened this morning doesn't help to make me feel any happier, carrington." "eh, what?" the barrister stopped. "then leigh has found the will and----" "leigh is dead," hendle informed him abruptly. "dead!" carrington stared. "dead! what are you talking about?" "about what has happened," replied the other heavily. "leigh was found dead in his study this morning." carrington looked at hendle doubtfully. "you're pulling my leg," he said, in a disbelieving tone. "i don't pull people's legs over such a serious matter. i tell you positively that the vicar is dead. all the village is in commotion." "dead!" repeated carrington once more as they moved on toward barship. "the unexpected has happened with a vengeance. well, well, he wasn't young, and looked like a delicate man, who would pop off at any moment." "this death has nothing to do with delicacy, carrington. leigh has been murdered." "oh, lord!" man of the world as he was, carrington received a shock. "poor old chap. murdered! what a beastly thing to happen! who murdered him?" "no one knows. the police are looking into the matter now. he was found dead in his study at seven this morning, and there is a wound on the right temple. so far, the only conclusion arrived at is that some one tried to rob the house, and, being discovered, struck leigh down." "i can't see that there was anything in the house worth a burglar committing such a crime for," remarked carrington, taking off his hat. "there wasn't. no one in the village would have attempted a burglary, since leigh was known to be very poor. besides, leigh was too popular for anyone to hurt him. but a stranger----" "ah," broke in carrington swiftly, "a stranger. has any stranger been seen hovering about the vicarage?" "no. kensit, our village policeman, was on his rounds as usual last night, but declares that he saw no one." "but some tramp----" "no tramps have been hanging about the village of late." carrington looked puzzled. "it seems to be a mystery. at what time was the poor chap murdered?" "no one knows. but dr. tollart thinks the blow was struck about eleven o'clock last night." "has the weapon been found?" "no!" "did that housekeeper hear any noise?" "no! nothing was known of the murder until she found her master dead near his writing table. the inspector has been sent for to tarhaven and will be here shortly. indeed, i expect he is here now. he will take charge of the house and look into the matter." "humph!" remarked the barrister thoughtfully. "as i said before, it seems to be a mystery. this inspector will take charge of all leigh's books and papers, i suppose." "yes. why not?" "oh, i am not saying against his handling them. but the will----" "the will. yes?" "can't you see, hendle. if this inspector looks through the papers left by leigh, which he probably will, he is bound to come across that hundred-year-old testament you mentioned yesterday." rupert winced. "i expect he will, unless poor leigh has so carefully mislaid it that it cannot be found. but what if he does?" "well, then all the fat will be on the fire," said carrington with an air of finality. "i suppose you mean that the will must be made public. why not? if it is a legitimate document, mallien must get the money, and if it isn't, my position remains unchanged. in any case, whether leigh lived or died, what he discovered would have to be shown all round." "quite so. but you didn't want it to be shown all round until you looked into the matter privately along with me," argued carrington, quickly. "true enough. i should like to have seen the document before mallien became aware that it existed. however, as things stand, the will is bound to be found, and mallien is bound to know. we must thresh out the matter openly straightway, and i shall do my best to avoid trouble." "i don't see how you can avoid it, hendle. mallien is not the man to let a chance of getting a fortune go." "i am sure he isn't," retorted the squire positively. "and he is certain to make things as disagreeable for me as possible. but if i surrender the property, should the will prove to be legal, i don't see that he can worry me." "you will lose everything," warned the barrister, significantly. "unfortunately, yes." "including miss mallien." "i suppose so," admitted the squire reluctantly. "even if she remains true to me, as i am sure she will, i can't ask her to marry me on nothing a year." there was silence for a few minutes as the two men walked into the village, and it was carrington who spoke first. "i'm awfully sorry for you, old man." "i'm rather sorry for myself. however, what must be must be, so there's no more to be said. by the way, dorinda told me that leigh had made me his executor. i never knew that he had, until she told me." "leigh took your friendship for granted, it seems. who inherits?" "i don't know. his sole relative is a sea captain, somewhere in australia. i have heard him speak of the young fellow--a cousin of sorts--as the last of the leighs. there isn't much to leave in the way of property." "so you are executor," murmured carrington thoughtfully. "in that case, you will have the handling of the papers, and may be able to get possession of the will before the inspector lays hands on it." "what good will that do?" asked hendle, irritably. "you can suppress the will." "i shouldn't think of doing such a thing." "you'll lose all if the will proves to be genuine," carrington warned him. "then i must lose all." "that's quixotic." "so you said yesterday. but i mean to be honest." and again there was silence, carrington secretly considering his friend an honorable ass. chapter viii mallien speaks anxious to help rupert, and, at his friend's request, carrington remained at the big house until the inquest was over, and the burial of the murdered man took place. both he and the squire could do little save watch the course of events, as neither of them wished to say anything about the missing will, and neither could suggest any reason why the crime should have been committed. and, indeed, the police were equally unable to solve the problem, since the murder, on the face of it, appeared to be purposeless and the assassin could not be discovered. inspector lawson, of tarhaven, did his best to find a clue, but from first to last was unsuccessful. he did not even know where to look for one, and when the inquest was held, had absolutely no evidence to place before the coroner and jury. leigh's murderer had come out of the night and had gone into the night; but why he had come to commit so dastardly a crime, and whither he had gone after achieving his aim, it was wholly impossible to say. the affair was unpleasant, mysterious and uncanny. pursuant to the opinion of dr. tollart, proceedings in connection with the death were hurried on as speedily as possible. the weather was certainly amazingly hot, as for weeks a powerful sun had been blazing in a cloudless blue sky. the gardens glowed with many-colored flowers, but the growing crops were parched for want of rain, and everywhere in the district people were complaining of the shortage of water. under the circumstances, and because nothing relevant to the assassin could be discovered, tollart's advice seemed to be very sensible. therefore the inquest was held at _the hendle arms_ on the day after mrs. jabber had discovered her master's corpse, and on that same afternoon the body was placed in the family vault of the leighs. the trouble had happened so suddenly, the proceedings had been carried through so swiftly, that everything in connection therewith was over and done with before people had time to wholly realize what had taken place. with regard to the inquest, that necessary function was dispatched very quickly. there was little to be done and little to be said, as no new details were forthcoming concerning the dreadful event. the jury inspected the body at the vicarage, and then went on to _the hendle arms_ to hear what could be said about the matter. several reporters from london journals were present, but the interest in the case was more local than general, as there was nothing in it likely to cause a sensation. the general opinion was that some burglar had entered the ill-guarded vicarage, and that the parson had been struck down while trying to capture the thief. but, as nothing was missing from the house, many scouted this idea, and ascribed the death to a deeper cause. but what that cause might be, this minority were unable to say. nor did the evidence procurable tend to lighten the darkness which shrouded the crime. mrs. jabber, more respectably dressed than usual, and even more voluble, gave her evidence with many tears and sighs. the old woman had been deeply attached to the vicar, and could not understand why he should have met with so terrible and unexpected a death. she deposed to going to bed at ten o'clock as usual, after taking into the study a glass of milk for her master. "and there i left him, as happy as a trout in a pond," cried mrs. jabber, with tears running down her face, "busy with his books as usual; he, enjoying them the more after having been to see mrs. patter, as i'm glad to say is getting better, though it's more nor she deserves, her being such a gossip, and----" here the witness was checked by the coroner, on the ground that she was dealing with matters irrelevant to the inquiry. "did mr. leigh expect anyone to visit him on that night?" "lord, bless you, no, sir, and if he did, he wouldn't have mentioned it to me." "you retired at ten o'clock?" "me and jabber, yes, sir, both being tired with the heat and the day's work." "and you saw nothing of mr. leigh until seven the next morning?" "not even the nose of him, sir, and i heard no noise, me being a heavy sleeper as jabber is, although i don't snore, say what he likes." in fact mrs. jabber's statement did nothing to solve the mystery. she admitted that the bolts and bars at the vicarage were not what they should be, considering the lonely position of the house. "but, lord bless you, sir, there ain't never been no trouble with thieves and robbers nohow, as there wasn't anything to tempt them." "then you don't think that a burglar----" "no, i don't, sir. there's nothing missing." mrs. jabber stuck to her tale, and what she said was corroborated by her husband, a meek, trembling little man, wholly dominated by his stronger-minded wife. he had gone to bed at ten o'clock; he had heard nothing during the night likely to arouse his suspicions, and the first news he had of the murder was from his wife, when she stumbled on the dead body at seven in the morning. "and then i went and told kensit all about it," finished mr. jabber with a very white face, evidently afraid lest he should be accused of committing the crime. tollart, who was just as red-faced, but much more sober than usual, stated that he had been called in by the village constable within an hour after the body had been discovered. mr. leigh had been struck on the right temple by some heavy instrument--probably a bludgeon--and the blow, taken in connection with his weak heart, must have caused death instantaneously. the certificate of death was worded to that effect. leigh was a patient of his, and had never been very strong, added to which, his mode of life had weakened him considerably. on the whole, the shabby, disreputable doctor, knowing that the eyes of his little world were on him, gave his evidence very clearly and resolutely, so that he created a good impression. there was no question as to the cause of death after tollart's statement, even though his coupling of heart disease and a blow seemed rather muddled. no one in the village had expected leigh to live to any considerable age, owing to his delicate appearance, so it was quite certain that the violent assault had killed him. it would have been a wonder to many had he survived the blow. for no very apparent reason hendle was called, but all that he could say brought nothing to light. he related how leigh had dined with him, and how he had called at the vicarage next day while on his way to london. so far as the witness knew, leigh was in good health and spirits. "the announcement of his death came as a shock to me," finished rupert. "had he any enemies?" questioned the coroner. "not to my knowledge. a more amiable man never existed." "do you know anything of his past life?" "only that he had been vicar here ever since i was a child, and was devoted to books and to archæology. with the exception of his parishioners, myself and mr. mallien and his daughter, i don't think he ever saw anyone. he was wholly wrapped up in his books." "then there was nothing in his past life which suggests any reason why this crime should have been committed?" "certainly not, so far as i know." inspector lawson and kensit, the village policeman, gave what sparse evidence they could. the latter declared that while on his rounds on the night of the murder he had met no one and had seen nothing suspicious when he passed the gate of the vicarage. at the hour when the crime was said by dr. tollart to have been committed, witness was on the other side of the village. lawson deposed that no weapon had been found, that no evidence of any intruder had been discovered. "i understood that the study was in a state of disorder," said the coroner. "i gather from many sources that the study was always in a state of disorder," retorted the inspector. kensit, recalled, said that he did not think that the study was even more untidy than usual. everything was turned upside down--books and papers, "just as if some one had been searching for something," declared the witness. "then you think that the murderer killed the vicar, and then looked about to find something, which he wished to get, and for the possession of which he committed the crime?" kensit hesitated. "i am not prepared to go that far," he remarked, after a pause. "all i can say is that i gained some such impression." when this speech was made, rupert glanced at carrington and carrington looked at rupert. the same idea struck them simultaneously, that the murderer might have been searching for the will of john hendle. but then the existence of that document was known only to the dead man, to the barrister and to the squire. rupert had been fast asleep when the crime was committed, and carrington had been in london, so, of course, neither of the two could have had anything to do with the matter. still, it seemed strange that the books and papers of the deceased should have been messed up. if search had not been made for the will in question, for what had the mysterious murderer been looking? this question both the young men asked themselves, and asked each other when the inquest was over. it came to an end very speedily. the coroner could only direct the attention of the jury to the facts laid before them, and did not offer any opinion, as indeed he could not. the jury brought in a verdict of "willful murder against some person or persons unknown," which was all that could be done. then the meeting broke up, the reporters slipped away with their loaded notebooks, grumbling at the dullness of the matter, and the crowd of villagers dispersed to wonder, for the hundredth time, who could have killed their amiable and kindly natured vicar. "the beast who murdered leigh could not have been looking for that will." it was hendle who spoke, as he walked back to the big house with carrington. the barrister shrugged his shoulders and replied, "i had the same idea when that policeman made his statement, and i saw you look at me. i agree with you, although it is strange that the books and papers should have been turned upside down. but only you and i know of----" "of course, of course," broke in the squire quickly, "and, as i was in bed, and you in london, of course we had nothing to do with the matter." "did you tell anyone else about the will?" "no. i never mentioned it to a soul." "good. i shouldn't if i were you." carrington's tone was so significant that the squire turned on him in a sharp, inquiring way. "what do you mean?" "i mean that if anyone knew about the existence of john hendle's will, and what it meant to you, it is possible that on you suspicion might rest." "what rubbish!" said rupert uncomfortably. "i was in bed and asleep at the time the crime was committed." "how can you prove that?" rupert looked surprised. "why, i saw that the butler locked up as usual, and he knew that i went to bed earlier than usual." "quite so. but when all the house was asleep, you might have risen from your bed and have gone through the sleeping village to see leigh." "why should i do that?" "i don't say you did," persisted carrington. "i am only suggesting what people would say if the existence of the will were known." "hang it, carrington," fumed the big man, "you don't mean to insinuate that i had anything to do with so cowardly a crime." "no! no! no! i don't insinuate anything of the sort, as i know that you are incapable of such a thing. but other people have nasty, suspicious minds." hendle looked more uncomfortable than ever. "i understand," he murmured, after a pause; "it is just as well to say nothing about the will. i dare say i shall find it among leigh's papers when his lawyer writes to me about my being the executor." "and if you do not?" rupert shrugged his big shoulders. "then there's nothing more to be said or done," he remarked with resignation. "there is this to be said," observed carrington, thoughtfully, "that if the assassin really was looking for the will, and turned over the books and papers to obtain the reward of his crime, the will is sure to turn up sooner or later." "i don't follow you," said hendle, both perturbed and puzzled. "think for a moment. that will is of the greatest value to you, and the man who murdered leigh must have stolen it to--shall we say--blackmail you. when everything has blown over, he will certainly make some attempt to gain the reward he risked his neck for, by taking the will to you or to mallien." "if he comes to me i shall hand him over to the police," said rupert vigorously. "and mallien, in spite of his misanthropic ways, would do the same. i don't see, however, how anyone can have killed leigh for the sake of that will, as no one but you and i knew about it." "true enough. did you tell miss mallien about it?" "no, i told no one. and if i had told dorinda----" "she might have told her father, to whom the will was of importance, seeing that it might possibly place him in possession of four thousand a year." "good lord, carrington, you don't infer that mallien murdered the vicar?" "no, i don't, because i have no grounds to go upon. but if you told miss----" "confound it, man, i didn't. haven't i been saying for the last half hour that i told no one but you. even if i had told dorinda she would never have spoken to her father without my permission. and even if she had done so, her father would never have murdered leigh to get the will, as he would know very well that i am not the sort of man to conceal such a document." "h'm! i'm not so sure of that," said carrington doubtfully. "mallien is not a particularly scrupulous man, from what i have seen of him. he may judge you by himself." "i don't care if he did judge me to be a scoundrel," retorted rupert, "that would not make me one. but aren't we twisting ropes of sand, carrington? i tell you solemnly that i told no one about john hendle's will, save you." "oh, i'm only suggesting what people might say about you and mallien, did the existence of the will become known. after all," added carrington cheerfully, "there may not be any will at all. you have never seen it, and have only the word of a dead man to go upon. it may not exist." rupert shook his head seriously. "i think it does exist, and that i shall probably find it among leigh's papers." "and if you do?" "i shall take it to our family lawyers and call in mallien to talk the matter over." "it's a risk, considering that leigh has been murdered." "i don't see it. even if anyone was crazy enough to suggest that i killed the poor old man, the mere fact of my producing the will would show that i had no reason to murder him. pouf!" ended rupert contemptuously, "it is all froth and foam. don't talk rubbish and make mountains out of molehills." carrington shrugged his shoulders and said no more, since on the face of it he was, as rupert stated, twisting ropes of sand. no more was said on this particular phase of the case, but during luncheon the young men discussed the matter freely. naturally, on what had been set forth in the evidence, they could arrive at no conclusion, and went to the funeral of the vicar as much in the dark as anyone in the great crowd that gathered in the churchyard. mallien was there, but beyond scowling at carrington, for whom he had little love, and nodding curtly to his cousin, he took no notice of the two men. titus ark was there and mumbled every now and then something to the effect that the vicar could not possibly be dead. but no one took notice of so crazy a statement, since the doctor had given the certificate of death. it was known how ark idolized the parson, and how constantly he had been with leigh, therefore everyone thought that it was simply the senile weakness of age on the sexton's part, to disbelieve that his only friend was gone. and, finding that no one heeded his protests and mutterings, titus became stolidly silent, attending to his part of the burial sullenly. so far as ark's duties were concerned, he had little to do, not even having had to dig a grave. the family vault in a quiet corner of the churchyard was duly opened, and the coffin was carried down the damp, worn steps. for a few centuries the leighs had been buried here, as formerly--before the hendles came on the scene--they had been the lords of the manor. now, save the seafaring cousin, who was on the distaff side, the last of the race had been laid to rest. a neighboring clergyman read the service, which was listened to with reverent attention, and when the door of the vault was closed again, the crowd of mourners slowly dispersed. judging from the observations made, it was widely believed that the mystery of the death was hidden away with the dead man in that dreary vault. "i can't see, sir," said inspector lawson to rupert, "how anything is to be discovered. i looked over the poor gentleman's papers, but could find nothing in his past life to suggest that anyone would kill him." "yet, according to kensit, the papers were searched through," hinted hendle, relieved that the officer made no mention of the lost parchment. lawson shrugged his square shoulders. "oh, these young constables always see more than need be seen," he observed slightly, "they are so eager for promotion you see, sir. my opinion is that some tramp on the prowl walked in at that invitingly open gate on the chance of stealing. finding some door or window unbolted--he probably tried them on the chance, as i say--he got into the study and, while tumbling over the contents of the room and with the idea of finding something worth taking, was surprised by mr. leigh. naturally, the tramp's first idea would be to escape, and, being prevented, he naturally would strike down the man who strove to detain him." "you appear to have the case, quite cut and dried," remarked carrington, smiling. "it is all theory, i admit," retorted lawson, rather nettled. "but if you can find a better explanation on what is known, sir, i should be glad to hear it." "oh, i dare say that your theory is as good as any other, inspector. i suppose you will search for more evidence on those lines?" "search? in what direction am i to search?" "oh, don't ask me," replied the barrister lightly. "i am as much in the dark as you are, inspector. still, it will be just as well to order kensit to keep his weather eye open on the chance of something unexpected turning up." "i have told kensit to do so, mr. carrington, but i don't hope for any result." everyone was of much the same opinion as the worthy official, and his theory was finally accepted by all, even by those who had hinted at a deeper reason for the commission of the crime. a stray tramp, moving from one town to another under cover of night, had probably killed the vicar, so as to escape arrest for burglary. and it might be that he did not even mean to murder leigh, but only intended to stun him, so as to get away. the heart disease, as much as the blow, was the cause of death, according to tollart, and the presumed tramp could not have been expected to know that the parson suffered in this way. at all events, the explanation of lawson seemed likely to prove the sole explanation which would be forthcoming. carrington stayed for the night, but his consultations with rupert led to nothing. then he took his departure, on the understanding that if hendle, as leigh's executor, did find the will, or did not find it, he would call down to barship again to give his help. "i don't say that i am rich enough to do so for nothing, hendle," confessed the barrister frankly, "but i'm not greedy, and you can give me what you consider fair." "oh, i don't mind," answered rupert, rather contemptuously, for he thought that carrington might have behaved more as a friend and less as a professional adviser. "you shall name your own price, if the will proves illegal, and i am left in possession of the property. otherwise, you will have to get your fees from the new heir." "mallien. h'm! he is too avaricious a man to pay if he can help. i want to work for you and not for him, hendle. however, i understand the position, and you can depend upon my doing my best to pull you through." "i shall expect that, if i am to retain your services professionally," said the squire rather dryly, and then, mindful of the obligations of hospitality, he drove carrington to the station in his motor to catch the midday express. nevertheless, he was disappointed that his old school chum should bring pounds, shillings and pence into the matter. it imported a sordid element into their friendship, and when rupert reached the big house again, he came to the conclusion that perhaps dorinda was not far wrong in her estimate of the lawyer's character; or mallien either, for mallien also mistrusted the man. and now it appeared that there were grounds for a certain amount of mistrust, as hendle ruefully confessed to himself. in a short time, leigh's lawyer, having seen the report of the murder, inquest and burial in the newspapers, made his appearance and intimated to hendle that he was the dead man's executor. besides his income as a parson, leigh only had a few hundred pounds invested in consols, so it was evident that the sea captain in australia would not benefit overmuch. the solicitor arranged to write to the legatee in australia, and promised to send some one down to value the books with a view to selling them. mrs. jabber remained on at the vicarage along with her husband pending the arrival of the new parson, who was to be appointed immediately by the bishop. rupert, as executor, went to the untidy house, after the solicitor departed for london, to look over all papers belonging to leigh, and to put affairs shipshape. the lawyer had no time to attend to the matter, since the estate was hardly worthy of his professional attention, and when hendle explained that certain documents had to be restored to the muniment room, and that a search for them would be necessary, the attorney allowed him to attend to the matter wholly by himself. thus it came about that rupert found himself three days after the burial digging among the bookish rubbish in the study. of course, his chief aim was to find the will, which leigh had so positively asserted existed. but, although the young man turned over every paper and parchment, hunted through various boxes, and even examined many of the books, on the chance that it might have been slipped into one of them, he was unable to find what he wanted. at the end of three or four hours, and when the afternoon was waning, hendle began to think that the will was a myth. it probably had never existed save in leigh's dreamy imagination. on the other hand, it might have existed, and the assassin might have taken it. but this was too fantastical an idea for hendle to accept for one moment. seeing that only himself and carrington knew about the will, whether it was real or fictitious, it was impossible to believe that the crime had been committed for its sake. by the time five o'clock came, rupert, working, for the sake of coolness, in his shirt sleeves, was hot and dusty and weary. looking for a needle in a bundle of hay did not appeal to him as an amusing task, and he was about to abandon the search for the day, when a quick, firm step was heard, and mallien, looking like a thunder cloud, entered to scowl a greeting. "well?" he asked disagreeably, "have you found john hendle's will?" chapter ix a serious position sitting on the floor in a grimy snowdrift of scattered papers, and surrounded by piles of dingy books, rupert stared at his cousin, scarcely taking in the purport of his words. mallien appeared to be pleased with the expression of genuine bewilderment on the other man's face, but did not improve the occasion by speaking immediately. since the afternoon was oppressively hot, he wore a suit of cool white flannel, which made him seem blacker in his hairy looks than ever. in the heavy yellow sunshine streaming through the dusty room, his many jewels twinkled and shot fire; scarf-pin and studs, sleeve links and rings. near the door, which he had closed, the newcomer leaned, against the many volumes filling the book shelf, with folded arms and crossed legs; an odd, and, as it impressed hendle, a sinister figure. it was the squire who spoke next, as he was not entirely sure if he had heard mallien's astounding question. "what do you say?" he asked, almost mechanically. "you heard me right enough," sneered the other. "john hendle's will?" "ah, i thought so. none so deaf as those who won't hear. well, have you found it, rupert?" "john hendle's will," repeated the squire, greatly taken aback by this sudden display of knowledge on the part of his cousin. "yes! don't pretend that i am talking nonsense; you know better." hendle gradually collected his scattered thoughts, and rose slowly to his feet. then, quite in a mechanical way, he took out pipe and tobacco pouch. "i should like to know who told you," he remarked, filling the bowl. "you shall know--mrs. beatson told me." "and how did she know?" "as women generally know things they are not meant to learn--by eavesdropping. you understand. she listened to the conversation between you and the parson, when he dined at the big house, on the evening before his death." "he did dine with me," admitted hendle seriously. "and he did tell me about the discovery of the will you mention. but why did mrs. beatson listen, since she could not have guessed what he was going to speak about." "it seems to me, rupert, that you are asking questions, whereas it is my right to do so. however, to make things clear, i don't mind in the least answering you. mrs. beatson explained to me, in excuse for her eavesdropping, that you had told her of your approaching marriage with dorinda, and she was afraid lest you should turn her out." "i told her i wouldn't." "oh, did you? then evidently she did not believe you, and hovered round the dining-room and drawing-room, hoping to hear anything you might say to the vicar on the subject. leigh hinted at some mystery he had to impart to you. mrs. beatson heard his remark through the open door of the dining-room and it aroused her curiosity. when you went to the drawing-room, she was outside the window drinking in every word." "hum!" said rupert, lighting his pipe. "i remember that the windows of the drawing-room were open on account of the heat. she stole along the terrace, i presume." "yes, and heard every word," repeated mallien significantly. "in the first instance, you will understand that mrs. beatson only hovered round you and the vicar to hear anything connected with her possible dismissal. but, when she grasped the fact about the will, she became aware that she had overheard a secret, which she could turn to her own advantage. for a time she hesitated whether to let you or me buy her silence. then, thinking that i would get the money, she came and told me all about it." "hum!" said rupert again, and very calmly. "rather treacherous behavior toward me, considering how kind i treated her." "treachery be hanged!" burst out mallien, leaving the wall and throwing himself onto a convenient pile of books, which afforded him a seat. "she wanted to see me righted." "she wanted a price for her secret, i think you said." "well, and why not?" demanded the hairy little timon, in a blustering way. "it is only natural that you should wish to keep the secret, and only natural that mrs. beatson should try and make money out of telling it to me." "i suppose it is, with some natures. so you are going to pay her." "yes! she's done me a good turn. i'll give her an annuity when i come to live at the big house." "you are not there yet," said rupert, dryly. now that he knew the worst he was perfectly calm. and he had every right to be since he had done nothing with which to reproach himself. "i shall be there, when this will comes to light," bullied mallien fiercely. "naturally you wish to hide it----" "there you make a mistake," interrupted the big man leisurely. "as soon as the will is found, i shall take it to our family lawyers, and have it looked into." "oh, yes, you say so now, because you can't keep the secret any longer, thanks to mrs. beatson," retorted mallien coarsely. "i never intended to keep any secret." "then why didn't you tell me as soon as leigh told you?" "because i had not seen the will, and so far as that goes, i have never set eyes on it yet. it may be a myth, and it was useless for me to speak about it until i was sure that such a document was in existence." "it is in existence," insisted mallien uneasily. "we have only the vicar's word for it." "oh, of course you say that." "what else can i say? listen to me, mallien. unpleasant as it is for me to lose my property, i am quite willing to surrender it to you without the intervention of the law, if the will proves to be legal. if it doesn't, of course i shall keep my own." but even this generous and reasonable speech did not appeal to the grasping hearer. "you can do what you like," he replied doggedly; "but if i don't get the property, i shall bring the case before a judge and jury." "there will be no necessity for you to do so, if the will is legal." mallien sneered. "i suppose you'll try and prove that it isn't." "certainly," retorted hendle, angered by this extreme selfishness. "you may be sure that i shall do all i can to protect my own interests. would you not do the same were you in my position?" the other shirked a straightforward reply as a selfish man would. "that is neither here nor there," he snapped, "i want my rights." "you shall have them, if you have any." "from what mrs. beatson told me----" "mrs. beatson knows no more nor no less than i do," interrupted the squire patiently. "she is aware that leigh found--or said that he found--a will made by john hendle one hundred years ago, leaving the property to eunice filbert and her descendants. if such is the case, and you are rightfully entitled to take my place, well"---- rupert shrugged his square shoulders, and completed his sentence by waving his hand vaguely to the four corners of the room. mallien scowled and tried to pick holes. "oh, you can be certain that i shall claim my rights to the last farthing," he growled savagely, and rather annoyed by rupert's reasonable attitude. "naturally. that is only fair. i am not the man, as you well know, to keep what does not honestly belong to me. but," added hendle with emphasis, "the will has yet to be found." "it must be found," declared mallien violently. "that is easier said than done. leigh seemed to have mislaid, or hidden it, very thoroughly. inspector lawson did not come across it, and i can't lay my hands on it nohow. and, remember, even when it is discovered, the legality of it has yet to be proved." "if it is signed and witnessed properly i inherit," shouted mallien, doggedly, and objecting, as such an illogical man would, to the mere shadow of a contradiction. "don't go too fast," said the squire dryly. "there is such a thing as the statute of limitations." "oh, is there? and what deviltry is that?" "a law which, in most cases, operates against the restoration of property devolving under a lost will, found--as this one has been--after so long a period of time." "you talk like a book," sneered mallien, uncomfortably, for here was an obstacle which he did not expect to meet. "and you will take advantage of this infernal statute?" "why not?" demanded rupert, calmly. "would you not do the same under the same circumstances?" "i prefer not to enter into any argument on that point," said mallien loftily. "it seems to be a silly law. and what about not keeping what isn't your own." "if the statute of limitations acts in my favor, the property would be my own," answered the squire coolly. "hair-splitting!" "common sense! and i would not have used such an argument, but for your display of greedy selfishness." "me selfish. how dare you!" mallien fumed and fretted, and made as though he would throw himself on his cousin. hendle held out one hand to keep him off. "none of that, mallien. no violence or it will be the worse for you. if it comes to a physical tussle, it will not be difficult for me to lay you on your back." mallien knew this, so tried verbal bullying. "i order you not to address me in that insolent tone." "don't be a fool, man. and don't talk about insolence until you learn how to behave yourself. everyone far and near considers you a most objectionable person." "indeed!" mallien grew livid. "and you?" "i am of the same opinion," replied rupert, smoking placidly. "if you were not dorinda's father, i should have thrashed you ages ago." "you shall never marry my daughter," gasped the other, panting with rage. "dorinda and i can afford to do without your permission. see here, mallien, don't you think it's time you stopped playing the fool. i said before, and i say again, that if the property is proved to be rightfully yours, as the descendant of eunice filbert, i shall not stand in the way. so the best thing you can do is to behave your silly self and help me to search for the will. we can leave the question of my marriage to dorinda alone just now. until the will is found, or is proved not to exist, you are well aware that no marriage can take place." "and if the will is found, and i am put in possession of the big house, no marriage shall take place," retorted the other, still fuming. "on the other hand, if the will is found and proves to be illegal? what then will be your attitude?" "even then i shall refuse to----" "not you," broke in rupert with a broad smile. "you are too anxious to buy that blue sapphire you were talking about. if you want the five hundred a year that my marriage with dorinda will put into your pocket, you will have to put your pride in the same receptacle." "we'll see about that!" snarled mallien vindictively, but in a more subdued tone, for he did not wish to cross the rubicon too soon. "the will has yet to be proved illegal." "the will has yet to be found," answered the squire, thinking how difficult it was to hammer an idea into the man's obstinate head. "ah!" mallien's tone was significant. "i am quite sure that it never will be found." rupert opened his big blue eyes in genuine surprise. "you seem to have changed your opinion," he remarked, after a pause. "just now you made sure it would be found." "bah!" mallien's pent-up rage burst forth anew. "do you think that i can't see through your pretended search?" "pretended search." hendle rose slowly and towered above the stout little man like a giant. "explain what you mean." "it's easy to see," snapped the other, sulkily. "lawson could not find the will among the papers of leigh and you will not find it. and why? because it is already in your possession, and has been destroyed for all i know." "still, i don't understand," said rupert, and his eyes grew hard as he began to have an inkling of mallien's meaning. "leigh did not give the will to me before he died." "i dare say not. he had his own fish to fry, and would only have given it to you on getting your promise to finance his silly yucatan expedition. you took the will from his dead body." hendle's temper, long held in check, blazed up. he took two steps toward the gad-fly which so irritated him, caught mallien by the throat and flung him right across the room. "you liar," he said, in a dangerously quiet tone. "it's true! it's true!" gasped his cousin, struggling into a sitting position amid a pile of tumbled books. "do you want your neck twisted?" "i dare you to do it," shrieked mallien hysterically. "you daren't add one murder to another." rupert sat down suddenly, afraid lest his wrath should carry him too far, and reined in his feelings with a powerful effort. "i think you are a fool, and should be answered according to your folly," he said, with suppressed anger. "what makes you think that i did such a thing?" his cousin gathered himself together and smoothed his ruffled plumes. but he still remained among the pile of books his fall had scattered, as he did not wish to come within arm's length of hendle. there he sat and grinned like an ugly little gnome. "anyone can guess your game," he sneered, venomously. "leigh told you about the will and said it was here, but--i am quite sure of this--he refused to give it to you, unless you agreed to finance his yucatan expedition. of course you refused, and then came here in the dead of night to murder him and get the will. bah! i can see through your pretence of searching for what is already found." "you read my character according to your own base thoughts," said rupert, now quite self-possessed; "and what you say is wholly untrue. leigh told me about the will, as mrs. beatson informed you, and she can bear witness that the vicar declared that he had mislaid the document. i called to see him the next morning, but he was away--as mrs. jabber can testify--seeing mrs. patter, who was reported to be dying. i then went to town to consult carrington----" "oh, you have brought that beast into it," sneered mallien vindictively. "i consulted him as to what was best to be done, and he advised me not to see the vicar until the next day, and then in his company. carrington, as you well know, came down by the midday train, for the purpose of seeing leigh along with me. but by that time leigh was dead." "quite so. and you killed him." the accusation was so absurd that rupert merely shrugged his shoulders, and wondered why he had lost his temper with this gad-fly even for a moment. "i think you will find it difficult to prove that," he observed, suavely. "i did not see leigh on the night he was murdered; i did not even call at the vicarage, thanks to carrington's advice. my servants can prove, if you like to question them, that i locked up and retired to bed at ten o'clock." "oh, i dare say you did," scoffed mallien; "but, remember, that leigh was killed--if dr. tollart is to be believed--at eleven. it was easy for you to slip out of the big house and come along to----" "i did not." rupert started to his feet again, but maintained his calmness. "how can you prove that you did not?" "how can you prove that i did?" counterquestioned the squire. mallien rose and brushed the dust from his flannels. "i shall leave lawson to find the proof," he cried, triumphantly. "oh, yes. once lawson knows that the will, which would rob you of your property, exists, it will be easy for him to assign a cause why leigh should have been murdered. remember, the papers were all tumbled about, as kensit can witness. the burglary business is all rubbish. it was to get the will that leigh was murdered, and you are the culprit." hendle did not reply for a moment, for so skillfully had the venomous little man built up the case, that he was quite taken aback. then he remembered how carrington had warned him that, if the business of the missing will was known, it was possible some such accusation might be brought. thanks to mrs. beatson's treachery, mallien had been placed in possession of dangerous facts, and mallien, sooner than forego the chance of acquiring the hendle property, was quite prepared to have his cousin handed over to the police. not only was a strong motive for the murder provided, but rupert knew that he would have the greatest difficulty in proving an alibi. after ten o'clock, all his own servants and the inhabitants of barship were in bed, so it was perfectly feasible, on the face of it, that to protect his own interests he might have stolen through the village to commit the crime. of course, he knew very well that he had not; that any idea of securing the will in this way had never entered his head. nevertheless, the position was both uncomfortable and dangerous, and, for the moment, he did not know what to say. mallien noted his cousin's silence, and concluded that guilt prevented his speech. "you can't deny what i say," he cried viciously. "i am too much taken aback by your audacity to reply, or to deny," retorted the young man, drawing a deep breath. "knowing me as you do, can you think me guilty of so cowardly a crime, as to strike down an old man?" "i think you capable of acting anyhow to retain your own property," answered mallien cynically. "you judge me by yourself. you might act so, but i should not. however, it is useless to prolong this talk. i now know that you are an envious and disappointed man, and to get my money you are willing to go to the length of getting me hanged." "you shouldn't murder people, you know," taunted mallien, believing that he was now top dog and could have everything his own way. rupert passed over the accusation. "i suppose," he remarked, laying a trap for his foe, "that if i hand you over the property, will or no will, you won't say anything to the police?" mallien's dark eyes gleamed with greed and triumph, as he had not expected to gain so sudden a victory. hendle had evidently surrendered without firing a shot. "yes," he said eagerly. "after all, i don't want to wash dirty family linen in public, and it would be unpleasant for me and for dorinda to see you in the dock. after all, also, the will leaves everything to me, as the descendant of eunice filbert." "the will has yet to be found; it has yet to be proved legal," said rupert calmly, "and we are not even certain if this presumed will is not a figment of leigh's brain." "leigh could not have invented such a story," said mallien doggedly. "and whether he did or not matters little. the property is mine----" "that has yet to be proved," interpolated hendle quietly. "if you don't climb down, it will be proved at the expense of your arrest for the murder," threatened mallien. "i see." rupert's lip curled with contempt. "and if i give you all i have, you will condone a felony?" "i don't care what beastly terms you use," snapped mallien uneasily. "you know that it is in my power to have you arrested." "and in mrs. beatson's also." "oh, i'll make it worth her while to keep quiet." "i wonder how dorinda ever came to have so dishonorable a man for her father," commented rupert reflectively. "i always knew you to be a bully and an avaricious animal, but i did expect some decency." "take care," raged mallien, growing livid again. "i shall tell the police what i know, if you insult me further." "it is impossible to insult you. a man who had agreed to hush up what he supposes to be a crime cannot be insulted. he is beyond the pale of decency. i presume, mallien, that it never occurred to you that if i were weak enough to agree to your blackmailing, that you could be arrested later as an accessory after the fact, always supposing that i am guilty, which i am not." "oh, for your own sake you'll hold your tongue," said the other confidently, "and mrs. beatson can be squared. i don't think she'll connect the murder and the will, anyhow, as i have done." "i see. she is not quite so clever as you are. well, then, if i hand over the property to you straightway, and not bother about finding the will----" "which you have already got and destroyed." "i see. we'll let it go at that. i am guilty, and you will condone my guilt on condition that you get my money?" "yes," said mallien impudently. "and you will take the risk of being proved an accessory after the fact?" "yes! because i know that you'll hold your tongue for your own sake." "of course, you will keep mrs. beatson quiet?" "certainly. she won't say a word if i give her an annuity; and she is not likely to connect the will and the murder, as i remarked before. well?" "well?" echoed rupert ironically. "i'm not taking any, thank you." mallien's face fell when he found that, in the moment of his fancied triumph, victory was suddenly snatched from his grasp. "you refuse?" "i do. go to inspector lawson and bring your accusation. i am quite ready to meet it." "you'll be arrested," threatened mallien. "i am quite willing to be arrested. that's better than being in the power of a blackmailer." "you are mad; you are quite mad." "you would like me to be, but, as it happens, i am perfectly sane. meanwhile, until you have me locked up, help me to search for the will." mallien could not understand his cousin's attitude. he had insulted him; he had brought a vile accusation against him; yet rupert coolly refused his greedy terms, and evidently did not mind being in his company. knowing how he would have cringed and agreed to anything under similar circumstances, mallien at once sought refuge in a taunt. "i thought you were a man?" "obnoxious animals such as you are cannot judge what is a man and what isn't, my friend," retorted rupert, putting on his coat. "will you walk along with me toward the big house and discuss the matter further?" "no, hang you, i won't." "as you please. and your denunciation of me to the police?" mallien hesitated. "i'll give you a week to think things over." "thank you," said hendle gravely, and, the treaty having been made, the conversation ended with victory for the squire--a victory won by sheer honesty. chapter x dorinda here was a pretty kettle of fish. hitherto, rupert had led an easy life, wholly devoid of any great trouble. his mother having died when he was born, and his father while the lad was at school, hendle had never been brought face to face with any heartbreaking sorrow. but, with the advent of carrington, as a species of stormy petrel, had come one woe after another. in a remarkably short space of time, rupert found himself in danger of losing his property, his position, his promised wife, and even his good name, if not his liberty and life. should the will be found, and should it prove to be legal, mallien, without the least compunction, would ascend the local throne as the new squire of barship, with an income of four thousand a year. and, in that event, there would be every chance that the marriage with dorinda would never take place. her father, having all he wanted, would never agree to the match, and, even if the girl remained true--as he knew very well she would--how could he ask her to marry one reduced to the position of a pauper? these things alone were sufficient to drive an ordinary man crazy; but the possibility of being arrested for a crime he had not committed, made hendle feel that the burden was too great to be borne. he returned to the big house with his mind in a turmoil, and his head aching with anxious thought. aware that mrs. beatson had acted treacherously, rupert's first idea was to call her in and dismiss her straightway with a month's wages. but, on second thoughts, he decided to do nothing until he had consulted with carrington. certainly, the barrister, by refusing to help as a friend, had shown himself almost as greedy of gain as mallien; but hendle decided that the prospect of a fat fee would make the man more alert to earn it. carrington, when all was said and done, had a shrewd brain and a great deal of experience connected with the seamy side of life, so he was just the man to handle the problems fate had so unexpectedly given rupert to solve. mallien did not like carrington, and if mallien secured the property, carrington would not even get his costs for taking up the case. therefore, both as a professional man and as hendle's friend, the barrister had every reason to work on the side of the squire. what he would advise in the matter of mrs. beatson and her eavesdropping rupert did not know; but he thought it would be just as well to see what he said. with this idea the squire made no difference toward his treacherous housekeeper, and concealed his feelings so well that mrs. beatson had no idea that her batteries had been unmasked. all the same hendle saw as little of her as possible, and, beyond giving her necessary orders, did not speak to her. it must be noted that mallien's estimate of mrs. beatson's brain was a perfectly correct one. she did not in any way connect the conversation about the missing will with the death of the vicar. all she knew was that mr. leigh had found an ancient testament which would probably transfer the property to mallien, as the descendant of john hendle's granddaughter; and, for this reason, she worshipped the rising sun. had she guessed that there was any doubt about the legality of the will, or any danger of its not being found, she would have held her tongue until such time as she saw on what side it was best to range herself. but, in the conversation she had overheard, leigh had seemed so certain that rupert would lose the property and as certain that his cousin would get it, that mrs. beatson had lost no time in reporting the position. mallien's conduct had justified her action, for he had promised her an annuity whenever he came into his own. and, to gain a certain income, the housekeeper was quite willing to see her kind-hearted young master driven as a pauper from his house. some natures are so strangely constituted that they resent kindness, and the more benefactions they receive, the more do they hate the person who bestows them. mrs. beatson was a woman of this class, and all hendle's consideration for many years had only increased the dislike she had felt when she first set eyes on him. moreover, she detested dorinda for her beauty and sweetness, and for the certain happiness which the marriage with rupert would surely give her. mrs. beatson knew enough of the girl's unsophisticated nature to be sure that no amount of money would make up to her for the loss of her promised husband. she did not like dorinda getting a fortune through her father, but that could not be helped, and, after all, the breaking of the engagement would assuredly prevent the girl from enjoying the same. therefore, the good lady smiled comfortably to herself as she went about her duties, and rejoiced to think, as she put it, in quite a biblical way, that the pride of the young couple would soon be brought low. she might not have rejoiced so prematurely had she guessed the contents of the after-dinner letter which her master wrote. but she did not and gloried in her fool's paradise. dorinda would be made miserable; hendle would be made a pauper; and she, who had brought about these things, would retire on an annuity of two hundred a year for her services, as she thought that mallien could not possibly give her less. meanwhile, after a meal to which he gave little attention, hendle retired to the snug little library of the big house and sat down to his desk. after a few moments of reflection, he wrote a long and exhaustive letter to carrington, setting forth what had taken place in the study of the late vicar. he pointed out that what the barrister had conjectured had actually come to pass, for mallien, in possession of the secret, now deliberately accused him of the crime. rupert added that he had been given a week to think over things, and then asked whether it would not be well to dismiss mrs. beatson at once, lest she should act in a further treacherous manner. finally, the young man ended with inviting carrington to come down and stay at the big house until everything was put straight, hinting that any fee carrington liked to demand would be given to him for his services. in a postscript, rupert significantly added that if mallien got the property, carrington would either receive less remuneration, or none at all. therefore, and this was the end of the letter--it remained for carrington to say whether he would give his services on these doubtful terms. having placed the position before the barrister thus fairly and squarely, hendle slipped the epistle into an envelope, addressed and sealed it, and sent a special messenger to post it in the village. afterward, as there was no more to be done, he lighted his pipe, and, sitting in one chair with his feet on another, he began to read the morning paper, which he had not yet glanced at, so deeply had he been involved in the direction of his own affairs. but the young man's brain declined to interest itself in public doings and, before he knew where he was, rupert found himself thinking of what had happened in connection with dorinda. laying the newspaper on his knee, and placing his hands behind his head, he leaned back to think what was best to be done. he sorely needed a sympathetic soul to converse with, and there was no one so fitted to help him as dorinda. carrington's request for a fee had placed him in the position of a business man rather than in that of a friend, so there was nothing to be gained in that quarter. but dorinda always understood and always gave good advice, and always soothed his feelings. hendle longed for her looks, and touch and words so much, that he very nearly decided to cross the park and visit the cottage. but two considerations caused him to alter his mind, one was that mallien, now openly hostile, would be present at the interview; the other was, that he could not speak straightly to the girl, seeing that her father had so much to do with the matter. dorinda knew that her parent was what is known as a hard case, and had not much respect or affection for him, since he did not deserve the first, nor demand the last. all the same, it was impossible, as hendle felt, for him to tell the girl frankly that her father was little more than a blackmailer. with such a delicate perception of what was right and just as rupert possessed, such a course of action was not to be thought of, so he subsided again into his chair, whence he had risen, and determined to carry his heavy burden all by himself. and, considering that the young man had no experience of burdens, he carried it well and bravely. then fate, who had interfered so much in his affairs that matters had been brought to this pass, interfered again with a kinder motive. just as rupert was wondering how he was to get through the long night without receiving human sympathy, there was a tapping at the right-hand window of the room, which brought him to his feet. in the stillness of the library, the sound was so unexpected and imperative that even hendle's steady nerves were unstrung for the moment. with an effort he pulled himself together, and went to the window to lift it and see who had made the signal. through the glass he saw dorinda standing on the terrace in the luminous summer night, and she nodded smilingly to him when he lifted the sash. "why didn't you go to the door?" asked rupert, leaning out, and more astonished by her unexpected appearance than he would admit. "i don't want that prying mrs. beatson to see me," replied miss mallien, advancing toward the window, the sill of which was so low that she could very easily step over it. "i don't want her to know that i am here. help me in, rupert. no!" she suddenly stepped back. "better come out and join me in the garden. i have much to say to you, and i don't want to risk mrs. beatson listening at the door." "you never did like her," said hendle, vaulting through the open window onto the terrace. "but why do you suspect her of eavesdropping?" "my father has told me what she told him," rejoined the girl calmly. "it is for that reason that i have come over." rupert took her arm, and they descended the shallow steps to the second terrace, and then gained the lawn, which was dry and warm to the feet. for a few minutes the squire said nothing, but guided her down a narrow path, which wound deviously to a kind of glade, wherein stood an ancient sundial. near this and against a dense shrubbery stood a low marble seat on which he placed the girl. then he sat down beside her and, still remaining silent, strove to collect his scattered thoughts. dorinda did not hurry him into speech by making any further observation. she had said all that was necessary, and the next remark must be made by her lover. so the two sat quietly under the calm beauty of the stars, breathing the cool fragrance of the night, and the myriad odors of the dreaming flowers. there was no moon, yet the light of the dying day, which still lingered, revealed the garden in a kind of warm twilight. it was such an evening as would have inspired romeo to venture into the magical garden of juliet; and love-talk was the only language fitted for such an hour and scene. yet the stern necessities of the hour demanded that this bachelor and maid should talk on more prosaic matters. a sad waste of time and opportunity, to be sure, as both regretfully thought; but there was no help for it, if future peace was to be insured. only by the two solving the problems which fate had set, could happiness come. "i am sorry that your father told you," said rupert at last. "why?" dorinda turned her thoughtful face toward him, and saw his white shirt-front glimmer in the half-light. "because i did not intend to tell you myself." "why?" she asked again, and very calmly--even wonderingly. "is there any need to worry you?" fenced the young man evasively. "if you are worried, as you are, it is only fair that i should be worried also, which i am. we are not yet married, dear; all the same, we are as perfectly of one mind as any two people can be. and, if i am to be your wife, i must naturally share your burdens; it is easier for two to bear them than one. you understand?" hendle took her hand, which lay lightly on her lap, and pressed it in token of thanks. "i understand that you are a staunch and true woman," he said, in a soft voice, "how you came to have such a father----?" "oh, don't let us speak of him," interrupted dorinda impatiently. "my dear, we must speak of him, as he is part and parcel of the affairs which we must discuss. yet, had he not spoken to you, i should have held my peace, although i was sorely tempted to come to you for sympathy no later than a few minutes before you tapped at the window." "i knew, from what my father said, that you were in trouble, rupert, and i felt that you needed me. for that reason i flung a cloak over my dinner-dress and came on here. mrs. beatson would be very shocked if she knew that i was sitting alone with you in the garden in this hour." "mrs. beatson is the kind of woman who would be shocked, however innocent the thing that startled her might be. so your father told you of our interview in leigh's study?" "yes. that is, he told me about the missing will, and how mrs. beatson overheard what poor mr. leigh had to say on the matter." "what else did he tell you?" asked hendle anxiously. "my dear," dorinda's eyes opened widely, "what else was there to tell?" "hum!" murmured the squire doubtfully. "your father let out just as much as suited him. let us talk of what he did tell you to begin with; afterward, we can talk of what he did not tell you. yet"--rupert tugged at his moustache nervously--"i am not quite sure if i should speak frankly." "i am," retorted dorinda, giving his hand a squeeze, "if i am to help you, i must know everything." "i don't feel quite certain if that is playing the game." "is my father playing the game?" questioned the girl, with a shrug. "no," answered rupert decidedly, "he isn't. and it is that which makes it so hard for me to be frank. after all, your father is your father, dear, and i have no right to say anything which will lower him in your esteem." dorinda laughed rather sadly. "dear, i have no illusions left about my father," she said, in a low tone, "he has never been a father to me, as you know very well. i have tried my best to respect and love him, but his actions and life are such that i can do neither. be as open with me as you can, rupert, for you know that my father will not spare either of us where his own feelings are at stake. therefore, it only seems fair to me that we should not spare him, more than is necessary, on account of my unfortunate relationship to him." "do you really think so, dorinda?" "yes, i do. if my father deserved filial affection, he should have it. but, as he has made no attempt to secure it, how can i give it to him? and remember, you are to be my husband and your interests are mine, even though my father's selfish desires intervene. you have the greatest claim on me." rupert heaved a sigh of relief. "i am so glad to hear you say that," he remarked thankfully, "for i badly need some one who can help me and sympathize with me. i thought carrington would prove to be a pal, but, like everyone else, he is eaten up with greed for money." "what makes you say that?" "he said that he would only help me on condition that i paid him." "ah-r-r-r," said dorinda, much disgusted. "i told you that i did not like him, rupert. he is a bad man." "oh, not so bad as that, dear. a little greedy perhaps, but not wholly bad." "he is a bad man," repeated dorinda, obstinately. "as my father said, long ago, all he wants is to get money out of you." "as your father does," said rupert dryly. dorinda looked down at her white shoes and placed them both together before she answered. "i have told you my opinion of my father," she said with a sigh, "so what is the use of going over old ground. but time is passing, rupert, and there is much to say. i wish to go home soon, lest my father should find out that i have come here. i left him busy in his study with his jewels, so we are safe for half an hour, at least. come now, what took place in the vicarage library?" "what did your father tell you?" "he said that mrs. beatson told him about the will found by mr. leigh, and how mr. leigh had mislaid it. the will, he declared, left the hendle property to him entirely." "i have not yet seen the will," answered rupert, cautiously, "and, beyond leigh's word, i don't even know that it exists. but he maintained that it did, as he came across it in the muniment room, and took it to the vicarage to look into. then he lost it, or mislaid it somehow. as i have access to his papers, as executor, i am trying to find it." "does it leave the property to my father?" "not directly, i understand," admitted rupert, quietly, "but leigh explained that john hendle, from whom we are both descended, dear, hated his younger son frederick, who inherited, and loved his son walter, who was killed at the battle of waterloo. in the year when that battle was fought, he made this will, leaving the hendle property to walter's daughter, and cutting off frederick, who represented the younger branch." "eunice hendle was the daughter, my father said." "yes. she afterward became eunice filbert, as she married a man of that name," explained rupert laboriously. "her daughter, anne filbert, married frank mallien, your father's parent, so, if the will proves to be legal, your father will certainly get the property through his descent on the distaff side." "and you?" asked dorinda, apprehensively. rupert rested his elbows on his knees, linked his hands loosely together, and looked down at the shadowy turf of the lawn. "i shall lose everything," he stated calmly. "i descend in the male line from frederick through henry hendle and charles hendle. and, as frederick was cut off by his father in favor of walter's child, eunice, i am an interloper and a fraud. if this will is found, and can be proved to be legal, dorinda, i shall not have a penny. as things stand, your father is better off with his five hundred a year than i shall be. it is a very unpleasant position, as it stops our marriage." "oh, does it?" cried dorinda, flaming up, "in what way?" "well, in the first place, your father would never agree to your marrying a pauper, and in the second the pauper could scarcely ask you to share his nothing a year." "darling,"--dorinda drew closer to her lover and laid her cheek against his--"i will marry no one but you. i don't care what my father says." "it is not of your father that i am thinking of, but of my honor," rejoined rupert, slipping his arm round her waist and holding her tightly to him. "if we got married, how could i support you? i have no trade, and no profession, so the only thing that i could do to keep body and soul together is to enlist. i might emigrate certainly, but then your life as my wife would be as hard and impossible in the backwoods as it would be if you followed the drum along with me." dorinda sighed. "you take a very prosaic view of the position." "in justice to you i must take a prosaic view. romance is all very well, but without money romance means trouble and sordid cares." "yes," sighed the girl again; then added, after a pause. "and if the will is not found?" "i shall keep my own," answered rupert firmly. "it's no use my being a silly fool, and giving up what isn't proved not to be mine. but i am looking for the will, dorinda, and if it comes to light, i shall hand it over to the family lawyers to be adjusted. and, of course, you may be certain that i shall take advantage of everything likely to prevent my losing the big house and the income." "that is quite right," said dorinda, in a tone of satisfaction, patting her lover's hand consolingly. "i daresay my father will fight, but if you have right on your side, you will be sure to win. money would do my father no good, as he would only waste it in collecting jewels, whereas you make good use of your income. after all the will may not exist. mr. leigh may have dreamed that there was such a document." "he seemed to be very positive that it did exist, dear," said rupert, with a shrug, "and, although leigh was a bit of a dreamer, i don't think he would have or could have made up such a fairy tale as this. for my part, i believe that there _is_ such a testament, and that it will come to light sooner or later. i shall make use of the statute of limitations, and of any flaw in the will to keep the property, but if everything is legal and shipshape, i shall hand over what i have to your father. as an honest man i can do no less." "it's very hard on you, dear." "it is," admitted rupert quietly; "but i may have to bear harder things." dorinda stared. "i don't see anything harder to bear." "the loss of liberty and, perhaps, of life----" "rupert, what are you talking about?" "ah!" rupert rose and stretched himself. "your father did not tell you all that we spoke about in the vicarage study. you don't know what he proposes to do, dorinda, and i don't know if i ought to tell you." "you must! you must!" she sprang up and laid her two hands on his shoulders with a grasp of which he did not think she was capable. "i share all your troubles--all your sorrows, all--all." hendle caught her hands, and holding them to his heart looked into her eyes dimly seen in the light. "your father declares that i murdered leigh to get the will," he said quietly; "don't scream." "i am not going to scream," replied dorinda, looking aside and speaking rather rapidly. "what on earth makes my father say such a ridiculous thing? on the face of it, such an accusation is absurd." "your father doesn't seem to think so, dear. and if inspector lawson learned what was at stake with regard to this will, he would not think so either. remember that i had every reason to steal it, even at the cost of a life." "what rubbish," declared the girl, vehemently. "you would never, never, never----" "no," said rupert positively, and his heart leaped when she defended him. "i would never save my property at the cost of a crime, however small or however necessary. you know, dorinda, that i would let everything go rather than lose my honor and my good name. your father thinks otherwise, so he is determined to get my money and my position, and my good name into the bargain." "i can't believe it, i can't! i can't!" gasped the girl, overwhelmed. "my father may be selfish, but he wouldn't surely----" "but he has. he accuses me of committing the crime, and has given me one week to think over the matter. if i come to his terms, he will shut up mrs. beatson's possible chatter and will hold his own tongue." "did he offer you safety on those terms?" "he did, and i refused them." dorinda flung her arms round his neck and her lips sought his. "i knew you would; i knew you would. oh! don't say anything more, rupert. i am glad you told me, as i now know where i stand--where you stand. we have a week to think over things, and in that week much may happen. god will never permit such an injustice. cheer up, dearest"--she kissed him again--"it will all come out right; it will all come out right." "i hope so," said rupert, doubtfully, and adjusting the cloak on her shoulders. "but what will you say to your father?" "i don't know, i can't say, i must think. meanwhile, see me home, rupert." thus abruptly she ended the interview, and the squire escorted her to within sight of the cottage. but he did not enter. chapter xi carrington's advice the details given by rupert of the conversation which had taken place in the vicarage study shocked dorinda profoundly. it was natural enough that her father, informed of an existing will which would give him an estate, should try and gain possession of it, so as to secure what he believed to be his rights. dorinda did not blame him for taking up so reasonable a position; but she was horrified to think that he should accuse an innocent man of committing the crime. it was wholly impossible that mallien could believe rupert to be guilty. he had known the squire intimately for twenty-five and more years, therefore he was well aware how strictly honorable rupert was in every way. moreover, hendle had always treated his cousin with consistent kindness, having again and again given him sums of money, large and small, which had never been repaid. even if rupert were guilty, it was cowardly of mallien to threaten; but, seeing that rupert was innocent--and dorinda was well assured in her own mind that her father knew him to be so--the attack was cowardly in the extreme. if the girl had little affection for her father before, she had still less for him now. what troubled her throughout the night was the question of speaking, or of not speaking, frankly to her father. he had withheld from her the more serious portion of his interview with rupert, and dorinda was strongly inclined, not only to intimate that she knew about the accusation, but to tell her father how strongly she disapproved of his conduct. more than this, she wished to state that she was on the side of her lover. dorinda was straightforward herself; and greatly desired that mallien should be straightforward also. to bring such rectitude into being, plain speaking was necessary. yet the girl hesitated to broach the subject, knowing only too well her father's temper, his tricky nature and his unscrupulous greed. but at breakfast, her hesitation to make trouble was ended by mallien himself, as he began to speak furiously the moment she laid her hand on the coffee-pot. "this is a nice thing, dorinda," he raged, without returning her morning greeting. "you went out last night and did not return until after nine; in fact, it was nearer ten. don't deny it. you slipped out when i was busy in my study, but i came to ask you something and found you had gone out. what do you mean by such conduct?" dorinda lifted her eyebrows. "i am not aware that there is anything strange about my conduct. i have been out late before. i am quite capable of looking after myself, i assure you, father." "i don't think so," retorted mallien, bristling with anger; "and i don't like such underhand conduct." "i never behave in an underhand way," returned dorinda, her color rising and her eyes flashing. "you know that quite well." "you slipped out last night and slipped in, without telling me." "there was no need to tell you." "there was. don't contradict me. if your conduct was not underhand, why did you not come and say good-night to me in my study as usual?" "because i could not," said dorinda coldly, and looking straight at her angry parent. "what rupert told me about you disgusted me too much." "rupert!" mallien rose and pushed back his chair noisily. "you went to see that--that--that scoundrel?" dorinda rose in her turn. "he is not a scoundrel." "he is, i tell you, and i forbid you to see him again." "as i am engaged to my cousin, i shall see him when and where i please," said the girl deliberately. "don't try me too far, father, or you will be sorry for it. i am not in the best of tempers this morning." "you--you--minx!" gasped the angry man, choking with rage. "how dare you address me in that way?" "and how dare you accuse rupert of murdering mr. leigh," she retorted boldly. mallien's wrath suddenly died away, and he dropped back into his chair with an uneasy look. "who says that i accuse----" "rupert himself told me. i saw him last night, to hear what he had to say about this missing will, and he told me what you did not tell me." "he's a mean hound to put my daughter against me!" shouted mallien. "please"--dorinda flung up her hand--"i am not deaf. rupert did not wish to tell me. i made him speak out, as i saw that he was hiding something. if you were as honorable and scrupulous as rupert, father, you would not need to get into these rages with me, as i don't deserve them. and it's no use your behaving in this way. i can hold my own, as you well know, and i intend to do so. we may as well understand one another." "i am your father; you owe me respect." "how can i give you what you don't deserve? you _are_ my father, and god help me that i should have such a one." "if you talk to me in this way," snarled mallien, blustering, "i shall turn you out of doors neck and crop. what will you do then?" "marry rupert," rejoined the girl promptly. "a ruined man," sneered the other. "he is not ruined yet; he never may be ruined. that will has yet to be found; it has yet to be proved legal, and you may be sure that rupert will take all the advantage he can, to keep what he has." "i see. you are fighting against your father." "i fight on the side of right. if the property is yours, rupert is willing to hand it over; if it is his, he has every right to keep it. but you have no right," cried dorinda, striking the table passionately, "to accuse an innocent man of committing such a cowardly crime." "you are talking nonsense," said mallien, doggedly and folded his arms. "he is guilty." "he is not. no one knows that better than you." mallien cringed at that last sentence, and his dark face grew strangely pale as he avoided his daughter's steady blue eyes. "i don't know why you should say that," he muttered. "what else can i say when you have known rupert for so many years?" was the passionate reply. "has he ever behaved otherwise than honorably? is he the man, father, to kill a weakling like poor mr. leigh, for money which he cares very little about? you know better." mallien recovered his self-possession during his daughter's speech and shook his shoulders as he laughed harshly. "i know that the will stands between rupert and absolute poverty," he retorted obstinately; "and if a man has to make a choice----" "a man like rupert would chose poverty rather than crime," interrupted dorinda imperiously. "what reason have you to believe that rupert would do such a wicked thing?" "my knowledge of human nature----" "oh, is that all?" there was an expression of relief in dorinda's voice as she interrupted him again. "so your evidence is purely circumstantial?" "yes!" admitted mallien sullenly, and feeling that dorinda was too strong for him to deal with. "all the same, a very powerful case can be built up against the fellow. the will has disappeared in the nick of time, and rupert had every reason to make it disappear." "you seem to forget that no one but mr. leigh has seen the will," said dorinda crisply; "it may not exist." "it does exist," stormed mallien violently, "and it leaves the property to me as the descendant of eunice filbert." "that is what mr. leigh said, but he may have imagined the whole thing. he was always a dreamer, you know. anyhow, father, i don't see much use in your threatening rupert with shadows." "i don't think that inspector lawson will think that they are shadows," said mallien significantly. "don't you?" replied dorinda, with a lightness which she was far from feeling. "well, then, i do. before the police can arrest rupert, they must first prove that the document, for the sake of which the crime is supposed to have been committed, is in existence. then they will have to prove that rupert was at the vicarage on the night, and at the time when mr. leigh was struck down. i don't think it will be easy to do what you say." "i have no wish for rupert to be arrested," said mallien restlessly. "all he has to do is to give up the property and i'll hold my tongue." "there is nothing for you to hold your tongue about," said dorinda sharply, "as what you say is purely theoretical. as to the property, you certainly shall not have it unless the will is found and the property is proved to be yours. i am on rupert's side, remember, and i shall do my best to make him hold on to his own." "you go against your father?" "oh!" she cried impatiently, "you said that before, and i answered you. yes, i do go against my father, and i have every reason to. i am not going to countenance a robbery which would give you money you are better without." "better without?" demanded mallien indignantly. "what do you mean?" "what i say," said dorinda tartly. "rupert makes good use of his fortune in helping the poor, and in keeping up the church. you would only waste it in buying jewels for your own satisfaction." "i won't be spoken to like this." "it is your own fault that i am so frank. if what i say doesn't please you, i can easily go to london to see my old schoolmistress and ask her to get me a position as a nursery governess." "you wouldn't do that?" "yes, i would, and you know that i would. i should like to respect you and to love you, father, but i cannot. your last action, in threatening to denounce an innocent man, widens the gulf between us. if you dare to go to inspector lawson, i shall go out as a governess until such time as rupert is ready to marry me. now you know exactly what i mean." mallien did know, and was well aware that she would act precisely as she declared she would. it was no use to storm and bluster and try to reduce her to tears, as dorinda was not a tearful woman. she knew how to hold her own and intended to hold it. mallien, having tried rage, was reduced to attempting pathos, which he did very badly. "my own daughter! my own daughter!" he murmured sadly. "it's heartbreaking." "it's pretty uncomfortable, i grant you," answered dorinda, with a queer smile, "for me as for you. but as you have made the position entirely yourself, i don't see what you have to complain of. but now that we understand one another, let us call a truce." "very good. i will overlook your unfilial behavior and try to forget this conversation. all the same," cried mallien, blazing up again, "i intend to get my rights." "certainly. and if the will is found, you shall have them." this was cold comfort to mallien, who doubted if the will ever would be found. leigh might have made a mistake, and there might be no will in existence, in which case, by making an enemy of rupert, he would be worse off than he was at present. he thought that until the truth came to light, it would be just as well to temporize, and let things stand as they were. therefore, as an outward sign of reconciliation, he dropped a cold kiss on his daughter's white brow, and retreated to his study. dorinda, left alone in the little dining-room, had no desire to eat any breakfast, as the struggle to secure rupert's safety had exhausted her greatly. she hastily drank a cup of coffee, then wrote a note to her lover, saying that he need not be afraid of the intervention of the police, and relating in detail the conversation just ended. having sent this by hand to the big house, the girl went about her daily duties, resolutely cheerful. only by assuming a bold front could she combat the great trouble which threatened to overwhelm her and her lover. when the worst came to the worst, there would be time enough to think of further defense. but dorinda believed that further defense would not be required. rupert was very well satisfied when he received dorinda's note, as he had winced at the idea of inspector lawson intervening. he, of course, had been very certain that there was no chance of his being arrested, owing to the fact that the will could not be proved to exist. still, lawson was ambitious of promotion and obstinate in his own opinion, therefore, if mallien had told his story, there might have been a chance of scandal. however, dorinda having reduced her father to neutrality, the only thing that remained to do was to find the will. rupert intended to search again among the papers at the vicarage; but could not do so until the afternoon, as carrington had sent a wire saying he would be down by the midday express. the squire intended to meet him at the station, and talk to him on the way home, since he was anxious to know what was the best way to deal with the treacherous mrs. beatson. knowing that she was a spy and an enemy, rupert could hardly bear to see her about the house. however, he tolerated her presence until he heard what carrington had to say. by this time, all excitement had died out of the village, as the crime had been so thoroughly discussed that there was no more to be said about the matter. in their stolid bovine way, the rustics accepted the positive fact that their late spiritual adviser was dead and buried--accepted, also, the evident truth that the murderer would never be caught and punished. this being the case, they dismissed the past, and looked eagerly forward to the future when the new incumbent would arrive. it was reported that a vicar had already been appointed by the bishop and that he had a family, and would make the vicarage a much more lively place than it had been in mr. leigh's time. oh, there was plenty to talk about and _the hendle arms_ was filled with conversational yokels from morning until evening. on the way to the station, rupert stumbled across titus ark, who grinned in a toothless manner, touched his shabby hat, and shuffled along in a manner surprisingly spry for a man of eighty-odd years of age. hendle stopped to give him a sixpence for snuff, to which the ancient was much addicted. "you miss mr. leigh, titus," he said, pityingly, for the old man was a lonely figure in the midst of the new generation. "hor! hor! hor!" croaked the aged sexton. "why should i miss him squoire when he bain't dead?" "why, titus, you buried him--that is, you helped to place the body in the family vault. poor mr. leigh could not have been buried alive." "who said as he was alive, squoire? i never did." "you say that he isn't dead." "no more he be." "then he must be alive." "no, he bain't. hor! hor! hor! crack that nut, squoire!" and the ancient shuffled along the dry dusty road, chuckling to himself. hendle shrugged his shoulders, wondering if it would be necessary to lock up titus in a lunatic asylum. he appeared to be quite crazy, and talked in so confused and contradictory a manner that no meaning could be extracted from his speech. evidently his brain was far gone in decay, and although so far he had kept his legs, he would shortly be bedridden. ark's office as sexton was a sinecure, as his grandson, an active young fellow, dug the graves, and attended to funeral details. the activities of titus were confined to appearing in the churchyard and telling what he knew about the deceased. on the whole, the old creature was harmless enough, so rupert banished from his mind the idea of shutting him up, satisfied that, so long as his grandson looked after him, he could be permitted to be at large. ark's incomprehensible talk reminded hendle of wordsworth's poem--"we are seven." no more than the child therein could titus understand what death meant. and this was strange, considering that he was an old and accomplished sexton. however, rupert had more important things with which to employ his mind than in thinking about the babble of the ancient. he forgot all about ark when he came in sight of the station, the more readily when he saw carrington on the lookout for him. the train had arrived early, and the barrister was waiting for his friend's arrival. after greetings, carrington linked his arm within that of his old school-friend, and they sauntered leisurely toward the big house. "that was a strange letter you wrote me, hendle," said carrington, when the two settled into their stride. "i could scarcely believe it." "why not? i wrote plainly enough." "oh, yes. but i never thought that my idea of risk to you would ever become an established fact so soon. it's queer that mrs. beatson should have listened on that particular night to that particular conversation." "well, you see, she got it into her head that i intended to dismiss her when i married dorinda, and so kept her ears open to hear if i spoke to the vicar about my intention. as a matter of fact, i had no idea of turning her away." "_then_, you had not. but now?" "she must go," said rupert shortly. "i can't have a spy at my elbow." "have you said anything to her?" "no! she is quite in the dark as to her treachery having been discovered." carrington thought for a few moments. "if mallien goes to the police, she will then learn that you know how she has behaved." "mallien is not going to the police," said rupert, quietly. "but i thought you said in your letter that he had given you one week to----" "yes, yes," interrupted the younger man, "i did say so, and such was the case when i wrote. but circumstances have changed since then, thanks to dorinda." "miss mallien? what has she to do with the matter?" "a great deal. last night she came over, as her father had told her about the will. i was forced to tell her that mallien threatened to accuse me of the murder." "oh! oh!" said carrington significantly. "so mallien did not tell her that?" "no. he was ashamed to, i suppose, as he is well aware that i am innocent. but this morning he had a row with dorinda about her engagement to me, and she stood up for me, bless her. what she said, or what he said, i don't know, but dorinda sent over a note this morning saying that her father had changed his mind about speaking to lawson." carrington heaved a sigh of relief. "that makes things easier, anyhow. we can take our own time to work out the case. have you found the will?" "no. i haven't seen a sign of it. i intend to look again this afternoon, and you can assist me if you care to." "oh, yes. four hands are better than two, and two searchers better than one, hendle. and if the will isn't found?" "well, i suppose things will remain as they are." "don't you make any mistake, hendle," replied the barrister shrewdly. "mallien won't stop until he gets that will." "i don't mind. in fact, i told him that he could help me look for it." carrington frowned. "i hope i won't be brought into contact with him. he's such a rude beast." "well, after our quarrel of yesterday. i don't think he'll put in an appearance," said hendle consolingly. "anyhow, whether he does or not matters little. our business is to find the will, and thus knock mallien's possible accusation on the head." "as you please, what must be, must be. miss mallien is a charming girl, but if marriage with her meant a father-in-law like that boor i should cry off." "ah, you are not in love, you see," said rupert calmly; "besides, when we are married, we will see very little of mallien. i am bribing him with five hundred a year to make himself scarce. as he doesn't care a cent for his daughter, he will probably agree to clear out." "not before he has had a try to get the whole of your money," said carrington dryly. "the man is a shark, and a sponge, and a greedy animal." "why call him names, carrington? he is dorinda's father after all, so it is best to leave him alone." "he won't leave you alone," retorted the other. "i wonder you can be so calm over the matter, hendle." rupert cast a side-look of surprise at the flushed dark face of his companion. "i am quite innocent, so why shouldn't i be calm?" "hum!" growled the barrister. "innocent men have been hanged before now." "well, this innocent man won't be hanged, carrington. no one can prove that i was near the vicarage on that night." "probably not. but you had every motive to go there and get the will, seeing that it may render you a pauper." "if i am to be a pauper i must become a pauper," replied rupert coolly; "but i certainly would never attempt to save myself from poverty by murdering an old man who was my friend." "well, you see, people will talk as mallien has talked," said the barrister with a shrug. "you and i alone knew about the will. i was in town, so no one can say a word about me. but you, near at hand, and----" "what is the use of talking rubbish?" interrupted rupert sharply. "i never was near the place on that night, and if people talk, well, they must just talk, as i am perfectly innocent. besides, you forget that mallien knew about the will." "only after the murder, as mrs. beatson probably did not tell him beforehand." "i don't suppose she did. hum!" rupert stopped and looked down at his neat brown boots and gaiters. "queer that i never thought of asking mallien when she did tell him. i'll ask him next time we meet. just now we can cross out mallien as knowing. but mrs. beatson----" "exactly," interrupted carrington gravely; "it occurs to me that she knows more about the matter than she chooses to say." "but you don't mean to infer that she killed the vicar?" "why not? she knew about the will and guessed that if she could get hold of it she could make you squeal." "at the risk of being accused of murdering leigh." carrington nodded. "perhaps. but then she may think that you would hold your tongue about that if she gave you the will." hendle walked on sharply. "i don't believe a word of what you say," he cried, looking much worried. "mrs. beatson has behaved treacherously, but i don't think for one moment that she would kill the vicar." "perhaps not," said carrington soothingly. "well, then, let us say nothing to her, but watch. if she is guilty, she is bound to betray herself. the main thing is not to let her suspect that you have found out her treachery." hendle took off his cap and let the balmy air play on his hot head. "it is very unpleasant," he said in a vexed tone. "very," assented the barrister cordially; "but for your own sake----" "well, well, do what you like, carrington. the case is in your hands." chapter xii on the track generally speaking, it seemed as though mallien's prophecy of carrington picking rupert's pockets was likely to come true. owing to circumstances, the barrister had found a perfectly legitimate way of getting money from his friend, and intended to take every advantage of the opportunity. he explained to hendle that it would be necessary for him to remain at the big house until all these crooked affairs were straightened out, and that, his time being valuable, he would require a handsome fee for his services. the squire professed himself quite willing that things should be so arranged, but he was scarcely so dense as carrington believed him to be. he saw that the visitor was anxious to make money, and concluded that perhaps it was best to settle matters on this coldly legal basis. the cut-and-dried situation was thus perfectly understood by both men, and they got on very amicably together. on the surface everything was as it should be. but below the surface, things were scarcely so pleasant. rupert's susceptibilities for carrington, dating from rugby days, had received a shock. he had looked to find in the barrister an intimate friend, only to discover that he was a hard business man. had carrington looked into matters without stipulating for a fee, and had behaved as a chum, hendle would have gladly dealt handsomely with him, knowing that he was not particularly successful in his profession. but the squire, with the memory of his school hero-worship in his mind, was dismayed to find that his former idol had feet of clay, and that carrington was quite willing to use him as a means to an end. rupert was by no means sentimental, yet he felt anxious for sympathy in his present unpleasant position. that sympathy should be sold, as the barrister was selling it, chilled his ardent nature, and made him less confidential with his school-friend than otherwise he would have been. everything seemed to be for sale, and nothing appeared to be given as a gift. mallien, mrs. beatson, carrington, all had an eye to the main chance; and even the late vicar had hinted in a veiled way that the will would be given up if his yucatan expedition was financed. it seemed to rupert that his only true friend was dorinda, who loved him for himself, and not for what she could get out of him. and dorinda was nearer and dearer than a friend, since she was to be his wife. hendle, who was deeply religious in his unobtrusive way, silently thanked god that he had one staunch comrade. and such dorinda was, therefore their marriage would certainly be happier, when founded upon so solid a foundation, than if it were a mere romantic passion. for the next three days, the two men paid daily visits to the vicarage and hunted high and low for the missing will. they examined every paper; they opened every book; they looked through the pockets of old clothes, and turned out every cupboard. rupert expected that mallien, being so keen about his rights, would search also; but the day after carrington's arrival, he went up to london, and remained absent for some time. apparently he disliked coming into contact with the sharp-tongued barrister, and probably would not return until his enemy took his departure. carrington, of course, was not mallien's enemy, as he had no reason to be, but mallien in his odd misanthropic way regarded him as such. he therefore would not have been pleased had he learned that on the third day of his absence, dorinda entertained the two men at dinner. miss mallien did not like carrington any more than did her father, but for the sake of helping rupert, she extended the hand of hospitality. in fact she gave quite a little dinner-party, as kit beatson and miss tollart were also present. the master of the house always objected to these small entertainments, as they cost money; but dorinda paid no attention to his objections, as she claimed a reasonable right to amuse herself. nevertheless, she considered her father's feelings so far as only to ask her neighbors to luncheon, afternoon tea and dinner when he was absent. yet, notwithstanding this concession, there was always trouble when mallien returned; and, since carrington had been invited, it was probable that, on this occasion, there would be a royal row. dorinda did not mind, as she was used to rows. the only way in which she could make her situation bearable was by standing up for herself and defying her father in small matters. if she did not do so, he would bully her still more, for every inch she gave meant several ells with him. her mild entertainments were therefore useful in preserving her independence, and in coloring a somewhat drab existence. with the assistance of the small servant, miss mallien had prepared a simple but appetizing meal, which was done full justice to by the quartette of guests. afterward, they sat in the tiny drawing-room, and enjoyed a real old english evening of the albert period type, including games and music. carrington had brought some jig-saw puzzles from london, and when the excitement of putting tricky pictures together palled, music supplied new pleasure. sophy tollart, who had been well-trained, rendered scraps of very up-to-date harmony, which began anyhow and ended nowhere. kit sang sentimental ballads in a pleasant uncultivated tenor, and dorinda delighted her hearers with old time songs such as "kathleen mavourneen" and "robin adair." finally, as the evening waned, the company gathered near the open window to chat about this and that and the other thing. sophy recounted her experience as a militant suffragist; kit informed everyone of what progress the motor industry was making, and, of course, the coming of the new vicar supplied interesting conversation. it was miss tollart who introduced the topic. "he will arrive in a fortnight," she explained, bending her black brows in quite a tragic way, "and has a family of four girls. i hope to interest them all in the movement." "votes for women?" asked carrington, who found sophy very amusing, since she knew little and asserted much. "of course. what other movement is there?" "well, you see, miss tollart, women's rebellion isn't the only pebble on the beach. humanity has other interests also." "then it shouldn't have," retorted sophy daringly. "until women have votes, the world will never be put right." "things have gone on very well so far," ventured rupert, only to be crushed. "how can you say so, mr. hendle, when there's nothing but war and bankruptcy, and silly football matches, and smart society, and----" "sophy! sophy! that's enough to go on with," cried dorinda, smiling. "don't give us too much to think about." "you never think at all, dorinda. you are fainthearted about our votes." "i don't think you'll get them by destroying property and having hunger strikes," replied dorinda, with a shrug. "what do you say, kit?" kit blushed and wriggled, for sophy's eye was on him. "i don't say anything you know. i never do. the motor business takes up all my attention." then he hurriedly changed the subject, lest his lady-love should fall foul of him for his shirking. "i hope sophy will gain her ends easier in australia." "i'm not going to australia, kit. i told you that and i told your mother." "mrs. beatson," said carrington, pricking up his ears. "does she want you to go to australia, miss tollart?" "she wants to go herself." "that's news to me," observed hendle, with a start. "it's news to all of us," put in kit, dismally. "the worst of mother is that you never know what she'll be up to next. the other day she came to me and said that she soon hoped to inherit an annuity of two hundred a year and intended to go to australia. she wants sophy and me to come with her." hendle, dorinda and carrington exchanged glances. "who is leaving this annuity to your mother?" asked rupert, guessing the source of the windfall. "she didn't say," replied kit, "some old aunt, i fancy. but i don't want to go with mother. she and sophy never get on well together." "how can we when she wants everyone to bow down to her?" said miss tollart, who hated mrs. beatson thoroughly. "i'm not of the bowing-down sort. and when i marry, i want my house to myself." "natural enough," observed carrington, who was listening eagerly. "and mrs. beatson wants you all to live together on her annuity?" "not exactly that," said kit reluctantly. "she won't keep us, but hopes that in australia i shall make more money out of motors." "she may hope," said sophy positively; "and, if she is disappointed, she will have to be. you are not going to australia, kit. my father needs my care, and i can't leave him." it seemed to carrington that between kit's mother and his future wife's father, the poor young fellow was in a most uncomfortable position. however, for obvious reasons, connected with sophy, he did not say so and contented himself with the remark that he thought dr. tollart very clever. "when i came down here first, i called in to get a cure for toothache and he gave me one which acted like a charm." sophy, who seemed to have a deep affection for her disreputable parent, colored with pleasure as she rose to go. "father has his faults, but he is a very clever man," she said emphatically; "but for his failing he would be in harley street as a specialist." "great men have more room for faults than small men," quoted carrington. "don't look angry, miss tollart; i really mean what i say. your father is clever." "i'm glad to hear that some one does him justice," said the girl bitterly, and looking more womanly as she spoke. "usually everyone is against him. but kit will help me to keep him straight when we are married. mrs. beatson would drive him crazy." "sophy! sophy! she is my mother," expostulated kit, blushing. "i know that," snapped miss tollart tartly. "it is the only thing i have against you as my husband. but so long as she lives at a distance--well, it's no use talking. dorinda, i'm going now." she went out to put on her hat and cloak, while kit stood irresolutely by the door he had just opened, looking so downcast that hendle clapped him on the back. "cheer up, old boy; it will be all right," he said, feeling profoundly sorry for the lad since mrs. beatson was decidedly a very disagreeable mother. and then carrington put a question. "when does your mother expect her annuity?" "she says she may get it at any time," replied kit, rather stiffly, as he did not see why a stranger like the barrister should interfere; "but i know very little about it. all she told me was that she was to get two hundred a year and would leave mr. hendle to go to australia." "oh, i shall place no obstacle in her path," observed rupert somewhat grimly. "after all, as i soon marry miss mallien, there will be no need for me to have a housekeeper." it was at this moment and before carrington could ask further questions, which he very much wished to do, that sophy returned. evidently she had been crying, for her eyes were red, but her emotions were quite under control and, after taking leave of her hostess and the two men, she went away with kit. they seemed to be rather a forlorn young couple. dorinda remarked as much when she returned to the drawing-room after seeing them to the door. "what else can you expect," asked carrington coolly, "when they are connected with a drunkard like tollart and a shrew like mrs. beatson? so she intends to go to australia, does she? i don't want to hurt your feelings, miss mallien, but i see your father's finger in this." "say as little about my father as is possible," answered dorinda, with a rich color flushing her fair cheeks. little as she respected her shady parent she did not intend to discuss him with a stranger whom she disliked. carrington was diplomatic enough to skate away from the thin ice. "rupert and i have taken all the papers and clothes and odds and ends of leigh to the big house," he remarked; "and there they can stay until we hear from the australian sea-captain who inherits. the london lawyer has written him." "and the will?" "we have not found it yet." "i don't think we ever will find it," commented hendle soberly. "i have searched the vicarage from cellar to attic without success. i really believe, dorinda, that, after all, leigh was dreaming, and that the will doesn't exist." "either that," said carrington deliberately, "or mrs. beatson made away with leigh and stole it." "i can't believe that," protested dorinda, turning pale. "i told you so before when you first broached the idea, mr. carrington. she is not a nice woman, but i don't think she would commit a murder." "there is nothing mrs. beatson would not do, if she were assured that her crime would remain undiscovered," insisted the barrister grimly. "after all, if mrs. beatson didn't kill leigh, who did? rupert and i and the housekeeper knew of the will and of its value. as i was in town i am innocent, and we know, miss mallien, that rupert is not the man to commit such a crime. there only remains mrs. beatson, who told your father, when she made all things safe." dorinda started, and looked searchingly at the barrister. "how do you mean?" carrington smiled meaningly. "i believe that mrs. beatson murdered leigh and now has the will. she intends to sell it to your father for this annuity." dorinda grew red and her eyes grew bright. "how dare you say such a thing to me, mr. carrington? in the first place, my father would never condone a crime even to gain a fortune; in the second, the moment mrs. beatson offered to sell him the will, he would know her to be guilty." "yes, of course," replied carrington soothingly, "and naturally would hand her over to the police. it was only the idea of the annuity which suggested the idea to me, and maybe it is far-fetched. i apologize, miss mallien." dorinda bowed silently. she did not like the ironical tone in which the barrister spoke, as she felt convinced that he still held to his preposterous idea. what is more, in her own mind, she did not consider that the idea was so preposterous as she declared. her father had been prepared to hush up the matter when he believed rupert to be guilty, so it was not improbable that he would make terms with mrs. beatson, provided he secured the will. still, the girl did not intend to let carrington know what she thought, and therefore stood up for her absent parent. "i don't believe that mrs. beatson is guilty of such wicked conduct," she repeated, after a pause. "what grounds have you to say such a thing?" "well," murmured carrington with a shrug. "no very good grounds, i admit. but mrs. beatson knew about the will before leigh was murdered, and i firmly believe that he was got rid of for the sake of the will. this suggestion of an annuity hints that she has the will and is trying to dispose of it at a price. perhaps hendle----" "she has said nothing to me," interrupted rupert quickly, "and, after all, carrington, you have watched her for the last few days without seeing anything suspicious." "mrs. beatson is a sly creature, who will not give herself away easily," returned the barrister dryly. "i shall continue to watch her. there's ten o'clock, hendle," he added, as the mellow tones of the church bell floated through the warm night. "we must not keep miss mallien from her beauty sleep." dorinda did not suggest that they should remain, although she would have liked to speak privately with her lover. but while carrington was at his elbow, that was impossible, and she did not wish to talk freely in the presence of a man she mistrusted. the two young men said good-night to their hostess and went away, leaving dorinda in anything but a happy frame of mind. what had been suggested about her father trading with the housekeeper worried her considerably. there might or might not be some truth in the idea. she tried to dismiss it from her mind; but it would not be dismissed, and troubled her far into the small hours of the morning. meanwhile, rupert and his friend sauntered leisurely homeward. it was so hot that they did not wear coats over their evening suit, and so dry underfoot that they walked to and from the cottage in shoes. the sky was radiant with innumerable stars, and although there was no moon, there was ample light in which to see surrounding objects. through the shadowy world, warm and peaceful, the young men wandered, taking their way across the fields, as the high-road was so dusty and hard. for a time neither spoke, for each was busy with his own thoughts, which had to do with the case. finally, carrington broke the silence, and spoke soft, as though he feared listeners. "i did not press my point, hendle," he remarked significantly, "as the little i did say rather offended miss mallien." "you were rather libellous about her father, you know, carrington." "if the saying, that the greater the truth the greater the libel is true, i certainly was," retorted the barrister, "for what i said i hold to." "that mrs. beatson is the guilty person?" "yes. and that she is trading with mallien to give him what he wants." "the will?" "of course. i am as certain of that fact as i am that i live. she has the will, and she intends to deliver it to him--if she hasn't done so already--on condition that he gives her the two hundred a year annuity, which she told her son comes from a mythical aunt." "well," said rupert, after a pause, "since mallien was willing to come to terms with me, i see no reason why he should not come to terms with mrs. beatson, always provided that she is guilty." "she is," insisted carrington bluntly. "it is no use my giving you my reasons again, i think." "if things are as you say i don't see how mrs. beatson's part of the business can be concealed. the will is of no use to mallien unless he makes it public. and if he does, he will have to explain how he became possessed of it. i suppose his confession of the deal with mrs. beatson would bring him into trouble as an accessory-after-the-fact?" "it would, and i am wondering how mallien intends to make himself safe on that score. there is only one thing to be done, hendle. we must wait until mallien produces the will. then we can move." "it's an infernal messy business altogether," growled the big man, restlessly; "and i wish we were all well out of it. i don't want mallien to get into any trouble for dorinda's sake." "i think you can be pretty certain that mallien will look after his own precious skin," said the barrister dryly; "and if--hush!--not a word." he dropped his voice to a whisper. "who's that?" "what?" rupert looked round, as carrington caught his arm, and pulled him off the footpath into a clump of hazels. "don't speak," whispered carrington with his mouth close to rupert's ear; "and button your coat as well as you can over your shirt-front. the white may betray us." he acted on his own advice, and kept hendle well behind the shelter of the leafy trees. "now watch." hendle did so with all his eyes, straining his sight through the shadowy night, and by this time had seen the reason of carrington's action and caution. the two men had reached the red brick wall which ran round the park, and saw that the postern gate through which they intended to pass was open. a tall dark figure in flowing robes was slipping out, and when carrington pulled his friend into shelter behind the hazels, the woman--for such it was--closed the postern stealthily. after a glance to right and left, she walked swiftly along the footpath, going in the direction whence the watchers had come. as she swept past the hazel clump, rupert nearly uttered an exclamation, for, in spite of the black-silk hood pulled well over her head and face, he was absolutely certain that this night walker was none other than his respectable housekeeper. what she was doing outside the house at this time of night and whither she was going he could not conjecture. but carrington could, and when the woman passed away into the shadows, he whispered an exultant explanation. "it's mrs. beatson, hendle. she's going to look for the will. quick! let us follow; but take care she doesn't see us." "the will!" breathed rupert, cautiously, as they stole out on the trail. "what do you mean?" "she has hidden the will somewhere, i am sure, and now is going to get it. we will catch her red-handed if we are careful. what luck!" "but it's impossible, and----" "don't talk," interrupted carrington, in a savage whisper. "do you want to give the show away? it's a wonderful chance of learning the truth. come." hendle silently agreed with his companion, although he found it hard to believe that mrs. beatson was such a conspirator. whether her night excursion had to do with the missing will or not, he could not be sure; but it was evident that she was bent upon some shady business, into which he should inquire, as her master. the adventure appealed to him as a welcome break in his monotonous existence, and he felt his nerves thrill, as with carrington he followed cautiously. in the half-light they saw the black figure of the woman climb the stile at the end of the meadow and enter a spinney, which belted the high road. by the time they reached this, and emerged on to the travelled thoroughfare, mrs. beatson had vanished. carrington bent to run, but halted a moment to whisper. "if there is any truth in my belief, she has gone to the vicarage. there, if anywhere, she has hidden the will in the jungle." hendle nodded without reply, and the two men sped swiftly along the road until they came to the bend. they were just in time to see mrs. beatson vanish through the rickety gate, which, as usual, was standing wide open. carrington stopped, dodged, stooped, then crossed the road to run alongside the hedge until he halted just outside the gate. peering round the corner with rupert breathing hard beside him, the barrister saw that mrs. beatson carried a lantern, which she had just lighted, for it gleamed like a star in the darkness of the tall trees. "we can wait here," whispered carrington, delaying rupert, who wanted to enter the grounds. "she will come back this way. we may attract her attention if we make any noise in that jungle." this was good advice which rupert was sensible enough to take. keeping well within the shadow of the hedge, and looking up the avenue, they waited for the woman's return. they had put their collars up and had buttoned their dress coats over the shining expanse of shirt-front, so there was no gleam of white to betray them, as they crouched, two dark figures, in the dry ditch under the hedge. with beating hearts they waited anxiously, taking a peep every now and then. mrs. beatson was a long time absent--hendle judged about a quarter of an hour. then, unexpectedly, she appeared running swiftly down the grass-grown avenue with her lantern swinging in her hand. at the gate and within touch, she waited to extinguish the light, but before doing so set it on the ground to look at a rustling parchment by its gleam. the moment she stooped with the document, carrington's arm shot out and it was snatched away. with a shriek mrs. beatson straightened herself to face her master and his guest. she had, indeed, been caught red-handed. chapter xiii confession paralyzed by extreme fright, mrs. beatson stood as motionless as a stone image, staring blankly at her captors with open mouth and unwinking eyes. her face was whiter than the dingy parchment of which she had been deprived, and her breath came and went in short quick gasps, which echoed audibly through the still night. rupert looked at her for a moment and then turned away his head; his manhood was shamed by the silent agony of the miserable creature. carrington, more hardened by experience, stooped to the light, and read, "this is the last will and testament of john hendle," in vividly black latin lettering. that was enough to assure him of the truth, and, rolling up the parchment, he turned sternly on the panic-struck woman. "you are a clever fool, mrs. beatson," he remarked quietly--"clever in getting the will and hiding it so skillfully; but a fool to examine so compromising a document here, when the village policeman may pass at any moment." the word "policeman" galvanized mrs. beatson into life and action. with a final gasp she suddenly became, as it seemed, conscious of her peril, and bolted. down the road and across the road she sped, and was in the spinney before the two men could grasp the situation. for a single moment they stared after the flying figure, then simultaneously started in pursuit. with terror-winged feet the housekeeper fled as swiftly as the wind, and it was not until the brick wall, encircling the park, again loomed through the shadows that they caught up to her. instinctively, like a homing pigeon, she made for the only place where she thought she would be safe. much, as carrington grimly thought, after the fashion of a child, who believes himself to be free from danger when smuggled between the blankets. it was while she was fumbling with the lock of the postern that he laid a detaining hand on her shoulder. with a terrified cry she dropped on her knees. "mercy! mercy! i am innocent--innocent," she wailed, and hugged his legs in a frenzy of fear. "here, get up!" said the barrister, roughly pulling her to her feet. "come inside and explain yourself." "there's nothing to explain," cried mrs. beatson, suddenly defiant; "and you are not my master." "i am more than your master; i am the man who has found you out," stated carrington, in a hard tone, and pushing open the postern. "walk in, i tell you." "gently, carrington, gently," said rupert, sorry for the shaking woman, who was desperate enough to say anything or do anything. "we can deal with this matter reasonably. take my arm, mrs. beatson, and come to the house. you can no doubt give us an explanation." "i shan't give it to him," muttered the housekeeper, trying to control her shattering emotions. "what has he got to do with me, i should like to know? you are always a gentleman, mr. hendle, and i wish you a better friend. spying and prying, watching and following. call yourself a man, do you? ha! ha! call yourself a man? god help the woman who marries you, say i." neither of the two made any reply to this aimless speech, and babbling incoherently, mrs. beatson was led by hendle to the house. fortunately none of the servants were in the entrance-hall, and when rupert opened the door with his latch-key, mrs. beatson swept in toward the drawing-room, which was lighted up. carrington and his friend followed close behind, to find her seated in an armchair, fanning her heated face with the hood which she had removed. her color had returned and her self-possession, so that she eyed the pair defiantly. her attentions were mostly directed toward carrington, and if a look could have slain him, he would have dropped dead there and then. "come now," said the barrister, when the door was closed and the trio were alone, "what have you got to say to all this?" "i shan't answer you," snapped mrs. beatson viciously. "you aren't going to bully me." "i think you had better answer," said hendle, sternly. "this is not the time to play the fool." "are you against me also, sir?" "i am advising you for your good. as to being against you, what attitude do you expect me to assume toward you, seeing how treacherously you have behaved, mrs. beatson?" "treacherously?" "yes! you listened to a conversation not meant for your ears and reported the same to mr. mallien." "did he tell you so?" "there was no need for him to tell mr. hendle," said carrington pointedly. "the mere fact that mr. mallien knows about this will proclaims your guilt." "guilt! guilt!" repeated the housekeeper violently. "i shall thank you, sir, not to use that word in connection with me." "i shall use it. don't be a fool, woman! you knew about this will before mr. leigh was murdered, and you killed him to get it." "it's a lie!" "then how do you explain your possession of the will?" "what is your supposition?" demanded mrs. beatson, more like a judge than a criminal. "if you will have it," returned the barrister, smoothly. "i believe you murdered the vicar to get the will, and having found it, buried the same in that jungle. then you made your terms with mr. mallien, and he agreed to give you an annuity of two hundred a year, if you passed the will along to him. when you thought that all was safe, you went to dig the will up again, and here it is." carrington pulled the soiled parchment from his pocket, where he had placed it for safety, doubled up into a packet, and shook it in her face. mrs. beatson changed from red to white, and from white to red, but maintained a scornful look. "you are talking nonsense," she said briefly. "perhaps," put in hendle quietly, "and we wait for you to talk sense." "i shall say nothing," said the woman, obstinately. "in that case i shall send for kensit and give you in charge." "you would not do that, mr. hendle." "indeed, i shall do it within ten minutes if you do not speak out." "i can--i can--exonerate--exonerate myself," stuttered mrs. beatson, her dry lips scarcely able to form the words. "you had better do so to us," advised carrington agreeably. "and if i don't?" she snarled, turning on him. "then inspector lawson shall examine you." "what do i care when i know that i am innocent?" "well,"--carrington shrugged his shoulders--"it's your own affair. ring the bell, hendle, and send one of the servants down for kensit." "no, don't!" cried mrs. beatson, when she saw her master walk toward the fireplace to touch the ivory button. "i can explain." hendle nodded and returned to his seat, while carrington replaced the will in his pocket and waited for the confession. mrs. beatson wiped her face and glared at the two like a tigress at bay. only the knowledge that she was driven into a corner made her speak out. "i overheard your conversation with mr. leigh, sir," she said to her master and ignoring carrington. "oh, i didn't mean to, you know. i only listened as i thought you intended to discharge me when you married miss mallien, and fancied you might explain yourself on that point to the vicar." "i understand. but why did you report the conversation to my cousin?" mrs. beatson looked down sullenly. "you don't know what it is to be poor," she muttered irrelevantly. "i am born a lady, and through the fault of a spendthrift husband i am reduced to act as your housekeeper. it is only natural that i should try and improve my position, so when i learned about a will which would give your property to mr. mallien, i thought it wise to make money by speaking about it to him." "why not to me in the first instance?" "because you are too honest," burst out the woman, raising her pale eyes. "if you got the will you would have made its contents public, even though, as mr. leigh stated, you would lose all. for that reason i had no hold on you and would never have got money from you. by telling mr. mallien i managed to extract a promise from him that when he came into the property he would give me an annuity." "of two hundred a year?" inquired carrington. "we did not mention any sum," retorted mrs. beatson, "but that was the amount i intended to ask." "and the amount which you told your son a mythical aunt was leaving you." "i had to give my son some reason for being possessed of the annuity." "hum!" said carrington with a shrug. "you haven't got the annuity yet, and now you never will have." "i am not so sure of that. after all, if i hadn't told, mr. carrington, the cousin of my master would never have known of his good fortune." "then the will really does leave the property to eunice filbert?" questioned rupert nervously. "i don't know. i have not read the will." "come now," said carrington contemptuously, "you don't expect us to believe that. you must have read the will before you buried it." "i didn't bury it." the barrister heaved a weary sigh and glanced at rupert as if to invite his attention to the way in which the woman was lying. "i don't know why you are wasting our time in this fashion," said carrington sharply. "why can't you speak straightforwardly? twisting and turning won't help you now. you are in a corner, and however you may fight you will not get out of it. be frank, mrs. beatson, and tell us how you killed the vicar." mrs. beatson rose white-faced and trembling, holding on to the back of the chair as she replied. "i did not kill the vicar," she insisted. "i would not do such a thing. i haven't the nerve, and i'm honest enough as people go. only the sudden temptation to make money easily made me tell mr. mallien about the will. but i did no more. i wasn't near the vicarage, and no one was more astonished than i was when i heard of the murder." "listen to me," said carrington, making a sign to rupert that he should hold his tongue and leave the examination to him. "the police could not find out any reason why the vicar should have been killed, because they knew nothing about this will. kensit unconsciously hinted at the truth when he said that the papers and books in the vicarage study were all in disorder, as if some search had been made. i believe that such a search was made, and by you, for this will, after you murdered the poor man." "it's a lie!" screamed mrs. beatson savagely. "how dare you sit there and tell lies about me?" "if it is a lie," said carrington, quite unmoved by her sudden fury, "how comes it that the will is in your possession?" "i dug it up." "and how did you know the spot where it was buried?" "the letter told me." "the letter!" rupert looked up surprised. "what letter?" mrs. beatson fumbled in her breast, and pulling out a torn envelope threw it across the room into hendle's lap. "i got that this morning," she declared in sullen tones, "and acted as it advised. as there is no name to it, i don't know who wrote it. don't let mr. carrington get it; i trust you, sir, not him." rupert picked up the envelope and examined it, while the barrister looked over his shoulder. it was directed to "mrs. beatson, the big house, barship, essex," and had evidently, judging from the postmark, been sent through the general post office of the metropolis. having ascertained this, the young man took out a double sheet of tolerably good notepaper, upon which in a backward sloping hand probably disguised, were written a few lines, to which no signature was appended. these intimated abruptly that the will of john hendle was to be found buried at the foot of the sundial in the vicarage garden, and that mrs. beatson could find it by searching. while the two men read and reread this anonymous letter, the housekeeper went rambling on. "i intended at first to keep it, and show mr. mallien when he returned. but then i thought--not trusting him--that if i had the will i could hold it until he gave me a deed making safe the annuity i wanted. for that reason i took advantage of your dining at the cottage, mr. hendle, to go and get it. i knew that the sundial was hidden among the grasses and shrubs of the vicarage garden, so there was no difficulty in finding the place mentioned. i did not think that you would return early from the dinner, and so left the thing until it was too late. i dug up the will easily, as it was only a little way under ground and the earth was piled loosely over it. then i came out and stopped at the gate to make sure that it was the will i had found." "a silly thing to do, seeing that kensit on his rounds might have caught you," said carrington, returning to his seat. "now how much of this tale are we to believe?" "the whole of it," retorted mrs. beatson, distinctly amazed. "it's the truth." "hum!" said carrington reflectively, "it may be; but did you not send that letter from yourself to yourself?" "me!" mrs. beatson's voice leaped an octave. "hush! hush!" said hendle, hurriedly glancing at the door. "you'll bring in the servants. i need hardly tell you that it is best to thresh out this matter among the three of us." thus warned, the housekeeper sank her voice, and took refuge in angry tears, always a woman's last resource. "i'm so tired of being insulted," she sobbed loudly. "ever since you came across me, mr. hendle, that friend of yours has been taking away my character." "i rather think you have taken it away yourself by behaving so treacherously to me," said rupert grimly. "however, i don't agree with mr. carrington that you sent that letter to yourself from yourself." "how could i," sobbed mrs. beatson, "when i haven't been near london? and i'm not a conspirator. it's a shame blaming me for trying to help myself. why can't you leave me alone? two men on to one woman. you ought to go on your knees and beg my pardon." this amazing view of the case extorted a contemptuous smile from carrington. he had much experience in his profession of the fair sex, and knew the marvellous way in which women extricated themselves from difficulties which would overwhelm a mere man. logic, as he was well aware, formed no part of the feminine nature. "i shan't try to argue with you," he said mildly, "for you would be sure to get the better of me. but you have behaved very badly to mr. hendle." "no, i haven't. i had a right to look after myself." "not at his expense. he has always treated you kindly and----" "well, why shouldn't he?" demanded mrs. beatson, rolling up her handkerchief into a damp ball and dabbing her red eyes. "i have always done my duty, i hope, and at a small salary, too. i could get a better place any day." "then i advise you to look out for one," said rupert, astonished at this ingratitude. "you certainly shan't stay here." "what?" mrs. beatson gasped and stared. "well, why should you when you can be happier elsewhere?" "i didn't say that i would. and if you discharge me--as i knew you would when you talked of marrying miss mallien--i shall ask for one year's wages and a letter saying how thoroughly i attended to my duties." "i had no idea of discharging you until i discovered your treachery," protested hendle sharply. "it's your own fault and----" "mrs. beatson's future can be settled later," interrupted carrington at this point of the argument. "just now she must answer me some questions." "i shan't!" raged the woman, furious at her humiliating position. "it's all your fault that i have lost my----" "if you don't answer," interrupted the barrister again, "i shall hand you over to kensit to be taken to lawson at tarhaven." "you wouldn't dare. mr. hendle wouldn't let you." "oh, yes, i should," said rupert sternly. "i'm not going to play fast and loose with the law." mrs. beatson's sour face became gray and pinched. "i know nothing about the matter, more than i have told you," she cried, greatly terrified at the prospect of being locked up. "i told mr. mallien about the will, and i dug it up when i got that letter." "when did you tell mr. mallien?" asked rupert, remembering how he had intended to put this question before and had not. "on the day after i overheard the conversation," whimpered the housekeeper, very much subdued. "when i was in london?" "yes. i went in the afternoon to the cottage. miss mallien had gone to tea with miss tollart, and i saw mr. mallien. he told me to hold my tongue and he would speak to you about the matter. also he said that if he got the property he would give me an annuity." "did you tell him before the crime was committed?" asked carrington. "am i not saying so?" shrieked mrs. beatson, virulently. "i told him on the very afternoon of the next day, and you know quite well that it was at eleven o'clock of the same night that mr. leigh was murdered. and no one was more astonished than i was." "had you any idea who murdered him?" "no. how should i have any idea?" "have you any idea now?" "no, i haven't, unless it was the person who sent that letter?" "who sent it?" mrs. beatson stamped. "what a fool your are, mr. carrington! you have the letter and know as much about the matter as i do." the barrister thought for a few moments, then turned his back on the angry woman to address rupert. "do you think she is speaking the truth, hendle?" "yes, i do." "of course you do," cried the housekeeper, looking viciously at the pair. "i am not accustomed to having my word doubted." "hold your tongue, or it will be the worse for you," said carrington sharply. "you have behaved very badly and ought to be locked up. all the same, i advise mr. hendle to leave matters as they are for a day or so, until we examine this will and make inquiries as to who sent this letter." "that letter is mine!" cried mrs. beatson, stretching out her hand. rupert put it into his pocket. "it will go to the police if you don't hold your peace," he threatened, for strong measures were necessary in dealing with such a woman. "i agree with mr. carrington. go away and say nothing about anything, not even to mr. mallien. do you hear?" "what are you going to do?" "never mind. you know what _you_ have to do." rupert walked to the door and opened it. "now go to bed." mrs. beatson tossed her head and moved toward the door. she greatly wished to continue the conversation and defend herself, but a glance at hendle's stern face made her change her mind. never had she seen her good-tempered master so angry and so decided. foolishly as she had talked, the woman was well aware that her position was a critical one, therefore she refrained from making bad worse. "i'm going and i'll say nothing," she snarled; "but when you are turned out of this house----" "please," said rupert, nodding toward the hall. "beast!" said mrs. beatson under her breath lest the servants should hear, "both of you, beasts!" and she sailed out of the room triumphantly, having secured the last word, and so soothed her angry mind. hendle closed the door and returned to carrington. "take out the will and let us have a look at it," he said in a weary voice. "won't you wait until to-morrow?" asked carrington, glancing at him. "this row has upset you." "no. i want to see the will now. it may disappear again." carrington took out the crumpled parchment from his pocket. "look after it yourself, then, and you can be certain that it is safe." "all right. but let us look at it together. move that lamp nearer." carrington did so, and hendle spread out the rustling sheets--three or four of them, as the will was tolerably long. it was written, as wills of the early nineteenth century usually were, on parchment in a clear, scholarly hand, the writing being excellently engrossed and excellently preserved. the parchment itself was soiled and dog-eared, blotched here and there with coffee-brown stains: but it had suffered little damage during its hundred years' imprisonment in the muniment chest. with carrington seated beside him the squire slowly read the faded brown writing, and gradually made himself master of the contents. when he came to the signature of the testator and the names of the two witnesses, he drew a long breath and looked at the barrister in frank dismay. "it seems quite legal," he said in a despairing voice. "quite," agreed carrington. "so far i can't see anything wrong." "and john hendle by this"--rupert struck the parchment--"leaves all his property, with the exception of sundry legacies to people now dead and buried, to eunice hendle, afterward eunice filbert, and her heirs. yes. leigh said as much. frederick would have been disinherited had this will been produced in the year . i wonder how it got lost." "frederick may have----" "no, he didn't," interrupted the barrister sharply. "frederick knew nothing about it, or he would have put it into the fire. i expect john hendle made it--or rather his solicitor did--and then threw it into the chest where it was overlooked. queer that the solicitor didn't mention it when the old man died." "perhaps he did," said rupert sadly. "we know nothing of what took place at hendle's death, save that frederick inherited and that there was no question of eunice coming into the property. but the same is left to her and her descendants; so mallien, as her sole representative, inherits." "will you dispute the will?" asked carrington anxiously. "no," said rupert, putting the document into his pocket; "it seems fair enough, and i must act honorably. when mallien returns i shall give it to him--or rather i shall take it to our family lawyer along with mallien." "and lose the property?" "my honor," said the young man gravely, "is dearer to me than money." chapter xiv a clue needless to say, as it had been agreed to keep the discovery secret for the present, hendle did not discharge mrs. beatson forthwith. such an action, justifiable though it would have been, might lead to awkward questions being asked, and carrington, for obvious reasons, advised caution. as things now stood the housekeeper would keep silent for her own sake, so the next day she went about her usual duties as if nothing had happened. none of the servants knew about her excursion, as it was supposed she had remained in her own room, according to her usual custom. so far as the outside world was concerned everything was safe, and the two men had time to look into matters at their leisure. it made rupert's gorge rise to have the treacherous woman under his roof, but until he was assured of the truth of the will, he did not dare to get rid of her. driven to bay, mrs. beatson being a woman, who would wreck continents for a whim, would ruin herself and everyone else in a whirlwind of rage. being left alone, she nursed her disappointed anger in secret. rupert's expressed intention was to take the will up to london and show it to the family lawyer, who would be able to explain matters. he had intended to do this the very next day, but carrington dissuaded him from being too impulsive. it was no use for the squire to burn his boats too soon, said the astute barrister, and to make public the document would be to burn his boats with a vengeance. "i think you should take time and turn the matter over in your mind," observed carrington artfully. "it is just as well to be cautious." "i don't see what i gain by waiting," argued the squire. "the most honest thing to do is to take the will to the lawyers. i shall have to do that sooner or later, you know." "will you?" questioned carrington significantly. "of course. what do you take me for?" if carrington had spoken his mind, he would have answered that he took the young man for a superfine fool. to throw away a fine position, a fine house, and a fine income out of sheer honesty, was not carrington's notion of common sense. but then the barrister's notions of right and wrong had become somewhat warped by a struggling life. a penniless man is always more unscrupulous in dealing with money matters than one who has never been poor, and it seemed to carrington that his friend's self-sacrificing honor was the result of ignorance. had hendle lived from hand to mouth, he would not be so ready to surrender his possessions. moreover carrington wanted to pick rupert's pockets, as mallien surmised he would. this was the real reason why he urged hendle not to strip himself of his wealth. but such urging had to be done delicately, for the squire was by no means a man to be handled easily. with this in his mind the barrister replied carefully, and did not translate his real thoughts into words. "i take you for one of the best fellows in the world," he said warmly; "but there is such a thing as overdoing honesty, you know." "i don't know," retorted the other positively. "one must be one thing or the other. there can be no tampering with honor." "of course not. i should never suggest such a thing. however, i do suggest that you should wait for a day or so before seeing your lawyer." "why?" "you forget that the will is mixed up with a crime. if your lawyers decide that mallien must have the money, the matter is bound to be made public. in that case it will become known to lawson that leigh possessed the will. i leave you to guess what complications will ensue." hendle tugged at his brown moustache moodily. "it's an infernally difficult business," he said after a pause. "what do you suggest?" carrington, rejoicing that he had succeeded thus far, had his answer ready. "i suggest that you wait for a few days, and meanwhile come with me to the vicarage." "what for?" "to look at the sundial, and see where the will was buried." "what good will that do?" "one never knows," said carrington sententiously. "who do you think buried the will?" "the man who murdered leigh to get it." "and his name?" "pouf! ask me another. how do i know?" "mrs. beatson?" "well, why not she as well as another? she had much to gain by possessing the will, and the will was in her possession last night. but for the chance of our stumbling across her when she went to unearth it, we would never have known that." "i can't think that mrs. beatson, bad as she is, would commit a murder," mused the squire reflectively. "after all, if she had the will on the night leigh was got rid of, and committed the crime, why should she bury it?" "my dear fellow, that is where the woman's artfulness comes in," said carrington quickly. "she had to give some reason for possessing the will. by hiding it in a hole, and then writing to herself that anonymous letter saying where it was to be found, she does away with all suspicion against her." "not in your mind apparently," said hendle, dryly. "of course not. but a long course of criminal law has opened my eyes to the habits of the animals. i may be unduly suspicious, i grant you, still the fact remains that the story mrs. beatson told us last night is too thin. granting that the woman is innocent, why should the real criminal tell her where to find that which he risked his life to obtain?" "it does seem strange. and yet----" "oh, you are full of scruples, hendle!" cried the barrister pettishly. "what is mrs. beatson to you that you should defend her so warmly?" "she is a woman, and i have a great respect for women." carrington made a grimace. "you answer like a raw boy. my experience of the sex has not led me to respect any single one." "yet you know dorinda?" "there speaks the lover. well then, i do respect her, if that concession will satisfy your chivalrous ideas. but i don't believe this cock-and-bull story of mrs. beatson, and i certainly don't respect her." "neither do i. all the same, i credit her story." carrington shrugged his shoulders at this persistent optimism. "then let us agree to consider her innocent until we prove her to be guilty. but you must see that if you interview your lawyers to-day, within the week a whole avalanche of troubles will descend on your thick head." "well," replied the squire, wavering, "i shall wait for a few days, as you advise. i wonder what dorinda will say?" "don't tell her," said the barrister quickly, for it was difficult enough for him to deal with one honest person without tackling a second. "she will tell her father about the discovered will if you do." "i don't care if she does. mallien has to know some time, since he is so deeply concerned in the matter." "hendle," said carrington seriously, "you are a child. don't say a word to mallien, or to his daughter, who might tell him, until you have seen your lawyers. that's common sense." on reflection rupert was obliged to confess that it was, since his cousin would certainly make trouble straightway. it would be best to have the opinion of the lawyers beforehand, so that the situation might be adjusted so far as possible before the probable inheritor came into the matter. of course he knew that dorinda would tell her father nothing if asked to keep silent, but to so ask would be to lay another burden on her. mallien was suspicious, brooding and pertinacious. if he thought that she was keeping anything from him, he certainly would never rest until he learned what it was. "i shall not tell dorinda until i have seen the lawyers," said rupert. "and you will see them----?" "in two or three days. now let us go out for a walk--to the vicarage if you like. i can't stay indoors worrying over things which at present i cannot remedy. come!" "won't it be better for us to have another look at the will before we go?" "i don't think so. i know the will by heart, and have locked it safely away, carrington. it disinherits frederick, from whom i am descended, legally enough; and if the lawyers are of the same opinion with their larger knowledge, why then my cousin must enter into his own." "there is the statute of limitations, you know," hinted carrington pointedly. "i shall take advantage of that and of anything else if i can do so consistently with my honor. but what is the use of arguing?" said hendle with a burst of bitterness, for the position pained him greatly. "we can do nothing just now. let us go for a walk." carrington was too politic to press the matter further, as he saw how the squire winced. but he had by no means given up the hope of inducing hendle to refrain from publishing the possible loss of his estates, and intended to talk about the affair when the young man was more off his guard. now with diplomatic skill bred from years of experience of shady doings, he put on his straw hat and sauntered out of doors along with his host, talking of many matters which had nothing to do with the burning question of the disputed inheritance. but as they walked down the avenue carrington spoke of a matter which really interested him. and that was of a qualm he felt when passing under the spreading branches of the oaks. he had felt that qualm before when he had first visited barship, and in the same place. "i'm walking over my grave again," he muttered uneasily, and although he would not confess to superstition, the coincidence struck him as disagreeable. "what's that?" asked rupert absently. he had been busy with his own painful thoughts and had not paid much attention to his companion's light nothings. "you know the saying that when one shivers, or has what the scotch call a grue, one is walking over one's grave. well, i had some such uncanny feeling in this very avenue when i came to see you first, and now, hang it all, i have it again. i don't like it." hendle, now more attentive, laughed. "a lawyer and superstitious?" "oh, bosh! i am not in the least superstitious. but there are some things which are hard to explain. it's gone!" carrington wiped his perspiring face and looked round with an air of relief. "what's gone?" "that feeling of walking over my own grave." "rubbish!" said hendle, who was much too stolid to believe in such things. "i expect it was only a sudden chill." "i dare say, although it is odd that i should get a chill in this blazing sunshine," muttered the barrister, who was more impressed than he cared to admit. "but there are more things in heaven and earth----" "what a well-worn quotation! you need bucking up. come into the inn and we will each have a tankard." "i don't like drinking in the morning." "nor do i. i never do. but all this worry has knocked me out of time and you aren't feeling up to the mark. come along. mrs. pansey has known me all the days of my life and is distinctly a good sort. i often look in and have a chat." "as an olympian descending among mortals," said carrington smiling, for by this time his odd feeling had passed away. mrs. pansey, who was a rosy-faced, stout old dame, received her landlord with respectful joy, and soon supplied them with tankards of cool beer acceptable to the thirst on a hot day. carrington noted how popular rupert was with the villagers, who came and went, passed and repassed, each with a curtsey, or a touch of the forelock. and hendle greeted one and all by name with kindly inquiries and genial smiles. a feeling of envy stirred the barrister's selfish heart, but he cynically consoled himself with the reflection that very soon rupert would be ousted in favor of mallien. out of sheer annoyance with this favorite of fortune, he would have liked to see such a toppling down, but nevertheless, for the gaining of his own ends, he was determined to prevent such a change of landlords. meanwhile, he listened to the incessant chatter of mrs. pansey, which was mostly concerned with the new vicar. "such a nice gentleman they say he is," she observed, beaming, "and will be here in a fortnight lodging with mrs. jones while the vicarage is being put to rights. his family come later. have you seen him, sir?" "no," answered rupert promptly; "but my friend and i are now on our way to the vicarage to see what's doing. we may meet him there." "i don't think so, sir. he came yesterday to set the men to work and won't come to-day. the workmen are painting and papering the house and digging up the garden and making a nice place of it. mrs. jabber remains on as caretaker until the family arrive. she'd like to stay on altogether, but lord bless you, sir, what would the vicar do with such a slut? he's a much more particular gentleman than mr. leigh, i do hear." hendle put an end to the landlady's babble by finishing his beer and departing, although the commonplace gossip had distracted his worrying mind for a few moments. as carrington crossed the square beside his host he ventured a remark. "let us hurry on, hendle, and have a look at the hole by the sundial before the workmen turn up the ground." "what good will that do?" snapped the squire sharply. "one never knows. it is just as well to look round. who knows but what the assassin may not have left some clue?" hendle stared. "what clue could he, or would he, possibly leave?" carrington laughed. "oh, it's only an idea--a silly one, maybe. but i have an idea that we will stumble upon some clue." "you and your ideas, carrington. first your walking over your confounded grave business and now the chance of picking up some impossible clue. it's all imagination." the barrister laughed again, but said no more. hendle was less amiable than usual, which was scarcely to be wondered at considering what was in his mind. he walked fast enough toward their destination, as if he wished to rid himself of disagreeable thoughts by swift movement. shortly they came to the rickety gate, and passed up the grass-grown avenue, dank and unwholesome, and not to be warmed even by the blazing summer sun. the surroundings were the same, but the place had lost its uncanny isolating atmosphere, and there was a stir of life in house and grounds, which showed that the place was waking up. many men were moving in and out of the open doors; there was the noise of conversation and cheerful whistling, and scaffolding was being erected against the ivy-draped walls. even in the jungle two gardeners were at work cutting down the tall tangled forest of weeds, and opening out the spaces between the trees. most of the men employed were strangers, but some of the village workers had been pressed into service and these greeted the squire and his friend respectfully. hendle nodded absently in return, then strolled through the bare house, watching the ancient paper being stripped off the walls, and the replacing of mouldering boards. afterward he and carrington walked into the jungle and, at the far end of a winding path, found the lichen-covered sundial, half buried among luxuriant weeds. it had not yet been disturbed. "i say, hendle," remarked carrington, as they crushed the lush grasses under foot, "this dial is pretty well hidden in this jungle." "yes?" "i gather from that," continued the barrister musingly, "that it would not be easy to find." rupert nodded. "not unless a person knew where to find it," he answered. "exactly. well then, if the assassin of leigh was a stranger, he would never have buried the will in a place of which he knew nothing." "you infer that the assassin of leigh was not a stranger?" "i do. and that makes me believe still more that mrs. beatson is the guilty person. she knew where to find the sundial in this tangle of greenery and in the darkness of night. therefore she must have----" "oh, let us give her the benefit of the doubt," retorted the squire, cutting short this theorizing and walking forward to peer among the weeds. "i say, here is the hole--not a very deep one." it certainly was but a shallow hole. the earth had simply been scraped away for a few inches, the document deposited and the loose mold heaped up in a kind of miniature mound. at least the two presumed so as mrs. beatson had swept aside a small quantity of earth when uncovering the parchment. there was nothing much to see, and after staring for a moment or so, hendle turned away moodily. scarcely had he done so when carrington touched him on the shoulder, and drew his attention to a small object which glittered in the long grass near the edge of the hole. "what's that?" he asked, pointing with his finger. rupert said nothing, but stooped and picked up the object. "why," he said, in a tone of surprise, "it's the jewel which mallien wears on his watch chain." the barrister exclaimed also, as he stared at the gleam in hendle's hand. it certainly was the opal in the matrix, to which mallien had drawn his attention at their first meeting. such a distinctive ornament was not easily forgotten. after a look and an exclamation he drew back and pondered. "surely mallien never----" "nonsense! nonsense!" interrupted the squire sharply. "what can mallien have to do with the matter?" "that is what i am trying to think out," said carrington dryly. "you must admit that it is strange." "what is strange?" asked rupert, determined not to commit himself. "finding this ornament here, near where the will was hidden. if we had found it on the high road now----" "yes! yes! it is odd, i admit," interrupted the squire again; "but that does not prove mallien's implication in this sorry business." "it proves that he was here in this secluded spot at one time or another, since he lost the opal among those grasses." "mallien may have wandered round the garden as we are doing." "we came deliberately here because the will was found in this place by mrs. beatson. but what took mallien to the sundial?" rupert slipped the ornament into his waistcoat pocket. "you will find it difficult to fasten the guilt of the crime on mallien," he said dryly. "you say that because the man is miss mallien's father and you wish to shield her," returned the barrister coolly. "all the same, if lawson, for instance, knew the circumstances, he would build up a very pretty case against our disagreeable friend." "as how?" "mallien knew about the will before leigh was murdered, as you know from the story of mrs. beatson. the will meant much to him, so it is just possible that he came to the vicarage to get it from leigh. failing to get it given to him freely, he struck----" "no! no! i can't believe that." "what else can you believe when the ornament, which we both know belongs to mallien, is found on the edge of the hole where the will was buried?" "mallien may be able to explain." "oh, undoubtedly. and the more precisely he explains the less i shall believe his explanation. he has missed this ornament, you may be sure, long ago, and has had plenty of time to make up a story accounting for the loss. however, whether he is guilty or innocent, the finding of this opal in the matrix will settle him." "in what way?" "hang it, hendle, you are slow in the uptake," cried carrington exasperated. "why, a child could understand. all you have to do is to go to mallien and threaten to show this jewel to lawson, calling me as a witness, and accusing him of murdering the vicar. then he'll climb down and you won't need to consider him with regard to the fortune." rupert said nothing for the moment, but turned on his heel and forced his way through the tangled path back to the rickety gate. when he and the barrister were well on the road home, he spoke again and very dryly. "it seems to me, carrington, that you regard me as a man who will do anything for money. i think i told you that my honor was dearer to me than money. i intend to give up the property to mallien, if it is legally his, even if it leaves me, as it will, a pauper. the finding of this jewel will make no difference. you understand?" "yes. but if the man is guilty he should be punished." "we can't be sure if he is guilty." carrington laughed grimly. "it seems to me that what we have discovered is an excellent proof of his guilt when taken in connection with the known facts of the case." "i don't want to think about it." "but you must. for the sake of justice, if not for your own sake. confound it, hendle, take advantage of the chance which providence has placed in your hands to save your skin. only you and i and mrs. beatson know about the will being discovered; only you and i know about this jewel which brings mallien perilously near the gallows. for your sake i shall hold my tongue, and you can have this timon on toast." "there is something in that, carrington. but i can't expect you to hold your tongue for nothing." "oh, my terms won't be exorbitant. and, of course," added the barrister, making light of his knavery, "as a poor man i must make hay while the sun shines." "oh, that is your opinion, is it?" asked rupert dryly, and, on receiving a smiling nod, walked on rapidly in silence. he had laid a trap for carrington and the man had fallen into it. he was little more than a blackmailer, who was prepared to make use of his power to enrich himself. to prevent such a thing rupert temporized, although he could scarcely stop himself from catching carrington by the throat and hurling him into the ditch. "you must give me time to think over the matter," said hendle at last. "oh, there's no hurry. we are both on the same string, you know. we can make mallien squeal now." "yes," assented rupert, wondering that the man should think him capable of such baseness, "we can make him squeal!" chapter xv circumstantial evidence rupert felt very uncomfortable. it was bad enough to have mrs. beatson in the house, when he knew how treacherous she was; but it was worse to entertain carrington as his guest. the barrister undoubtedly was determined to make money at the cost of honor. and what was more, he would probably gain his ends, unless the truth came to light. and the truth required to adjust matters was to learn beyond question what was the name of the individual who had murdered the vicar. if, indeed, mallien was the culprit, rupert felt that he was in carrington's power. it was impossible to allow that truth to come to lawson's ears, as then mallien would be arrested and there would be a public scandal. yet if carrington, who knew all details, were not bribed largely to keep silence, it seemed likely that he would denounce the miserable man. of course, as yet, hendle could not be certain that his cousin had committed the crime; but circumstances were against him, and if the police took up the matter, ruin would stare mallien in the face. for dorinda's sake such publicity was not to be thought of for one moment. hendle had no love for his cousin, who was as disagreeable and selfish a mortal as ever existed. he was capable of the most unscrupulous conduct to feed his egotism, but rupert thought--and with some degree of truth--that the very egotism in question would prevent the man from risking his neck. yet, even if he were innocent, as rupert tried hard to believe for dorinda's sake, the evidence against him was very strong. mallien, thanks to mrs. beatson, knew all about the will before leigh's death; the discovery of the ornament, near the sundial, proved that he had been where the will was buried. also possession of the will meant a fortune to mallien, and the sole reason for which the vicar could have been murdered was for the criminal to obtain possession of the parchment. indeed, it was very certain that if inspector lawson became possessed of these facts, he would not have the slightest compunction in arresting mallien, and in doing his best to have him hanged. the evidence was certainly purely circumstantial, but so strong that rupert felt convinced both judge and jury would accept it as positive truth. and, failing mrs. beatson, whom the squire did not believe to be guilty, it really looked as though mallien with his greedy nature and bad temper had struck the fatal blow. never was a man in such a dilemma. carrington, afraid of losing his chance, remained at the big house, and kept a strict watch on mrs. beatson and on mallien himself. that gentleman had returned from london in the best of spirits, having managed to pick up a most wonderful ruby for a small price. hendle had been under the impression that when so much was at stake his cousin would abandon his hobby to prosecute a search for the will and push on as rapidly as possible his claim to the property. but mallien never came near the place, and, according to dorinda, was wholly taken up with arranging his collection of gems in a new set of cabinets. this abstinence from action at such a critical period argued fear on the man's part lest dangerous information should come to light, if he made himself too conspicuous. more and more rupert became convinced that his cousin was the guilty person, and he did not know very well how to act. he could not talk to dorinda, as what he had to say was too terrible, and he was unable to converse freely with carrington, since he now mistrusted him so greatly. of course, carrington never guessed that such was the case, as rupert kept a careful guard over his words and actions, so that the barrister believed that his friend was quite willing to act in the dishonorable way suggested. and what carrington did suggest was that rupert should inform mallien of what had been discovered, and then threaten to denounce him to the police if he did not surrender all claim to the property. then the will could be thrown into the fire, mrs. beatson could be sent to australia with a sum of money, to close her mouth, and all would end up with the marriage of hendle and dorinda. for this suggestion, and for services rendered in connection therewith, carrington plainly stated that he required the sum of five thousand pounds. after beating round the bush for some time during the next two days carrington informed hendle frankly of his scheme and of the amount he expected for its carrying out. then rupert forgot his caution and told his old school friend in the most indignant way what he thought of him. the two men were walking in the park one morning when the explosion took place. rupert, as usual, was unable to remain in the house quietly, since his very painful thoughts did not permit him to take an interest in anything. he was on his legs from morning until night, and the barrister, for obvious reasons, since he wished to poison his mind, always hung round him with suggestions of what should be done to hush the matter up. on this particular morning he did more than suggest, as he was growing weary of hendle's sluggish reluctance to deal with the matter. therefore, he put his proposal into plain words and mentioned his price. rupert lost his temper and, wheeling on him in a fury, knocked him down. carrington was so amazed and startled by this sudden rebellion on the part of a sheep that he remained on the grass tongue-tied, staring up at the big man who stood by, furiously angry. "i--i--i think--you must be--be mad," stuttered the barrister. "no, i am not mad, you villain!" said hendle, between his teeth. "you think that i am as big a scoundrel as you are. i am not, and now you know it." carrington pulled himself together and rose stiffly, tenderly feeling his left eye, which was growing black. "i'll make you pay for this," he said savagely, and turned a threatening face on hendle. "you can do what you like. i am not afraid of you," retorted the squire indifferently; "and, as this trouble has taken place, there will be no need for you to return to my house. you can go away and your luggage will be sent down to the station." "you can send it to _the hendle arms_," said carrington, making up his mind swiftly as to his best course of action. "i don't intend to leave this place until i get what i want." "you won't get five thousand pounds anyhow, or five thousand pence, i can tell you," said hendle, with his usually kind eyes growing hard. "not from you perhaps, since you are such a fool. but mallien----" "mallien can defend himself. what he does has nothing to do with me." "it has a lot to do with dor----" "if you mention that name i shall knock you down again!" shouted the squire. carrington was wise enough to take the hint, being a coward at heart as all bullies are. "i should like to know why you knocked me down at all?" he complained, in sulky tones. "i did so, because you are little else than a blackmailer." "how dare you use that word to me!" cried carrington, black with rage, and he would have struck his quondam friend but that he knew from experience that he would get the worst of it in any struggle which might ensue. "what other word applies to your conduct?" demanded hendle fiercely. "as my old school chum i have treated you well, and have shown you every hospitality, as you know very well. and how do you repay me? by threatening to make things hot for me if i don't buy your silence with a large sum of money." "i didn't threaten to make things hot for you," protested carrington, snarling like a disappointed dog. "i only suggested that you should hush up the matter of the murder and the will----" "yes, and pay you to hold your tongue. what else is that but blackmail? if i was dishonorable enough to agree to your terms, your request for money would only be the first of many." "i swear that i would ask no more." "all blackmailers say that, until they get their victims in their toils by the first payment. then they show themselves in their true colors. i wonder you are not ashamed, carrington, to behave so basely." "i am not behaving basely," cried the barrister furiously. "i am poor, i admit, and i want money. but all i proposed was to your own advantage." "so that you might get a hold over me by persuading me to hush up a felony and so take every penny i possess." "that you possess," sneered carrington, recklessly throwing off the mask, now no longer a protection. "why, mallien should have your money." "and mallien shall get it when the will is looked into by the lawyers. i take it to them to-morrow. you know that i am honorable." "i know that you are a fool," snarled the baffled man; "and if you strip yourself of your property to give it to mallien, it will be all the better for me. i shall go to him and say what i know." "you are villain enough for anything. go, if you choose." "but, hendle," said carrington, almost unable to grasp the fact that relations between him and rupert had so suddenly changed for the worse, "what does all this mean? i have said little more this morning than i said to you before and only now do you object." rupert, who was going away, stopped to face his enemy. "i objected all along, as you might have seen if you had not been blinded by your own wickedness, carrington. every word you said made me loathe you more and more. the sole idea you had was to get money out of me. i thought you were a gentleman and my friend, whereas you are a villain and a blackmailer." "go on! go on!" said carrington, becoming very white and breathing very hard. "i shall make you pay for every insult." "it is impossible to insult you," retorted the squire contemptuously. "such a worm as you are doesn't feel insults. as to making me pay, you have no hold over me, and you know it." "i can take away your property by telling mallien of the will being found." "i shall tell him myself, so you needn't trouble." "i can tell lawson about mallien's guilt." "oh, as to that, you can't prove that he is guilty," said hendle coolly; "and, as you won't kill your goose with the golden eggs, you will say nothing to lawson, if mallien buys your silence. come along, i've had enough of this. you can go away and do your worst. and if you don't go straight away, i shall make a public scandal, by kicking you out of the gate." "you are nothing more than a bully. you know that i am not strong enough to fight you," said carrington furiously, but very wisely moving in the direction of the gate. "quite so. but if i were a bully, i should thrash the life out of you for daring to insult me with base proposals as you have done. you have got off very lightly, considering all things. now march and hold your d----d tongue." carrington had to do as he was bidden, for the big man looked at him in a quiet, imperious way, which meant trouble. with a would-be dignified step the baffled villain walked over the grass toward the distant gate without opening his mouth. as he passed out into the road he turned for one moment to make a last threat. rupert guessed, from the malevolent expression on his face, that he was about to refer to dorinda and made a quick step toward him. carrington winced and cringed, shut his mouth, and sped down the road at a remarkably quick pace. he had been turned out of his paradise, where he had expected to live in clover for the rest of his life with hendle under his thumb, and he knew that the closed gate divided him forever from his old school friend. therefore, did he curse, not himself, but hendle, for being such a fool. carrington was far too egotistic to lay the blame on his own shoulders, as he invariably believed his methods to be perfect. however, having lost his chance of obtaining money from rupert, it only remained for him to get it somewhere else. naturally, mallien was the first person he thought of, since that gentleman, by inheriting the property, would have the wherewithal to pay. carrington intended to remain the night at _the hendle arms_--to which place his portmanteau was sent during the afternoon--and next day to return to london. he would much rather have stayed on to attend to his nefarious business, but his position was bound to be disagreeable, when the villagers learned that he had been turned out of the squire's house, so it was best to leave the place. but in the meantime he hoped to bring mallien to his knees. with this idea he wrote a short peremptory note to the man asking him to come to the inn at eight o'clock for an interview concerning his safety, and this he sent up by hand to the cottage. on the reply would depend what attitude he would take up toward dorinda's father. if mallien refused to come, such refusal would hint that he was strong enough to fight; but if he came in answer to so insolent a message, his arrival assuredly would show that he was afraid of what might come out. therefore, when a curt line or so was brought to the barrister saying that mr. mallien would be at the inn as requested, carrington felt that he had won the first move of the game. the man was afraid, and it would be as well to take advantage of his fear. also seeing what had been discovered, it was difficult to understand how mallien could save himself. mrs. pansey was somewhat surprised when the squire's guest took up his quarters for the night in her house, and wondered what could be the reason. carrington, afraid of making bad worse, did not give her any, but simply stated that he would eat and sleep there before leaving for london by the eight o'clock train in the morning. he engaged a sitting-room and a bedroom, and enjoyed a very good dinner shortly before mallien put in an appearance. that gentleman swaggered into the stuffy little room in his usual truculent manner, carelessly dressed in gray flannels, because the evening was hot, and glittering with jewels after his usual fashion. "what the dickens do you mean by writing to me as you have done?" blustered the visitor when the door was closed. "as you have come, i dare say you can guess," retorted carrington, coolly. he had been bullied by rupert, who was strong enough to thrash him, but he did not intend to be dominated by mallien, who was weaker. also, hendle being honest and mallien a rogue, the barrister felt less at a disadvantage. he was certain that his visitor was not one who would hesitate to accept terms, however shady, so long as his purpose was served. "i can't guess," growled mallien, sitting down aggressively, "and i demand an explanation. what do you want?" "five thousand pounds," said carrington, thinking it was useless to beat about the bush with a brother knave. "what for?" "for certain information which will be of service to you." "oh, if you mean the will, carrington, i'm not going to pay something for nothing," retorted mallien, viciously. "i know that sooner or later the will is certain to be found, and when it is, hendle is not the man to dispute possession of what is rightfully mine." "the will has been found and is in hendle's possession," said carrington with a keen look. mallien stared and changed color. "and he never told me. here!" he started to his feet. "let me pass. i'm off to see rupert, and get the will." "unfortunately, he won't give it to you." "won't give it to me?" "no. he intends to take it to london to-morrow and place it in the hands of your family lawyers." "oh, well"--mallien sat down again--"that will be all right. once it is in their hands, they will see that i have my rights. have you seen the will, may i ask?" "yes. it leaves the property to eunice filbert and her descendants." "ha!" mallien expanded his chest, in a gratified manner. "then i get the property. that's all right. where was the will found?" "where you buried it." the man jumped up once more, spluttering and angry. "what the devil do you mean, sir?" "i mean this: that you murdered leigh and stole the will and buried it under the sundial in the vicarage garden. that is the information for which i ask five thousand pounds to be paid when you come into your property." mallien staggered against the wall with outspread hands. "you are mad to accuse me of--of----" "of murdering the vicar. no, i am not mad; but you will be if you refuse me the money. only for five thousand pounds will i hold my tongue." "you have nothing to hold it about," stormed mallien, savagely. "oh, yes, i have. sit down and listen." "i won't." mallien made for the door. "very good. then go, and to-morrow you will be arrested before noon. i shall go straight to tarhaven in the morning to explain things to inspector lawson. for your own safety you had much better let me explain them to you." mallien hesitated, then returned to his seat. "you are talking rubbish," he said, pulling his beard in an embarrassed manner. "i have nothing to do with the murder. i wouldn't have come here had i guessed you would talk to me in this way." carrington, now master of the situation, laughed. "the way in which my letter was worded compelled you to come." "it's a lie." "then why are you here? you who hate me--you who are a bully," taunted the barrister. "there is the door. walk out of it, if you dare!" "less talk!" cried mallien, savagely. "go on and explain on what grounds you dare to accuse me." "oh, very good. now you are talking sense;" and carrington related the adventure which had to do with the discovery of the buried will by mrs. beatson and the subsequent passing of the document into hendle's hands. "he has it at the present moment," continued the barrister, "and intends, as i said, to take it to the solicitors to-morrow. if the property is yours, as i think it is, you will be done full justice to, as hendle is not the man to keep what does not belong to him." "rupert's a fool, but honest enough," said mallien shortly, and looking very much relieved. "well, and what has all this to do with your infernal insolence in asking me for five thousand pounds? by your own showing there will be no trouble about my getting what is mine." "i have told you why i ask for the money," retorted carrington, tartly. "don't make me repeat again and again what you already know." "what is that?" demanded mallien, willfully blind. "you murdered leigh, if you will have it." "i did not murder leigh. i had no reason to do so." "oh, yes, you had. you wanted the will, and remember that kensit declared----" "oh, about the disordered papers," struck in mallien, wiping his face. "what evidence is that, when everyone knows that leigh kept his study like a pigsty. the papers were no more in disorder than usual." "sufficiently upset for the policeman to think that a search had been made." "the coroner and jury thought nothing of his evidence in that respect," said mallien, with an uneasy sneer. "because the existence of the will was not known," replied carrington, meaningly. "once it is known, a strong motive is supplied for the killing of leigh." "rupert had as much reason to murder leigh as i had.". "i don't agree with you, since he is so scrupulously honest. if the money is yours, you will have it, so why should hendle murder a man to get what in the end would not benefit him? now, you----" "i tell you, carrington, i did not touch the man!" vociferated mallien. "bosh! you struck him down and got the will and buried it under the sundial, as you know. then you made use of mrs. beatson to avert suspicion from yourself by sending the anonymous letter telling where it was." "i didn't send the letter," insisted mallien, looking gray and worn. "you did. you were in town for a few days, and while you were away, the housekeeper got the letter. since you had promised her an annuity of two hundred a year, you knew very well that she would give the will to you rather than to hendle. it was a very clever scheme, mallien." "you are talking rubbish!" cried the man in consternation, for he saw how strong was the evidence against him. "how can you prove that i was at the vicarage on that night?" "where is your opal in the matrix?" asked carrington, glancing at mallien's watch chain significantly. "i--i--i--lost it," hesitated the other. "you did, and hendle found it in my presence near the sundial; on the very verge of the hole wherein you buried the will." the listener made an inarticulate noise and clutched his hair. "it's fate, it's fate!" he muttered. "everything is against me, yet i am innocent." "prove that you are so," said carrington, leaning back in his chair indolently smiling. mallien hesitated, then seeing that the barrister knew so much, rushed into an explanation, which he would not have made to a less well-informed person. it was as if a dam had broken, so volubly did the words come tumbling out. carrington listened attentively. "i _was_ at the vicarage on that night," confessed the visitor swiftly. "after mrs. beatson told me i thought that i would get the will from leigh, since i was not sure if rupert would act straightforwardly." "knowing hendle as you do, why did you think that?" "the most honest of men might hesitate before stripping himself of all his wealth," retorted mallien sharply. "however, that is not to the point. i made up my mind to go and then i changed it again. i went to bed determined to go in the morning, but, unable to sleep, i decided to visit the vicar on that night. i rose and, putting on my clothes, went out. as i left my cottage, i heard the church clock chime eleven." "oh!" sneered carrington, remembering the hour of the murder, "then you did not commit the crime?" "no, i didn't," snarled mallien viciously. "i got to the vicarage and, in the darkness of the avenue, i stumbled against a man." "who was he?" "i don't know. i clutched him by the throat and we struggled. then he got away and probably wrenched the opal ornament from my watch chain. i missed it the next day, and surmised that i had lost it in the wrestling match. after the man fled i went to the house and peered into the study through the window. i saw leigh lying apparently dead on the floor, and was seized with fright, lest i should be accused of killing him. i saw my position in a moment, as you may guess." "you should have given the alarm," said carrington, quietly. "oh, should i?" sneered the other. "you would have done so under the same circumstances, wouldn't you?" "perhaps," returned the barrister ambiguously. "i quite see that you were in a very awkward position." "of course i was. if the fact of the will came to light, i might have been accused of killing leigh to get it." "which you did," insisted carrington, "in spite of this cock-and-bull story." "hang you!" shouted mallien fiercely, and clenching his fists. "i tell you i did not. things happened as i say, and i ran back to my cottage determined to hold my tongue, and let things take their course. that is why i have made no move about the will. the man i struggled with in the avenue was the criminal, and got my opal." "how then did hendle and i find the opal near the sundial?" "i don't know," returned mallien moodily. "if you tell the police, i can only repeat the story i am repeating now." "i don't want to tell the police," said carrington mildly. "my terms----" "i know all about your infernal terms, just as i know that i am in a fix. i am innocent, but it is difficult for me to defend myself against the circumstantial evidence." "then agree to my terms, and i'll hold my tongue." "what's the use? rupert knows as much as you do." "hendle won't speak because of your daughter." "that is true," mallien hesitated; then burst out, "you must give me time to make up my mind." "i'll give you a week," said carrington readily, for he did not wish to press the man too hardly. "but no hanky-panky, remember. i hold you in the hollow of my hand." "if i had murdered leigh," said mallien, deliberately, "i should murder you, in the hope of saving myself. as it is, i shall take a week to consider your terms!" and the man, with a snarl, went out abruptly. chapter xvi a new witness the squire was relieved when he turned carrington out of his house, as he felt how impossible it was to live under the same roof with such a scoundrel. he was still more relieved on hearing that the man had gone to london by an early train, and hoped that prudence would keep him at a safe distance from barship. as yet he knew nothing of his late friend's interview with mallien, nor did mallien appear at the big house to report the conversation. but hendle had an uneasy feeling that the barrister would not hold his tongue, unless well paid to do so; and undoubtedly he knew many things, the revelation of which would prove highly unpleasant. if carrington went to inspector lawson with his story, mallien might be arrested and the disgrace would break dorinda's heart. therefore, for the girl's sake, it was necessary to make some move, but what action could be taken rupert did not very clearly see. he passed an uncomfortable morning turning things over in his mind, and rather regretted the impetuosity which had led him to deal so sharply with a dangerous man. however, he consoled himself with the proverb that what was done could not be undone. of one thing hendle was sure, that carrington would only tell the police what he knew, when all chance of getting money to hold his tongue was at an end. he would certainly wait until mallien was placed in possession of the property before taking any steps, and this being the case, rupert felt convinced that no sudden scandal would disturb the present position of affairs. the man who gains time gains everything, and rupert, mindful of the saying, determined to make the best use of his time. he was in no hurry, and began to think of what could be done to adjust matters. at first--as he had told carrington--he intended to see the family solicitors about the will; but, on second thoughts, he decided to interview mallien beforehand. the moment that john hendle's will was placed in other hands to be dealt with, a certain amount of publicity would assuredly ensue. in that case, mallien might find himself in an awkward position, although rupert could not bring himself to believe that his cousin was guilty of so brutal a murder. nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence was undeniably strong. on the whole the squire decided that it would be wise to interview mallien before handing the document to the lawyers, and, unless the man could exonerate himself fully, it seemed dangerous to hand it over at all. there would be little sense in mallien gaining a fortune, if the necessary steps to place him in possession of it could only be taken at the risk of liberty and perhaps of life. the position was extremely difficult, unpleasant and puzzling, and hendle scarcely knew what was best to be done. finally he concluded to give the matter careful consideration for twenty-four hours before acting. so far, hendle's intentions were sensible, considering the awkward position in which he was placed. but he was no diplomatist, and, having stirred up carrington to hostility, proceeded indiscreetly to deal in a somewhat abrupt manner with mrs. beatson. having got rid of one shady person he wished to get rid of the other. already he had stated that he would send her away, but mrs. beatson had never believed that he would act immediately on his determination. she was, therefore, greatly dismayed when he summoned her into the library after luncheon, and intimated that she was to go. "why should i go?" demanded the woman with the air of a martyr. "my duties----?" "i say nothing about your duties. but i can't have a person under my roof who listens to conversations not meant for her ears." "then you shouldn't have secrets!" cried mrs. beatson furiously. "and i didn't listen intentionally. you know that." "you shouldn't have listened at all," said rupert coldly, and bracing himself to meet trouble, which she had every intention of making. "what, not to protect myself when you thought of turning me out?" "there was no protection needed on that score," said the squire politely. "i had no intention of turning you out." "then why am i turned out now?" demanded the housekeeper in a most exasperatingly illogical way. "because of your behavior, and i don't think that there is any need to explain further. to-day is saturday; you must leave on monday." "oh, very well, sir. with a year's wages, mind." "oh, no. i shall give you three months' wages, and you may consider yourself lucky that i give you any at all." "i shall go to law." rupert shook his head reprovingly. "i shouldn't if i were you. your dealings with that will won't bear looking into." "i have done nothing wrong," said mrs. beatson, becoming tearful. "ah! your ideas of morality differ from mine. i am not going to argue the point," said rupert, pointing to the door. "you can go now." "i shall tell all i know about the will," threatened the woman desperately. "as you please. but in two days the will goes to my lawyers, and if mr. mallien inherits, he will become the owner of this place. you have no hold over me there, mrs. beatson." "i believe you murdered mr. leigh yourself." "the wish is father to the thought," replied hendle dryly. "well then, if you didn't, that horrid mr. carrington did." "why do you say that?" "why did you turn him out of the place yesterday?" retorted the housekeeper. "for a very good and sufficient reason, which doesn't concern you." baffled by her master's calmness, the woman walked defiantly toward the door, anxious to hurt him, yet unable to do so. "when mr. mallien gets the money he will never allow you to marry his daughter," she said spitefully. rupert raised his eyebrows, but made no reply. he was unwilling to take her by the shoulders and thrust her out of the room, so all he could do was to remain silent until her venom exhausted itself. as is usually the case when a man deals with a woman, the weakness of mrs. beatson was her strength. "you will be a pauper without a penny," railed the housekeeper. rupert still said nothing, but turned toward the fireplace to pick up his pipe. mrs. beatson, finding that he supplied no fuel for her anger, had no more to say, and retired fuming with temper. her master lighted his pipe and sat down to consider once more how he could best deal with the situation. he was faintly nervous, as it occurred to him that perhaps it would have been better to deal less boldly with the housekeeper and the barrister. but on second thoughts he decided that he was acting straightforwardly, and that it had been just as well to take the bull by the horns. mrs. beatson went to her room, put on her best clothes and sallied forth bent upon the samson-like intention of pulling the roof down on her own head. she was in such a rage that she did not mind being hurt personally so long as rupert suffered. doubtless when her doings recoiled on herself she would be sorry that she had acted like a fool; but at the present moment she did not consider the consequence. all she wanted was to hurt some one and to make things unpleasant all round. rupert she hated for discharging her. carrington she loathed because he had brought--as she considered--her shady doings to light, and dorinda, because she was engaged to hendle. she even hated mallien, although he had never harmed her, but did not contemplate hurting him, since she hoped to receive the annuity. how she intended to make things uncomfortable she did not very well know, but she commenced operations by walking toward her son's lodgings in the village. she would tell him everything, and leave him to deal with her insulted honor. that kit might agree with the squire in reprobating her eavesdropping never struck her for a single moment. she was in much too great a rage to be reasonable. kit was not at home, and his landlady said that he had gone to luncheon at dr. tollart's. mrs. beatson snorted when she heard this, as she did not wish kit to marry the girl, and objected to his keeping company with her. still bent upon relieving her mind of its burden, she made for the doctor's house, which was at the far end of the village, and speedily arrived at the front door. the servants informed her that dr. tollart was absent on his rounds, but would be back soon. meanwhile, miss tollart was within along with mr. christopher beatson. the servant, having a feminine sympathy with the lovers, did not ask this marplot to step in; but mrs. beatson brushed her aside like a fly and stalked into the drawing-room, where she heard gay voices. "i went to your lodgings and learned that you were here, kit," said mrs. beatson, grimly, "philandering as usual, instead of earning your livelihood." the young couple rose in dismay at the sight of this uncomfortable woman, who was always like a stormy petrel. sophy was the first to recover herself, and immediately took up arms on behalf of kit. "it's saturday," she said coolly, "and if kit works all the week, he has a right to one holiday, i suppose, during the seven days." mrs. beatson sat down and glared. "how do you expect me to welcome you as a daughter-in-law when you behave toward me in this impertinent manner?" "i don't mean to be impertinent," said sophy, sorry for the agonized expression on her lover's face; "but you are so unreasonable." "unreasonable!" shrieked the visitor. "it is other people who are unreasonable, if you only knew all." "knew all what?" asked kit nervously. "i've been insulted and discharged. me, a lady born and bred and----" "discharged!" echoed sophy, interrupting. "do you mean to say that you have left the big house?" "i leave on monday," said mrs. beatson, getting out her handkerchief and beginning to sob. "oh, the insults that i have received! mr. hendle must be thrashed, and i have come to ask my son to thrash him." "me!" kit bounced out of his seat in dismay. "why, mr. hendle is my best friend, and i owe everything to him." "that's right. go against your mother," wailed mrs. beatson. "you are just like your father, who was always a coward and a bully." "kit is neither," said sophy indignantly. "little as i think of men who won't give us the vote, i think a great deal of kit." "bother your votes!" cried mrs. beatson, suddenly recovering her composure, as it was evident that tears did not help her. "all your goings-on are silly." "silly! well, i like that, when we are trying to vindicate the cause of----" "oh, sophy, don't make a row!" interrupted kit, who saw how the two glared at one another. "let us hear what mother has to say." "i have a great deal to say," said mrs. beatson savagely, "and if you young people will only hold your tongues, as young people should in the presence of older and wiser----" "older certainly, but not wiser," pertly said miss tollart. "for my sake, sophy," implored kit, seeing that his mother was stiffening for a royal row. "i want to hear why mr. hendle has discharged----" the word was enough to recall mrs. beatson to a memory of her wrongs and she proceeded volubly to discourse about the same. yet even as she began it occurred to her that it would be as well to bind the young couple to secrecy for the present, as hendle's hint about the law lingered uncomfortably in her mind. after all, a judge and jury might be silly enough to condemn her behavior. "what i have to tell you both, you must keep to yourselves," she said solemnly, and looked to see if the door was closed. "it's a matter of life and death." kit looked scared at this exordium, and even sophy, bold as she was, began to feel nervous. she knew what a reckless person her future mother-in-law was, and wondered what she had been doing to justify so grave a request. "neither kit nor i will say anything," she promised, catching at her lover's hand for comfort. "i hope it's nothing very serious." "it isn't," said mrs. beatson, ironically, "unless you consider the death of mr. leigh serious." "what?" kit jumped up with his face as white as chalk. "don't," said his mother irritably, "you get on my nerves, and they're bad enough as it is." she paused, then continued, rather pleased with the sensation she was making. "i know a great deal about the murder." "oh!" miss tollart's eyes grew large and round, and became filled with curiosity. "have you any idea as to who murdered mr. leigh?" "i have. but what i am about to tell you, keep to yourselves." "we have promised that," snapped sophy, for all this mysterious talk was irritating her greatly. "what is it you know?" "i must begin at the beginning," said mrs. beatson solemnly, and taking every advantage of the situation; "and when my son knows all, i shall expect my son to defend my honor." "against mr. hendle?" asked kit nervously. "he has behaved like a brute!" cried mrs. beatson, flaming up. "but bad as he is, he is not so bad as that nasty mr. carrington." "the lawyer," said sophy, curiously. "what has he to do with it." "if you will only let me speak, i shall explain," said mrs. beatson, in a dignified manner. "go on, mother," said her son impatiently. "don't keep us on tenterhooks." mrs. beatson frowned severely, but, not seeing her way to an answer, began to relate her grievance. it was characteristic of her profound belief in her own rectitude that she told everything, plainly and baldly, never thinking that her listeners would condemn what she had done. from the moment when the squire had informed her of his intention to marry miss mallien forthwith, down to the interview which had just taken place, the housekeeper detailed all that had happened, concealing nothing, but exaggerating a great deal. naturally she made herself out to be a martyr, and was greatly annoyed when she brought her story to an end, to see disgust written on sophy's face and dismay on the face of her son. "what do you both mean by glaring at me in that way?" she demanded, after waiting for comments, which were not made as speedily as she expected. "i don't think that you have behaved at all well," said sophy bluntly, seeing that kit was speechless. "what do you mean by that?" demanded mrs. beatson bristling. "impertinence." "mother," struck in the young man quietly, and recovering his speech, "if this matter is to be discussed we may as well discuss it reasonably." "i ask for nothing better. haven't i been disgracefully treated?" "no," said kit, pulling himself together and becoming both manly and heroic; "you had no business to listen to mr. hendle and mr. leigh; you had no business to tell mr. mallien what you overheard; and you had no business to meddle with that will." "hear! hear!" said sophy, clapping her hands. "i agree with kit. and, as you have behaved so badly to mr. hendle, i don't see what he could do but send you away." after a speechless pause mrs. beatson appealed to her son. "kit, will you sit there and hear me insulted?" "sophy doesn't mean to insult you, mother," said kit quietly, and looking as white as he was determined. "you must be reasonable." "i am reasonable!" cried his mother violently. "there never was such an unreasonable person as you are. my own son turns against me," wailed the exasperating woman, again taking out her handkerchief to sob--"my own son, and i nursed him as a baby." kit and sophy looked at each other helplessly, wholly undecided how to deal with this impossible woman. mrs. beatson only saw things in her own way and expected everyone else to see them as she concluded they should be seen. she had no common sense; she had no logic, she had no control over her temper, and when anyone disagreed with her, she made herself objectionable in every way. miss tollart, face to face with this unreasonable feminine nature, heaved a sigh. "well, i don't wonder that we don't get the vote," she mourned. "we aren't in the least ready for it." "hush, sophy!" said kit, touching her hand. "we must understand more about the matter. it can't be allowed to rest here." "you promised to hold your tongue!" shrieked mrs. beatson, rather scared by the look on her son's face. "i shall do so, so far as is consistent with my honor," retorted kit bluntly; "and i'm not going to allow mr. hendle to get into trouble. he has been a good friend to you, mother, and a good friend to me. if you had a spark of gratitude toward him, you would never have behaved as you have done." "how dare you speak to me in that way?" "because the time is past when you could play the tyrant." "tyrant! tyrant! this to your mother, who bore you." "i don't wish to be disrespectful, mother, but you are so unreasonable that you compel me to be so. it is all very well so far as things are between ourselves; but in this story which you have told serious matters are concerned. your share in them is not honorable." "i can do what i like," said mrs. beatson in a more subdued tone, for the attitude taken up by her son impressed her unpleasantly. he was no longer a boy to be bullied, but a man to be conciliated. "no, you can't do what you like when your doings bring you into trouble with the law," insisted kit, and sophy nodded her approbation, which was odd considering how she dared authority as a suffragist. but in her own way she was as unreasonable as mrs. beatson, although she would never have admitted as much, and would have been indignant at the mere suggestion. "i won't get into trouble with the law," said mrs. beatson rather nervously. "that all depends upon what steps the police take." "the police know nothing," said the housekeeper hastily. "but the police will know, mother. i don't think so honorable a gentleman as mr. hendle will allow things to remain as they are. he is innocent----" "is he? he had every reason to kill mr. leigh because of the will, which is likely to leave him a pauper." "i say he is innocent!" shouted kit, stamping, and the expression on his face was such as to reduce his mother to frightened silence. "nothing will ever make me believe that mr. hendle would act in such a wicked way." "then it's mr. mallien," whimpered mrs. beatson. "no," said sophy quickly, "mr. mallien knows well enough that mr. hendle will act honorably about the will. he would not risk his neck to get a document which he knew mr. hendle would not dispute if it is legal." "well," said the housekeeper, still bent upon accusing someone, "i shouldn't be surprised if that nasty mr. carrington is guilty. mr. hendle went up the very next day after the conversation with mr. leigh to consult him. mr. carrington might have killed mr. leigh to get the will, so that he could make mr. hendle give him money for it." "i quite believe that mr. carrington did try to get money," said kit, after a pause, "as he had a quarrel with mr. hendle yesterday." "how do you know that?" "someone told mrs. pansey that angry words passed between mr. hendle and mr. carrington at the gate of the park. and mr. carrington slept last night at the inn before going to london this morning." "they did have a quarrel," admitted the housekeeper, "at least, i suppose so, as mr. carrington did not stay at the big house last night. but we don't know if the quarrel was over money as the price of the will. mr. carrington was in town on the night mr. leigh was murdered, so he can have nothing to do with it." sophy jumped up and clapped hands. "he was not in town on that night," she cried, with her eyes blazing with excitement. "father came down by the eight o'clock train on that night and mr. carrington came also. father saw him on the liverpool street station and afterward on the barship platform." kit turned on the girl sharply. "sophy, are you certain?" "yes, i am. you can ask father yourself." "but dr. tollart doesn't know mr. carrington," remarked mrs. beatson anxiously. "yes, he does. when mr. carrington came down here first he called to see father about an aching tooth. he came to this very house. father did not take much notice of mr. carrington on that night, as he thought he was just coming down to see mr. hendle. he never connected mr. carrington with the murder. but now, now,"--sophy clapped her hands again, so excited did she feel--"from what you say, mrs. beatson, i shouldn't be at all surprised to hear that mr. carrington was guilty." "we can't be certain of that," said kit quickly. "i am certain," said mrs. beatson, rising, "and i'll tell inspector lawson what you have told me, just to pay that carrington out for his poking and prying." "i shouldn't if i were you, mother," remarked kit dryly. "if you can make things hot for mr. carrington, he can make things disagreeable for you. better let mr. hendle know first, and allow him to attend to the matter. after all, mother," said kit, with a shrug, "we are assuming a great deal. mr. carrington may be quite innocent, and his quarrel with mr. hendle may have nothing to do with the will." "i believe he is guilty," said mrs. beatson viciously, and said it because she wished to think so. "so do i," put in sophy, earnestly. "still, mrs. beatson, i wouldn't go to see inspector lawson if i were you. you might be arrested as an accessory after the fact, you know." "me!" mrs. beatson grew white and tottered. "i have nothing to do with--oh, kit, kit, do you think--do you think----" "i think you are quite safe, so long as you hold your tongue and allow mr. hendle to look into things." "oh, i shall not say a word!" groaned mrs. beatson, now thoroughly frightened for her own skin, "and you and sophy will keep silent for my sake." "i shall tell mr. hendle," said kit, firmly. "i must." "and i shall tell dorinda," chimed in miss tollart. "she is engaged to mr. hendle, and they can talk it over together. union is strength, as i know from our votes for women troubles, and if mr. carrington intends to accuse mr. mallien, or mr. hendle, he will find himself in the wrong box. they can call father as a witness if the case comes into court." "a new witness," declared kit eagerly, "and one who will put the saddle on the right horse. the mere presence of mr. carrington in barship on that night shows that he has something to do with the matter." "we can't be sure," murmured mrs. beatson weakly, for by this time she was becoming dreadfully nervous about her share in the proceedings. "we'll soon make sure when mr. hendle questions mr. carrington as to his doings in barship on that night," said kit decidedly. "now go, mother, and hold your tongue. it's dangerous to speak." "i'll hold my tongue," promised mrs. beatson, and tottered away weakly. chapter xvii difficulties kit owed a great deal to hendle, and was never backward in admitting that the squire was his benefactor. when mrs. beatson first took service at the big house, the boy was at school, but she explained to her employer that she could no longer pay fees for his education. rupert, approving of the bright, intelligent lad, thereupon arranged for the rounding off of his scholastic career, and afterwards paid for his training as an engineer. it was due to the squire that kit occupied the excellent position he did in the exploitation and sale of motors. also it must be stated that young beatson took every advantage of his opportunities, earning the esteem and approval of all with whom he came into contact. with the squire's aid and his own brains there was every chance that kit would succeed in life more than most. naturally the boy was deeply grateful to hendle for his consistent kindness; but he also adored him as an athlete, who possessed all those out-of-door qualities which youths most admire in their seniors. it therefore distressed him greatly when his mother came with her tale of woe. kit, loyal to the core, would not admit for one instant that his benefactor was in the wrong, especially as he knew only too well what a trying woman the squire had to deal with. as a parent, kit had always found mrs. beatson uncomfortable, since she invariably used her authority to force him into agreement with herself, however unreasonable her ideas might be. like many another mother, mrs. beatson would not recognize that her son was grown up and had a right to have his own opinions. he was to obey her in all things and do what he was told. kit thought otherwise, and, as the views of the two clashed, there was always a certain amount of friction between them. having regard to his mother's aggressive personality, it was extremely hard for young beatson to obey the fifth commandment. rupert knew the boy's difficulties in the adjustment of his filial duties and greatly sympathized with him. therefore he was by no means surprised when kit made his appearance at the big house early on sunday afternoon. it was to be expected that mrs. beatson would tell her son about her dismissal, but when hendle heard what his visitor had to say he was surprised to hear that the woman had been so frank in her explanation. he made kit sit down and repeat his story of the interview, then walked up and down the library much perplexed, for the boy, being the son of the woman who had been discharged, it was by no means easy to talk to him. and rupert was so kind-hearted that it was a positive pain for him to say a word against anyone. yet what could he say in condonation of mrs. beatson's extraordinary behavior? kit saw the worried look on his hero's face and felt worried himself in consequence. therefore did he try to smooth matters. "of course, sir, i know that my mother is rather unreasonable," he remarked, in a low voice, twisting and turning his straw hat. "i don't quite agree with her views, you know." rupert gave the boy an approving glance, as he quite understood how unpleasant was his position. "your mother has had much trouble in her life, and perhaps her nature is rather warped. what would you like me to do?" kit reflected, then spoke up straightly with a flush on his face. "i think it would be better for you to allow mother to go away for a holiday instead of dismissing her at once. while she is away, she can give you notice and can look for another place. in this way her pride will be saved." "why should her pride be saved?" asked the squire hastily and bluntly. "how can i answer that question, mr. hendle?" "of course not. i beg your pardon, kit. i should not have asked it. what you say is very reasonable, and i have every wish to make things easy for your mother. she shall take a holiday, and can leave when she has found a better place." kit shook his young head. "she'll never find a better place, sir, or a better friend," he said sadly. "you have been good to her, and more than good to me. i wish mother could see things as i see them, but--but----" "there! there!" rupert clapped him on the back. "i know how you feel and what you wish to say. even if your mother does leave me, kit, that need make no difference to our friendship." "it certainly will not," said the young fellow emphatically. "i don't think mother has acted well; nor does sophy." "your mother certainly was very explicit, kit. i wonder she did not make out a better case for herself." "well, you see, mr. hendle, mother never thinks that she does wrong. it is a very difficult thing for me to say, since i am her son, but i quite understand why you want her to go. i suggest that she should take a holiday, and that she should give you notice on the plea of finding another place, both to save her pride and to shut people's mouths." "you think they will gossip--that your mother will talk?" "i don't think that mother will talk, mr. hendle: she is much too frightened to do so, as she knows that she has not acted well. sophy and i told her so, and gradually she came to see that she had made a mistake. but if you send her away people will ask the reason." rupert nodded and straddling on the hearth-rug put his hands behind his back. "and i can't give any reason other than the true one. it is impossible to give that, since it involves danger to other people. i am glad that you persuaded your mother to hold her tongue, kit, and it is a great relief for me to know that you and miss tollart are acting so discreetly." "we want to help you, sir." "i don't see how either of you can do that, kit." "why not? we know the story of----" "from your mother's point of view you know the story," interrupted the squire hastily, "but she does not know all." "there is a will, which may disinherit you, i suppose, mr. hendle?" "oh, yes. the will of john hendle, leaving everything to the elder branch of the family, represented by mr. mallien. i intend to take it to my lawyers to-morrow, after i have seen my cousin." "why not surrender the property to your cousin, sir, without taking the will to the lawyers?" questioned kit shrewdly. rupert shook his head. "i wish everything to be done openly." "but seeing what is involved, mr. hendle, isn't there some danger of a scandal if any public statement is made?" "there is. all the same, if i gave up the property and sneaked away, people would talk, and the truth might come out in a crooked way. i wish it to come out in a straight way, and so intend to act as i say." "will you lose everything, sir?" "i think so, if the will is proved to be legal. then, kit, i shall have to come to ask you to get me a situation in that factory of yours." the boy was greatly distressed. "oh, mr. hendle, don't talk like that. it is wicked to think that a kind-hearted man like you should lose your property. i don't think mr. mallien will make such a good use of the money." "that is his affair, kit," replied hendle, with a sigh. "but you may be sure that i shall do all i can do to keep the property. there is a certain statute of limitations which may help me. perhaps mr. mallien and i can arrange to divide the money. but what is the use of talking?" rupert threw himself despondently into a chair. "you can't help me." "not so far as regards the property, mr. hendle," said kit earnestly; "but i may be able to help you to clear up the mystery of the murder." rupert sat up and stared. "what?" "oh, i don't say that i know anything for certain, sir, but i have my suspicions, you know." "oh, have you? who is it you suspect?" "i shall tell you when you relate to me all details unknown to my mother." hendle rose again restlessly, and walking up and down, thought deeply. when he paused again before kit, he had made up his mind to be frank. "i know you are my friend," he said earnestly, "and i know that you are honest and true." "i am all that," rejoined beatson emphatically, "especially when there is anything to be done for you, sir. i shall never forget your kindness to me. anything you say will go no further than sophy." "why sophy?" asked rupert suspiciously. "because she knows so much that she may as well know all. and her suspicions point in the direction that mine do. she is now with miss mallien----" rupert uttered an ejaculation. "not reporting the conversation with your mother, i hope," he said hastily. "yes," answered kit bluntly; "it is better for sophy to speak to miss mallien than to mr. mallien." "does she--do you--suspect my cousin?" "no! but sophy will explain when she brings miss mallien here. we arranged to meet here shortly, mr. hendle"; and kit glanced at his watch. "i dare say the two ladies will be here in an hour." "i didn't want miss mallien to know anything," said hendle, frowning. "it is absolutely necessary that she should know," said beatson calmly; "and as she loves you, sir, and is going to marry you, she should know all. i'm always in the habit of telling sophy my troubles, and she gives me the best of advice. every woman is not so unreasonable as my mother, mr. hendle." anxious as he was, rupert could not help smiling. "i trust not," he said at length, and sat down quietly. "well, kit, you are more shrewd than i gave you credit for being. perhaps you can help me, after all. let us take advantage of the hour before the ladies arrive to go into the matter." "you must be quite frank with me, sir, you know." "that is only fair. yes. i shall be quite frank. take a cigarette, kit, and listen carefully to what i have to say." shortly rupert had his pipe and kit a cigarette. the door and windows being closed, hendle felt quite secure, as it was unlikely that mrs. beatson would indulge in eavesdropping again, seeing what a severe lesson she had received. hendle related slowly all that had happened, and supplied details missing in the story of mrs. beatson. he ended with a short sketch of his present position, and the difficulty he found in deciding what action to take. kit was so interested in what was said that he allowed his cigarette to go out, and when the story was ended stared tongue-tied at the squire. rupert laughed at the expression on the boy's face. "you seem as perplexed as i am," he remarked with a shrug. "i don't think that i am perplexed," said kit slowly and relighting his cigarette; "only i am astonished that you have not spotted the right man who murdered the vicar." "things are too muddled for me to spot anyone," replied hendle dryly. "my cousin accuses me; mr. carrington accuses your mother." "it is ridiculous for you or my mother to be accused," said kit quietly. "my mother hasn't the pluck to kill a fly in spite of her tempers, and you----" kit laughed. "what bosh! i'd as soon believe sophy was guilty." "well, only your mother and i and my cousin knew about the will before----" "mr. carrington knew." "oh, yes. but he was in town on the night leigh was killed, so----" "he was not in town," interrupted kit sharply. "he was in barship." hendle dropped his pipe and stared. "are you sure of what you are saying?" "you can ask dr. tollart if you doubt me." "dr. tollart!" echoed hendle, much surprised. "what does he know?" "he came down on the evening when the vicar was murdered, and saw mr. carrington both on the liverpool street platform and on the barship platform." "did he speak to him?" "no. he told sophy that mr. carrington had come down, but that he had traveled in another carriage. after all," went on beatson thoughtfully, "there was no reason why the doctor should speak. he had only seen mr. carrington once when he called on him to get a cure for his toothache." "yes. i remember he went to see the doctor when he first came," replied rupert mechanically. "i was in the church with miss mallien, and carrington, on his way back to the big house, looked in about his tooth on tollart." he paused, then continued: "what train was it?" "the one which leaves liverpool street at eight." "that arrives here at a quarter past nine," said hendle meditatively. "yes, and as the vicar was murdered at eleven, mr. carrington had plenty of time to make his plans." "i can't believe that carrington is the assassin," muttered hendle, in dismay, for he dreaded lest he should prove the accusation to be true. "did dr. tollart connect carrington with the murder?" "no. if he had, he would have spoken out. he took little notice of mr. carrington, thinking he was coming down on a visit to you. and as mr. carrington was with you the next day, of course the doctor believed that it was as he had thought." "yes, i see. but carrington did not come on that night. he came by the midday train next day." "the doctor didn't know that," said kit, nodding; "in fact, he thought no more about the matter after he told sophy, and he only told her as a piece of gossip, you understand." "yes! yes! i see that, as carrington was with me the next day, his presence in the eight o'clock train on the previous night would arouse no suspicion in tollart's mind. still, his being at barship on that night doesn't mean that he killed the vicar." "well," said kit, with a wisdom beyond his years, "i rather think that it is very good evidence against him. you had told him about the will, and he knew what it meant to you. what he said when you kicked him out the other day shows that he wants a large sum of money. he intended perhaps to stun the vicar and get the will, so as to make his terms with you; but the vicar, having heart disease, died straightway. for that reason mr. carrington buried the will, and sent an anonymous letter to my mother." "but mr. carrington did not know where the sundial was. how, then, could he find it in the nighttime, hidden as it was among the bushes?" "oh, i can't explain everything," said beatson frankly; "but you must admit, sir, that it is odd mr. carrington should have been in barship on the night of the murder, without saying a word to you. if his intentions had been innocent, he would have come for the night to you." "true enough, kit. i wonder where he did spend the night?" kit shrugged his shoulders. "you will have to ask him that. i really believe that he is the guilty person." "but what about that opal in the matrix which belongs to my cousin? it was found by me on the verge of the hole where the will was buried." "did you find it?" "well, no. it was carrington who pointed it out glittering among the grasses. i merely picked it up." "well," said kit, with a judicial air, "the person who loses generally manages to find. how do you know that mr. carrington didn't drop the opal there when your back was turned?" "you are very rapidly weaving a rope for the man's neck," observed hendle dryly. "after all, we are taking a great deal for granted." "well, sir, all you have to do is to ask mr. carrington to explain." "humph! that will be awkward, considering we are declared enemies. however, we shall see. i think it will be best to speak to my cousin first." kit agreed with this suggestion and then held his tongue. he had said all that he could say, and having placed the squire on his guard, there was nothing more to be done. rupert himself did not pursue the conversation further, but walked up and down, musing over what he had heard. for quite five minutes there was silence, and then dorinda made her appearance, followed by miss tollart. the girl looked very pale and anxious. "what does all this mean, rupert?" she asked nervously. "all what?" "sophy has told me a strange story," said dorinda, taking a seat, "and i suppose kit has told it to you also." hendle nodded. "yes. i know that carrington was in barship on the night when leigh was murdered--unless, of course, dr. tollart has made a mistake." "my father made no mistake," struck in sophy, flushing, for she guessed that the squire was hinting at the doctor's infirmity. "he was quite sober when he came home on that night. i was waiting up for him. he mentioned in quite a casual way that mr. carrington had traveled down by the same train, and neither of us thought anything more about the matter, even when we heard next morning about the murder. we thought that mr. carrington had come down to see you, squire, and he certainly was with you the next day." "he was," admitted rupert quietly, "and his being with me made you believe that what you thought was true. is it not so?" "in a way. but the real truth is that neither my father nor myself thought anything at all about the matter. only mrs. beatson's hint that mr. carrington might possibly be guilty made me remember." "do you think that the man is guilty?" asked rupert quickly. sophy bent her dark brows in a frown and reflected. "i couldn't go into a witness box and swear that he committed the murder," she observed; "but he came down to barship on that night, and if he did not stay with you, mr. hendle, he must have had some strong reason to keep his visit a secret." "your father can swear to this visit?" "yes. i asked him again if he remembered mr. carrington coming down, and he said that he could. of course," added sophy significantly, "i had to ask the question in a way not likely to arouse my father's suspicions as to why it was asked. it is no use letting him know too much, as he might talk. but if necessary he can prove what he told me." dorinda shivered. "i never liked mr. carrington," she observed. "all the same, i can't believe that he murdered mr. leigh." "some one must have murdered him," said kit, a trifle dryly; "and why not mr. carrington, rather than your father, or the squire? for my part, going by what mr. hendle has told me, i believe mr. carrington is guilty." "how are we going to prove him to be guilty?" "well," said rupert doubtfully, "i see no way save asking him to explain why he came down to barship on that night. unless he gives a reasonable excuse, he will be in danger of being arrested." "but, rupert, in that case my father will be in danger." "how so?" "don't you know that mr. carrington sent for my father the other day, and had an interview with him at _the hendle arms?_" "no. what did he wish to see your father about?" "he threatened to accuse him of committing the crime, so as to gain possession of the will. i don't know exactly what passed," went on dorinda anxiously, "as my father told me little. all he really said was that he was in danger of being arrested, because mr. carrington could give evidence against him, which would be difficult to disprove." "but your father surely did not admit that he was guilty, dorinda?" "certainly not," cried the girl, flushing indignantly. "how can you suggest such a thing? but as mr. carrington wants money he is ready to say anything or do anything likely to force my father into paying him to hold his tongue." rupert smiled grimly. "carrington knows that your father has not sufficient money to pay him what he wants." "what does he want?" asked sophy, looking up. "five thousand pounds was the price he demanded from me," said hendle, "and i don't think he'll take a penny less from mr. mallien. but in order to get the money carrington will have to wait until my cousin is in possession of my property. until then you can be sure, dorinda, that he will take no steps to make things uncomfortable." "no, i think you are right," murmured miss mallien, greatly relieved. "but what is best to be done?" "i have already made up my mind. in the first place i shall see your father and learn exactly what took place at this interview. afterwards we can have a talk with carrington. then he will----" "oh, let the will alone until we learn the truth about this murder," urged dorinda anxiously. "to clear my father from all chance of being accused is the first thing to be done. see my father, rupert; perhaps he will be more frank with you than he was with me." "he must be frank if he wants to save himself," said sophy bluntly. "don't worry, dorinda. my opinion is that we should give mr. carrington plenty of rope with which to hang himself. when he is fully committed, then we can turn the tables on him by saying what we know of his presence in barship on the night of the murder. there's nothing to be afraid of." "i'm not exactly afraid," said dorinda slowly, "but the suspense is very trying, with mr. carrington working in the dark." "we'll force him to come out into the open, miss mallien," said kit resolutely; "then he will have to defend himself, and won't have time to accuse other people. he shan't have everything his own way, anyhow." "hear! hear!" cried sophy, clapping her hands. "you're a brick, kit. for my part i believe that mr. carrington has only to be faced boldly to bring him to his knees." rupert shook his head. "he can do some damage before he is forced to take up that position." "what does it matter, so long as the damage won't be lasting?" said dorinda impatiently. "i am certain that my father is innocent." "and so am i," finished hendle with a shrug; "so there only remains carrington as the possible criminal. well, we shall see. anyhow, as he won't move until my cousin is in possession of the property, we have ample time to arrange what is best to be done. meantime let us keep what we know to ourselves." "but what about mrs. beatson?" hesitated sophy, glancing at kit. "mrs. beatson," said rupert, grimly polite, "is going away for a holiday, and if she hears of a better situation she will not return here." "i'm glad of that, squire!" and sophy, guessing the plan which was to save the housekeeper's pride, felt greatly relieved. little as she liked her future mother-in-law, she did not wish to see her disgraced. "and now i think kit had better take me home." "but i have more to say," began kit anxiously, only to be silenced by sophy. "no, you haven't," she declared imperiously, and marched him to the door. "you have given the squire quite enough to think about"; then she sank her voice to scold: "don't be a fool. they want to be alone!" "oh!" murmured kit, "i see"; and he submitted to be led away. chapter xviii setting a trap mallien, by telling his daughter a half truth instead of the whole truth, had made her very nervous, and although she asked for a more detailed explanation he had refused to give it to her. dorinda was therefore much relieved when sophy conducted her to the big house and hidden matters were made more plain. when in possession of facts she quickly recognized that the position of her father was highly dangerous, should carrington speak to the police. but the girl agreed with rupert that he would not do so, until all chance of getting money for his silence had disappeared. even if mallien was willing, such money could not be obtained until the property passed from the squire to his cousin, so if rupert refused to give up the same, carrington would be forced to wait. it was not likely that he would kill the goose with the golden eggs by speaking prematurely. and there was, as rupert pointed out to dorinda, a grave doubt whether he would speak at all, when informed that his presence in barship on the night of the murder was known. hendle intended to question the barrister on this point and hear what defense he could offer, but before doing so, desired to see his cousin and enlist his aid. it was even more to mallien's interest than to rupert's to bring carrington to book, and only by the cousins joining forces could they accomplish their end. and that was, to learn for certain who had murdered the vicar. it assuredly seemed as though the barrister was the guilty person, and should the crime be brought home to him, his evil scheme to acquire money by blackmail would be frustrated. instead of accusing mallien to the police, it was probable that carrington would be forced to fly lest lawson should lay hands on him. dorinda returned home in a much more comfortable frame of mind, since rupert thus placed matters in a better light. she was also more content because affairs were in her lover's hands. he, if anyone, would be able to make the crooked straight. one of hendle's last injunctions to the girl was that she should say nothing to her father about her visit to the big house. he warned her not to repeat what she had heard, and not to question her father in any way regarding his dealings with carrington. rupert arranged matters thus because he intended to call on his cousin next day and have a complete understanding with him. mallien therefore was much annoyed, and very illogically so, when his daughter no longer implored him to be plain with her. on sunday evening and monday morning she saw him looking gloomy and disturbed, yet made no effort to cheer him, or, as he put it, to bear his burden. dorinda laughed outright when her father made this last remark. "really, father, you are unreasonable," she observed, when putting on her hat to go shopping in the village. "how can i bear your burden when you won't tell me what it is?" "i have told you," growled the little man crossly, "that blackguard carrington dares to accuse me of murdering leigh." "well," said dorinda lightly, "as you didn't murder him what does it matter?" "you talk rubbish. carrington can tell serious lies which may endanger my liberty." "what are those lies, father?" "i shan't tell you," snapped mallien. dorinda shrugged her shoulders and took up her sunshade. "then how can you expect me to bear your burden, as you put it? you tell me enough to make me anxious, yet not enough to enable me to help you." "you can't help me." "in that case there is no more to be said." this speech was so unanswerable that mallien could find no reply and retreated to his own particular room, feeling--rather inconsequently--that he was not receiving the attention and sympathy which was his due. it never seemed to strike him that his daughter could scarcely administer to his comfort while she was ignorant of necessary information. but nothing irritates an unreasonable man more than being treated reasonably, and mallien scowled blackly when he saw from the window dorinda tripping lightly in the direction of the village. he was quite sorry for himself. "i did think that my own daughter had some decent feeling in her," he meditated sadly; "but she's like everyone else--selfish in the extreme. oh, it's no wonder that i hate everyone. people think only of themselves. now what the dickens do you want? hang you!" this last question he asked aloud, being still at the window, he saw rupert open the little garden gate and walk briskly up to the door. as dorinda had gone one way and rupert had come another, mallien never dreamed that there was any understanding between them, or that his daughter had departed so as to afford her lover a chance of speaking to her very egotistic parent. this had been arranged between the two on the previous day, and to carry out the scheme hendle knocked at the door of his cousin with the will in his pocket. before he left the cottage he was determined to force mallien into plain speaking. things were much too dangerous to permit any further beating about the bush. "well, and what do you want?" said mallien, repeating his former question as he opened the door to the visitor. "i want to see you," said hendle very pointedly. "it is time we had an explanation." "about what?" "about this," and rupert pulled the soiled and crumpled parchment out of his pocket--"the will of john hendle." "oh! so you have it. and how did you get it, may i ask?" "you can ask in your own room," said rupert politely. "i can scarcely give you an explanation on the door-step." "afraid of consequences to yourself," grumbled mallien, nevertheless yielding so far as to lead the way into his sanctum. "oh, dear me, no," replied the visitor, seating himself. "afraid of consequences to you." "to me!" mallien dropped into a chair before his desk. "what do you mean?" "i think you know very well." "i don't," said the man doggedly and determined to leave all necessary explanation to his cousin. "you speak in riddles." "we must solve them together." rupert spoke dryly, then thrust the will under mallien's nose, "read that, and tell me what you think." out of sheer contrariety the host would have refused, but his curiosity and greed got the better of him, and he eagerly read the document to learn if indeed the hendle property would come to him. the squire leaned back in his chair, filling his pipe and watching the various emotions expressing themselves on mallien's face. doubt, amazement, satisfaction and exultation all appeared in turn, and when he had mastered the will, he looked at rupert with an expression of triumph. mallien felt that he was top-dog at last, and took a malicious delight in emphasizing the agreeable position. "the property comes to me," he said, beaming with self-satisfaction. "there isn't the least doubt about it." "so i gather after reading that will," answered rupert calmly. "john hendle certainly left everything to eunice and her descendants. frederick was illegally in possession of the property." "and it follows that _you_ are illegally in possession." "i admit that. but of course as the younger branch, represented by me, has been in possession of the estates for nearly one hundred years, it is quite within my rights to take advantage of the statute of limitations." "oh, no, you shan't," said mallien, rolling up the will and thrusting it into his desk, "i am not going to be done out of my rights." "am i the man to try and do you out of them?" "yes, you are," retorted the other unjustly, "since you talk about this statute of limitations." "why should i not take advantage of the statute, when i run a chance of being made a pauper, and not through my own fault?" "because it isn't honest," said mallien virtuously. "you and yours have been wrongfully in possession of what belongs to me. i'm going to have my own, if i spend the last sixpence in the law-courts. i thought you were honourable, rupert, yet here you talk of putting me to a lot of expense to get my own estates." hendle stared at the greedy heir, for such selfishness in taking advantage of an innocent person's misfortune was inconceivable to him. but he knew only too well that argument was useless. mallien could only see things in his own way, and did not care who suffered so long as he benefited. however, he made one effort "put yourself in my place, mallien," he remarked mildly. "would you surrender everything without a struggle?" "that is not the question," retorted mallien, evading a reply after his usual fashion. "the property is mine, and i intend to have it. i shall keep the will, as it is not safe in your hands." "indeed. why not?" "you would benefit too much by its destruction." rupert laughed. "i could have destroyed it while it was in my possession and without your knowing anything about it. instead of doing so, i have brought it to you. does that look like dishonesty on my part?" "you bring it to me because you are aware that i know all about it," said mallien doggedly. "mrs. beatson told me about the will, as you know. if she hadn't, you would have thrown it into the fire." "oh, would i? well,"--rupert shrugged his big shoulders,--"you are such a misanthrope that you can believe no good of your fellow-creatures, so have it your own way." "how can i believe any good when everyone is so selfish?" said this amazing man. "even dorinda leaves me to bear my troubles alone. i wanted her to comfort me this morning, and she went out shopping." "how could she comfort you when you refuse to explain things to her?" "what things?" demanded mallien alertly and frowning. "how do you know that i have anything to explain?" "i know more than you think," replied hendle dryly. "i know that you told her how carrington was threatening you and--hold on--yet refused to supply details. how then can you expect her to sympathize with you and help you when there is not perfect confidence between you?" mallien did not answer directly, as he was too surprised by his cousin's mention of the barrister. "who told you that carrington threatened me?" "dorinda told me yesterday, and for that reason i arranged that she should go out this morning and allow me to have an uninterrupted conversation with you. now don't lose your temper, mallien. i am here to have an explanation, and i don't leave this place until i get it." "i shall make no explanation," shouted the other savagely; "and dorinda had no right to tell you about my private affairs." "she told very little, as she knows very little." "i don't care how much she knows, or how much she doesn't know," raged the angry little man, shaking with wrath. "i shan't have you meddle in my affairs." "will you prefer lawson to meddle instead of me?" "lawson won't dare," answered mallien, but in a more subdued tone. "oh, yes, he will, when carrington tells him what he knows." "carrington knows nothing." "he does. if he didn't he would scarcely have had that interview with you at _the hendle arms_ after i kicked him out." "you kicked him out, did you?" "yes, i did, because he wanted me to bribe him into holding his tongue about the will. failing getting the money from me, he attempted to get it from you at that interview. dorinda told me that you had one, since you informed her about carrington's threats. come now, mallien, the time has come for plain speaking if you wish to keep your liberty. did carrington ask you for five thousand pounds? that was the sum he asked from me." mallien was forced to give in, and did so sullenly. "he did ask for that sum." rupert nodded. "i thought so. and what did you say?" "i didn't say anything. i have taken a week to think matters over." "i see," rupert pondered; "and at the end of the week, if you don't agree to give carrington five thousand pounds when you get the property, he will tell lawson that you murdered leigh." "he says he will, but how can he prove it?" sneered the other uneasily. "well, you see, you lost that opal in the matrix which i found on the verge of the hole where the will had been buried." "what does that prove?" "that you were in the grounds of the vicarage on that night." "i might have lost it on another occasion," argued mallien desperately. rupert smiled dryly. "i don't think lawson will be of that opinion. come now, don't you think it is best for us to join forces and crush carrington? for dorinda's sake i don't want you to get into trouble." "if we join forces, what will you ask for your services?" demanded mallien, suspiciously. "that i should surrender my claim to the property, i suppose?" "i ask nothing. what do you take me for?" rupert looked highly indignant. "do you think that everyone is so sordid as you are, mallien? we can fight out the question of the will on its own merits. but, for dorinda's sake, i wish to save you from carrington's machinations. it is little use your getting the property if you are in danger of arrest." "i am not." "you are. carrington is aware that mrs. beatson told you about the will; he was with me when we found the opal. he says that you are guilty, and when in london sent that anonymous letter--but i forgot you don't know about the letter." "yes, i do," snarled mallien, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. "carrington was very explicit at the interview." he paused for a moment, then continued: "i may as well tell you everything, since you know so much. but i warn you, rupert, that nothing you can say or do to crush carrington and help me will prevent my claiming the property." hendle waved his hand lightly. "that's all right. i am aware that you are a thoroughly ungrateful man. let that pass." "i am not ungrateful," cried mallien hotly. "what have i to be grateful for?" "in the first place for many sums of money i have given you; in the second for my offer to save your liberty and perhaps your life. were it only for your own sake, mallien," added rupert with scorn, "i should leave you to carrington's tender mercies. as it is, i must consider dorinda. now, no more talk, if you please. let me know exactly what took place between you and that blackmailing thief." mallien did not argue further. not that he felt any shame, but he saw that rupert was too strong for him, and felt that his cousin had right on his side. mallien would never have admitted the right, as his nature was too ungracious to ascribe honor to anyone but himself. in a sulky manner, and as if rupert was trying to do him harm instead of good, he related what had passed between himself and the barrister at _the hendle arms_. the squire thus learned for the first time that mallien had been in the vicarage grounds on the night of the murder, and had lost the opal ornament during the struggle with the unknown man in the avenue. "and i believed that the fellow was you," protested mallien earnestly. "you had every right to murder leigh." "every right," echoed rupert angrily. "i mean every reason," said mallien, correcting himself hurriedly, "and, after the man ran away, i went to look in through the vicarage windows. there was a light in the study, and, as you know, the window had neither curtains nor blinds. i saw leigh lying dead on the floor, and went home without saying a word, lest i should be accused." "you acted the part of a brave man, i must say," said rupert contemptuously, "but it appears that you didn't murder leigh." "no, i certainly did not. why, i only left this cottage as the church clock chimed eleven, and, as leigh was murdered at that hour, he must have been dead before i reached the vicarage. i expect the man was hunting for the will, and only managed to escape with it when i ran up against him in the avenue." "but who was he? i don't suppose mrs. beatson dressed herself as a man to----" "no! no! that is ridiculous. mrs. beatson was made a catspaw by the same man to get the will without throwing suspicions on him." "i didn't write that anonymous letter, if that is what you mean," said mallien tartly and uneasily. "i am aware of that. it was carrington who----" "carrington!" mallien started to his feet. "impossible! he was in town on the night of the murder." "he was in barship, and he was the man you ran across in the avenue," said rupert grimly. "no wonder he pointed out your opal on the verge of the hole wherein the will had been buried. he dropped it there while my back was turned and allowed me to find it, so as to incriminate you." mallien was thunderstruck. "carrington!" he muttered, sitting down again. "oh, it is impossible." "not at all. dr. tollart came down with carrington in the train which arrives at barship shortly after nine. he wasn't with him, you understand; but he saw him both at liverpool street and at barship." "then why didn't tollart say so at the inquest?" "why should he? tollart never connected carrington with the crime. he believed that he came down to see me, and, as carrington was with me the next day, of course that gave color to tollart's belief. however, he mentioned the matter to sophy, and she told me and dorinda. for that reason dorinda came to see me yesterday, and we arranged that i should see you. now you can understand, mallien, that we must join forces to have carrington arrested. i have not the least doubt but what he murdered leigh to get the will and extort money for it, either from you or from me." "the scoundrel!" cried mallien, highly indignant; "and to think that he should have dared to accuse me--me--me!" "i was in equal danger of being accused," observed rupert coolly. "oh, i don't care about you," retorted the other selfishly. "i must look to myself. i shall see lawson and have carrington arrested." "if you do you are sure to make a mess of things," warned hendle, accepting his cousin's egotism with a shrug. "we must lay a trap for carrington and get him down here. otherwise he may escape and then matters concerning the murder will never be cleared up." "what sort of a trap?" "you must write to carrington asking him to come down here--to the big house--for an interview with yourself and with me. say that you and i wish to adjust the rights of the property. carrington knows that you cannot give him his pound of flesh until we are agreed about the will. also he will never suspect that he was seen in barship on the night of the murder, or that we have put two and two together regarding the opal. he will come down." "will he enter the big house seeing that you have kicked him out?" asked the host doubtfully. "oh, carrington has no shame where his own interests are concerned, mallien," replied the squire quietly. "he wants money, and is prepared to go to any lengths to get money. let us get him to ourselves and force him to confess. meanwhile, we will send kit to tarhaven for lawson, and when the inspector arrives we can have carrington arrested. do you understand?" "yes," said mallien, in a rather subdued tone, for rupert dominated him at the moment. "i shall write as you suggest, and you may be sure that i shall so word my letter as to trap the beast. what a scoundrel," cried mallien in a state of virtuous anger, "to try and accuse me of a crime which he has committed himself." "he looks after number one, as other people do, mallien." "self! self! everyone is eaten up with self, rupert. no wonder i hate the human race. when i get the money, i shan't give anyone a single penny." "oh, i am aware of that," rejoined hendle, contemptuously; "and i shouldn't throw stones at other people if i were you, seeing in what a glass house you live yourself, mallien. now don't argue, but do what i tell you. if you don't, i shall wash my hands of the whole affair, and leave you to extricate yourself as best you can." mallien grunted an assent and scowled as rupert left the cottage. he was not in the least grateful for the help thus afforded, as he hated the idea of his cousin doing anything for him. besides, being extraordinarily vain, mallien never liked anyone to be sharper than himself. and rupert had proved to be sharper, as he had so cleverly solved the mystery of the vicar's murder. "you think you are a fine fellow, don't you?" growled mallien, shaking his fist at the retreating form of his cousin; "but you won't get a penny out of me, and you shan't marry dorinda if i can help it. i'm not going to have you crowing over me"; and thus grumbling ungratefully he retired to his room to write the letter which was to trap carrington. meanwhile, rupert returned toward the big house through the village in the hope of meeting dorinda. he came across her just near his own gates, and in a few words reported all that had taken place. the girl listened attentively, and when her lover mentioned some of mallien's selfish speeches she looked pained. "i wonder you do anything for my father," she said sadly. "i don't do anything for him, dear. i do it for you. besides," added rupert with a shrug, "how can one be angry with a child--and a greedy child at that." "will you give up the property, rupert?" "i fear i shall have to, dear. however, we can discuss that matter when this question of carrington's guilt is settled." "father shall do you justice, rupert," said dorinda determinedly. "i shall not allow him, if i possibly can prevent it, to leave you without a penny. and, then"--she broke off with a shrug--"well, it doesn't matter. as you say, we can talk of these matters later. just now i have something to tell you rupert. i met old titus ark." "yes!" "you know that he was mr. leigh's shadow. well, he tells me now that he was lurking about the vicarage on the night of the murder and that he saw mr. carrington there." "the deuce! why didn't he say so before?" dorinda shook her head. "he refuses to say." "i shall question him myself, then," said hendle briskly; "anyhow, he will be a new and important witness. i am afraid carrington's goose is cooked." "poor creature!" sighed dorinda, always tender-hearted. "oh, poor creature!" chapter xix resurgam next evening rupert received a curt note from mallien stating that carrington had replied to the effect that he would come down to barship on the ensuing day, and would reach the big house at twelve o'clock. pleased with the information, since the interview was likely to settle the question of the vicar's murder once and for all, hendle took it upon himself to arrange matters. to compel plain speaking on the part of the slippery barrister, it was necessary that witnesses should be present for the purpose of proving beyond question his presence in barship on the night of the crime. without doubt carrington would twist and turn like an eel in his efforts to escape from the corner in which the procurable evidence would place him. rupert, weary of mystery and worry, made up his mind that the man should be finally brought to book, and therefore went in search of dr. tollart. now that inspector lawson was to be dragged into the matter, for the purpose of arresting the culprit, there was no need for further secrecy. and, besides visiting the doctor, hendle intended to call on ark for his testimony. faced by these two witnesses, it would not be easy for carrington to win free. mrs. beatson duly went away for her so-called holiday, which was simply a preface to her dismissal. her presence was not required at the coming interview, as what she knew and what she had done did not touch immediately on carrington's guilt. also, neither dorinda nor sophy was to be present, as they could give no first-hand evidence. rupert himself, mallien, ark and the doctor were the necessary people to prove that carrington had struck the blow, and the squire employed kit to bring lawson from tarhaven for his share in the proceedings. and so that everything should be prepared beforehand for lawson's action rupert arranged that the officer should not arrive at the big house until one o'clock. this would give rupert and his friends sixty minutes to bring carrington to bay. tollart was both startled and surprised when the squire called to explain why his presence was required at the big house. he had thought little of carrington's presence in the train on that fatal evening, and had not in any way connected his presence in barship with the tragic death of leigh. this he explained to his visitor, and suggested that, after all, some mistake had been made in crediting the barrister with the commission of the crime. but hendle determined to put an end to all mystery, explained to tollart all about the discovery of the will, and pointed out what a leading part the document had played in ensuing events. tollart, who for once was sober, expressed his amazement and regret, less for the vicar's death than for rupert's probable loss of his property. "and surely," said tollart, in his husky voice, and with his big red face expressing sympathy, "surely mallien will not take everything from you even if this will proves to be legal." "oh, the will appears to be legal enough, doctor. and, knowing my cousin as you do, you may expect him to grab everything." "he'll make a bad squire." "that's his lookout," replied hendle with a shrug. "a bad lookout for the parish, hendle. i don't set myself up for a saint, as i have my failings; but mallien,"--the doctor made a face--"why, he'll ruin the place. don't give in to him, if only for the sake of barship. fight him to the bitter end." "oh, i'll protect my interests as best i can, you may be sure," answered rupert, pleased that tollart was on his side. "but that matter can be attended to later. what we have to do now, is to force carrington into confession. i take it that you are sure it was carrington who came down in the same train with you, doctor?" "certainly. i know him well by sight, as he called on me, when he first visited you, to get some remedy for toothache. i never forget a face, and i saw your friend both on the liverpool street platform and at the barship station." "did carrington try to escape observation?" "well, i hardly know. he did not see me, so far as i know, and he had a heavy overcoat on, which was strange considering how sultry was the evening. the collar was turned up, i remember," mused the doctor thoughtfully. "well, yes, i think he was anxious not to be recognized. i never thought anything about the matter, you know, hendle, as i believed he was coming down to stay with you. as he was with you the next day, my belief was natural enough." "quite so," assented the squire; "but he must have returned on the same night to town, perhaps by the midnight express from tarhaven. his visit to me only dated from twelve o'clock the next day, when he arrived by the midday train." "hum! and he knew about the will?" "mrs. beatson told him. i expect he wished to get it, to sell it to me." "ah! he doesn't know what an honest man you are, hendle." "he knows now," responded rupert dryly; "however, i understand that you will come to the big house at twelve o'clock to-morrow to give evidence." "certainly; certainly." "and----" rupert hesitated with an awkward look. "oh, i'll be sober," said tollart with a defiant laugh. "i'm not quite so bad as people make out. you can depend upon my doing everything i can to help you, hendle, as i have a great regard for you," and the burly doctor shook hands warmly with the squire. rupert went away feeling sorry that a man with such a good heart should be a slave to a despicable vice, and wondering if there was no way in which he could be reformed. tollart when sober was a clever physician, but when in his cups made endless mistakes. and for a medical man to make mistakes is dangerous seeing that he is dealing with matters of life and death. however, much as hendle wished to assist tollart to lead a better life and give his undoubted abilities a chance, this was not the moment to attend to the matter, as there were more immediately important matters to be looked into. so having secured tollart as a witness, the squire walked to ark's abode. this was a tumble-down cottage on the verge of the churchyard, which stood in a well-kept garden surrounded by a wall of loose stones. here lived the old sexton and his grandson in tolerable comfort. the neat looks of the garden were due to tobias ark, for his grandfather took no interest in such things. tobias himself was a lean dark-faced man, taciturn and rather melancholy, perhaps by reason of his funereal employment. he was digging in the flower-beds when the squire approached the gate and hastened to come forward with a surly touch of his forelock. in answer to rupert's inquiry he admitted that his grandfather was in the cottage and said that he would send him out to hear what the squire had to say. hendle did not mind waiting at the gate, as he had no wish to enter ark's stuffy abode. "whoy, it be the squoire," piped titus when his grandson went in and he came out, like the little old man and woman in the weather-gauge. "and what be you here fur, squoire? there bain't be no funereals, surely." "no, titus, no. i have come to ask you about what you said to miss mallien." "aye." ark looked tremendously cunning, and his face wrinkled up like that of a monkey gloating over a nut. "and what might that be, squoire?" "you told her that you saw mr. carrington near the vicarage on the night mr. leigh died." "muster leigh bain't dead i tell 'ee, squoire." "yes, yes, titus; we know all about that," replied rupert soothingly, for he was well aware of the fixed idea which dominated the old man. "but you saw mr. carrington about the house?" "yus, i did, when walking round the vicarage, not being able to sleep, me being old beyond telling, young sir, and the night being warm like. yus," continued ark garrulously, "i see him sure enough. he come down the road in the moonlight dressed as if t'were winter and went into the vicarage gardens. but, lord bless 'ee, squoire, i did think as he'd gone to see the vicar, and nivir thought aught of him being there." "but the next morning, titus, when you heard the vicar was dead----?" "he bain't dead, i tell 'ee, squoire," persisted the ancient crossly. evidently it was useless to try and beat sense into the old creature's head, so rupert argued no further. ark could evidently swear to carrington's presence in the vicinity of the vicarage on the night in question and that was the main point. "well, titus, we won't talk about the vicar being alive or dead. i want you to come to-morrow to the big house to tell mr. carrington that you saw him on----" "be muster carrington there to-morrow?" inquired the ancient, his eyes glittering and evidently eager. "yes. at twelve o'clock. can you swear that you saw him on that night?" "before the king and the lord chancellor," grunted the sexton. "aye, fur sure i can say so, squoire. oh, i'll be there, sir; i'll be there." he rubbed his old wrinkled, gnarled hands gleefully. "i'll tell what i know, squoire." "we think that mr. carrington killed the vicar." "muster leigh he bain't dead, i tell 'ee," said titus for the third time and very irritably, after which he shuffled back to the cottage annoyed that his constant statement was not accepted. and it was queer that the old man should persist in declaring the vicar to be alive seeing that he had assisted to lay him in the family vault, which was visible from his abode. however, rupert, having impressed upon ark that he was to be at the big house at twelve o'clock next day did not trouble himself with the ancient's fancies. so long as ark could swear--as he evidently could--that carrington had been haunting the vicarage on the night of the murder, what he believed about the vicar not being dead mattered little. the man was senile and was crazy on the one point, although he appeared to be clear enough on that other concerned with carrington's presence at the vicarage. rupert did not trouble his head further about the matter, but returned home satisfied that the two witnesses would confound carrington in the moment of his fancied triumph. nothing of any moment happened during the rest of the day, or next morning, when the meeting was to take place. kit appeared with a spick and span machine before midday, and was sent over by hendle to tarhaven to bring back the inspector by one o'clock. and rupert informed the boy that while on the way back he could tell lawson all that had been discovered so as to obviate the necessity of explanations. in fact, as hendle said, it would be best for kit to relate everything immediately he arrived at the police-office in tarhaven, so that the inspector could get a warrant for the barrister's arrest. so kit went off in high glee delighted at being able to do something for his hero and rupert returned thoughtfully to his library where mallien was already waiting. "suppose carrington doesn't come?" suggested the squire, who was very nervous. "oh, he'll come right enough," explained mallien grimly. "i said in my letter that to-day you intended to arrange here about the transfer of the property to me under john hendle's will, and that we both wanted him to be present." "you don't suppose that he has any suspicions of the truth?" "to be sure he hasn't. after all but for tollart's evidence and that of old ark, we should never have been able to nail him. i tell you, rupert, that carrington has not the least idea of what is about to happen." "poor devil! and yet he deserves his fate. the murder of leigh was cowardly in the extreme." "it was," assented the other. "don't be a tender-hearted fool, man." "i would rather be a fool according to my light than a wise man according to yours, mallien." "and i am quite content," chuckled the little man, "for no one but a fool would give up the property as you are doing." "i haven't given it up yet," said rupert, disgusted with this brutal speech, "and i may not be the fool you take me to be." for all his insolence mallien was plainly disconcerted by this frank statement, and began to think that he had gone too far. a muttered apology was on his lips, but was cut short by the entrance of dr. tollart. immediately behind him shuffled old ark, who seated himself near the door, chuckling and rubbing his hands with the air of a man who was highly pleased with himself. mallien and the doctor, who were by no means friends, exchanged a curt greeting, and tollart, turning his back on the prospective squire of barship, talked ostentatiously to rupert. "mr. carrington will be here almost at once," he declared, drawing off his gloves slowly; "he walked up behind ark and myself as we reached the gates." even as he spoke the footman appeared to announce the barrister. carrington, evidently considering himself master of the situation, walked in with a victorious air. he looked smart and alert, being quite in his best form. in a well-cut suit of blue serge, with a straw hat and brown shoes, he had apparently arrayed himself in his best to receive the money he expected. of course, he did not anticipate that the five thousand would be handed to him at once; but when things were arranged between hendle and mallien as to the possession of the property, then carrington intended to get a promise in writing of his share of the plunder. not for one moment did he think that anything was wrong, and he even offered his hand to rupert with an insolent air of pity. "every dog has his day, hendle," he said maliciously. "this is mine." "don't be too sure," replied rupert, rejecting the proffered hand. "there's many a slip between cup and lip, remember." "you are full of wisdom," sneered carrington. "well, you will need it all to earn money when you are a pauper." hendle stepped forward until he towered over the smaller man and spoke slowly. "don't tempt me to give you the thrashing which i let you off with the other day, carrington," he murmured. "let us get to business, and rid me of your presence as soon as possible." "oh, i am ready to go into business as soon as you like," retorted the barrister, still triumphant. "but why is dr. tollart here?" "i am here," said tollart gruffly, "to state to your face that you were in barship on the night when leigh was murdered." carrington started, and, in spite of his self-command, winced at the plain speech. his swarthy face grew slightly pale, but he still maintained his air of bravado. "well, then, i am not here to talk about leigh's murder," he said viciously, "but to see about this transfer of the hendle estates to my friend mr. mallien." "don't call me your friend," growled mallien, ferociously. "you are no friend of mine. all you want is to get money out of me." "take care," said carrington, glancing at the others, "remember what i know." "and what do you know?" demanded mallien coolly. "something you would not like anyone else to hear." "you can say what you like, and before anyone you like." "ah!" carrington now began to see that things were not so safe as he had imagined. "you mean to go back on your bargain?" "i never made any bargain, you beast. and what is more, i don't intend to make any. yonder is dr. tollart, who can swear that you came down to barship on the night leigh was murdered; and yonder is titus ark, who saw you enter the vicarage grounds." "they are both liars," cried carrington, taken off his guard. "i bain't a liar," said ark, rising, and tottered toward the barrister, "and wor i a younger man i'd make 'ee pay for saying so." he shook a gnarled fist in carrington's face. "i did see 'ee round about the vicarage. i swear to it, if needs be, before judge and jury. i bain't afeared." "and you _will_ be required to swear before a judge and jury," said hendle, in a cold, measured tone, "when carrington is in the dock." "in the dock!" carrington stepped back, trying to command his nerves, for he now began to understand the full extent of his peril. "and on what charge?" "you killed leigh," growled mallien savagely. "yes, you did, so don't deny it, you criminal. and you dare to accuse me." "i do accuse you," said carrington, driven to bay, and becoming fierce out of sheer desperation. "it was you who killed leigh to get that will. i accuse you in the presence of these witnesses." "pshaw!" said rupert, contemptuously. "what is the use of your talking, carrington? the game's up. we have got you down here to have you arrested." "you can't arrest me," said the barrister, with an air of bravado. "i shall go at once to tarhaven and give information against mallien." rupert got between the barrister and the door toward which he was retreating swiftly. "stop where you are," he commanded. "there will be no need for you to go to tarhaven. in an hour inspector lawson will be here, and then, if you dare, you can lay an information against mallien." "oh!" carrington winced and grew very white. "this is a trap." "it is," said mallien, with malignant satisfaction, "and i have lured you into it. you accuse me, do you? ha! we'll see what you'll say when the handcuffs are on your wrists." "hendle,"--carrington turned to his former friend with a cry, half of rage and half of fear--"will you stand by and hear this said of me?" "why should i interfere?" said hendle stolidly. "you are only reaping as you have sown. to get money you were prepared to accuse me as you have accused mallien. and all the time you are the criminal, as we now know." "i am not!" shouted the miserable man, trembling. "you can't prove that i did the deed." "i can prove that you came down to barship on that night," said tollart. "and who will take the word of a drunkard?" tollart rushed at the barrister and would have struck him, but that rupert pushed his big body between the two. "don't lose your temper, tollart. what does it matter? carrington will have plenty to do to clear himself without calling anyone silly names. you understand," he added, turning toward the lawyer, "that both ark and the doctor can swear to your presence in barship on the night when leigh was killed. you knew from me about the will and came down to murder the vicar." "i did not. even if i had wanted the will, i should not have murdered him." "pshaw!" said rupert again, and pushing his advantage relentlessly, "all this denial will not serve you. perhaps you may not have intended to murder the vicar when you struck the blow. i will do you that justice. but, as leigh had a weak heart, you went too far and he died. then you took the will and buried it under the sundial----" "i didn't know where the sundial was," interpolated carrington, shivering. "that's a lie!" snarled mallien swiftly, "for on the first day i met you i took you round the garden and, among other things, pointed out the sundial. you buried the will there, and then sent an anonymous letter to mrs. beatson so that she might find it and avert suspicion from yourself. you believed that rupert would buy your silence to keep the property, and, failing his doing so, you came to threaten me." "and i do. you were at the vicarage on that night?" "how do you know that?" carrington saw that he had said too much and glanced toward the door in the hope of getting away. but rupert was between him and safety, and rupert looked as stern and determined as a destroying angel. "you needn't think you will escape, carrington," he said. "as you have sown, so you must reap." "and your reaping will place a rope round your neck," said mallien grimly. "you came to have me hanged, but you will go away under lawson's escort to be hanged yourself. i was at the vicarage on that night. i wanted to see leigh about getting the will. but i did not leave my cottage until eleven, and by that time you had murdered leigh." "i did not! i did not!" and carrington winced and cringed and shivered with all the courage oozing out of him. "you did. it was you i struggled with in the avenue when you came out after burying the will under the sundial. you snatched at my watch-chain and got the opal in the matrix----" "yes," said rupert, taking up the story, "and when we went to examine the hole where the will was buried, you dropped the opal when my back was turned and allowed me to find it, so that the blame might be thrown on mallien." "it's a lie," said carrington, folding his arms and looking dogged, "and i wonder at you defending a man who is going to rob you of your property." "i dare say you do wonder," retorted the squire acidly. "honest behavior is always a mystery to you. no wonder you followed mrs. beatson and induced me to do so, carrington. you had written that anonymous letter to her and knew that she was going to find the will. your plot was a very clever one, but it has failed completely." "and i dare swear it has failed," said tollart in his booming voice, "because the squire is such an honest man." by this time the perspiration was streaming down carrington's face. he was now in danger of his life and knew it only too well. yet the man was brave enough, and doggedly refused to admit what was said, in spite of the overwhelming evidence. rupert had no cause to love his treacherous friend, and regretted that he was obliged to have him arrested; yet he could not help admiring the persistent way in which the man fought for his liberty and life. "who accuses me of being in barship on that night," he demanded, raising his head, "a drunken doctor and a senile sexton. those are nice witnesses. they have been bribed by mallien to save his own skin." "i don't waste money in unnecessary bribes," snapped mallien. "and i don't take money for performing my duty," said the doctor frowning. "i have one great fault which everyone knows of. i may be a drunkard, but i am not a murderer," he finished scathingly. "i am not a murderer," persisted carrington, fighting desperately, and gaining courage, now that he found himself with his back to the wall. "i never came down to barship on that night. i can prove that i was in london." "you will have every opportunity of clearing yourself at the trial," said rupert, glancing at his watch. "lawson will be here soon with a warrant for your arrest." "no! no! no!" the cry was forced from the barrister against his will. "it is impossible for lawson to arrest me. i never saw leigh on that night." titus ark rose in a creaky manner from his chair, and shambled toward the miserable man. "i do say as you did see 'um," he croaked. "and so does tollart," snapped mallien; "that is, he can say you were in barship on that night. hark, hendle. i believe lawson has arrived." rupert hurried to the window and saw a vehicle pass round the corner toward the front door. "it's a trap and not a motor," he said puzzled. "who can it be, i wonder?" "i know; i know," said titus, shuffling toward the door. "i know one as can say you saw muster leigh on that night"; and he disappeared. "more lies," said carrington, wiping his face. "oh, i'll make you all pay dearly for this day's work"; and he wiped his face, while he set his teeth to battle to the end. there was a shuffling noise in the hall, and rupert stepped toward the door. he opened it and then fell back with a cry of amazement. supported by titus and his grandson, simon leigh staggered into the room. "i said as he worn't dead," chuckled the ancient. "now didn't i, squoire?" chapter xx a weird story the unexpected appearance of a man who was supposed, and with every reason, to be dead and buried was so startling that for a few moments no one could speak. had it been night time, those present might well have been excused had they taken the newcomer for a ghost. but a ghost would scarcely reveal itself in broad daylight, supported by two flesh and blood mortals. amazing as it seemed, the wan person, who was placed in a convenient armchair by his guides, was actually the rev. simon leigh. his head was bandaged; his face was bloodless, and he appeared to be listless and exhausted. never was there such a dramatic entrance, or such an uncanny situation. "leigh!" gasped rupert, hardly able to pronounce the name. "yes," replied the parson, faintly smiling. "i am alive, you see." "i said as he worn't dead," chuckled ark again, and rubbed his horny hands with comfortable glee, while his grandson tobias stood mute and grim behind the man who had returned from the other world. carrington, equally startled, was the first to recover himself entirely. he saw in the reappearance of the clergyman a chance of escape from his dangerous position. "you accuse me of murdering leigh, and leigh is alive," he said, regaining swiftly his native impudence. "what do you say now, hendle?" rupert turned his eyes from the vicar to tollart, whose big face was purple with astonishment. "what do you say, doctor?" he asked, feebly. "it's a dream," muttered tollart, rubbing his eyes. "he must be dead. i examined the body; i saw him buried; i gave the certificate of death." "i'm sorry to disappoint you, tollart," murmured leigh with a weak attempt at a smile; "but you see i am still alive. tobias!" the grim man knew what was asked for and producing a flask of generous proportions administered a stiff dose of brandy to his patient. the ardent spirit made leigh cough, but brought the blood to his cheek and a more lively light into his dim eyes. also when he opened his mouth he spoke with a stronger voice. "yes, i am alive. i was buried by mistake." "it's impossible, i tell you," cried the doctor, still struggling with his astonishment. "you were as dead as a door-nail." "so you thought, tollart, but you are not the first medical man who has mistaken catalepsy for death." "catalepsy?" "i have been subject to it all my life, but i never told anyone about it--not even you, tollart. only titus knew, and that was why he was what was called my shadow down in the village. i always dreaded being buried alive." "yet you were," said rupert, staring with all his might at the resuscitated man, and wondering if he was asleep or awake. "titus wasn't much good, after all, in spite of his watchfulness." "and what could i do, squoire?" demanded the ancient shrilly. "i said as muster leigh warn't dead agin and agin, but none heeded me." "if you had used the one word catalepsy," protested tollart, who was annoyed that leigh should reappear to give the lie to his skill, "i should have known what to do." "i bain't no scholard," croaked titus sulkily. "i said as muster leigh warn't dead and he warn't. on the night of the day when he was buried, me and tobias got him out of his coffin and he hev bin in my house getting well." "you should have told me, titus," expostulated rupert reprovingly. "now the lard help me, squoire. didn't i tell 'ee times wi'out number. i said as muster leigh warn't dead and you laughed; you know you did. but he warn't dead; he warn't dead"; and the ancient repeated his favorite phrase again and again with angry gestures. "no, he warn't dead," mimicked carrington, strolling easily toward the door, "and now that we know he warn't, i suppose there is no objection to my leaving this pleasant little party." "stay where you are," commanded leigh in a much stronger voice. "it is no thanks to you that i am alive. stop him, hendle." rupert took carrington by the shoulders and pushed him across the room and into the chair he had vacated. "you stay here," he said sternly. "oh, i'll stay if you wish me to," replied carrington, making a virtue of necessity, and shrugging his shoulders contemptuously. "you can't get me into trouble now." "we'll see about that," replied leigh, who was breathing heavily. "i haven't much time to live, as the shock of being buried alive has given me my deathblow. but i shall live long enough to see that justice is done. now let me explain what i owe to mr. carrington." "one moment, before you change the subject," remarked tollart sharply. "you told me that you had heart disease." "i did," admitted the vicar dryly; "but i never allowed you to examine me, or you would have found that my heart was perfectly sound. i made that excuse to account for anyone finding me in a cataleptic trance." "you should have told me the truth," rejoined the doctor sternly. "but that i thought the blow on the head had killed you, along with heart disease, i would have opened your body to be certain of the cause of death. as it was, mr. leigh----" "as it wor," interrupted the old sexton aggressively, "you warn't sober, muster tollart. that you warn't." "how dare you say that!" cried the doctor, flushing angrily. "aye, but i do say it," retorted titus valiantly. "you saw double, you did, and not being sure of your larning said as muster leigh wor dead when he warn't. and if 'ee'd tried to cut muster leigh up, i'd hev knocked 'ee down. yus, i would, and no mistake." "it seems to me that we are not getting on very fast," said carrington lightly, yet anxiously, for he desired to get away before inspector lawson arrived from tarhaven. "suppose mr. leigh speaks, and relates his experiences in the other world." "i shall deal with you later," said leigh meaningly and with an unpleasant look. "you are not going to escape punishment because you failed to carry out your evil design. first, i shall explain about my catalepsy. i have always been afflicted thus, hendle," he added, turning to the young squire, "and for that reason i rarely went away from my house. titus knew that i was subject to these trances, and i always liked to have him at my elbow in case i fell into one. also titus had the key of my family vault, so as to rescue me should i be buried alive by any chance. the blow on the head did not kill me outright, although it was severe enough very nearly to do so. i was stunned for the time being and then passed into a trance. owing to the warm weather, unfortunately for me, i was buried hastily, else i might have recovered." "you were as dead as any man could be," persisted tollart sullenly, for the revival annoyed him beyond measure. "i was not, yet, although you, in your confused state, thought so. and you were confused with drink, tollart, as titus assures me. let this be a warning to you, my friend, to abandon this vice, as you may not so easily escape again from dooming a man to a terrible death." tollart tried to speak, but could not, as he knew very well that he was entirely in the wrong, and that the consequences of his too hurried examination of the body might be serious for him. he stammered, stuttered, and turned very white, then walked silently out of the room. he had received a lesson which he would not easily forget. rupert started forward to stop him, but mallien, who had been too startled to speak hitherto, laid a detaining hand on his arm. the man was nervous and less aggressive than usual, which was not to be wondered at considering what had taken place. "let him go, rupert," he muttered. "we can deal with this matter among ourselves. i want to hear how mr. leigh was rescued from his terrible position." "titus rescued me," said leigh thankfully. "on the night of the day when i was buried he came with tobias to the vault. he had the key, as i said before, in case of such an accident. these two"--he jerked his head right and left toward his supporters--"unscrewed the coffin and carried me into their house, which is, as you know, near the churchyard. gradually i revived from my trance, but suffered greatly from the blow in the head which confused me. feeling that i was not myself, and knowing that serious matters had to be dealt with, i ordered titus and his grandson not to say anything about my being alive. since the day of my burial i have been hidden in that little cottage, and titus has nursed me back to health. but i fear," ended the vicar plaintively, "that i shall not live long. the shock has killed me." "well, at all events," said carrington coolly, "i didn't kill you." "indirectly you have," said leigh indignantly, "and i shall have you punished before i die." "that is a nice christian feeling, i must say," retorted carrington uneasily. "men such as you are, who go about attempting murder, should be locked up," was the stern reply. "you intended to kill me." "i did not. i intended to stun you, and thought i had done so," protested carrington sullenly. "no one was more astonished than i was, when i heard next day from hendle there that you were dead. i thought the heart disease had killed you." "i had no heart disease, and----" "we know all about that," interrupted mallien restlessly. "but tell us how that scoundrel managed to knock you down." "give me another dose of brandy, tobias," said the vicar, and when he felt stronger after taking the spirit proceeded slowly to explain. "i was in my study on that night, and as it was after ten o'clock, mr. and mrs. jabber had retired to rest. i had found the will, which i had mislaid, and was reading it, when i heard a tap at the window." "i don't know about your reading it," said carrington insolently, "as i watched you for some time through the window before i tapped. you were holding a parchment over a candle. i believe that you intended to burn the will." "perhaps i did," said the vicar with a queer smile. "there is more to be known about that will than you guess. at all events when i heard your tapping on the glass i blew out the candle and put down the will. i opened the window--you know it is a french window, hendle--and looked out to see who had come at such an untimely hour. when i recognized you and you intimated that you wished to speak to me, i admitted you. i believed that you had come down to stay with hendle and had arrived late." "did you lock the window again after admitting carrington?" asked rupert. "i snicked it, certainly," replied leigh quietly. "not that doing so mattered, for, as there was nothing to steal at the vicarage, i paid little attention to bolts and bars." carrington laughed cynically. "and for that reason i was able to slip out of the front door and leave it unlocked without exciting suspicion," he remarked. "it was easy to get away." "very easy," assented mr. leigh. "the front door was never locked either by day or by night, as i did not fear burglars. and i did not fear you, mr. carrington, as you said that rupert had told you about the will, and you wished to speak to me concerning it." "oh, you were brave enough," retorted the barrister carelessly. "well?" "i think you had better be less flippant, my man," cried mallien, highly indignant. "you are not out of the woods yet." "there's gratitude for what i have done for you," sneered carrington. "but for my appearance at the window the vicar might have burned the will so as to allow hendle to keep the property." "yes, i might have burnt the will, as you say," remarked leigh with another queer smile; "and perhaps it would have been as well, seeing what an excellent squire our young friend here makes." "and what about me?" asked mallien indignantly. "you are not fit to govern the parish," said leigh coolly. "you think of self and of self only." "well, the will is safe in my desk now," said mallien complacently, "and, self or no self, i will be squire of barship as soon as the lawyers can arrange for the transfer of the property." "you count your chickens before they are hatched, mr. mallien. there is much to be said before you step into your cousin's place." "i don't see that," said mallien doggedly. "rupert knows that i inherit by that will you found in the muniment chest, as i am the legal descendant of eunice hendle. he makes no objection to giving me the property." "is this so, hendle?" inquired the vicar. "yes," answered rupert quietly. "i can scarcely keep what does not legally belong to me." "you will be a pauper." "i can't help that. i must act honestly." leigh was silent for a moment and cast a look of admiration on the young man. "you shame us all by your honorable nature," he said after a pause. "i am glad that i am spared to do you justice." "what do you mean by that?" asked carrington curiously. "never mind what i mean. i shall explain in due time. just now i have to tell these gentlemen of the cowardly assault you made on an old man." leigh turned toward rupert to whom he chiefly addressed himself. "he held me in talk, hendle, and all the time he was keeping his eyes on the will. i refused to let him take it away, as he wanted to do." "i only wished to look after hendle's interests," muttered carrington. "to look after your own, you mean," retorted leigh tartly. "had you meant well you would have gone away after i refused to give you the will. but you waited until my back was turned, and then struck me with the loaded stick you carried. the blow fell on my right temple and i dropped stunned to the floor, while you----" "while i," cried carrington, rising and speaking insolently, "snatched up the will and walked out of the front door cautiously, so as not to waken those servants of yours." "after which," put in mallien viciously, "you went through the jungle and buried the will under the sundial." "i did," admitted carrington recklessly. "you know so much that you may as well know all, for leigh being alive you cannot touch me in any way. i buried the will, as you say, and afterward wrote that letter to mrs. beatson, so that she might find the will and avert suspicion from myself." "why mrs. beatson?" asked rupert, disgusted with his former friend's brazen assurance. "because, according to you, she had overheard the conversation between you and the vicar. i guessed that, if she produced the will, suspicion would fall on her. our meeting her on that night, hendle, was pure chance, but it helped on my plans. i wished her to procure the will to you, and thus bring suspicion on herself as having killed the vicar." "you infernal villain!" "oh, i don't see that," said carrington carelessly. "mrs. beatson would be none the worse for having her neck stretched. but i would not have allowed things to go so far as that. all i wished, was for her to give you the will, and then when you consulted me, as i knew you would, i intended to persuade you to burn it in order to keep the property and pay me five thousand pounds for holding my tongue. you understand." "yes," said rupert quietly, "you explain your villainy so carefully that i can scarcely help understanding. it was you, then, who dropped a clue near the sundial to incriminate mallien?" "it was me," replied carrington, with cynical hardihood. "i snatched the opal by chance from mallien's watch-chain when we struggled in the avenue. only when i got away and found what was in my hand did i see how i could get the upper hand of him. i recognized the ornament at once as the one he had shown me on the first day we met." "you scoundrel!" shrieked mallien furiously, and would have struck the barrister, but that he swerved. then rupert interfered. "he will have a much worse punishment than a blow," said the squire, holding his cousin back with a strong arm. "i won't have any punishment at all," sneered carrington insistently. "it is for me to say that," remarked leigh, who was growing very weak in spite of the dose of brandy which tobias administered. "so you met mr. mallien in the avenue of my place after you had buried the will?" "i did. there is no reason why i should deny it, seeing that i am safe. and when i got away from him i walked to the next station and caught the night express from tarhaven which does not stop at barship. next day----" "you came down to play the part of a friend," said rupert scornfully; "but you soon showed the cloven hoof, carrington. your plot was very clever, and had i been a less honest man it would have succeeded." "it never would have succeeded," interposed the vicar, speaking with labored breath, "for i was alive all the time and intended to speak when necessary, as i have done. titus kept me informed of all that went on." "aye, that i did," said the old man, patting leigh's hand; "and they'll find in the village as the old 'un don't tell lies and bain't no fool either. i told 'em as you wor alive, didn't i, muster leigh?" "yes, titus, yes. but i think you will very soon have to tell them that i am dead," said leigh with a weak sigh. "after all, it is for the best. i shall never regain my health after that awful experience. and as my successor has been appointed, it would be wrong of me to deprive him of the living." "don't trouble about that, leigh," remarked rupert, bending over him. "you shall stay here and be nursed back into health again. i'll see that you are all right for the future." "you are a good man, hendle; but if you knew----" he stopped abruptly and drew away his hand which the squire had taken. "but that i can speak of another time. meanwhile we must finish dealing with this gentleman." "do you mean me?" asked mallien, who felt uneasy because he had an idea that the resuscitated man had, as the saying goes, something up his sleeve. "i don't mean you at present," replied the vicar, eyeing him with an expression of intense dislike. "i shall attend to your matter later." "what matter?" "that," said leigh slowly, "i shall tell you in my own good time." "you are very mysterious." "oh, i think all mysteries are at an end now," interposed rupert hastily, for mallien showed a tendency to make himself disagreeable in spite of the vicar's weak state of health. "we now know that carrington did come to barship and did strike down mr. leigh." "who cares if you do know?" retorted carrington insolently. "not me. i have played a bold game and have lost, thanks to your confounded honesty. if you had been wise, you would have destroyed that will and would have kept your money to yourself." "at the cost of losing my honor," said rupert flushing. "pouf! who cares for honor in these days?" "apparently you don't, you beast," cried mallien, who was desperately angry at the way in which carrington had proposed to cheat him. "how dare you speak in this way! i'll have you charged with fraud." "fraud!" carrington laughed aloud and snapped his fingers. "and how do you intend to do that, my good man?" "don't call me your good man, confound you!" "well, i won't," sneered the barrister; "it is rather a mistake to credit you with any goodness, i admit. you're no more a saint than i am, and would have played the same game had you got the chance. my only regret is that i have not rooked you to the tune of five thousand pounds. and but for the vicar's unexpected appearance i should have done so." "not you." "oh, yes. you were at the vicarage on the night of the presumed murder, and i had your opal, which i dropped near the sundial. if i had held my tongue, as i would have done, you would have been hard put to explain your presence there, seeing what john hendle's will meant to you." "and you--and you!" shouted mallien furiously, "how would you have escaped suspicion seeing you came down on that night?" "very easily," retorted the barrister in a light and airy tone. "i would have declared that i came down in hendle's interest to get the will, and arrived at the vicarage to find you leaving the house after murdering the man." "oh!" mallien rushed forward. "let me get at him, rupert. dog that he is. i want to strangle him." "and be hanged for the murder of a worthless creature," said rupert, holding mallien tightly to prevent his executing his intention. "leave him to mr. leigh. i rather think he knows how to deal with him." "oh, do you?" snapped carrington, wheeling with a contemptuous smile on his dark face, "and what do you propose to do, may i ask?" "i propose," said the vicar, whom he addressed, "to have you arrested for a murderous assault on me. as a lawyer, mr. carrington, you probably know how many years you will get for a contemplated crime." carrington grew pale and looked nervous. "i never intended to kill you," he muttered sullenly; "and, as you are alive and well----" "i am alive certainly, but scarcely well," said the vicar faintly. "all the same, it is no thanks to you that i am not dead. you assaulted me, and you robbed me, so you shall suffer." "i shan't!" and carrington made a dash for the door, only to be caught by the squire, who held on to him grimly. "you shall," said rupert stolidly. "as soon as lawson arrives, and he may be here at any minute, leigh will give you in charge for assault and robbery." "hendle, you wouldn't see me disgraced in that way," pleaded carrington, who suddenly saw an abyss open at his feet. "if i am arrested, i will be ruined." hendle released the miserable man and stood back, rather incautiously as it afterward proved. "you would have ruined me," he said sternly, "so why should you not be done by as you intended to be done by others?" "there's scripture authority fur that," grunted old ark, grinning toothlessly. carrington, now at bay, looked round and saw that everyone was against him, so that there was no hope of mercy. he covered his face with his hands and staggered against the wall near the door. for a moment there was silence, for, although neither mallien nor leigh pitied the scoundrel, rupert, having an unusually tender heart, did so. perhaps the feeling that the man was his old schoolfellow induced him to give carrington a chance of escape. but be this as it may, when the barrister sobbing near the door suddenly opened it and dashed out, rupert made no immediate effort to stop him. mallien did. "stop, thief! stop, liar! stop, murderer!" he vociferated and followed. rupert was thus compelled to pursue the culprit, although he did so reluctantly. the two came to the door to see carrington running down the avenue, and dashed after him. the barrister flew like the wind and speedily outdistanced his pursuers. but he was not to escape after all, for, as he reached the open gates of the avenue, kit's motor car, containing lawson, swept round the corner. running blindly, carrington tripped and fell under the machine. the wheels passed over him, breaking his back. he was picked up stone dead. chapter xxi a final surprise at the inquest, held on the body of the unfortunate carrington, the whole story of the events connected with the will of john hendle was related in detail. this was done by the advice of inspector lawson, so as to avert further trouble. as the officer wisely pointed out, it was necessary that the characters of all those implicated in the affair should be cleared once and for all. this could only be done by the truth being made public. and this course of procedure greatly recommended itself to rupert, who was tired of underhand doings. he was of a frank nature, and the idea of hiding this and concealing that, annoyed him exceedingly. he therefore made a clean breast of the matter when called upon to give evidence regarding carrington's death, and insisted that everyone else should do the same. consequently, the whole amazing story appeared in print, and read like a romance. mallien was inclined to hold back from giving evidence, as, of course, he should have communicated with the police the moment he became cognizant that a murder had been committed. but both his cousin and lawson insisted that he should come forward to state what he knew, and, notwithstanding his reluctance, he was compelled to do so. he escaped better than he deserved, as it was seen how difficult his position had been, and the majority of people argued that the man could scarcely have been expected to incriminate himself by drawing attention to the crime at the time when he discovered it. mrs. beatson also contrived to elude reproof, as she cleverly stated that, when in possession of the will, she had intended to hand it over to the squire. of course, rupert knew that she had never meant to do this, but for the sake of kit he did not contradict her statement. and, because of dorinda's feelings, he was glad to think that mallien had got off so lightly. the two plotters themselves were much relieved that their characters had not suffered to an appreciable extent, and retired into the grateful shade of obscurity as speedily as possible. things had turned out better than they had expected. carrington's conduct, of course, was condemned, since he had behaved so basely, but not so severely as it would have been had he been alive. having met with a violent death, it was felt that he had paid for his trickery, and as little as possible was said about him. kit, of course, was exonerated with regard to the accident, as lawson proved that the young man had sounded his horn when turning into the park. but carrington, anxious only to escape before the inspector could take him in charge, had either not heard the warning of the horn, or had not attended to it. but be this as it may, there was no doubt that he had ran on blindly and thus had fallen under the cruel wheels of the car. remembering carrington's two premonitions about walking over his grave in the avenue, rupert thought it quite uncanny that he should have met his fate on the very spot. but he only remarked on the matter to dorinda, who was wise enough to hold her tongue. enough had been said about carrington and his disreputable doings in the newspapers, so there was no need to say more. mr. leigh did not appear at the inquest, as he lay dying in a comfortable bed under the hospitable roof of the big house. but he signed a written statement detailing the events of the night when he had been struck down, and this satisfied both coroner and jury. after all procurable evidence had been sifted a verdict of "death by misadventure" was brought in, and the matter ended in the only way it could end. carrington's sole relative, a clerk in the war office, came down to take charge of the body, but expressed little surprise at the smirched reputation of the dead man. carrington had always been a black sheep, and his relative grimly said to rupert that he was glad things had turned out as they had. carrington, he observed, would sooner or later have come to prison or the gallows had he lived, being one of those unfortunate creatures who could not run straight. so that was the end of the squire's old school-friend, who had chosen evil instead of good; and bad as he had been hendle was kind-hearted enough to regret the man's miserable end. afterward, he always tried to remember carrington as he had been at rugby, rather than as the despicable plotter of his more mature years. with the departure of the barrister's body in charge of his relative from barship departed all mystery. it is now known who had struck down the vicar, and why the blow had been delivered. that leigh had escaped death was not carrington's fault, and the dead man was practically a murderer. but the villagers, in the excitement of finding their vicar alive, began to overlook carrington's share in the matter. the question most frequently asked was whether leigh would resume his charge of the parish seeing that his successor had been appointed. but all talk on this point was ended when it became known that the shocks inflicted on the unfortunate man, both by being struck down and by being buried alive had so shaken his system that he was not likely to live. tollart was attending to him, and did so in an entirely sober state, as his narrow escape from trouble kept him away from the drink. sophy, indeed, regarded the whole matter as a blessing in disguise, and hoped that her father would reform. he had every reason to do so seeing what a lesson he had received. with regard to his giving a certificate of death, tollart's fellow-physicians held that he was perfectly justified, since the vicar had been in a cataleptic trance. but the villagers, headed by titus, held that dr. tollart had been drunk at the time when he examined the body, and this opinion was not favorable to tollart's reputation. however, when it was seen that he had turned over a new leaf, his conduct was considered more kindly and the doctor began to hope that he would weather the storm. but it had very nearly wrecked him, and the escape he had had greatly improved his character. in time by acting judiciously and keeping strictly sober, he managed to reëstablish his position. a week later, when everything in connection with the catastrophe was quite settled, mallien made his appearance at the big house. he was more subdued than usual, as he also had learned a lesson, but there remained something of his old blustering manner when he entered the library and produced john hendle's will from his pocket. rupert guessed that his cousin had come to demand a settlement, and braced himself to face a disagreeable future. it was not pleasant to become a pauper, but there seemed to be nothing for it but to accept the inevitable. yet it was not so much the loss of the money which the young man regretted as the probable loss of dorinda as his wife. rupert knew his cousin well enough to be sure that once in the possession of the estates and income he would not be inclined to permit the marriage to take place. and seeing that he was likely to be poor, it was useless for the girl to insist upon the fulfilment of the engagement. it was with a sad face and a weary heart that hendle asked mallien to take a seat. "i suppose you have called to discuss matters regarding the will," he said, leaning his head on his hand and speaking quietly. "in a way, though i don't see that there is anything to discuss," retorted mallien, who was rapidly regaining his former bullying ways. "all you have to do is to clear out and allow me to come here." "walk out bag and baggage, you mean?" "something of that sort. i don't mind giving you one hundred pounds with which to make a new start in life. if i were you, i would go to australia with kit when he marries sophy tollart." "and what about dorinda?" "she is not for you," said mallien resolutely. "as the daughter of the squire of barship, she must marry a man with a position." "does dorinda say so?" inquired rupert quietly. "dorinda," said the affectionate parent, "is as obstinate as a pig. she is coming here in a few minutes to argue the matter. i told her that i intended to settle the matter of the will to-day. but she shan't marry you with my consent, and, as i have the money, you can see that it would be wrong of you to drag her down to poverty." "you put the case very plainly, mallien." "how else do you expect me to put it?" said the other, who was not in the least ashamed of the cowardly way in which he was behaving. "you might have a little more consideration for my position," remarked rupert, with a shrug. "what consideration did you ever show to me?" snarled mallien. rupert looked at the little man in amazement. "i have always been your good friend," he said after a pause. "i have given you money and----" "my own money," interrupted the visitor. "much thanks for that. it won't do, rupert. i won't allow you to work on my feelings." "i never knew that you had any to work on." "no more i have. i want justice, and justice i intend to have." "don't make such a row over the matter," said hendle contemptuously. "you shall have what you want. but you can scarcely expect me to walk out of this house this very minute. we must take the will to the lawyers and have it gone into. since you are behaving so brutally, i am inclined to defend my position. there is the statute of limitations to be considered." "and there is me to be considered," said a quiet voice at the door, and the two turned to see dorinda at the door. "you have been listening?" snapped her father. "yes, i have," she replied boldly, "and what i have heard shows me what a cruel nature you have, father." "don't speak to me in that way," stormed mallien, furiously. "oh, yes, i shall"; and dorinda entered to place her hand on rupert's shoulder as if to give him confidence. "you have not got rupert's money yet." "but i shall get it. the will is plain enough." before dorinda could reply, rupert rose to his feet and made a gesture that she should be silent. "leigh has something to say about the will, mallien," he remarked, "and had you not come over i should have sent for you. leigh wishes to see you and me and dorinda." "if leigh intends to try on any hanky-panky," said mallien, uneasily, for the summons seemed strange and ominous to him, "he'll find himself in the wrong box, i can tell you. you've been scheming with him, i expect, since he has been lying there." "i have scarcely seen him," retorted rupert, passing his arm round dorinda's waist. "tollart says he should be kept quiet." "then we shan't disturb him now." "yes, we shall. leigh has something on his mind, and wants to see the three of us. tollart has given permission, so we can go up to him now. only i beg of you, mallien, not to excite him, as he is very weak, and is not far from death. you understand." "i understand that you want to trick me in some way." by this time rupert's long-enduring patience was at an end, and he turned on the selfish little man in a cold fury. "look here, mallien, i have had enough of this," he said, firmly. "don't goad me too far, or you will regret it." "oh, will i!" taunted the other; "and in what way?" "possession is nine points of the law," retorted hendle, "and you appear to forget that i am the squire of barship. i shall see the lawyers and take all chances i can to prevent you getting possession of the money. i am innocent of any roguery in the matter, and my position is a very unfair one, as i am not to blame. it is close upon a century since that will was made, and if i make use of the statute of limitations i may be able to squash the whole affair. equity, if not common law, will be on my side." "you--you--you!" cried mallien violently, "you swindler!" "don't call names," said rupert imperiously, "or in spite of the fact that dorinda has the misfortune to call you father, i shall kick you out of the house. so now you know." "my own house," foamed mallien, stamping. "it's not your house yet, and it never may be." "well,"--mallien drew a long breath--"i never--i never----" he turned on his daughter suddenly and with violence. "what do you think of this behavior?" "i entirely approve of it," said dorinda, calmly, "and i am glad to see rupert stand up for his rights. he has treated you far too well as it is." "what--what--what?" "it's no use, father. you don't care for me and you don't care for your honor. all you do care for is yourself." "i--i--shall cut you off with a shilling--with a shilling." "so long as i have rupert, i don't care." hendle caught mallien by the shoulders and pushed him toward the door. "i can't allow any more of this, mallien. behave like a human being or i shall turn you out. now come up and hear what leigh has to say." "oh, i'll come," cried mallien viciously, but, unable to resist his cousin's superior strength; "but remember that if there is any plot to take away my money i shall make things hot for you." "get on! get on!" said hendle, impatiently, "and don't make a fool of yourself." mallien did go on and climbed the stairs to leigh's room unwillingly. he was beginning to see that there was nothing to be gained by storming, and that his best plan would be to adjust the matters in dispute quietly. although he believed the will to be legal, he yet had a lurking suspicion that it might be set aside by the statute of limitations. under these circumstances it was unwise to quarrel with his cousin, so he became more subdued. all the same his dog-like temper could not be entirely suppressed, and he entered the sick-chamber growling and muttering savagely. dorinda and rupert followed, the girl crying with shame. her father's conduct was disgraceful. the vicar was propped up in bed with pillows, looking white and weak. it was evident that he had not long to live, and there was an anxious expression on his face which showed that he had something on his mind. with a faint smile he welcomed the newcomers, and signed to the nurse that she should leave the room. this the woman did, whispering in passing rupert that tollart had left instructions that the patient was to be as little excited as possible, since his strength was rapidly failing. she also gave the young squire a strong stimulant with which to revive leigh, should he grow faint during the interview; and saying that she would return in half an hour departed softly. when the door was closed, the vicar looked at the weeping dorinda and her scowling father; also at rupert, who was cool and composed. inwardly the squire was greatly disturbed, but it was necessary that he should keep his emotions under control and he did so. "why do you cry, dorinda?" asked the vicar, softly. "she's a fool," growled mallien frowning blackly. "i am an honest girl," said dorinda, flushing and drying her eyes; "and i am ashamed of the cowardly way in which you are behaving." "how is your father behaving?" questioned leigh with an ironical smile. "he wants to take everything from rupert and make him a pauper," said dorinda sadly. "he refuses to allow me to marry him." "and will you obey him?" "no!" she drew herself up proudly. "i love rupert more than myself, and if he will marry me i am ready to be his wife at any moment." "fool! fool!" growled her father savagely. "what do you say, hendle?" inquired the vicar calmly. "i wish to marry dorinda, as i love her dearly," answered the squire, who was pale but composed; "but if this will is proved to be legal i may lose all, and i can't ask dorinda to share a life of poverty with me." "i don't care for your poverty," cried the girl, impetuously throwing her arms round her lover's neck. "i would rather have a crust with you than stay with my father in luxury." "but i don't think it will be necessary for you to be reduced to a crust, dorinda," smiled the vicar. "after all, considering the circumstances of the case and that hendle is not to blame, surely your father will give you half the income." "two thousand pounds," said mallien derisively. "i'm not such a fool. i shan't give rupert a single penny, and if dorinda marries him without my consent, which she will never get, she must be prepared to starve." "dorinda will never starve while i can work," said rupert calmly. "what at? you have never done a hand's turn in your life." leigh interposed before rupert could reply. "mallien, surely you will not behave so wickedly and selfishly as to keep all the money to yourself." "yes, i shall. the money is mine, and i shall not give a penny." "you are a bad man," said leigh slowly. "pooh! what do i care for your names?" "nothing. i can see that. however, i may be able to make you care. dorinda, give me some of that tonic." the vicar's voice was growing weak and his eye closed. dorinda slipped her arm round his neck and gave him a dose of the medicine which shortly took effect. he opened his eyes again and spoke in a stronger voice. "are you determined to behave in this unjust way, mallien?" "it is not unjust, and i do." "you will keep all the money to yourself?" "every penny." "and--if you can--prevent dorinda marrying hendle?" "yes. she does so at the risk of starvation." "but you may ruin two lives, mallien." "pooh! don't talk rubbish, vicar. i shall do as i like." "you shall not do as you like," said leigh steadily. "you are an evil and wicked man, although i am too sinful myself to say so. but i thank god that he has permitted me to live and make reparation for my wrongdoing." the vicar fumbled under his pillow and produced an envelope. "take this, hendle, and put it into your pocket. no, don't open it now. when i am dead you can learn how deeply i have sinned. and, above all, don't let mallien get hold of it." rupert slipped the envelope into the pocket of his coat and smiled grimly although he also looked astonished. "i'll take care of that," he said, with a nod; "but what is the paper about?" "it contains a signed and witnessed confession of my sin." "your sin." mallien began to shake in his shoes as there was something very ominous about these proceedings. "yes. i intended evil, and evil has come of my intention. but thank god i am able to nip my wrongdoing in the bud. mallien"--the vicar shook a reproving forefinger at the man--"i have given you every chance to behave as a christian should, but you will not seize the opportunity. now it is too late, and you must abide by your selfish conduct." "what the devil are you talking about?" "hush, father, hush! don't speak like that," cried dorinda with a shiver. "i shall speak as i like. what does leigh mean by his nonsense?" "you will not find that paper i have given hendle nonsense," said leigh in a faint voice. "it contains an account of my sin and will be your punishment." "come to the point; come to the point," stuttered mallien, nervously angry. leigh turned to look at hendle, who stood beside dorinda silently amazed at all this strange talk. "my friend," he said, wincing at having to lower himself in the young man's eyes, "i was tempted by satan and i fell. in the muniment chest i found a bundle of letters written by john hendle, which showed that he wished to disinherit his son frederick, whom he hated, in favor of eunice, the infant daughter of his eldest son, walter, whom he loved. he declared in the last letter of the bundle--which you will find in the chest where i left it--that he would make a will, leaving the estates to eunice, who married filbert when she grew up. but john hendle died of heart disease, as other family documents show, before he could execute his intention. he made no will in favor of eunice, and frederick lawfully inherited the property." mallien turned a greenish color and pulled out the will from the pocket--the will which had caused so many disasters. "john hendle made this----" "he did not," interrupted the vicar in a strong and triumphant voice. "i made that will. it is forged." "forged!" rupert, dorinda and mallien all echoed the word. "yes," leigh went on, speaking swiftly as if fearful that his strength would not hold out to the end. "i wanted money to go to yucatan, and hoped to get it from hendle. he was not inclined to fit out an expedition, so i hoped to force him. satan entered into me, and, taking advantage of what was in those letters of john hendle, i prepared the will in favor of eunice. i bought the parchment and wrote out what was wanted to give me a hold over hendle. when carrington saw me holding the will over the candle, i was doing so to change the color of the ink and make the parchment appear black and a little contracted. i did not give the forged will to hendle when i spoke about it, as it was not quite ready. next day i proposed to give it to him and to offer to allow him to burn it on condition that he gave me enough money to go to yucatan with an expedition. failing rupert, i should have gone to you, mr. mallien." "and you would have gone!" gasped rupert, amazed by this recital. "i would never have agreed to suppress that will had i believed it--as i did--to be genuine." "i see that now," said leigh, whose voice was becoming fainter. "you were too honorable for mallien and carrington, and you would have been too honorable for me. my forgery was vain. but god intervened and prevented me from carrying out my wicked plot. carrington came and--and--you--you--know the--rest. i acted wickedly--and--i--i----" he stopped and fell back on his pillows with a ghastly look on his face. "he is dying," cried dorinda, running to the bedside. "call the nurse." rupert opened the door, but mallien looking like a fiend rushed to the dying man and shook him roughly. "you are a liar! you are a liar!" he screamed, white with thwarted ambition. "this will is not forged; this will is----" hendle, furious with the man's inhumanity, caught him by the shoulders and thrust him out of the room. the nurse hurried in and along with dorinda tried to revive the fainting vicar, but in vain. dr. tollart was immediately sent for and came at once to pronounce that there was no hope. leigh lingered for twenty-four hours and then passed away quietly without ever regaining consciousness. this time, as tollart took care to prove, the vicar was really dead, and within a week his body was again placed in the family vault. to be certain about the catalepsy, the corpse was kept above ground for the seven days until there was no doubt that the man actually was dead. in vain titus ark, overcome with grief, repeated his parrot cry that his friend "worn't dead." leigh was on this occasion a truly dead man. the blow on the head, the shock to his nervous system caused by being buried alive, and perhaps the shame of having to confess his forgery of the will, had all combined to kill him. he died and barship knew him no more. and mallien? he was almost crazy with rage at his loss. again and again he tried to prove that the forged will was a genuine document, and saw many lawyers and experts. but the confession of leigh, signed by himself and witnessed by titus ark and his grandson, held good, as it gave all details of how the false testament had been prepared. leigh confessed therein that he had copied the signature of john hendle from the letters which first gave him an idea of committing the forgery. so in the end mallien had to accept the fact that rupert was the true squire of barship, and that there was not the slightest chance of his getting a single penny of the four thousand a year he so greedily coveted. while mallien, frenzied with baffled avarice, was moving heaven and earth to prove that he was the rightful heir, the other people who had been connected with the strange affair of the will were settling themselves in life. mrs. beatson obtained a situation as housekeeper to an invalid gentleman in derbyshire, much to the relief of kit and miss tollart. hendle was so pleased with the way in which these two had assisted him at an awkward moment, that he gave kit a handsome sum of money; and, along with dorinda, was present at his marriage to the doctor's daughter. tollart himself found that, in spite of all efforts, he could not quite do away with the prejudice against him, although more or less he managed, as has been said, to reëstablish his position. but perhaps conscience had something to do with his determination to go to australia with the young couple, for he felt very uncomfortable among his patients. sophy, who was unwilling to part from her father since he might take to drink again, suggested that he should emigrate. the doctor did so and shortly departed with mr. and mrs. beatson for melbourne, where he hoped to redeem himself entirely. and, thanks to rupert's generosity, a start at the antipodes was made easy both for him and for the young people. as to hendle and dorinda, they took advantage of mallien's preoccupation with regard to the will to get married quietly in london. dorinda was of age and did not require her father's consent. moreover, after his shabby behavior, she felt that even though he was her father, she could never live with him again. so she became mrs. hendle shortly after leigh was buried for the second time, and, after a short honeymoon, returned to be welcomed by one and all as the mistress of the big house. everyone was delighted that rupert still kept his position, and everyone knew that the will, which had caused so much trouble, had been forged. hendle would have preferred to keep leigh's confession to himself out of regard to the unfortunate vicar's memory, but mallien's action left him no option but to make it public. the amazing story added yet another chapter to the romance of the whole queer business, and the story got into the newspapers. mr. and mrs. hendle were not a little troubled by reporters and interviewers and snap-shot people, but in the end curiosity died away and they were left to live their own simple life, doing good and making everyone around them happy. in the end, mallien found that his efforts to prove the will to be genuine were futile, so one day presented himself at the big house in a very dismal frame of mind. not being able to get the property, he was secretly pleased that his daughter should have become mrs. hendle, even without his consent, as he hoped to use her for his own ends. with the greatest impudence he suggested that his son-in-law should fulfill his old promise and allow him five hundred a year. "oh, no," said rupert, calmly, when mallien came for a last interview. "i don't think it is good for you to be treated with such leniency." "nor do i," chimed in dorinda, who found it difficult to behave amiably to her father, seeing how badly he had behaved. "what do you mean?" demanded mallien, taken aback, for he had quite expected to get his own way. "what do you both mean?" "i don't think it is so very difficult to gather what we mean," replied rupert coolly. "you never intended to give me a penny had you got the money, so why should i give an income to you?" "that's different." "maybe. anyhow, you will have to live on what you have." "i am dorinda's father." "i don't look on you as my father," said the undutiful daughter. "you never have behaved like a father to me, and now that i have rupert to look after me, i wish to see as little of you as possible." "and this is my child," moaned mallien, much cast down. dorinda laughed. "it won't do, father," she said calmly. "as mr. leigh declared on his deathbed, you had every opportunity of acting honorably. how you have acted i leave to your conscience to say." "_i_ won't," said rupert sharply. "see here, mallien. i am a kind-hearted man and wish to help everyone, but for me to give you money for your wickedness would be wrong." "what wickedness?" "if you will have it; you threatened to turn me out of this house as a pauper, and you have done your best to prove true a document which you knew to be forged. if you had triumphed, dorinda and i would have been thrown into the street without a penny. because you have failed, you come whimpering to me for money. you shan't have any. as you are my wife's father, i should have allowed you enough to live on had you been without an income. but as you enjoy five hundred a year of your own you can exist on that. and, as people here are not very well disposed toward you, i advise you to go away." furious at this plain speaking mallien turned on his daughter. "do you hear how i am spoken to?" he demanded looking black. "i hear," responded mrs. hendle quietly, "and i am glad that you hear the truth for once in your life. i hope it will make you a better man. i think you had better take rupert's advice and leave barship." "oh, i shall go. i don't want to stay in such a hole," shouted mallien, putting on his hat violently; then he became pathetic. "and i go to live a lonely life." "i think you will find plenty of amusement in playing with your jewels," said dorinda quietly. "you never cared for me." mallien muttering something about an ungrateful child and a serpent's tooth, walked away with a drooping head. it dawned on him dimly when he shook the dust of barship from his feet that perhaps after all, as he had not given affection, he could not expect affection. but his egotism was much too strong to permit him to understand fully that he was only reaping what he had sown. he took up his abode in london and managed to get along very comfortably on his five hundred a year. but he always persisted in regarding himself as a much injured man and stubbornly maintained that the will forged by leigh was genuine. needless to say, he never missed his daughter, as he was far too much wrapped up in himself to desire any company but his own. "do you think we have acted rightly, rupert?" asked dorinda in a troubled tone, when her father departed after that last interview. "yes, dear. he is your father certainly, but he has no right to take advantage of the relationship to behave so selfishly as he has done. it would be wrong to pander to his egotism by giving him money." "yes, i suppose so," said dorinda with a sigh. "people are very hard to understand, rupert. besides my father, who puzzled me with his selfishness, there is mr. leigh. whatever made such a good and kind man forge that will?" rupert shrugged his shoulders. "a sudden temptation perhaps," he said, after a pause; "but i don't pretend to explain; his act was entirely opposed to his character. if he was in a story people would say that he was inconsistent." dorinda agreed. "very inconsistent. human beings are strange." "they are, dear. but you see, as we only see the outside of people we don't know how to account for every action. the majority of people are children and often act wrongly without thinking of the consequences. after all evil is only ignorance, for if wrongdoers knew what they would have to pay for behaving wickedly they would not sin. now, darling, don't think anything more about the matter. let us enjoy the peace which has come to us after the storm. there is no more to be said about the past and no more to be done. we are happy and try to make others happy. what more do you want?" "this," said dorinda, and kissed him fondly. the end the absentee by maria edgeworth [footnotes have been inserted in the text in square ("[]")<br /> brackets, close to the point where they were originally.<br /><br /> characters printed in italics in the original text have been<br /> written in capital letters in this etext.<br /><br /> the british pound sterling symbol has been written 'l'.]<br /> contents notes on 'the absentee' the absentee chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi chapter vii chapter viii chapter ix chapter x chapter xi chapter xii chapter xiii chapter xiv chapter xv chapter xvi chapter xvii notes on 'the absentee' in august , we are told, she wrote a little play about landlords and tenants for the children of her sister, mrs. beddoes. mr. edgeworth tried to get the play produced on the london boards. writing to her aunt, mrs. ruxton, maria says, 'sheridan has answered as i foresaw he must, that in the present state of this country the lord chamberlain would not license the absentee; besides there would be a difficulty in finding actors for so many irish characters.' the little drama was then turned into a story, by mr. edgeworth's advice. patronage was laid aside for the moment, and the absentee appeared in its place in the second part of tales of fashionable life. we all know lord macaulay's verdict upon this favourite story of his, the last scene of which he specially admired and compared to the odyssey. [lord macaulay was not the only notable admirer of the absentee. the present writer remembers hearing professor ruskin on one occasion break out in praise and admiration of the book. 'you can learn more by reading it of irish politics,' he said, 'than from a thousand columns out of blue-books.'] mrs. edgeworth tells us that much of it was written while maria was suffering a misery of toothache. miss edgeworth's own letters all about this time are much more concerned with sociabilities than with literature. we read of a pleasant dance at mrs. burke's; of philosophers at sport in connemara; of cribbage, and company, and country houses, and lord longford's merry anecdotes during her visit to him. miss edgeworth, who scarcely mentions her own works, seems much interested at this time in a book called mary and her cat, which she is reading with some of the children. little scraps of news (i cannot resist quoting one or two of them) come in oddly mixed with these personal records of work and family talk. 'there is news of the empress (marie louise), who is liked not at all by the parisians; she is too haughty, and sits back in her carriage when she goes through the streets. 'of josephine, who is living very happily, amusing herself with her gardens and her shrubberies.' this ci-devant empress and kennedy and co., the seedsmen, are in partnership, says miss edgeworth. and then among the lists of all the grand people maria meets in london in (madame de stael is mentioned as expected), she gives an interesting account of an actual visitor, peggy langan, who was grand-daughter to thady in castle rackrent. peggy went to england with mrs. beddoes, and was for thirty years in the service of mrs. haldimand we are told, and was own sister to simple susan. the story of the absentee is a very simple one, and concerns irish landlords living in england, who ignore their natural duties and station in life, and whose chief ambition is to take their place in the english fashionable world. the grand english ladies are talking of lady clonbrony. '"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.' lord colambre, the son of the lady in question, here walks across the room, not wishing to listen to any more strictures upon his mother. he is the very most charming of walking gentlemen, and when stung by conscience he goes off to ireland, disguised in a big cloak, to visit his father's tenantry and to judge for himself of the state of affairs, all our sympathies go with him. on his way he stops at tusculum, scarcely less well known than its classical namesake. he is entertained by mrs. raffarty, that esthetical lady who is determined to have a little 'taste' of everything at tusculum. she leads the way into 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. '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.' the dinner-party is too long to quote, but it is written in miss edgeworth's most racy and delightful vein of fun. one more little fact should not be omitted in any mention of the absentee. one of the heroines is miss broadhurst, the heiress. the edgeworth family were much interested, soon after the book appeared, to hear that a real living miss broadhurst, an heiress, had appeared upon the scenes, and was, moreover, engaged to be married to sneyd edgeworth, one of the eldest sons of the family. in the story, says mrs. edgeworth, miss broadhurst selects from her lovers one who 'unites worth and wit,' and then she goes on to quote an old epigram of mr. edgeworth's on himself, which concluded with,'there's an edge to his wit and there's worth in his heart.' mr. edgeworth, who was as usual busy building church spires for himself and other people, abandoned his engineering for a time to criticise his daughter's story, and he advised that the conclusion of the absentee should be a letter from larry the postilion. 'he wrote one, she wrote another,' says mrs. edgeworth. 'he much preferred hers, which is the admirable finale of the absentee.' and just about this time lord ross is applied to, to frank the edgeworth manuscripts. 'i cannot by any form of words express how delighted i am that you are none of you angry with me,' writes modest maria to her cousin, miss ruxton, 'and that my uncle and aunt are pleased with what they have read of the absentee. i long to hear whether their favour continues to the end, and extends to the catastrophe, that dangerous rock upon which poor authors are wrecked.' 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! everybody'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 anything.' '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, everybody 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. 'make it a rule, you know, to believe only half the world says.' '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 anybody--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 why does lady clonbrony want to pass for english?' said the duchess. 'oh! 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 grace 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. 'grace 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 certainly should know,' pursued lady langdale, 'though i don't recollect seeing him anywhere 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 everybody 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 on wednesday.' while lady langdale spoke, she never seemed to see or think of anybody 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 oblivious 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 mimickry, 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 renegade 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 dependant of the family, everybody 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 schoolboy, 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 oblivious 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 meantime, 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, barring accidents, 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 mr. 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, all together, 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-- 'maybe 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 coach-maker, 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, 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?' 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 further 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 further; 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 both were at that work, he trusted he was their match. 'will you be so good, sir, to finish making out this estimate for me?' interrupted lord colambre. '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 anything 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 lot 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 everybody 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 rason 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 ding 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 further 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 maitre. the whole face of things must be changed--there must be new hangings, new draperies, new cornices, new candelabras, new everything! the upholsterer's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,<br /> glances from ceiling to floor, from floor to ceiling;<br /> and, as imagination bodies forth<br /> the form of things unknown, th' upholsterer's pencil<br /> turns to shape and gives to airy nothing<br /> a local habitation and a name.<br /> 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 ecoinieres--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 heads with gold rays--and here, ma'am, you place four chancelieres, with chimeras at the corners, covered with blue silk and silver fringe, elegantly fanciful--with my statira canopy here--light blue silk draperies--aerial 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 unroll 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 valance 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 everywhere--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 demisaison 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 anything, 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 grace nugent said everything 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 his mother--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 anything preposterously absurd, or exorbitantly extravagant. lord colambre was actually sorry when the business was ended--when mr. soho departed--for grace 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 anything but--grace nugent. when grace nugent left the room, after some minutes' silence, and some effort, lord colambre said to his mother, 'pray, madam, do you know anything 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 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 henglish-woman bawn! must be well infawmed on this pint, anyway.' 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's being on the turf; and mr. st. albans' 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 idees 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 wished 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 anybody. marrying an heiress accomplishes all this at once; and the young lady is everything 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 anything 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 let out--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 anything 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 warn-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, maybe. 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 gatoit 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 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 apostrophise 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 medicis, 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're 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 eneas 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 fifty thousand down, or a thousand a year in land. would you have a man so d-d nice as to balk when house and land is a-going--a-going--a-going!--because of the encumbrance of a little learning? i never heard that miss broadhurst was anything of a learned lady.' 'miss broadhurst!' said grace 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 a good fortune, which, i hope, will not be out of your way, even if you went by tipperary. she has, besides l , in the funds, a clear landed property of l , per annum. well! some people talk of morality, and some of religion, but 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 everything 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 the room; 'shall i never hear the end of that fortune, when i've seen the end of it long ago?' during this matrimonial dialogue, grace nugent and lord colambre never once looked at each other. grace 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 mantelpiece; 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 deserving young lady, and particularly one of your guests; but i shall be careful not to do more than not to neglect, for i never will pretend what i do not feel.' 'but, my dear colambre, miss broadhurst is everything you could wish, except being a beauty.' 'perhaps, madam,' said lord colambre, fixing his eyes on grace 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 grace 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 naivete 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 everybody 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 catharine 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 was to be cards in one room, music in another, dancing in a third, and, in this little room, there were prints and chess-boards, etc. '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 catharine, you will play, and i will look on.' miss broadhurst drew her seat to the fire; lady catharine 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 catharine 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 past three-and-twenty--shall be four-and-twenty the th 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 catharine. 'very possible,' said miss broadhurst, quite unconcerned. 'now, lord colambre, would you believe it? can you believe it?' asked lady catharine. '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 to extort a smile from him under false pretences? i am sure he sees that you, ladies, 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, shelved a desire to converse with her, and listened eagerly to what she said. he recollected that grace nugent had told him that this young lady had no common character; and, neglecting his move at chess, he looked up at grace 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 catharine. 'i beg your ladyship's pardon--' 'are not these rooms beautiful, miss broadhurst?' said lady catharine, 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 catharine'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 catharine. '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.' 'oh dear! what a move was there!' cried lady catharine. '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 connaissance 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 catharine; 'but you make no battle.' 'it would be so vain to combat against your ladyship,' said lord colambre, rising, and bowing politely to lady catharine, 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 catharine. '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, everything, if i were you,' said lady anne. 'rank, to begin with,' said lady catharine. '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 catharine. '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 with it 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 catharine. '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!' 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 miss broadhurst; 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 catharine 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. everybody 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 swan-down couch. when, after having monopolised 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 everything 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 rejected 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 everybody of her acquaintance--and she was acquainted with everybody--how shamefully soho had imposed upon poor lady clonbrony, protesting she could not forgive the man. 'for,' said she,' though the duchess of torcaster has 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 car, 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 everybody. 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; everybody declared that, from the first, the want of proportion had '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, were 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, everything is appropriate here, i flatter myself,' said lady clonbrony. 'and how good of you, my dear lady clonbrony, in defiance of bulls and blunders, to allow us a comfortable english fireplace 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 on 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 more freely; for here she thought she was upon safe ground: 'everything, 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--'everything 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 anything that struck her fancy in the dress of her fashionable friends, she had a way of hanging her head aside, and saying, with a peculiar 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, all together, 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 days, let me ask you if you have never observed that a wit, once conquered in company by a wit of a 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 anything.' 'well, then, when miss nugent first came to london, lady langdale--' '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 grace 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.' 'lady langdale, you know, sets an inordinate value upon her curtsies in public, and she used to treat miss nugent, as her ladyship treats many other people, sometimes noticing, and sometimes pretending not to know her, according to the company she happened to be with. one day they met in some fine company--lady langdale looked as if she was afraid of committing herself by a curtsy. miss nugent waited for a good opportunity; and, when all the world was silent, leant forward, and called to lady langdale, as if she had something to communicate of the greatest consequence, skreening her whisper with her hand, as in an aside on the stage,--'lady langdale, you may curtsy to me now--nobody is looking.' 'the retort courteous!' said lord colambre--'the only retort for a woman.' 'and her ladyship deserved it so well. but mrs. dareville, what happened about her?' '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 recognising 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 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 these 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.' lady catharine, as they went downstairs to supper, observed that miss nugent had not been dancing, that she had kept quite in the background all night--quite in the shade. 'those,' said lord colambre, 'who are contented in the shade are the best able to bear the light; and i am not surprised that one so interesting in the background should not desire to be the foremost figure in a piece.' 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 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 unadorned 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 doze; 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 anybody 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 apprised, 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 habituated 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 was 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 anybody, 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, no coquetry; 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 were 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 anything 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 anecdotes 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 scavoir-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 everything 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 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 profited 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 sheephooks; but the first winter 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, 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 everything 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 anybody 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, she 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 shan'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. beryl signed the bond, and threw it to him. 'there, monster!--quit the house!' 'monster is not actionable--i wish you had called me rascal,' 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 proceeding; 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--the door 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 downstairs; lord colambre, before he went back into the room, waited to see mordicai 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 mordicai. '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 profiting 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 meantime, 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 everywhere. how miserable is the fine lady's lot who cannot forget the world, and who is forgot 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 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 of the alphabet. it will form a precedent of the most dangerous and inevitable application. if she has 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 daresay, 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 for herself and for miss nugent were left for each member of the family; and her civil messages, left with the footman, 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 further, 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 entree 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 everything 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 anything 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 th. into these select parties lady clonbrony had never been admitted. in return for her great entertainments she was invited to great entertainments, to large parties; but farther 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 innuendo, the insolent mimicry; but she was kept at a cold, impassable distance, by ceremony--'so far shalt thou go, and no farther' 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,' etc.--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, 'alcala-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 gentleman 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 anything else with propriety, she would not have thought of sending her ladyship anything 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 everything 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 not you 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. everybody sympathised 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 generalised 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 everybody--everybody 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 that night, the next, and the next, 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.<br /> 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 but that rascal was bringing upon you--but an execution?--he was.' 'an execution!' repeated everybody 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 draught, 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: 'haven'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 an 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 everybody-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 sheriff's 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 up miss nugent to the table, where she was sealing letters, 'i must tell you how i sarved 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 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 brickbats; 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 sheriffs fellow thrust his bayonet up through your false plaster, and down came tumbling the family plate hey, terry? that hit cost your friend, lord everybody-knows-who, more than your head's worth, terry.' 'i ask your pardon, my lord, it never cost him a farthing.' 'when he paid 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 to --' 'ha! ha! ha!--that was neat, i grant you, terry,' said lord clonbrony. 'but what a dolt of a born ignoramus must that sheriffs 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 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. anything to get 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 nowadays. so i, that am under no natural obligations to it by birth or otherwise, have just stood by 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 went out of the room, that she might leave the father and son at liberty. '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 hear 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 as to his family affairs, 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 anything 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 with propriety 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 would only ask her the question, she would tell you it is truth, i daresay.' '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 farther 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 anything 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 to follow headlong 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 everybody, 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 nothing 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 reelly 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 other; an irish home, when i had no other; that my earliest and happiest years, under your kind care, had been spent there; and that 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 anything 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 anything but that, grace. return to clonbrony, while i am able to live in london? that i never can or will do for you or anybody!' 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 be 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 anywhere. 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, with 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 be 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 be easily 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--was capable of drawing aside, at once, the curtain of self-delusion, and looking steadily at the skeleton of truth--she had a generous, perhaps because a strong mind; for, 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 made 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 everything. 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! 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 a 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 thundering knock at the door announced the arrival of company. 'think no more of love, but as much as you please of friendship--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, and i wondering all the time nobody rang for me--but my lady dressed, lord knows how! without anybody. 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 downstairs. '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 confidantially, 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 everything, and hear of everything, 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 maybe 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 everything; 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 charge d'affaires, or as the lady of a charge d'affaires, could have assumed. she spoke of her private belief; of the impression left upon her mind; and her confidantial 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 reasonable causes. in the meantime, 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 gentleman-like, 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 most satisfaction; and with discriminative, not superficial celerity, touched on all ancient and modern authors, 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 in dublin 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, for the time being, 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 scandalised 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 is 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 everything 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 new set, 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 meantime, 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 dress.... 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 recommence 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, turn 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, which he is too polite to suspect his customers of, and particularly proud to prove himself superior to. 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 are 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 his 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 th, 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 anything, 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, etc. tusculum, sunday . 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. rafferty 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 veranda, which she said could not be 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 light 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 everything 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 everything 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 apologised 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 apologising, and fussing, and fretting inwardly and outwardly, and directing and calling to her servants--striving to make a butler who was deaf, a boy who was hare-brained, do the business of five accomplished footmen of parts and figure. the mistress of the house called for 'plates, clean plates!-hot plates!' 'but none did come, when she did call for them.' mrs. raffarty called 'larry! larry! 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 larry 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 set larry after kenny, and kenny after larry; 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 macaroni 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. 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 overmuch, 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, sympathising 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 for the lady's maids.' 'for the lady's maids! that is good! that is new, faith! sir james, do you hear that?' 'indeed, then, and it's true, and not a word of a lie!' said the honest landlord. 'and this minute, we've got a directory of five of them abigails, sitting within in our house; as fine ladies, as great dashers, too, every bit as their principals; and kicking up as much dust on the road, every grain!--think of them, now! the likes of them, that must have four horses, and would not stir a foot with one less!--as the gentleman's gentleman there was telling and boasting to me about now, when the barouche was ordered for them, there at the lady's house, where lady dashfort is on a visit--they said they would not get in till they'd get four horses; and their ladies backed them; and so the four horses was got; and they just drove out here, to see the points of view for fashion's sake, like their betters; and up with their glasses, like their ladies; and then out with their watches, and "isn't it time to lunch?" so there they have been lunching within on what they brought with them; for nothing in our house could they touch, of course! they brought themselves a picknick lunch, with madeira and champagne to wash it down. why, gentlemen, what do you think, but a set of them, as they were bragging to me, turned out of a boarding-house at cheltenham, last year, because they had not peach-pies to their lunch!--but here they come! shawls, and veils, and all!--streamers flying! but mum is my cue!--captain, are these girths to your fancy now?' said the landlord, aloud; then, as he stooped to alter a buckle, he said, in a voice meant to be heard only by captain bowles, 'if there's a tongue, male or female, in the three kingdoms, it's in that foremost woman, mrs. petito.' 'mrs. petito!' repeated lord colambre, as the name caught his ear; and, approaching the barouche in which the five abigails were now seated, he saw the identical mrs. petito, who, when he left london, had been in his mother's service. she recognised his lordship with very gracious intimacy; and, before he had time to ask any questions, she answered all she conceived he was going to ask, and with a volubility which justified the landlord's eulogium of her tongue. 'yes, my lord! i left my lady clonbrony some time back--the day after you left town; and both her ladyship and miss nugent was charmingly, and would have sent their loves to your lordship, i'm sure, if they'd any notion i should have met you, my lord, so soon. and i was very sorry to part with them; but the fact was, my lord,' said mrs. petito, laying a detaining hand upon lord colambre's whip, one end of which he unwittingly trusted within her reach,--'i and my lady had a little difference, which the best friends, you know, sometimes have; so my lady clonbrony was so condescending to give me up to my lady dashfort--and i knew no more than the child unborn that her ladyship had it in contemplation to cross the seas. but, to oblige my lady, and as colonel heathcock, with his regiment of militia, was coming for purtection in the packet at the same time, and we to have the government-yacht, i waived my objections to ireland. and, indeed, though i was greatly frighted at first, having heard all we've heard, you know, my lord, from lady clonbrony, of there being no living in ireland, and expecting to see no trees nor accommodation, nor anything but bogs all along; yet i declare, i was very agreeably surprised; for, as far as i've seen at dublin and in the vicinity, the accommodations, and everything of that nature, now is vastly put-up-able with!'--'my lord,' said sir james brooke, 'we shall be late.' lord colambre, shortly withdrawing his whip from mrs. petito, turned his horse away. she, stretching over the back of the barouche as he rode off, bawled to him-- 'my lord, we're at stephen's green, when we're at dublin.' but as he did not choose to hear, she raised her voice to its highest pitch, adding-- 'and where are you, my lord, to be found!--as i have a parcel of miss nugent's for you.' lord colambre instantly turned back, and gave his direction. 'cleverly done, faith!' said the major. 'i did not hear her say when lady dashfort is to be in town,' said captain bowles. 'what, bowles! have you a mind to lose more of your guineas to lady dashfort, and to be jockied out of another horse by lady isabel?' 'oh! confound it--no! i'll keep out of the way of that--i have had enough,' said captain bowles; 'it is my lord colambre's turn now; you hear that lady dashfort would be very proud to see him. his lordship is in for it, and with such an auxiliary as mrs. petito, lady dashfort has him for lady isabel, as sure as he has a heart or hand.' 'my compliments to the ladies, but my heart is engaged,' said lord colambre; 'and my hand shall go with my heart, or not at all.' 'engaged! engaged to a very amiable, charming woman, no doubt,' said sir james brooke. 'i have an excellent opinion of your taste; and if you can return the compliment to my judgment, take my advice: don't trust to your heart's being engaged, much less plead that engagement; for it would be lady dashfort's sport, and lady isabel's joy, to make you break your engagement, and break your mistress's heart; the fairer, the more amiable, the more beloved, the greater the triumph, the greater the delight in giving pain. all the time love would be out of the question; neither mother nor daughter would care if you were hanged, or, as lady dashfort would herself have expressed it, if you were d-d.' 'with such women, i should think a man's heart could be in no great danger,' said lord colambre. 'there you might be mistaken, my lord; there's a way to every man's heart, which no man in his own case is aware of, but which every woman knows right well, and none better than these ladies--by his vanity.' 'true,' said captain bowles. 'i am not so vain as to think myself without vanity,' said lord colambre; 'but love, i should imagine, is a stronger passion than vanity.' 'you should imagine! stay till you are tried, my lord. excuse me,' said captain bowles, laughing. lord colambre felt the good sense of this, and determined to have nothing to do with these dangerous ladies; indeed, though he had talked, he had scarcely yet thought of them; for his imagination was intent upon that packet from miss nugent, which mrs. petito said she had for him. he heard nothing of it, or of her, for some days. he sent his servant every day to stephen's green to inquire if lady dashfort had returned to town. her ladyship at last returned; but mrs. petito could not deliver the parcel to any hand but lord colambre's own, and she would not stir out, because her lady was indisposed. no longer able to restrain his impatience, lord colambre went himself--knocked at lady dashfort's door--inquired for mrs. petito--was shown into her parlour. the parcel was delivered to him; but to his utter disappointment, it was a parcel for, not from miss nugent. it contained merely an odd volume of some book of miss nugent's which mrs. petito said she had put up along with her things in a mistake, and she thought it her duty to return it by the next opportunity of a safe conveyance. whilst lord colambre, to comfort himself for his disappointment, was fixing his eyes upon miss nugent's name, written by her own hand, in the first leaf of the book, the door opened, and the figure of an interesting-looking woman, in deep mourning, appeared--appeared for one moment, and retired. 'only my lord colambre, about a parcel i was bringing for him from england, my lady--my lady isabel, my lord,' said mrs. petito. whilst mrs. petito was saying this, the entrance and retreat had been made, and made with such dignity, grace, and modesty; with such innocence, dove-like eyes had been raised upon him, fixed and withdrawn; with such a gracious bend the lady isabel had bowed to him as she retired; with such a smile, and with so soft a voice, had repeated 'lord colambre!' that his lordship, though well aware that all this was mere acting, could not help saying to himself as he left the house: 'it is a pity it is only acting. there is certainly something very engaging in this woman. it is a pity she is an actress. and so young! a much younger woman than i expected. a widow before most women are wives. so young, surely she cannot be such a fiend as they described her to be!' a few nights afterwards lord colambre was with some of his acquaintance at the theatre, when lady isabel and her mother came into the box, where seats had been reserved for them, and where their appearance instantly made that sensation which is usually created by the entrance of persons of the first notoriety in the fashionable world. lord colambre was not a man to be dazzled by fashion, or to mistake notoriety for deference paid to merit, and for the admiration commanded by beauty or talents. lady dashfort's coarse person, loud voice, daring manners, and indelicate wit, disgusted him almost past endurance, he saw sir james brooke in the box opposite to him; and twice determined to go round to him. his lordship had crossed the benches, and once his hand was upon the lock of the door; but attracted as much by the daughter as repelled by the mother, he could move no farther. the mother's masculine boldness heightened, by contrast, the charms of the daughter's soft sentimentality. the lady isabel seemed to shrink from the indelicacy of her mother's manners, and seemed peculiarly distressed by the strange efforts lady dashfort made, from time to time, to drag her forward, and to fix upon her the attention of gentlemen. colonel heathcock, who, as mrs. petito had informed lord colambre, had come over with his regiment to ireland, was beckoned into their box by lady dashfort, by her squeezed into a seat next to lady isabel; but lady isabel seemed to feel sovereign contempt, properly repressed by politeness, for what, in a low whisper to a female friend on the other side of her, she called, 'the self-sufficient inanity of this sad coxcomb.' other coxcombs, of a more vivacious style, who stationed themselves round her mother, or to whom her mother stretched from box to box to talk, seemed to engage no more of lady isabel's attention than just what she was compelled to give by lady dashfort's repeated calls of-- 'isabel! isabel! colonel g-- isabel! lord d-- bowing to you, belie! belie! sir harry b-- isabel, child, with your eyes on the stage? did you never see a play before? novice! major p--waiting to catch your eye this quarter of an hour; and now her eyes gone down to her play-bill! sir harry, do take it from her. 'were eyes so radiant only made to read?' lady isabel appeared to suffer so exquisitely and so naturally from this persecution, that lord colambre said to himself-- 'if this be acting, it is the best acting i ever saw. if this be art, it deserves to be nature.' and with this sentiment he did himself the honour of handing lady isabel to her carriage this night, and with this sentiment he awoke next morning; and by the time he had dressed and breakfasted he determined that it was impossible all that he had seen could be acting. 'no woman, no young woman, could have such art. sir james brooke had been unwarrantably severe; he would go and tell him so.' but sir james brooke this day received orders for his regiment to march to quarters in a distant part of ireland. his head was full of arms, and ammunition, and knapsacks, and billets, and routes; and there was no possibility, even in the present chivalrous disposition of our hero, to enter upon the defence of the lady isabel. indeed, in the regret he felt for the approaching and unexpected departure of his friend, lord colambre forgot the fair lady. but just when sir james had his foot in the stirrup, he stopped. 'by the bye, my dear lord, i saw you at the play last night. you seemed to be much interested. don't think me impertinent, if i remind you of our conversation when we were riding home from tusculum; and if i warn you,' said he, mounting his horse, 'to beware of counterfeits--for such are abroad.' reining in his impatient steed, sir james turned again and added, 'deeds not words, is my motto. remember, we can judge better by the conduct of people towards others than by their manner towards ourselves.' chapter vii our hero was quite convinced of the good sense of his friend's last remark, that it is safer to judge of people by their conduct to others than by their manners towards ourselves; but as yet, he felt scarcely any interest on the subject of lady dashfort or lady isabel's characters; however, he inquired and listened to all the evidence he could obtain respecting this mother and daughter. he heard terrible reports of the mischief they had done in families; the extravagance into which they had led men; the imprudence, to say no worse, into which they had betrayed women. matches broken off, reputations ruined, husbands alienated from their wives, and wives made jealous of their husbands. but in some of these stories he discovered exaggeration so flagrant as to make him doubt the whole; in others, it could not be positively determined whether the mother or daughter had been the person most to blame. lord colambre always followed the charitable rule of believing only half what the world says, and here he thought it fair to believe which half he pleased. he further observed, that, though all joined in abusing these ladies in their absence, when present they seemed universally admired. though everybody cried 'shame!' and 'shocking!' yet everybody visited them. no parties so crowded as lady dashfort's; no party deemed pleasant or fashionable where lady dashfort or lady isabel was not. the bon-mots of the mother were everywhere repeated; the dress and air of the daughter everywhere imitated. yet lord colambre could not help being surprised at their popularity in dublin, because, independently of all moral objections, there were causes of a different sort, sufficient, he thought, to prevent lady dashfort from being liked by the irish; indeed by any society. she in general affected to be ill-bred, and inattentive to the feelings and opinions of others; careless whom she offended by her wit or by her decided tone. there are some persons in so high a region of fashion, that they imagine themselves above the thunder of vulgar censure. lady dashfort felt herself in this exalted situation, and fancied she might 'hear the innocuous thunder roll below.' her rank was so high that none could dare to call her vulgar; what would have been gross in any one of meaner note, in her was freedom, or originality, or lady dashfort's way. it was lady dashfort's pleasure and pride to show her power in perverting the public taste. she often said to those english companions with whom she was intimate, 'now see what follies i can lead these fools into. hear the nonsense i can make them repeat as wit.' upon some occasion, one of her friends ventured to fear that something she had said was too strong. 'too strong, was it? well, i like to be strong--woe be to the weak.' on another occasion she was told that certain visitors had seen her ladyship yawning. 'yawn, did i?--glad of it--the yawn sent them away, or i should have snored;--rude, was i? they won't complain. to say i was rude to them would be to say, that i did not think it worth my while to be otherwise. barbarians! are not we the civilised english, come to teach them manners and fashions? whoever does not conform, and swear allegiance too, we shall keep out of the english pale.' lady dashfort forced her way, and she set the fashion: fashion, which converts the ugliest dress into what is beautiful and charming, governs the public mode in morals and in manners; and thus, when great talents and high rank combine, they can debase or elevate the public taste. with lord colambre she played more artfully; she drew him out in defence of his beloved country, and gave him opportunities of appearing to advantage; this he could not help feeling, especially when the lady isabel was present. lady dashfort had dealt long enough with human nature to know, that to make any man pleased with her, she should begin by making him pleased with himself. insensibly the antipathy that lord colambre had originally felt to lady dashfort wore off; her faults, he began to think, were assumed; he pardoned her defiance of good breeding, when he observed that she could, when she chose it, be most engagingly polite. it was not that she did not know what was right, but that she did not think it always for her interest to practise it. the party opposed to lady dashfort affirmed that her wit depended merely on unexpectedness; a characteristic which may be applied to any impropriety of speech, manner, or conduct. in some of her ladyship's repartees, however, lord colambre now acknowledged there was more than unexpectedness; there was real wit; but it was of a sort utterly unfit for a woman, and he was sorry that lady isabel should hear it. in short, exceptionable as it was altogether, lady dashfort's conversation had become entertaining to him; and though he could never esteem or feel in the least interested about her, he began to allow that she could be agreeable. 'ay, i knew how it would be,' said she, when some of her friends told her this. 'he began by detesting me, and did i not tell you that, if i thought it worth my while to make him like me, he must, sooner or later. i delight in seeing people begin with me as they do with olives, making all manner of horrid faces and silly protestations that they will never touch an olive again as long as they live; but, after a little time, these very folk grow so desperately fond of olives, that there is no dessert without them. isabel, child, you are in the sweet line--but sweets cloy. you never heard of anybody living on marmalade, did ye?'--lady isabel answered by a sweet smile.--'to do you justice, you play lydia languish vastly well,' pursued the mother; 'but lydia, by herself, would soon tire; somebody must keep up the spirit and bustle, and carry on the plot of the piece; and i am that somebody--as you shall see. is not that our hero's voice, which i hear on the stairs?' it was lord colambre. his lordship had by this time become a constant visitor at lady dashfort's. not that he had forgotten, or that he meant to disregard his friend sir james brooke's parting words. he promised himself faithfully, that if anything should occur to give him reason to suspect designs, such as those to which the warning pointed, he would be on his guard, and would prove his generalship by an able retreat. but to imagine attacks where none were attempted, to suspect ambuscades in the open country, would be ridiculous and cowardly. 'no,' thought our hero; 'heaven forfend i should be such a coxcomb as to fancy every woman who speaks to me has designs upon my precious heart, or on my more precious estate!' as he walked from his hotel to lady dashfort's house, ingeniously wrong, he came to this conclusion, just as he ascended the stairs, and just as her ladyship had settled her future plan of operations. after talking over the nothings of the day, and after having given two or three cuts at the society of dublin, with two or three compliments to individuals, who, she knew, were favourites with his lordship, she suddenly turned to him-- 'my lord, i think you told me, or my own sagacity discovered, that you want to see something of ireland, and that you don't intend, like most travellers, to turn round, see nothing, and go home content.' lord colambre assured her ladyship that she had judged him rightly, for, that nothing would content him but seeing all that was possible to be seen of his native country. it was for this special purpose he came to ireland. 'ah!--well--very good purpose--can't be better; but now, how to accomplish it. you know the portuguese proverb says, "you go to hell for the good things you intend to do, and to heaven for those you do." now let us see what you will do. dublin, i suppose, you've seen enough of by this time; through and through--round and round this makes me first giddy and then sick. let me show you the country--not the face of it, but the body of it--the people. not castle this, or newtown that, but their inhabitants. i know them; i have the key, or the picklock to their minds. an irishman is as different an animal on his guard, and off his guard, as a miss in school from a miss out of school. a fine country for game, i'll show you; and, if you are a good marksman, you may have plenty of shots "at folly as it flies."' lord colambre smiled. 'as to isabel,' pursued her ladyship, 'i shall put her in charge of heathcock, who is going with us. she won't thank me for that, but you will. nay, no fibs, man; you know, i know, as who does not that has seen the world, that though a pretty woman is a mighty pretty thing, yet she is confoundedly in one's way, when anything else is to be seen, heard--or understood.' every objection anticipated and removed, and so far a prospect held out of attaining all the information he desired, with more than all the amusement he could have expected, lord colambre seemed much tempted to accept the invitation; but he hesitated, because, as he said, her ladyship might be going to pay visits where he was not acquainted. 'bless you! don't let that be a stumbling-block in the way of your tender conscience. i am going to killpatrickstown, where you'll be as welcome as light. you know them, they know you; at least you shall have a proper letter of invitation from my lord and my lady killpatrick, and all that. and as to the rest, you know a young man is always welcome every-where, a young nobleman kindly welcome,--i won't say such a young man, and such a young nobleman, for that might put you to pour bows or your blushes--but nobilitas by itself, nobility is enough in all parties, in all families, where there are girls, and of course balls, as there are always at killpatrickstown. don't be alarmed; you shall not be forced to dance, or asked to marry. i'll be your security. you shall be at full liberty; and it is a house where you can do just what you will. indeed, i go to no others. these killpatricks are the best creatures in the world; they think nothing good or grand enough for me. if i'd let them, they would lay down cloth of gold over their bogs for me to walk upon.--good-hearted beings!' added lady dashfort, marking a cloud gathering on lord colambre's countenance. 'i laugh at them, because i love them. i could not love anything i might not laugh at--your lordship excepted. so you'll come--that's settled.' and so it was settled. our hero went to killpatrickstown. 'everything here sumptuous and unfinished, you see,' said lady dashfort to lord colambre, the day after their arrival. 'all begun as if the projectors thought they had the command of the mines of peru, and ended as if the possessors had not sixpence; des arrangemens provisatoires, temporary expedients; in plain english, make-shifts. luxuries, enough for an english prince of the blood; comforts, not enough for an english woman. and you may be sure that great repairs and alterations have gone on to fit this house for our reception, and for our english eyes!--poor people!--english visitors, in this point of view, are horribly expensive to the irish. did you ever hear that, in the last century, or in the century before the last, to put my story far enough back, so that it shall not touch anybody living; when a certain english nobleman, lord blank a--, sent to let his irish friend, lord blank b--, know that he and all his train were coming over to pay him a visit; the irish nobleman, blank b--, knowing the deplorable condition of his castle, sat down fairly to calculate whether it would cost him most to put the building in good and sufficient repair, fit to receive these english visitors, or to burn it to the ground. he found the balance to be in favour of burning, which was wisely accomplished next day. perhaps killpatrick would have done well to follow this example. resolve me which is worst, to be burnt out of house and home, or to be eaten out of house and home. in this house, above and below stairs, including first and second table, housekeeper's room, lady's maids' room, butler's room, and gentleman's, one hundred and four people sit down to dinner every day, as petito informs me, beside kitchen boys, and what they call char-women who never sit down, but who do not eat or waste the less for that; and retainers and friends, friends to the fifth and sixth generation, who "must get their bit and their sup;" for, "sure, it's only biddy," they say,' continued lady dashfort, imitating their irish brogue, 'find, "sure, 'tis nothing at all, out of all his honour, my lord, has. how could he feel it! [feel it: become sensible of it, know it.] long life to him! he's not that way: not a couple in all ireland, and that's saying a great dale, looks less after their own, nor is more off-handeder, or open-hearteder, or greater open-house-keepers, nor [than] my lord and my lady killpatrick." now there's encouragement for a lord and a lady to ruin themselves.' lady dashfort imitated the irish brogue in perfection; boasted that 'she was mistress of fourteen different brogues, and had brogues for all occasions.' by her mixture of mimickry, sarcasm, exaggeration, and truth, she succeeded continually in making lord colambre laugh at everything at which she wished to make him laugh; at every thing, but not every body whenever she became personal, he became serious, or at least endeavoured to become serious; and if he could not instantly resume the command of his risible muscles, he reproached himself. 'it is shameful to laugh at these people, indeed, lady dashfort, in their own house--these hospitable people, who are entertaining us.' 'entertaining us! true, and if we are entertained, how can we help laughing?' all expostulation was thus turned off by a jest, as it was her pride to make lord colambre laugh in spite of his better feelings and principles. this he saw, and this seemed to him to be her sole object; but there he was mistaken. off-handed as she pretended to be, none dealt more in the impromptu fait a loisir; and mentally short-sighted as she affected to be, none had more longanimity for their own interest. it was her settled purpose to make the irish and ireland ridiculous and contemptible to lord colambre; to disgust him with his native country; to make him abandon the wish of residing on his own estate. to confirm him an absentee was her object previously to her ultimate plan of marrying him to her daughter. her daughter was poor, she would therefore be glad to get an irish peer for her; but would be very sorry, she said, to see isabel banished to ireland; and the young widow declared she could never bring herself to be buried alive in clonbrony castle. in addition to these considerations, lady dashfort received certain hints from mrs. petito, which worked all to the same point. 'why, yes, my lady; i heard a great deal about all that when i was at lady clonbrony's,' said petito, one day, as she was attending at her lady's toilette, and encouraged to begin chattering. 'and i own i was originally under the universal error, that my lord colambre was to be married to the great heiress, miss broadhurst; but i have been converted and reformed on that score, and am at present quite in another way and style of thinking.' petito paused, in hopes that her lady would ask, what was her present way of thinking? but lady dashfort, certain that she would tell her without being asked, did not take the trouble to speak, particularly as she did not choose to appear violently interested on the subject.--'my present way of thinking,' resumed petito, 'is in consequence of my having, with my own eyes and ears, witnessed and overheard his lordship's behaviour and words, the morning he was coming away from lunnun for ireland; when he was morally certain nobody was up, nor overhearing, nor overseeing him, there did i notice him, my lady, stopping in the antechamber, ejaculating over one of miss nugent's gloves, which he had picked up. "limerick!" said he, quite loud to himself; for it was a limerick glove, my lady,--"limerick!--dear ireland! she loves you as well as i do!"--or words to that effect; and then a sigh, and downstairs and off: so, thinks i, now the cat's out of the bag. and i wouldn't give much myself for miss broadhurst's chance of that young lord, with all her bank stock, scrip, and omnum. now, i see how the land lies, and i'm sorry for it; for she's no fortin; and she's so proud, she never said a hint to me of the matter; but my lord colambre is a sweet gentleman; and--' 'petito! don't run on so; you must not meddle with what you don't understand: the miss killpatricks, to be sure, are sweet girls, particularly the youngest.'--her ladyship's toilette was finished; and she left petito to go down to my lady killpatrick's woman, to tell, as a very great secret, the schemes that were in contemplation among the higher powers, in favour of the youngest of the miss killpatricks. 'so ireland is at the bottom of his heart, is it?' repeated lady dashfort to herself; 'it shall not be long so.' from this time forward, not a day, scarcely an hour passed, but her ladyship did or said something to depreciate the country, or its inhabitants, in our hero's estimation. with treacherous ability, she knew and followed all the arts of misrepresentation; all those injurious arts which his friend, sir james brooke, had, with such honest indignation, reprobated. she knew how, not only to seize the ridiculous points, to make the most respectable people ridiculous, but she knew how to select the worst instances, the worst exceptions; and to produce them as examples, as precedents, from which to condemn whole classes, and establish general false conclusions respecting a nation. in the neighbourhood of killpatrickstown, lady dashfort said, there were several squireens, or little squires; a race of men who have succeeded to the buckeens, described by young and crumpe. squireens are persons who, with good long leases, or valuable farms, possess incomes from three to eight hundred a year; who keep a pack of hounds; take out a commission of the peace, sometimes before they can spell (as her ladyship said), and almost always before they know anything of law or justice! busy and loud about small matters; jobbers at assizes, combining with one another, and trying upon every occasion, public or private, to push themselves forward, to the annoyance of their superiors, and the terror of those below them. in the usual course of things, these men are not often to be found in the society of gentry; except, perhaps, among those gentlemen or noblemen who like to see hangers-on at their tables; or who find it for their convenience to have underling magistrates, to protect their favourites, or to propose and carry jobs for them on grand juries. at election times, however, these persons rise into sudden importance with all who have views upon the county. lady dashfort hinted to lord killpatrick, that her private letters from england spoke of an approaching dissolution of parliament; she knew that, upon this hint, a round of invitations would be sent to the squireens; and she was morally certain that they would be more disagreeable to lord colambre, and give him a worse idea of the country, than any other people who could be produced. day after day some of these personages made their appearance; and lady dashfort took care to draw them out upon the subjects on which she knew that they would show the most self-sufficient ignorance, and the most illiberal spirit. this succeeded beyond her most sanguine expectations. 'lord colambre! how i pity you, for being compelled to these permanent sittings after dinner!' said lady isabel to him one night, when he came late to the ladies from the dining-room. 'lord killpatrick insisted upon my staying to help him to push about that never-ending, still-beginning electioneering bottle,' said lord colambre. 'oh! if that were all; if these gentlemen would only drink;--but their conversation! i don't wonder my mother dreads returning to clonbrony castle, if my father must have such company as this. but, surely, it cannot be necessary. 'oh, indispensable! positively indispensable!' cried lady dashfort; 'no living in ireland without it. you know, in every country in the world, you must live with the people of the country, or be torn to pieces; for my part, i should prefer being torn to pieces.' lady dashfort and lady isabel knew how to take advantage of the contrast between their own conversation, and that of the persons by whom lord colambre was so justly disgusted; they happily relieved his fatigue with wit, satire, poetry, and sentiment; so that he every day became more exclusively fond of their company; for lady killpatrick and the miss killpatricks were mere commonplace people. in the mornings, he rode or walked with lady dashfort and lady isabel: lady dashfort, by way of fulfilling her promise of showing him the people, used frequently to take him into the cabins, and talk to their inhabitants. lord and lady killpatrick, who had lived always for the fashionable world, had taken little pains to improve the condition of their tenants; the few attempts they had made were injudicious. they had built ornamented, picturesque cottages, within view of their demesne; and favourite followers of the family, people with half a century's habit of indolence and dirt, were promoted to these fine dwellings. the consequences were such as lady dashfort delighted to point out; everything let to go to ruin for the want of a moment's care, or pulled to pieces for the sake of the most trifling surreptitious profit; the people most assisted always appearing proportionally wretched and discontented. no one could, with more ease and more knowledge of her ground, than lady dashfort, do the dishonour of a country. in every cabin that she entered, by the first glance of her eye at the head, kerchiefed in no comely guise, or by the drawn-down corners of the mouth, or by the bit of a broken pipe, which in ireland never characterises stout labour, or by the first sound of the voice, the drawling accent on 'your honour,' or, 'my lady,' she could distinguish the proper objects of her charitable designs, that is to say, those of the old uneducated race, whom no one can help, because they will never help themselves. to these she constantly addressed herself, making them give, in all their despairing tones, a history of their complaints and grievances; then asking them questions, aptly contrived to expose their habits of self-contradiction, their servility and flattery one moment, and their litigious and encroaching spirit the next: thus giving lord colambre the most unfavourable idea of the disposition and character of the lower class of the irish people. lady isabel the while standing by, with the most amiable air of pity, with expressions of the finest moral sensibility, softening all her mother said, finding ever some excuse for the poor creatures, and following with angelic sweetness to heal the wounds her mother inflicted. when lady dashfort thought she had sufficiently worked upon lord colambre's mind to weaken his enthusiasm for his native country, and when lady isabel had, by the appearance of every virtue, added to a delicate preference, if not partiality, for our hero, ingratiated herself into his good opinion and obtained an interest in his mind, the wily mother ventured an attack of a more decisive nature; and so contrived it was, that, if it failed, it should appear to have been made without design to injure, and in total ignorance. one day, lady dashfort, who in fact was not proud of her family, though she pretended to be so, had herself prevailed on, though with much difficulty, by lady killpatrick, to do the very thing she wanted to do, to show her genealogy, which had been beautifully blazoned, and which was to be produced as evidence in the lawsuit that brought her to ireland. lord colambre stood politely looking on and listening, while her ladyship explained the splendid inter-marriages of her family, pointing to each medallion that was filled gloriously with noble, and even with royal names, till at last she stopped short, and covering one medallion with her finger, she said-- 'pass over that, dear lady killpatrick. you are not to see that, lord colambre--that's a little blot in our scutcheon. you know, isabel, we never talk of that prudent match of great-uncle john's; what could he expect by marrying into that family, where you know all the men were not sans peur, and none of the women sans reproche.' 'oh mamma!' cried lady isabel, 'not one exception?' 'not one, isabel,' persisted lady dashfort; 'there was lady --, and the other sister, that married the man with the long nose; and the daughter again, of whom they contrived to make an honest woman, by getting her married in time to a blue-ribband, and who contrived to get herself into doctors' commons the very next year.' 'well, dear mamma, that is enough, and too much. oh! pray don't go on,' cried lady isabel, who had appeared very much distressed during her mother's speech. 'you don't know what you are saying; indeed, ma'am, you don't.' 'very likely, child; but that compliment i can return to you on the spot, and with interest; for you seem to me, at this instant, not to know either what you are saying or what you are doing. come, come, explain.' 'oh no, ma'am--pray say so no more; i will explain myself another time.' 'nay, there you are wrong, isabel; in point of good-breeding, anything is better than hints and mystery. since i have been so unlucky as to touch upon the subject, better go through with it, and, with all the boldness of innocence ask the question, are you, my lord colambre, or are you not, related or connected with any of the st. omars?' 'not that i know of,' said lord colambre; 'but i really am so bad a genealogist, that i cannot answer positively.' 'then i must put the substance of my question into a new form. have you, or have you not, a cousin of the name of nugent?' 'miss nugent!--grace nugent!--yes,' said lord colambre, with as much firmness of voice as he could command, and with as little change of countenance as possible; but, as the question came upon him so unexpectedly, it was not in his power to answer with an air of absolute indifference and composure. 'and her mother was--' said lady dashfort. 'my aunt, by marriage; her maiden name was reynolds, i think. but she died when i was quite a child. i know very little about her. i never saw her in my life; but i am certain she was a reynolds.' 'oh, my dear lord,' continued lady dashfort; 'i am perfectly aware that she did take and bear the name of reynolds; but that was not her maiden name--her maiden name was; but perhaps it is a family secret that has been kept, for some good reason from you, and from the poor girl herself; the maiden name was st. omar, depend upon it. nay, i would not have told this to you, my lord, if i could have conceived that it would affect you so violently,' pursued lady dashfort, in a tone of raillery; 'you see you are no worse off than we are. we have an intermarriage with the st. omars. i did not think you would be so much shocked at a discovery, which proves that our family and yours have some little connexion.' lord colambre endeavoured to answer, and mechanically said something about, 'happy to have the honour.' lady dashfort, truly happy to see that her blow had hit the mark so well, turned from his lordship without seeming to observe how seriously he was affected; and lady isabel sighed, and looked with compassion on lord colambre, and then reproachfully at her mother. but lord colambre heeded not her looks, and heard not of her sighs; he heard nothing, saw nothing, though his eyes were intently fixed on the genealogy, on which lady dashfort was still descanting to lady killpatrick. he took the first opportunity he could of quitting the room, and went out to take a solitary walk. 'there he is, departed, but not in peace, to reflect upon what has been said,' whispered lady dashfort to her daughter. 'i hope it will do him a vast deal of good.' 'none of the women sans reproche! none!--without one exception,' said lord colambre to himself; 'and grace nugent's mother a st. omar!--is it possible? lady dashfort seems certain. she could not assert a positive falsehood--no motive. she does not know that miss nugent is the person to whom i am attached she spoke at random. and i have heard it first from a stranger--not from my mother. why was it kept secret from me? now i understand the reason why my mother evidently never wished that i should think of miss nugent--why she always spoke so vehemently against the marriages of relations, of cousins. why not tell me the truth? it would have had the strongest effect, had she known my mind.' lord colambre had the greatest dread of marrying any woman whose mother had conducted herself ill. his reason, his prejudices, his pride, his delicacy, and even his limited experience, were all against it. all his hopes, his plans of future happiness, were shaken to their very foundation; he felt as if he had received a blow that stunned his mind, and from which he could not recover his faculties. the whole of that day he was like one in a dream. at night the painful idea continually recurred to him; and whenever he was falling asleep, the sound of lady dashfort's voice returned upon his ear, saying the words, 'what could he expect when he married one of the st. omars? none of the women sans reproche.' in the morning he rose early; and the first thing he did was to write a letter to his mother, requesting (unless there was some important reason for her declining to answer the question) that she would immediately relieve his mind from a great uneasiness (he altered the word four times, but at last left it uneasiness). he stated what he had heard, and besought his mother to tell him the whole truth, without reserve. chapter viii one morning lady dashfort had formed an ingenious scheme for leaving lady isabel and lord colambre tete-a-tete; but the sudden entrance of heathcock disconcerted her intentions. he came to beg lady dashfort's interest with count o'halloran, for permission to hunt and shoot on his grounds.--'not for myself, 'pon honour, but for two officers who are quartered at the next town here, who will indubitably hang or drown themselves if they are debarred from sporting.' 'who is this count o'halloran?' said lord colambre. miss white, lady killpatrick's companion, said 'he was a great oddity;' lady dashfort, 'that he was singular;' and the clergyman of the parish, who was at breakfast, declared 'that he was a man of uncommon knowledge, merit, and politeness.' 'all i know of him,' said heathcock, 'is, that he is a great sportsman, with a long queue, a gold-laced hat, and long skirts to a laced waistcoat.' lord colambre expressed a wish to see this extraordinary personage; and lady dashfort, to cover her former design, and, perhaps, thinking absence might be as effectual as too much propinquity, immediately offered to call upon the officers in their way, and carry them with heathcock and lord colambre to halloran castle. lady isabel retired with much mortification, but with becoming grace; and captain benson and captain williamson were taken to the count's. captain benson, who was a famous whip, took his seat on the box of the barouche, and the rest of the party had the pleasure of her ladyship's conversation for three or four miles: of her ladyship's conversation--for lord colambre's thoughts were far distant; captain williamson had not anything to say; and heathcock nothing but, 'eh! re'lly now!--'pon honour!' they arrived at halloran castle--a fine old building, part of it in ruins, and part repaired with great judgment and taste. when the carriage stopped, a respectable-looking man-servant appeared on the steps, at the open hall-door. count o'halloran was out a-hunting; but his servant said 'that he would be at home immediately, if lady dashfort and the gentlemen would be pleased to walk in.' on one side of the lofty and spacious hall stood the skeleton of an elk; on the other side, the perfect skeleton of a moose-deer, which, as the servant said, his master had made out, with great care, from the different bones of many of this curious species of deer, found in the lakes in the neighbourhood. the brace of officers witnessed their wonder with sundry strange oaths and exclamations.--'eh! 'pon honour--re'lly now!' said heathcock; and, too genteel to wonder at or admire anything in the creation, dragged out his watch with some difficulty, saying, 'i wonder now whether they are likely to think of giving us anything to eat in this place?' and, turning his back upon the moose-deer, he straight walked out again upon the steps, called to his groom, and began to make some inquiry about his led horse. lord colambre surveyed the prodigious skeletons with rational curiosity, and with that sense of awe and admiration, by which a superior mind is always struck on beholding any of the great works of providence. 'come, my dear lord!' said lady dashfort; 'with our sublime sensations, we are keeping my old friend, mr. alick brady, this venerable person, waiting, to show us into the reception-room.' the servant bowed respectfully--more respectfully than servants of modern date. 'my lady, the reception-room has been lately painted--the smell of paint may be disagreeable; with your leave, i will take the liberty of showing you into my master's study.' he opened the door, went in before her, and stood holding up his finger, as if making a signal of silence to some one within. her ladyship entered, and found herself in the midst of an odd assembly: an eagle, a goat, a dog, an otter, several gold and silver fish in a glass globe, and a white mouse in a cage. the eagle, quick of eye but quiet of demeanour, was perched upon his stand; the otter lay under the table, perfectly harmless; the angora goat, a beautiful and remarkably little creature of its kind, with long, curling, silky hair, was walking about the room with the air of a beauty and a favourite; the dog, a tall irish greyhound--one of the few of that fine race which is now almost extinct--had been given to count o'halloran by an irish nobleman, a relation of lady dashfort's. this dog, who had formerly known her ladyship, looked at her with ears erect, recognised her, and went to meet her the moment she entered. the servant answered for the peaceable behaviour of all the rest of the company of animals, and retired. lady dashfort began to feed the eagle from a silver plate on his stand; lord colambre examined the inscription on his collar; the other men stood in amaze. heathcock, who came in last, astonished out of his constant 'eh! re'lly now!' the moment he put himself in at the door, exclaimed, 'zounds! what's all this live lumber?' and he stumbled over the goat, who was at that moment crossing the way. the colonel's spur caught in the goat's curly beard; the colonel shook his foot, and entangled the spur worse and worse; the goat struggled and butted; the colonel skated forward on the polished oak floor, balancing himself with outstretched arms. the indignant eagle screamed, and, passing by, perched on heathcock's shoulders. too well-bred to have recourse to the terrors of his beak, he scrupled not to scream, and flap his wings about the colonel's ears. lady dashfort, the while, threw herself back in her chair, laughing, and begging heathcock's pardon. 'oh, take care of the dog, my dear colonel!' cried she; 'for this kind of dog seizes his enemy by the back, and shakes him to death.' the officers, holding their sides, laughed, and begged--no pardon; while lord colambre, the only person who was not absolutely incapacitated, tried to disentangle the spur, and to liberate the colonel from the goat, and the goat from the colonel; an attempt in which he at last succeeded, at the expense of a considerable portion of the goat's beard. the eagle, however, still kept his place; and, yet mindful of the wrongs of his insulted friend the goat, had stretched his wings to give another buffet. count o'halloran entered; and the bird, quitting his prey, flew down to greet his master. the count was a fine old military-looking gentleman, fresh from the chace: his hunting accoutrements hanging carelessly about him, he advanced, unembarrassed, to the lady; and received his other guests with a mixture of military ease and gentleman-like dignity. without adverting to the awkward and ridiculous situation in which he had found poor heathcock, he apologised in general for his troublesome favourites. 'for one of them,' said he, patting the head of the dog, which lay quiet at lady dashfort's feet, 'i see i have no need to apologise; he is where he ought to be. poor fellow! he has never lost his taste for the good company to which he was early accustomed. as to the rest,' said he, turning to lady dashfort, 'a mouse, a bird, and a fish, are, you know, tribute from earth, air, and water, for my conqueror--' 'but from no barbarous scythian!' said lord colambre, smiling. the count looked at lord colambre, as at a person worthy his attention; but his first care was to keep the peace between his loving subjects and his foreign visitors. it was difficult to dislodge the old settlers, to make room for the newcomers; but he adjusted these things with admirable facility; and, with a master's hand and master's eye, compelled each favourite to retreat into the back settlements. with becoming attention, he stroked and kept quiet old victory, his eagle, who eyed colonel heathcock still, as if he did not like him; and whom the colonel eyed, as if he wished his neck fairly wrung off. the little goat had nestled himself close up to his liberator, lord colambre, and lay perfectly quiet, with his eyes closed, going very wisely to sleep, and submitting philosophically to the loss of one half of his beard. conversation now commenced, and was carried on by count o'halloran with much ability and spirit, and with such quickness of discrimination and delicacy of taste, as quite surprised and delighted our hero. to the lady, the count's attention was first directed: he listened to her as she spoke, bending with an air of deference and devotion. she made her request for permission for major benson and captain williamson to hunt and shoot in his grounds; this was instantly granted. 'her ladyship's requests were to him commands,' the count said. 'his gamekeeper should be instructed to give the gentlemen, her friends, every liberty, and all possible assistance.' then turning to the officers, he said he had just heard that several regiments of english militia had lately landed in ireland; that one regiment was arrived at killpatrickstown. he rejoiced in the advantages ireland, and he hoped he might be permitted to add, england, would probably derive from the exchange of the militia of both countries; habits would be improved, ideas enlarged. the two countries have the same interest; and, from the inhabitants discovering more of each other's good qualities, and interchanging little good offices in common life, their esteem and affection for each other would increase, and rest upon the firm basis of mutual utility.' to all this major benson and captain williamson made no reply. 'the major looks so like a stuffed man of straw,' whispered lady dashfort to lord colambre; 'and the captain so like the knave of clubs, putting forth one manly leg.' count o'halloran now turned the conversation to field sports, and then the captain and major opened at once. 'pray now, sir?' said the major, 'you fox-hunt in this country, i suppose; and now do you manage the thing here as we do? over night, you know, before the hunt, when the fox is out, stopping up the earths of the cover we mean to draw, and all the rest for four miles round. next morning we assemble at the cover's side, and the huntsman throws in the hounds. the gossip here is no small part of the entertainment; but as soon as we hear the hounds give tongue--' 'the favourite hounds,' interposed williamson. 'the favourite hounds, to be sure,' continued benson; 'there is a dead silence, till pug is well out of cover, and the whole pack well in; then cheer the hounds with tally-ho! till your lungs crack. away he goes in gallant style, and the whole field is hard up, till pug takes a stiff country; then they who haven't pluck lag, see no more of him, and, with a fine blazing scent, there are but few of us in at the death.' 'well, we are fairly in at the death, i hope,' said lady dashfort; 'i was thrown out sadly at one time in the chace.' lord colambre, with the count's permission, took up a book in which the count's pencil lay, pasley on the military policy of great britain; it was marked with many notes of admiration, and with hands pointing to remarkable passages. 'that is a book that leaves a strong impression on the mind,' said the count. lord colambre read one of the marked passages, beginning with, 'all that distinguishes a soldier in outward appearance from a citizen is so trifling--' but at this instant our hero's attention was distracted by seeing in a black-letter book this title of a chapter: 'burial-place of the nugents.' 'pray now, sir,' said captain williamson, 'if i don't interrupt you, as you are such a famous fox-hunter, maybe, you may be a fisherman too; and now in ireland do you, mr.--' a smart pinch on his elbow from his major, who stood behind him, stopped the captain short, as he pronounced the word mr. like all awkward people, he turned directly to ask, by his looks, what was the matter? the major took advantage of his discomfiture, and, stepping before him, determined to have the fishing to himself, and went on with-- 'count o'halloran, i presume you understand fishing too, as well as hunting?' the count bowed: 'i do not presume to say that, sir.' 'but pray, count, in this country, do you arm your hook this ways? give me leave;' taking the whip from williamson's reluctant hand, 'this ways, laying the outermost part of your feather this fashion next to your hook, and the point next to your shank, this wise, and that wise; and then, sir,--count, you take the hackle of a cock's neck----' 'a plover's topping's better,' said williamson. 'and work your gold and silver thread,' pursued benson, 'up to your wings, and when your head's made, you fasten all.' 'but you never showed how your head's made,' interrupted williamson. 'the gentleman knows how a head's made; any man can make a head, i suppose; so, sir, you fasten all.' 'you'll never get your head fast on that way, while the world stands,' cried williamson. 'fast enough for all purposes; i'll bet you a rump and dozen, captain; and then, sir,--count, you divide your wings with a needle.' 'a pin's point will do,' said williamson. the count, to reconcile matters, produced from an indian cabinet, which he had opened for the lady's inspection, a little basket containing a variety of artificial flies of curious construction, which, as he spread them on the table, made williamson and benson's eyes almost sparkle with delight. there was the dun-fly, for the month of march; and the stone-fly, much in vogue for april; and the ruddy-fly, of red wool, black silk, and red capon's feathers. lord colambre, whose head was in the burial-place of the nugents, wished them all at the bottom of the sea. 'and the green-fly, and the moorish-fly!' cried benson, snatching them up with transport; 'and, chief, the sad-yellow-fly, in which the fish delight in june; the sad-yellow-fly, made with the buzzard's wings, bound with black braked hemp, and the shell-fly for the middle of july, made of greenish wool, wrapped about with the herle of a peacock's tail, famous for creating excellent sport.' all these and more were spread upon the table before the sportsmen's wondering eyes. 'capital flies! capital, faith!' cried williamson. 'treasures, faith, real treasures, by g--!' cried benson. 'eh! 'pon honour! re'lly now,' were the first words which heathcock had uttered since his battle with the goat. 'my dear heathcock, are you alive still?' said lady dashfort; 'i had really forgotten your existence.' so had count o'halloran, but he did not say so. 'your ladyship has the advantage of me there,' said heathcock, stretching himself; 'i wish i could forget my existence, for, in my mind, existence is a horrible bore.' 'i thought you was a sportsman,' said williamson. 'well, sir?' 'and a fisherman?' 'well, sir?' 'why, look you there, sir,' pointing to the flies, 'and tell a body life's a bore.' 'one can't always fish, or shoot, i apprehend, sir,' said heathcock. 'not always--but sometimes,' said williamson, laughing; 'for i suspect shrewdly you've forgot some of your sporting in bond street.' 'eh! 'pon honour! re'lly now!' said the colonel, retreating again to his safe entrenchment of affectation, from which he never could venture without imminent danger. ''pon honour,' cried lady dashfort, 'i can swear for heathcock, that i have eaten excellent hares and ducks of his shooting, which, to my knowledge,' added she, in a loud whisper, 'he bought in the market.' emptum aprum!' said lord colambre to the count, without danger of being understood by those whom it concerned. the count smiled a second time; but politely turning the attention of the company from the unfortunate colonel by addressing himself to the laughing sportsmen, 'gentlemen, you seem to value these,' said he, sweeping the artificial flies from the table into the little basket from which they had been taken; 'would you do me the honour to accept of them? they are all of my own making, and consequently of irish manufacture.' then, ringing the bell, he asked lady dashfort's permission to have the basket put into her carriage. benson and williamson followed the servant, to prevent them from being tossed into the boot. heathcock stood still in the middle of the room taking snuff. count o'halloran turned from him to lord colambre, who had just got happily to the burial-place of the nugents, when lady dashfort, coming between them, and spying the title of the chapter, exclaimed-- 'what have you there?--antiquities! my delight!--but i never look at engravings when i can see realities.' lord colambre was then compelled to follow, as she led the way into the hall, where the count took down golden ornaments, and brass-headed spears, and jointed horns of curious workmanship, that had been found on his estate; and he told of spermaceti wrapped in carpets, and he showed small urns, enclosing ashes; and from among these urns he selected one, which he put into the hands of lord colambre, telling him that it had been lately found in an old abbey-ground in his neighbourhood, which had been the burial-place of some of the nugent family. 'i was just looking at the account of it, in the book which you saw open on my table.--and as you seem to take an interest in that family, my lord, perhaps,' said the count, 'you may think this urn worth your acceptance.' lord colambre said, 'it would be highly valuable to him--as the nugents were his near relations.' lady dashfort little expected this blow; she, however, carried him off to the moose-deer, and from moose-deer to round-towers, to various architectural antiquities, and to the real and fabulous history of ireland, on all which the count spoke with learning and enthusiasm. but now, to colonel heathcock's great joy and relief, a handsome collation appeared in the dining-room, of which ulick opened the folding-doors. 'count, you have made an excellent house of your castle,' said lady dashfort. 'it will be, when it is finished,' said the count. 'i am afraid,' added he, smiling, 'i live like many other irish gentlemen, who never are, but always to be, blest with a good house. i began on too large a scale, and can never hope to live to finish it.' ''pon honour! here's a good thing, which i hope we shall live to finish,' said heathcock, sitting down before the collation; and heartily did he eat of grouse pie, and of irish ortolans, which, as lady dashfort observed, 'afforded him indemnity for the past, and security for the future.' 'eh! re'lly now! your irish ortolans are famous good eating,' said heathcock. 'worth being quartered in ireland, faith! to taste 'em,' said benson. the count recommended to lady dashfort some of 'that delicate sweetmeat, the irish plum.' 'bless me, sir--count!' cried williamson, 'it's by far the best thing of the kind i ever tasted in all my life: where could you get this?' 'in dublin, at my dear mrs. godey's; where only, in his majesty's dominions, it is to be had,' said the count. the whole dish vanished in a few seconds. ''pon honour! i do believe this is the thing the queen's so fond of,' said heathcock. then heartily did he drink of the count's excellent hungarian wines; and, by the common bond of sympathy between those who have no other tastes but eating and drinking, the colonel, the major, and the captain were now all the best companions possible for one another. whilst 'they prolonged the rich repast,' lady dashfort and lord colambre went to the window to admire the prospect; lady dashfort asked the count the name of some distant hill. 'ah!' said the count, 'that hill was once covered with fine wood; but it was all cut down two years ago.' 'who could have been so cruel?' said her ladyship. 'i forget the present proprietor's name,' said the count; 'but he is one of those who, according to the clause of distress in their leases, lead, drive, and carry away, but never enter their lands; one of those enemies to ireland--these cruel absentees!' lady dashfort looked through her glass at the mountain; lord colambre sighed, and, endeavouring to pass it off with a smile, said frankly to the count-- 'you are not aware, i am sure, count, that you are speaking to the son of an irish absentee family.--nay, do not be shocked, my dear sir; i tell you only, because i thought it fair to do so; but let me assure you, that nothing you could say on that subject could hurt me personally, because i feel that i am not, that i never can be, an enemy to ireland. an absentee, voluntarily, i never yet have been; and as to the future, i declare--' 'i declare you know nothing of the future,' interrupted lady dashfort, in a half-peremptory, half-playful tone--'you know nothing; make no rash vows, and you will break none.' the undaunted assurance of lady dashfort's genius for intrigue gave her an air of frank imprudence, which prevented lord colambre from suspecting that more was meant than met the ear. the count and he took leave of one another with mutual regard; and lady dashfort rejoiced to have got our hero out of halloran castle. chapter ix lord colambre had waited with great impatience for an answer to the letter of inquiry which he had written about miss nugent's mother. a letter from lady clonbrony arrived; he opened it with the greatest eagerness--passed over 'rheumatism warm weather--warm bath--buxton balls--miss broadhurst--your friend, sir arthur berryl, very assiduous!' the name of grace nugent he found at last, and read as follows: her mother's maiden name was st. omar; and there was a faux pas, certainly. she was, i am told (for it was before my time), educated at a convent abroad; and there was an affair with a captain reynolds, a young officer, which her friends were obliged to hush up. she brought an infant to england with her, and took the name of reynolds--but none of that family would acknowledge her; and she lived in great obscurity, till your uncle nugent saw, fell in love with her, and (knowing her whole history) married her. he adopted the child, gave her his name, and, after some years, the whole story was forgotten. nothing could be more disadvantageous to grace than to have it revived: this is the reason we kept it secret. lord colambre tore the letter to bits. from the perturbation which lady dashfort saw in his countenance, she guessed the nature of the letter which he had been reading, and for the arrival of which he had been so impatient. 'it has worked!' said she to herself. 'pour le coup philippe je te tiens!' lord colambre appeared this day more sensible, than he had ever yet seemed, to the charms of the fair isabel. 'many a tennis-ball, and many a heart is caught at the rebound,' said lady dashfort. 'isabel! now is your time!' and so it was--or so, perhaps, it would have been, but for a circumstance which her ladyship, with all her genius for intrigue, had never taken into her consideration. count o'halloran came to return the visit which had been paid to him; and, in the course of conversation, he spoke of the officers who had been introduced to him, and told lady dashfort that he had heard a report which shocked him much--he hoped it could not be true--that one of these officers had introduced his mistress as his wife to lady oranmore, who lived in the neighbourhood. this officer, it was said, had let lady oranmore send her carriage for this woman; and that she had dined at oranmore with her ladyship and her daughters. [fact.] 'but i cannot believe it! i cannot believe it to be possible, that any gentleman, that any officer, could do such a thing!' said the count. 'and is this all?' exclaimed lady dashfort. 'is this all the terrible affair, my good count, which has brought your face to this prodigious length?' the count looked at lady dashfort with astonishment. 'such a look of virtuous indignation,' continued she, 'did i never behold, on or off the stage. forgive me for laughing, count; but, believe me, comedy goes through the world better than tragedy, and, take it all in all, does rather less mischief. as to the thing in question, i know nothing about it: i dare say, it is not true; but, now, suppose it was--it is only a silly quiz, of a raw young officer, upon a prudish old dowager. i know nothing about it, for my part; but, after all, what irreparable mischief has been done? laugh at the thing, and then it is a jest--a bad one, perhaps, but still only a jest--and there's an end of it; but take it seriously, and there is no knowing where it might end--in half a dozen duels, maybe.' 'of that, madam,' said the count, 'lady oranmore's prudence and presence of mind have prevented all danger. her ladyship would not understand the insult. she said, or she acted as if she said, "je ne veux rien voir, rien ecouter, rien savoir." lady oranmore is one of the most respectable--' 'count, i beg your pardon!' interrupted lady dashfort; 'but i must tell you that your favourite, lady oranmore, has behaved very ill to me; purposely omitted to invite isabel to her ball; offended and insulted me:--her praises, therefore, cannot be the most agreeable subject of conversation you can choose for my amusement; and as to the rest, you, who have such variety and so much politeness, will, i am sure, have the goodness to indulge my caprice in this instance.' i shall obey your ladyship, and be silent, whatever pleasure it might give me to speak on that subject,' said the count; 'and i trust lady dashfort will reward me by the assurance that, however playfully she may have just now spoken, she seriously disapproves and is shocked.' 'oh, shocked! shocked to death! if that will satisfy you, my dear count.' the count, obviously, was not satisfied; he had civil, as well as military courage, and his sense of right and wrong could stand against the raillery and ridicule of a fine lady. the conversation ended: lady dashfort thought it would have no further consequences; and she did not regret the loss of a man like count o'halloran, who lived retired in his castle, and who could not have any influence upon the opinion of the fashionable world. however, upon turning from the count to lord colambre, who she thought had been occupied with lady isabel, and to whom she imagined all this dispute was uninteresting, she perceived, by his countenance, that she had made a great mistake. still she trusted that her power over lord colambre was sufficient easily to efface whatever unfavourable impression this conversation had made upon his mind. he had no personal interest in the affair; and she had generally found that people are easily satisfied about any wrong or insult, public or private, in which they have no immediate concern. but all the charms of her conversation were now tried in vain to reclaim him from the reverie into which he had fallen. his friend sir james brooke's parting advice occurred to our hero; his eyes began to open to lady dashfort's character; and he was, from this moment, freed from her power. lady isabel, however, had taken no part in all this--she was blameless; and, independently of her mother, and in pretended opposition of sentiment, she might have continued to retain the influence she had gained over lord colambre, but that a slight accident revealed to him her real disposition. it happened, on the evening of this day, that lady isabel came into the library with one of the young ladies of the house, talking very eagerly, without perceiving lord colambre, who was sitting in one of the recesses reading. 'my dear creature, you are quite mistaken,' said lady isabel, 'he was never a favourite of mine; i always detested him; i only flirted with him to plague his wife. oh that wife, my dear elizabeth, i do hate!' cried she, clasping her hands, and expressing hatred with all her soul and with all her strength. 'i detest that lady de cresey to such a degree, that, to purchase the pleasure of making her feel the pangs of jealousy for one hour, look, i would this moment lay down this finger and let it be cut off.' the face, the whole figure of lady isabel at this moment appeared to lord colambre suddenly metamorphosed; instead of the soft, gentle, amiable female, all sweet charity and tender sympathy, formed to love and to be loved, he beheld one possessed and convulsed by an evil spirit--her beauty, if beauty it could be called, the beauty of a fiend. some ejaculation, which he unconsciously uttered, made lady isabel start. she saw him--saw the expression of his countenance, and knew that all was over. lord colambre, to the utter astonishment and disappointment of lady dashfort, and to the still greater mortification of lady isabel, announced this night that it was necessary he should immediately pursue his tour in ireland. we pass over all the castles in the air which the young ladies of the family had built, and which now fell to the ground. we pass all the civil speeches of lord and lady killpatrick; all the vehement remonstrances of lady dashfort; and the vain sighs of lady isabel, to the last moment lady dashfort said-- 'he will not go.' but he went; and, when he was gone, lady dashfort exclaimed, 'that man has escaped from me.' and after a pause, turning to her daughter, she, in the most taunting and contemptuous terms, reproached her as the cause of this failure, concluding by a declaration that she must in future manage her own affairs, and had best settle her mind to marry heathcock, since every one else was too wise to think of her. lady isabel of course retorted. but we leave this amiable mother and daughter to recriminate in appropriate terms, and we follow our hero, rejoiced that he has been disentangled from their snares. those who have never been in similar peril will wonder much that he did not escape sooner; those who have ever been in like danger will wonder more that he escaped at all. those who are best acquainted with the heart or imagination of man will be most ready to acknowledge that the combined charms of wit, beauty, and flattery, may, for a time, suspend the action of right reason in the mind of the greatest philosopher, or operate against the resolutions of the greatest of heroes. lord colambre pursued his way to castle halloran, desirous, before he quitted this part of the country, to take leave of the count, who had shown him much civility, and for whose honourable conduct, and generous character, he had conceived a high esteem, which no little peculiarities of antiquated dress or manner could diminish. indeed, the old-fashioned politeness of what was formerly called a well-bred gentleman pleased him better than the indolent or insolent selfishness of modern men of the ton. perhaps, notwithstanding our hero's determination to turn his mind from everything connected with the idea of miss nugent, some latent curiosity about the burial-place of the nugents might have operated to make him call upon the count. in this hope he was disappointed; for a cross miller to whom the abbey-ground was set, on which the burial-place was found, had taken it into his head to refuse admittance, and none could enter his ground. count o'halloran was much pleased by lord colambre's visit. the very day of lord colambre's arrival at halloran castle, the count was going to oranmore; he was dressed, and his carriage was waiting; therefore lord colambre begged that he might not detain him, and the count requested his lordship to accompany him. 'let me have the honour of introducing you, my lord, to a family, with whom, i am persuaded, you will be pleased; by whom you will be appreciated; and at whose house you will have an opportunity of seeing the best manner of living of the irish nobility.' lord colambre accepted the invitation, and was introduced at oranmore. the dignified appearance and respectable character of lady oranmore; the charming unaffected manners of her daughters; the air of domestic happiness and comfort in her family; the becoming magnificence, free from ostentation, in her whole establishment; the respect and affection with which she was treated by all who approached her, delighted and touched lord colambre; the more, perhaps, because he had heard this family so unjustly abused; and because he saw lady oranmore and her daughter, in immediate contrast to lady dashfort and lady isabel. a little circumstance which occurred during this visit increased his interest for the family. when lady de cresey's little boys came in after dinner, one of them was playing with a seal, which had just been torn from a letter. the child showed it to lord colambre, and asked him to read the motto. the motto was, 'deeds, not words'--his friend sir james brooke's motto, and his arms. lord colambre eagerly inquired if this family was acquainted with sir james, and he soon perceived that they were not only acquainted with him, but that they were particularly interested about him. lady oranmore's second daughter, lady harriet, appeared particularly pleased by the manner in which lord colambre spoke of sir james. and the child, who had now established himself on his lordship's knee, turned round, and whispered in his ear, ''twas aunt harriet gave me the seal; sir james is to be married to aunt harriet, and then he will be my uncle.' some of the principal gentry of this part of the country happened to dine at oranmore one of the days lord colambre was there. he was surprised at the discovery, that there were so many agreeable, well-informed, and well-bred people, of whom, while he was at killpatrickstown, he had seen nothing. he now discerned how far he had been deceived by lady dashfort. both the count, and lord and lady oranmore, who were warmly attached to their country, exhorted him to make himself amends for the time he had lost, by seeing with his own eyes, and judging with his own understanding, of the country and its own inhabitants, during the remainder of the time he was to stay in ireland. the higher classes, in most countries, they observed were generally similar; but, in the lower class, he would find many characteristic differences. when he first came to ireland, he had been very eager to go and see his father's estate, and to judge of the conduct of his agents, and the condition of his tenantry; but this eagerness had subsided, and the design had almost faded from his mind, whilst under the influence of lady dashfort's misrepresentations. a mistake, relative to some remittance from his banker in dublin, obliged him to delay his journey a few days, and during that time lord and lady oranmore showed him the neat cottages, the well-attended schools, in their neighbourhood. they showed him not only what could be done, but what had been done, by the influence of great proprietors residing on their own estates, and encouraging the people by judicious kindness. he saw, he acknowledged the truth of this; but it did not come home to his feelings now as it would have done a little while ago. his views and plans were altered; he looked forward to the idea of marrying and settling in ireland, and then everything in the country was interesting to him; but since he had forbidden himself to think of a union with miss nugent, his mind had lost its object and its spring; he was not sufficiently calm to think of the public good; his thoughts were absorbed by his private concern. he knew, and repeated to himself, that he ought to visit his own and his father's estates, and to see the condition of his tenantry; he desired to fulfil his duties, but they ceased to appear to him easy and pleasurable, for hope and love no longer brightened his prospects. that he might see and hear more than he could as heir-apparent to the estate, he sent his servant to dublin to wait for him there. he travelled incognito, wrapped himself in a shabby greatcoat, and took the name of evans. he arrived at a village, or, as it was called, a town, which bore the name of colambre. he was agreeably surprised by the air of neatness and finish in the houses and in the street, which had a nicely-swept paved footway. he slept at a small but excellent inn--excellent, perhaps, because it was small, and proportioned to the situation and business of the place. good supper, good bed, good attendance; nothing out of repair; no things pressed into services for what they were never intended by nature or art; none of what are vulgarly called make-shifts. no chambermaid slipshod, or waiter smelling of whisky; but all tight and right, and everybody doing their own business, and doing it as if it was their everyday occupation, not as if it was done by particular desire, for first or last time this season. the landlord came in at supper to inquire whether anything was wanted. lord colambre took this opportunity of entering into conversation with him, and asked him to whom the town belonged, and who were the proprietors of the neighbouring estates. 'the town belongs to an absentee lord--one lord clonbrony, who lives always beyond the seas, in london; and never seen the town since it was a town, to call a town.' 'and does the land in the neighbourhood belong to this lord clonbrony?' 'it does, sir; he's a great proprietor, but knows nothing of his property, nor of us. never set foot among us, to my knowledge, since i was as high as the table. he might as well be a west india planter, and we negroes, for anything he knows to the contrary--has no more care, nor thought about us, than if he were in jamaica, or the other world. shame for him!--but there's too many to keep him in countenance.' lord colambre asked him what wine he could have; and then inquired who managed the estate for this absentee. 'mr. burke, sir. and i don't know why god was so kind to give so good an agent to an absentee like lord clonbrony, except it was for the sake of us, who is under him, and knows the blessing, and is thankful for the same.' 'very good cutlets,' said lord colambre. 'i am happy to hear it, sir. they have a right to be good, for mrs. burke sent her own cook to teach my wife to dress cutlets.' 'so the agent is a good agent, is he?' 'he is, thanks be to heaven! and that's what few can boast, especially when the landlord's living over the seas: we have the luck to have got a good agent over us, in mr. burke, who is a right bred gentleman; a snug little property of his own, honestly made; with the good will and good wishes, and respect of all.' 'does he live in the neighbourhood?' 'just convanient [convenient: near.] at the end of the town; in the house on the hill, as you passed, sir; to the left, with the trees about it, all of his planting, finely grown too--for there's a blessing on all he does, and he has done a deal.--there's salad, sir, if you are partial to it. very fine lettuce. mrs. burke sent us the plants herself.' 'excellent salad! so this mr. burke has done a great deal, has he? in what way!' 'in every way, sir--sure was not it he that had improved, and fostered, and made the town of colambre?--no thanks to the proprietor, nor to the young man whose name it bears, neither!' 'have you any porter, pray, sir?' 'we have, sir, as good, i hope, as you'd drink in london, for it's the same you get there, i understand, from cork. and i have some of my own brewing, which, they say, you could not tell the difference between it and cork quality--if you'd be pleased to try. harry, the corkscrew.' the porter of his own brewing was pronounced to be extremely good; and the landlord observed it was mr. burke encouraged him to learn to brew, and lent him his own brewer for a time to teach him. 'your mr. burke, i find, is apropos to porter, apropos to salad, apropos to cutlets, apropos to everything,' said lord colambre, smiling; 'he seems to be a non-pareil of an agent. i suppose you are a great favourite of his, and you do what you please with him?' 'oh no, sir, i could not say that; mr. burke does not have favourites anyway; but according to my deserts, i trust, i stand well enough with him, for, in truth, he is a right good agent.' lord colambre still pressed for particulars; he was an englishman, and a stranger, he said, and did not exactly know what was meant in ireland by a good agent. 'why, he is the man that will encourage the improving tenant; and show no favour or affection, but justice, which comes even to all, and does best for all at the long run; and, residing always in the country, like mr. burke, and understanding country business, and going about continually among the tenantry, he knows when to press for the rent, and when to leave the money to lay out upon the land; and, according as they would want it, can give a tenant a help or a check properly. then no duty-work called for, no presents, nor glove-money, nor sealing-money even, taken or offered; no underhand hints about proposals, when land would be out of lease, but a considerable preference, if desarved, to the old tenant, and if not, a fair advertisement, and the best offer and tenant accepted; no screwing of the land to the highest penny, just to please the head landlord for the minute, and ruin him at the end, by the tenant's racking the land, and running off with the year's rent; nor no bargains to his own relations or friends did mr. burke ever give or grant, but all fair between landlord and tenant; and that's the thing that will last; and that's what i call the good agent.' lord colambre poured out a glass of wine, and begged the innkeeper to drink the good agent's health, in which he was heartily pledged. 'i thank your honour;--mr. burke's health! and long may he live over and amongst us; he saved me from drink and ruin, when i was once inclined to it, and made a man of me and all my family.' the particulars we cannot stay to detail: this grateful man, however, took pleasure in sounding the praises of his benefactor, and in raising him in the opinion of the traveller. 'as you've time, and are curious about such things, sir, perhaps you'd walk up to the school that mrs. burke has for the poor children; and look at the market-house, and see how clean he takes a pride to keep the town; and any house in the town, from the priest to the parson's, that you'd go into, will give you the same character as i do of mr. burke: from the brogue to the boot, all speak the same of him, and can say no other. god for ever bless and keep him over us!' upon making further inquiries, everything the innkeeper had said was confirmed by different inhabitants of the village. lord colambre conversed with the shopkeepers, with the cottagers; and, without making any alarming inquiries, he obtained all the information he wanted. he went to the village school--a pretty, cheerful house, with a neat garden and a play-green; met mrs. burke; introduced himself to her as a traveller. the school was shown to him: it was just what it ought to be--neither too much nor too little had been attempted; there was neither too much interference nor too little attention. nothing for exhibition; care to teach well, without any vain attempt to teach in a wonderfully short time. all that experience proves to be useful, in both dr. bell's and mr. lancaster's modes of teaching, mrs. burke had adopted; leaving it to 'graceless zealots' to fight about the rest. that no attempts at proselytism had been made, and that no illiberal distinctions had been made in this school, lord colambre was convinced, in the best manner possible, by seeing the children of protestants and catholics sitting on the same benches, learning from the same books, and speaking to one another with the same cordial familiarity. mrs. burke was an unaffected, sensible woman, free from all party prejudices, and, without ostentation, desirous and capable of doing good. lord colambre was much pleased with her, and very glad that she invited him to dinner. mr. burke did not come in till late; for he had been detained portioning out some meadows, which were of great consequence to the inhabitants of the town. he brought home to dine with him the clergyman and the priest of the parish, both of whom he had taken successful pains to accommodate with the land which suited their respective convenience. the good terms on which they seemed to be with each other, and with him, appeared to lord colambre to do honour to mr. burke. all the favourable accounts his lordship had received of this gentleman were confirmed by what he saw and heard. after the clergyman and priest had taken leave, upon lord colambre's expressing some surprise, mixed with satisfaction, at seeing the harmony which subsisted between them, mr. burke assured him that this was the same in many parts of ireland. he observed, that 'as the suspicion of ill-will never fails to produce it,' so he had often found, that taking it for granted that no ill-will exists has the most conciliating effect. he said, to please opposite parties, he used no arts; but he tried to make all his neighbours live comfortably together, by making them acquainted with each other's good qualities; by giving them opportunities of meeting sociably, and, from time to time, of doing each other little services and good offices. 'fortunately, he had so much to do,' he said, 'that he had no time for controversy. he was a plain man, made it a rule not to meddle with speculative points, and to avoid all irritating discussions; he was not to rule the country, but to live in it, and make others live as happily as he could.' having nothing to conceal in his character, opinions, or circumstances, mr. burke was perfectly open and unreserved in his manner and conversation; freely answered all the traveller's inquiries, and took pains to show him everything he desired to see. lord colambre said he had thoughts of settling in ireland; and declared, with truth, that he had not seen any part of the country he should like better to live in than this neighbourhood. he went over most of the estate with mr. burke, and had ample opportunities of convincing himself that this gentleman was indeed, as the innkeeper had described him, 'a right good gentleman, and a right good agent.' he paid mr. burke some just compliments on the state of the tenantry, and the neat and flourishing appearance of the town of colambre. 'what pleasure it will give the proprietor when he sees all you have done!' said lord colambre. 'oh, sir, don't speak of it!--that breaks my heart, he never has shown the least interest in anything i have done; he is quite dissatisfied with me, because i have not ruined his tenantry, by forcing them to pay more than the land is worth; because i have not squeezed money from them by fining down rents; and--but all this, as an englishman, sir, must be unintelligible to you. the end of the matter is, that, attached as i am to this place and the people about me, and, as i hope, the tenantry are to me--i fear i shall be obliged to give up the agency.' 'give up the agency! how so?--you must not,' cried lord colambre, and, for the moment, he forgot himself; but mr. burke took this only for an expression of good-will. 'i must, i am afraid,' continued he. 'my employer, lord clonbrony, is displeased with me--continual calls for money come upon me from england, and complaints of my slow remittances.' 'perhaps lord clonbrony is in embarrassed circumstances said lord colambre. 'i never speak of my employer's affairs, sir,' replied mr. burke; now for the first time assuming an air of reserve. 'i beg pardon, sir--i seem to have asked an indiscreet question.' mrs. burke was silent. 'lest my reserve should give you a false impression, i will add, sir,' resumed mr. burke, 'that i really am not acquainted with the state of his lordship's affairs in general. i know only what belongs to the estate under my own management. the principal part of his lordship's property, the clonbrony estate, is under another agent, mr. garraghty.' 'garraghty!' repeated lord colambre; 'what sort of a person is he? but i may take it for granted, that it cannot fall to the lot of one and the same absentee to have two such agents as mr. burke.' mr. burke bowed, and seemed pleased by the compliment, which he knew he deserved--but not a word did he say of mr. garraghty; and lord colambre, afraid of betraying himself by some other indiscreet question, changed the conversation. that very night the post brought a letter to mr. burke, from lord clonbrony, which mr. burke gave to his wife as soon as he had read it, saying-- 'see the reward of all my services!' mrs. burke glanced her eye over the letter, and, being extremely fond of her husband, and sensible of his deserving far different treatment, burst into indignant exclamations-- 'see the reward of all your services, indeed!--what an unreasonable, ungrateful man!--so, this is the thanks for all you have done for lord clonbrony!' 'he does not know what i have done, my dear. he never has seen what i have done.' 'more shame for him!' 'he never, i suppose, looks over his accounts, or understands them.' 'more shame for him!' he listens to foolish reports, or misrepresentations, perhaps. he is at a distance, and cannot find out the truth.' 'more shame for him!' 'take it quietly, my dear; we have the comfort of a good conscience. the agency may be taken from me by this lord; but the sense of having done my duty, no lord or man upon earth can give or take away.' 'such a letter!' said mrs. burke, taking it up again. 'not even the civility to write with his own hand!--only his signature to the scrawl--looks as if it was written by a drunken man, does not it, mr. evans?' said she, showing the letter to lord colambre, who immediately recognised the writing of sir terence o'fay. 'it does not look like the hand of a gentleman, indeed,' said lord colambre. 'it has lord clonbrony's own signature, let it be what it will,' said mr. burke, looking closely at it; 'lord clonbrony's own writing the signature is, i am clear of that.' lord clonbrony's son was clear of it also; but he took care not to give any opinion on that point. 'oh, pray, read it, sir, read it,' said mrs. burke, pleased by his tone of indignation; 'read it, pray; a gentleman may write a bad hand, but no gentleman could write such a letter as that to mr. burke--pray read it, sir; you who have seen something of what mr. burke has done for the town of colambre, and what he has made of the tenantry and the estate of lord clonbrony.' lord colambre read, and was convinced that his father had never written or read the letter, but had signed it, trusting to sir terence o'fay's having expressed his sentiments properly. sir, as i have no further occasion for your services, you will take notice, that i hereby request you will forthwith hand over, on or before the st of november next, your accounts, with the balance due of the hanging-gale (which, i understand, is more than ought to be at this season) to nicholas o'garraghty, esq., college green, dublin, who in future will act as agent, and shall get, by post, immediately, a power of attorney for the same, entitling him to receive and manage the colambre as well as the clonbrony estate, for, sir, your obedient humble servant, clonbrony. 'grosvenor square.' though misrepresentation, caprice, or interest, might have induced lord clonbrony to desire to change his agent, yet lord colambre knew that his father never could have announced his wishes in such a style; and, as he returned the letter to mrs. burke, he repeated, he was convinced that it was impossible that any nobleman could have written such a letter; that it must have been written by some inferior person; and that his lordship had signed it without reading it. 'my dear, i'm sorry you showed that letter to mr. evans,' said mr. burke; 'i don't like to expose lord clonbrony; he is a well-meaning gentleman, misled by ignorant or designing people; at all events, it is not for us to expose him.' 'he has exposed himself,' said mrs. burke; 'and the world should know it.' 'he was very kind to me when i was a young man,' said mr. burke; 'we must not forget that now, because we are angry, my love.' 'why, no, my love, to be sure we should not; but who could have recollected it just at this minute but yourself?--and now, sir,' turning to lord colambre, 'you see what kind of a man this is: now is it not difficult for me to bear patiently to see him ill-treated?' 'not only difficult, but impossible, i should think, madam,' said lord colambre; 'i know, even i, who am a stranger, cannot help feeling for both of you, as you must see i do.' 'and half the world, who don't know him,' continued mrs. burke, 'when they hear that lord clonbrony's agency is taken from him, will think, perhaps, that he is to blame.' 'no, madam,' said lord colambre; 'that you need not fear; mr. burke may safely trust to his character; from what i have within these two days seen and heard, i am convinced that such is the respect he has deserved and acquired, that no blame can touch him.' 'sir, i thank you,' said mrs. burke, the tears coming into her eyes; 'you can judge--you do him justice; but there are so many who don't know him, and who will decide without knowing any of the facts.' 'that, my dear, happens about everything to everybody,' said mr. burke; 'but we must have patience; time sets all judgments right, sooner or later.' 'but the sooner the better,' said mrs. burke. 'mr. evans, i hope you will be so kind, if ever you hear this business talked of--' 'mr. evans lives in wales, my dear.' but he is travelling through ireland, my dear, and he said he should return to dublin, and, you know, there he certainly will hear it talked of; and i hope he will do me the favour to state what he has seen and knows to be the truth.' 'be assured that i will do mr. burke justice--as far as it is in my power,' said lord colambre, restraining himself much, that he might not say more than became his assumed character. he took leave of this worthy family that night, and, early the next morning, departed. 'ah!' thought he, as he drove away from this well-regulated and flourishing place, 'how happy i might be, settled here with such a wife as--her of whom i must think no more.' he pursued his way to clonbrony, his father's other estate, which was at a considerable distance from colambre; he was resolved to know what kind of agent mr. nicholas garraghty might be, who was to supersede mr. burke, and by power of attorney to be immediately entitled to receive and manage the colambre as well as the clonbrony estate. chapter x towards the evening of the second day's journey, the driver of lord colambre's hackney chaise stopped, and jumping off the wooden bar, on which he had been seated, exclaimed-- 'we're come to the bad step, now. the bad road's beginning upon us, please your honour.' 'bad road! that is very uncommon in this country. i never saw such fine roads as you have in ireland.' 'that's true; and god bless your honour, that's sensible of that same, for it's not what all the foreign quality i drive have the manners to notice. god bless your honour! i heard you're a welshman, but whether or no, i am sure you are a gentleman, anyway, welsh or other.' notwithstanding the shabby greatcoat, the shrewd postillion perceived, by our hero's language, that he was a gentleman. after much dragging at the horses' heads, and pushing and lifting, the carriage was got over what the postillion said was the worst part of the bad step; but as the road 'was not yet to say good,' he continued walking beside the carriage. 'it's only bad just hereabouts, and that by accident,' said he, 'on account of there being no jantleman resident in it, nor near; but only a bit of an under-agent, a great little rogue, who gets his own turn out of the roads, and of everything else in life. i, larry brady, that am telling your honour, have a good right to know, for myself, and my father, and my brother. pat brady, the wheelwright, had once a farm under him; but was ruined, horse and foot, all along with him, and cast out, and my brother forced to fly the country, and is now working in some coachmaker's yard, in london; banished he is!--and here am i, forced to be what i am--and now that i'm reduced to drive a hack, the agent's a curse to me still, with these bad roads, killing my horses and wheels and a shame to the country, which i think more of--bad luck to him!' 'i know your brother; he lives with mr. mordicai, in long acre, in london.' 'oh, god bless you for that!' they came at this time within view of a range of about four-and-twenty men and boys, sitting astride on four-and-twenty heaps of broken stones, on each side of the road; they were all armed with hammers, with which they began to pound with great diligence and noise as soon as they saw the carriage. the chaise passed between these batteries, the stones flying on all sides. 'how are you, jem?--how are you, phil?' said larry. 'but hold your hand, can't ye, while i stop and get the stones out of the horses' feet. so you're making up the rent, are you, for st. dennis?' 'whoosh!' said one of the pounders, coming close to the postillion, and pointing his thumb back towards the chaise. 'who have you in it?' 'oh, you need not scruple, he's a very honest man; he's only a man from north wales, one mr. evans, an innocent jantleman, that's sent over to travel up and down the country, to find is there any copper mines in it.' 'how do you know, larry?' 'because i know very well, from one that was tould, and i seen him tax the man of the king's head, with a copper half-crown, at first sight, which was only lead to look at, you'd think, to them that was not skilful in copper. so lend me a knife, till i cut a linch-pin out of the hedge, for this one won't go far.' whilst larry was making the linch-pin, all scruple being removed, his question about st. dennis and the rent was answered. 'ay, it's the rint, sure enough, we're pounding out for him; for he sent the driver round last-night-was-eight days, to warn us old nick would be down a'-monday, to take a sweep among us; and there's only six clear days, saturday night, before the assizes, sure; so we must see and get it finished anyway, to clear the presentment again' the swearing day, for he and paddy hart is the overseers themselves, and paddy is to swear to it.' 'st. dennis, is it? then you've one great comfort and security--that he won't be particular about the swearing; for since ever he had his head on his shoulders, an oath never stuck in st. dennis's throat, more than in his own brother, old nick's.' 'his head upon his shoulders!' repeated lord colambre. 'pray, did you ever hear that st. dennis's head was off his shoulders?' 'it never was, plase your honour, to my knowledge.' 'did you never, among your saints, hear of st. dennis carrying his head in his hand?' said colambre. 'the rael saint!' said the postillion, suddenly changing his tone, and looking shocked. 'oh, don't be talking that way of the saints, plase your honour.' 'then of what st, dennis were you talking just now?--whom do you mean by st. dennis, and whom do you call old nick?' 'old nick,' answered the postillion, coming close to the side of the carriage, and whispering--'old nick, plase your honour, is our nickname for one nicholas garraghty, esq., of college green, dublin, and st. dennis is his brother dennis, who is old nick's brother in all things, and would fain be a saint, only he is a sinner. he lives just by here, in the country, under-agent to lord clonbrony, as old nick is upper-agent--it's only a joke among the people, that are not fond of them at all. lord clonbrony himself is a very good jantleman, if he was not an absentee, resident in london, leaving us and everything to the likes of them.' lord colambre listened with all possible composure and attention; but the postillion having now made his linch-pin of wood, and fixed himself; he mounted his bar, and drove on, saying to lord colambre, as he looked at the road-makers-- 'poor cratures! they couldn't keep their cattle out of pound, or themselves out of jail, but by making this road.' 'is road-making, then, a very profitable business?--have road-makers higher wages than other men in this part of the country?' 'it is, and it is not--they have, and they have not--plase your honour.' 'i don't understand you.' 'no, becaase you're an englishman--that is, a welshman--i beg your honour's pardon. but i'll tell you how that is, and i'll go slow over these broken stones for i can't go fast: it is where there's no jantleman over these under-agents, as here, they do as they plase; and when they have set the land they get rasonable from the head landlords, to poor cratures at a rack-rent, that they can't live and pay the rent, they say--' 'who says?' 'them under-agents, that have no conscience at all. not all--but some, like dennis, says, says he, "i'll get you a road to make up the rent:" that is, plase your honour, the agent gets them a presentment for so many perches of road from the grand jury, at twice the price that would make the road. and tenants are, by this means, as they take the road by contract, at the price given by the county, able to pay all they get by the job, over and above potatoes and salt, back again to the agent, for the arrear on the land. do i make your honour sensible?' [do i make you understand?] 'you make me much more sensible than i ever was before,' said lord colambre; 'but is not this cheating the county?' 'well, and suppose,' replied larry, 'is not it all for my good, and yours too, plase your honour?' said larry, looking very shrewdly. 'my good!' said lord colambre, startled. 'what have i to do with it?' 'haven't you to do with the roads as well as me, when you're travelling upon them, plase your honour? and sure, they'd never be got made at all, if they weren't made this ways; and it's the best way in the wide world, and the finest roads we have. and when the rael jantlemen's resident in the country, there's no jobbing can be, because they're then the leading men on the grand jury; and these journeymen jantlemen are then kept in order, and all's right.' lord colambre was much surprised at larry's knowledge of the manner in which county business is managed, as well as by his shrewd good sense: he did not know that this is not uncommon in his rank of life in ireland. whilst larry was speaking, lord colambre was looking from side to side at the desolation of the prospect. 'so this is lord clonbrony's estate, is it?' 'ay, all you see, and as far and farther than you can see. my lord clonbrony wrote, and ordered plantations here, time back; and enough was paid to labourers for ditching and planting. and, what next?--why, what did the under-agent do, but let the goats in through gaps, left o' purpose, to bark the trees, and then the trees was all banished. and next, the cattle was let in trespassing, and winked at, till the land was all poached; and then the land was waste, and cried down; and st. dennis wrote up to dublin to old nick, and he over to the landlord, how none would take it, or bid anything at all for it; so then it fell to him a cheap bargain. oh, the tricks of them! who knows 'em, if i don't?' presently, lord colambre's attention was roused again, by seeing a man running, as if for his life, across a bog, near the roadside; he leaped over the ditch, and was upon the road in an instant. he seemed startled at first, at the sight of the carriage; but, looking at the postillion, larry nodded, and he smiled and said-- 'all's safe!' 'pray, my good friend, may i ask what that is you have on your shoulder?' said lord colambre. plase your honour, it is only a private still, which i've just caught out yonder in the bog; and i'm carrying it in with all speed to the gauger, to make a discovery, that the jantleman may benefit by the reward; i expect he'll make me a compliment.' 'get up behind, and i'll give you a lift,' said the postillion. 'thank you kindly--but better my legs!' said the man; and turning down a lane, off he ran again as fast as possible. 'expect he'll make me a compliment,' repeated lord colambre, 'to make a discovery!' ay, plase your honour; for the law is,' said larry, 'that, if an unlawful still, that is, a still without license for whisky, is found, half the benefit of the fine that's put upon the parish goes to him that made the discovery; that's what that man is after, for he's an informer.' 'i should not have thought, from what i see of you,' said lord colambre, smiling, 'that you, larry, would have offered an informer a lift.' 'oh, plase your honour!' said larry, smiling archly, 'would not i give the laws a lift, when in my power?' scarcely had he uttered these words, and scarcely was the informer out of sight, when across the same bog, and over the ditch, came another man, a half kind of gentleman, with a red silk handkerchief about his neck, and a silver-handled whip in his hand. 'did you see any man pass the road, friend?' said he to the postillion. 'oh! who would i see? or why would i tell?' replied larry, in a sulky tone. 'came, come, be smart!' said the man with the silver whip, offering to put half a crown into the postillion's hand; 'point me which way he took.' 'i'll have none a' your silver! don't touch me with it!' said larry. 'but, if you'll take my advice, you'll strike across back, and follow the fields, out to killogenesawee.' the exciseman set out again immediately, in an opposite direction to that which the man who carried the still had taken. lord colambre now perceived that the pretended informer had been running off to conceal a still of his own. 'the gauger, plase your honour,' said larry, looking back at lord colambre; 'the gauger is a still-hunting!' 'and you put him on a wrong scent!' said lord colambre. 'sure, i told him no lie; i only said, "if you'll take my advice." and why was he such a fool as to take my advice, when i wouldn't take his fee?' 'so this is the way, larry, you give a lift to the laws!' 'if the laws would give a lift to me, plase your honour, maybe i'd do as much by them. but it's only these revenue laws i mean; for i never, to my knowledge, broke another commandment; but it's what no honest poor man among his neighbours would scruple to take--a glass of potsheen.' 'a glass of what, in the name of heaven?' said lord colambre. potsheen, plase your honour;--becaase it's the little whisky that's made in the private still or pot; and sheen, becaase it's a fond word for whatsoever we'd like, and for what we have little of, and would make much of: after taking the glass of it, no man could go and inform to ruin the cratures, for they all shelter on that estate under favour of them that go shares, and make rent of 'em--but i'd never inform again' 'em. and, after all, if the truth was known, and my lord clonbrony should be informed against, and presented, for it's his neglect is the bottom of the nuisance--' 'i find all the blame is thrown upon this poor lord clonbrony,' said lord colambre. 'becaase he is absent,' said larry. 'it would not be so was he prisint. but your honour was talking to me about the laws. your honour's a stranger in this country, and astray about them things. sure, why would i mind the laws about whisky, more than the quality, or the judge on the bench?' 'what do you mean?' 'why! was not i prisint in the court-house myself, when the jidge on the bench judging a still, and across the court came in one with a sly jug of potsheen for the jidge himself, who prefarred it, when the right thing, to claret; and when i seen that, by the laws! a man might talk himself dumb to me after again' potsheen, or in favour of the revenue, or revenue-officers. and there they may go on, with their gaugers, and their surveyors, and their supervisors, and their watching-officers, and their coursing-officers, setting 'em one after another, or one over the head of another, or what way they will--we can baffle and laugh at 'em. didn't i know, next door to our inn, last year, ten watching-officers set upon one distiller, and he was too cunning for them; and it will always be so, while ever the people think it no sin. no, till then, not all their dockets and permits signify a rush, or a turf. and the gauging rod even! who fears it? they may spare that rod, for it will never mend the child.' how much longer larry's dissertation on the distillery laws would have continued, had not his ideas been interrupted, we cannot guess; but he saw he was coming to a town, and he gathered up the reins, and plied the whip, ambitious to make a figure in the eyes of its inhabitants. this town consisted of one row of miserable huts, sunk beneath the side of the road, the mud walls crooked in every direction; some of them opening in wide cracks, or zigzag fissures, from top to bottom, as if there had just been an earthquake--all the roofs sunk in various places--thatch off, or overgrown with grass--no chimneys, the smoke making its way through a hole in the roof, or rising in clouds from the top of the open door--dunghills before the doors, and green standing puddles--squalid children, with scarcely rags to cover them, gazing at the carriage. 'nugent's town,' said the postillion, 'once a snug place, when my lady clonbrony was at home to whitewash it, and the like.' as they drove by, some men and women put their heads through the smoke out of the cabins; pale women with long, black, or yellow locks--men with countenances and figures bereft of hope and energy. 'wretched, wretched people!' said lord colambre. 'then it's not their fault neither,' said larry; 'for my own uncle's one of them, and as thriving and hard a working man as could be in all ireland, he was, afore he was tramped under foot, and his heart broke. i was at his funeral, this time last year; and for it, may the agent's own heart, if he has any, burn--' lord colambre interrupted this denunciation by touching larry's shoulder, and asking some question, which, as larry did not distinctly comprehend, he pulled up the reins, and the various noises of the vehicle stopped suddenly. i did not hear well, plase your honour.' 'what are those people?' pointing to a man and woman, curious figures, who had come out of a cabin, the door of which the woman, who came out last, locked, and carefully hiding the key in the thatch, turned her back upon the man, and they walked away in different directions: the woman bending under a huge bundle on her back, covered by a yellow petticoat turned over her shoulders; from the top of this bundle the head of an infant appeared; a little boy, almost naked, followed her with a kettle, and two girls, one of whom could but just walk, held her hand and clung to her ragged petticoat; forming, altogether, a complete group of beggars. the woman stopped, and looked back after the man. the man was a spanish-looking figure, with gray hair; a wallet hung at the end of a stick over one shoulder, a reaping-hook in the other hand; he walked off stoutly, without ever casting a look behind him. 'a kind harvest to you, john dolan,' cried the postillion, 'and success to ye, winny, with the quality. there's a luck-penny for the child to begin with,' added he, throwing the child a penny. 'your honour, they're only poor cratures going up the country to beg, while the man goes over to reap the harvest in england. nor this would not be, neither, if the lord was in it to give 'em employ. that man, now, was a good and a willing slave in his day: i mind him working with myself in the shrubberies at clonbrony castle, when i was a boy--but i'll not be detaining your honour, now the road's better.' the postillion drove on at a good rate for some time, till he came to a piece of the road freshly covered with broken stones, where he was obliged again to go slowly. they overtook a string of cars, on which were piled up high, beds, tables, chairs, trunks, boxes, bandboxes. 'how are you, finnucan? you've fine loading there--from dublin, are you?' 'from bray.' 'and what news?' 'great news and bad, for old nick, or some belonging to him, thanks be to heaven! for myself hates him.' 'what's happened him?' 'his sister's husband that's failed, the great grocer that was, the man that had the wife that ow'd [owned] the fine house near bray, that they got that time the parliament flitted, and that i seen in her carriage flaming--well, it's all out; they're all done up. 'tut! is that all? then they'll thrive, and set up again grander than ever, i'll engage; have not they old nick for an attorney at their back? a good warrant!' 'oh, trust him for that! he won't go security nor pay a farthing for his shister, nor wouldn't was she his father; i heard him telling her so, which i could not have done in his place at that time, and she crying as if her heart would break, and i standing by in the parlour.' 'the neger! [neger, quasi negro; meo periculo, niggard] and did he speak that way, and you by?' 'ay did he; and said, "mrs. raffarty," says he, "it's all your own fault; you're an extravagant fool, and ever was, and i wash my hands of you;" that was the word he spoke; and she answered, and said, "and mayn't i send the beds and blankets," said she, "and what i can, by the cars, out of the way of the creditors, to clonbrony castle; and won't you let me hide there from the shame, till the bustle's over?"--"you may do that," says he, "for what i care; but remember," says he, "that i've the first claim to them goods;" and that's all he would grant. so they are coming down all o' monday--them are her bandboxes and all to settle it; and faith it was a pity of her! to hear her sobbing, and to see her own brother speak and look so hard! and she a lady.' 'sure she's not a lady born, no more than himself,' said larry; 'but that's no excuse for him. his heart's as hard as that stone,' said larry; 'and my own people knew that long ago, and now his own know it; and what right have we to complain, since he's as bad to his own flesh and blood as to us?' with this consolation, and with a 'god speed you,' given to the carman, larry was driving off; but the carman called to him, and pointed to a house, at the corner of which, on a high pole, was swinging an iron sign of three horse-shoes, set in a crooked frame, and at the window hung an empty bottle, proclaiming whisky within. 'well, i don't care if i do,' said larry; 'for i've no other comfort left me in life now. i beg your honour's pardon, sir, for a minute,' added he, throwing the reins into the carriage to lord colambre, as he leaped down. all remonstrance and power of lungs to reclaim him vain! he darted into the whisky-house with the carman--reappeared before lord colambre could accomplish getting out, remounted his seat, and, taking the reins, 'i thank your honour,' said he; 'and i'll bring you into clonbrony before it's pitch-dark yet, though it's nightfall, and that's four good miles, but "a spur in the head is worth two in the heel."' larry, to demonstrate the truth of his favourite axiom, drove off at such a furious rate over great stones left in the middle of the road by carmen, who had been driving in the gudgeons of their axle-trees to hinder them from lacing, [opening; perhaps from lacher, to loosen.] that lord colambre thought life and limb in imminent danger; and feeling that at all events the jolting and bumping was past endurance, he had recourse to larry's shoulder, and shook and pulled, and called to him to go slower, but in vain; at last the wheel struck full against a heap of stones at a turn of the road, the wooden linch-pin came off, and the chaise was overset: lord colambre was a little bruised, but glad to escape without fractured bones. 'i beg your honour's pardon,' said larry, completely sobered; 'i'm as glad as the best pair of boots ever i see, to see your honour nothing the worse for it. it was the linch-pin, and them barrows of loose stones, that ought to be fined anyway, if there was any justice in the country.' 'the pole is broke; how are we to get on?' said lord colambre. 'murder! murder!--and no smith nearer than clonbrony; nor rope even. it's a folly to talk, we can't get to clonbrony, nor stir a step backward or forward the night.' 'what, then, do you mean to leave me all night in the middle of the road?' cried lord colambre, quite exasperated. 'is it me! please your honour? i would not use any jantleman so ill, barring i could do no other,' replied the postillion, coolly; then, leaping across the ditch, or, as he called it, the gripe of the ditch, he scrambled up, and while he was scrambling, said, 'if your honour will lend me your hand till i pull you up the back of the ditch, the horses will stand while we go. i'll find you as pretty a lodging for the night, with a widow of a brother of my shister's husband that was, as ever you slept in your life; for old nick or st. dennis has not found 'em out yet; and your honour will be, no compare, snugger than the inn at clonbrony, which has no roof, the devil a stick. but where will i get your honour's hand; for it's coming on so dark, i can't see rightly. there, you're up now safe. yonder candle's the house.' 'go and ask whether they can give us a night's lodging.' 'is it ask? when i see the light!--sure they'd be proud to give the traveller all the beds in the house, let alone one. take care of the potato furrows, that's all, and follow me straight. i'll go on to meet the dog, who knows me and might be strange to your honour.' 'kindly welcome,' were the first words lord colambre heard when he approached the cottage; and 'kindly welcome' was in the sound of the voice and in the countenance of the old woman who came out, shading her rush-candle from the wind, and holding it so as to light the path. when he entered the cottage, he saw a cheerful fire and a neat pretty young woman making it blaze: she curtsied, put her spinning-wheel out of the way, set a stool by the fire for the stranger, and repeating, in a very low tone of voice, 'kindly welcome,' retired. 'put down some eggs, dear, there's plenty in the bowl,' said the old woman, calling to her; 'i'll do the bacon. was not we lucky to be up--the boy's gone to bed, but waken him,' said she, turning to the postillion; 'and he'll help you with the chay, and put your horses in the bier for the night.' no; larry chose to go on to clonbrony with the horses, that he might get the chaise mended betimes for his honour. the table was set; clean trenchers, hot potatoes, milk, eggs, bacon, and 'kindly welcome to all.' 'set the salt, dear; and the butter, love; where's your head, grace, dear!' 'grace!' repeated lord colambre, looking up; and, to apologise for his involuntary exclamation, he added, 'is grace a common name in ireland?' 'i can't say, plase your honour, but it was give her by lady clonbrony, from a niece of her own that was her foster-sister, god bless her! and a very kind lady she was to us and to all when she was living in it; but those times are gone past,' said the old woman, with a sigh. the young woman sighed too; and, sitting down by the fire, began to count the notches in a little bit of stick, which she held in her hand; and, after she had counted them, sighed again. 'but don't be sighing, grace, now,' said the old woman; 'sighs is bad sauce for the traveller's supper; and we won't be troubling him with more,' added she, turning to lord colambre with a smile. 'is your egg done to your liking?' 'perfectly, thank you.' 'then i wish it was a chicken for your sake, which it should have been, and roast too, had we time. i wish i could see you eat another egg.' 'no more, thank you, my good lady; i never ate a better supper, nor received a more hospitable welcome.' 'oh, the welcome is all we have to offer.' 'may i ask what that is?' said lord colambre, looking at the notched stick, which the young woman held in her hand, and on which her eyes were still fixed. it's a tally, plase your honour. oh, you're a foreigner;--it's the way the labourers do keep the account of the day's work with the overseer, the bailiff; a notch for every day the bailiff makes on his stick, and the labourer the like on his stick, to tally; and when we come to make up the account, it's by the notches we go. and there's been a mistake, and is a dispute here between our boy and the overseer; and she was counting the boy's tally, that's in bed, tired, for in troth he's overworked.' 'would you want anything more from me, mother?' said the girl, rising and turning her head away. 'no, child; get away, for your heart's full.' she went instantly. 'is the boy her brother?' said lord colambre. 'no; he's her bachelor,' said the old woman, lowering her voice. 'her bachelor?' 'that is, her sweetheart: for she is not my daughter, though you heard her call me mother. the boy's my son; but i am afeard they must give it up; for they're too poor, and the times is hard, and the agent's harder than the times; there's two of them, the under and the upper; and they grind the substance of one between them, and then blow one away like chaff: but we'll not be talking of that to spoil your honour's night's rest. the room's ready, and here's the rushlight.' she showed him into a very small but neat room. 'what a comfortable-looking bed!' said lord colambre. 'ah, these red check curtains,' said she, letting them down; 'these have lasted well; they were give me by a good friend, now far away, over the seas--my lady clonbrony; and made by the prettiest hands ever you see, her niece's, miss grace nugent's, and she a little child that time; sweet love! all gone!' the old woman wiped a tear from her eye, and lord colambre did what he could to appear indifferent. she set down the candle, and left the room; lord colambre went to bed, but he lay awake, 'revolving sweet and bitter thoughts.' chapter xi the kettle was on the fire, tea-things set, everything prepared for her guest by the hospitable hostess, who, thinking the gentleman would take tea to his breakfast, had sent off a gossoon by the first light to clonbrony, for an ounce of tea, a quarter of sugar, and a loaf of white bread; and there was on the little table good cream, milk, butter, eggs--all the promise of an excellent breakfast. it was a fresh morning, and there was a pleasant fire on the hearth, neatly swept up. the old woman was sitting in her chimney corner, behind a little skreen of whitewashed wall, built out into the room, for the purpose of keeping those who sat at the fire from the blast of the door. there was a loophole in this wall, to let the light in, just at the height of a person's head, who was sitting near the chimney. the rays of the morning sun now came through it, shining across the face of the old woman, as she sat knitting; lord colambre thought he had seldom seen a more agreeable countenance, intelligent eyes, benevolent smile, a natural expression of cheerfulness, subdued by age and misfortune. 'a good-morrow to you kindly, sir, and i hope you got the night well?--a fine day for us this sunday morning; my grace is gone to early prayers, so your honour will be content with an old woman to make your breakfast. oh, let me put in plenty, or it will never be good; and if your honour takes stir-about, an old hand will engage to make that to your liking, anyway; for, by great happiness, we have what will just answer for you of the nicest meal the miller made my grace a compliment of, last time she went to the mill.' lord colambre observed, that this miller had good taste; and his lordship paid some compliment to grace's beauty, which the old woman received with a smile, but turned off the conversation. 'then,' said she, looking out of the window, 'is not that there a nice little garden the boy dug for her and me, at his breakfast and dinner hours? ah! he's a good boy, and a good warrant to work; and the good son desarves the good wife, and it's he that will make the good husband; and with my goodwill he, and no other, shall get her, and with her goodwill the same; and i bid 'em keep up their heart, and hope the best, for there's no use in fearing the worst till it comes.' lord colambre wished very much to know the worst. 'if you would not think a stranger impertinent for asking,' said he, 'and if it would not be painful to you to explain.' 'oh, impertinent, your honour! it's very kind--and, sure, none's a stranger to one's heart, that feels for one. and for myself, i can talk of my troubles without thinking of them. so, i'll tell you all--if the worst comes to the worst--all that is, is, that we must quit, and give up this little snug place, and house, and farm, and all, to the agent--which would be hard on us, and me a widow, when my husband did all that is done to the land; and if your honour was a judge, you could see, if you stepped out, there has been a deal done, and built the house, and all--but it plased heaven to take him. well, he was too good for this world, and i'm satisfied--i'm not saying a word again' that--i trust we shall meet in heaven, and be happy, surely. and, meantime, here's my boy, that will make me as happy as ever widow was on earth--if the agent will let him. and i can't think the agent, though they that know him best call him old nick, would be so wicked to take from us that which he never gave us. the good lord himself granted us the lase; the life's dropped, and the years is out; but we had a promise of renewal in writing from the landlord. god bless him! if he was not away, he'd be a good gentleman, and we'd be happy and safe.' 'but if you have a promise in writing of a renewal, surely you are safe, whether your landlord is absent or present?' 'ah, no i that makes a great differ, when there's no eye or hand over the agent. i would not wish to speak or think ill of him or any man; but was he an angel, he could not know to do the tenantry justice, the way he is living always in dublin, and coming down to the country only the receiving days, to make a sweep among us, and gather up the rents in a hurry, and he in such haste back to town--can just stay to count over our money, and give the receipts. happy for us, if we get that same!--but can't expect he should have time to see or hear us, or mind our improvements, any more than listen to our complaints! oh, there's great excuse for the gentleman, if that was any comfort for us,' added she, smiling. 'but, if he does not live amongst you himself, has not he some under-agent, who lives in the country?' said lord colambre. 'he has so.' 'and he should know your concerns: does he mind them?' 'he should know--he should know better; but as to minding our concerns, your honour knows,' continued she, smiling again, 'every one in this world must mind their own concerns; and it would be a good world, if it was even so. there's a great deal in all things, that don't appear at first sight. mr. dennis wanted grace for a wife for his bailiff; but she would not have him; and mr. dennis was very sweet to her himself--but grace is rather high with him as proper, and he has a grudge again' us ever since. yet, indeed, there,' added she, after another pause, 'as you say, i think we are safe; for we have that memorandum in writing, with a pencil, given under his own hand, on the back of the lase, to me, by the same token when my good lord had his foot on the step of the coach, going away; and i'll never forget the smile of her that got that good turn done for me, miss grace. and just when she was going to england and london, and, young as she was, to have the thought to stop and turn to the likes of me! oh, then, if you could see her, and know her, as i did! that was the comforting angel upon earth--look and voice, and heart and all! oh, that she was here present, this minute!--but did you scald yourself?' said the widow to lord colambre. 'sure you must have scalded yourself; for you poured the kettle straight over your hand, and it boiling!--o deear! to think of so young a gentleman's hand shaking so like my own. luckily, to prevent her pursuing her observations from the hand to the face, which might have betrayed more than lord colambre wished she should know, her own grace came in at this instant. 'there it's for you, safe, mother dear--the lase!' said grace, throwing a packet into her lap. the old woman lifted up her hands to heaven, with the lease between them.--'thanks be to heaven!' grace passed on, and sunk down on the first seat she could reach. her face flushed, and, looking much fatigued, she loosened the strings of her bonnet and cloak--'then, i'm tired;' but, recollecting herself, she rose, and curtsied to the gentleman. 'what tired ye, dear?' 'why, after prayers, we had to go--for the agent was not at prayers, nor at home for us, when we called--we had to go all the way up to the castle; and there, by great good luck, we found mr. nick garraghty himself, come from dublin, and the lase in his hands; and he sealed it up that way, and handed it to me very civil. i never saw him so good--though he offered me a glass of spirits, which was not manners to a decent young woman, in a morning--as brian noticed after. brian would not take any either, nor never does. we met mr. dennis and the driver coming home; and he says, the rent must be paid to-morrow, or, instead of renewing, he'll seize and sell all. mother dear, i would have dropped with the walk, but for brian's arm.'--'it's a wonder, dear, what makes you so weak, that used to be so strong,'--'but if we can sell the cow for anything at all to mr. dennis, since his eye is set upon her, better let him have her, mother dear; and that and my yarn, which mrs. garraghty says she'll allow me for, will make up the rent--and brian need not talk of america. but it must be in golden guineas, the agent will take the rent no other way; and you won't get a guinea for less than five shillings. well, even so, it's easy selling my new gown to one that covets it, and that will give me in exchange the price of the gold; or, suppose that would not do, add this cloak,--it's handsome, and i know a friend would be glad to take it, and i'd part it as ready as look at it--any-thing at all, sure, rather than that he should be forced to talk of emigrating; or, oh, worse again, listing for the bounty--to save us from the cant or the jail, by going to the hospital, or his grave, maybe--oh, mother!' 'oh, child! this is what makes you weak, fretting. don't be that way. sure here's the lase, and that's good comfort; and the soldiers will be gone out of clonbrony to-morrow, and then that's off your mind. and as to america, it's only talk--i won't let him, he's dutiful; and would sooner sell my dresser and down to my bed, dear, than see you sell anything of yours, love. promise me you won't. why didn't brian come home all the way with you, grace?' 'he would have seen me home,' said grace,' only that he went up a piece of the mountain for some stones or ore for the gentleman--for he had the manners to think of him this morning, though, shame for me, i had not, when i come in, or i would not have told you all this, and he himself by. see, there he is, mother.' brian came in very hot, out of breath, with his hat full of stones. 'good morrow to your honour. i was in bed last night; and sorry they did not call me up to be of sarvice. larry was telling us, this morning, your honour's from wales, and looking for mines in ireland, and i heard talk that there was one on our mountain--maybe, you'd be curous to see, and so i brought the best i could, but i'm no judge.' 'nor i, neither,' thought lord colambre; but he thanked the young man, and determined to avail himself of larry's misconception or false report; examined the stones very gravely, and said, 'this promises well. lapis caliminaris, schist, plum-pudding stone, rhomboidal, crystal, blend, garrawachy,' and all the strange names he could think of, jumbling them together at a venture. 'the lase!--is it?' cried the young man, with joy sparkling in his eyes, as his mother held up the packet. 'then all's safe! and he's an honest man, and shame on me, that could suspect he meant us wrong. lend me the papers.' he cracked the seals, and taking off the cover,--'it's the lase, sure enough. shame on me!--but stay, where's the memorandum?' 'it's there, sure,' said his mother, 'where my lord's pencil writ it. i don't read.--grace, dear, look.' the young man put it into her hands, and stood without power to utter a syllable. 'it's not here! it's gone!--no sign of it.' 'gracious heaven! that can't be,' said the old woman, putting on her spectacles; 'let me see--i remember the very spot.' 'it's taken away--it's rubbed clean out!--oh, wasn't i fool? but who could have thought he'd be the villain!' the young man seemed neither to see nor hear; but to be absorbed in thought. grace, with her eyes fixed upon him, grew as pale as death--'he'll go--he's gone.' 'she's gone!' cried lord colambre, and the mother just caught her in her arms as she was falling. 'the chaise is ready, plase your honour,' said larry, coming into the room. 'death! what's here?' 'air!--she's coming to,' said the young man--'take a drop of water, my own grace.' 'young man, i, promise you,' cried lord colambre (speaking in the tone of a master), striking the young man's shoulder, who was kneeling at grace's feet; but recollecting and restraining himself, he added, in a quiet voice--'i promise you i shall never forget the hospitality i have received in this house, and i am sorry to be obliged to leave you in distress.' these words uttered with difficulty, he hurried out of the house, and into his carriage. 'go back to them,' said he to the postillion; 'go back and ask whether, if i should stay a day or two longer in this country, they would let me return at night and lodge with them. and here, man, stay, take this,' putting money into his hands, 'for the good woman of the house.' the postillion went in, and returned. 'she won't at all--i knew she would not.' 'well, i am obliged to her for the night's lodging she did give me; i have no right to expect more.' 'what is it?--sure she bid me tell you--"and welcome to the lodging; for," said she, "he is a kind-hearted gentleman;" but here's the money; it's that i was telling you she would not have at all.' 'thank you. now, my good friend larry, drive me to clonbrony, and do not say another word, for i'm not in a talking humour.' larry nodded, mounted, and drove to clonbrony. clonbrony was now a melancholy scene. the houses, which had been built in a better style of architecture than usual, were in a ruinous condition; the dashing was off the walls, no glass in the windows, and many of the roofs without slates. for the stillness of the place lord colambre in some measure accounted by considering that it was sunday; therefore, of course, all the shops were shut up, and all the people at prayers. he alighted at the inn, which completely answered larry's representation of it. nobody to be seen but a drunken waiter, who, as well as he could articulate, informed lord colambre that 'his mistress was in her bed since thursday-was-a-week; the hostler at the wash-woman's, and the cook at second prayers.' lord colambre walked to the church, but the church gate was locked and broken--a calf, two pigs, and an ass, in the churchyard; and several boys (with more of skin apparent than clothes) were playing at hustlecap upon a tombstone, which, upon nearer observation, he saw was the monument of his own family. one of the boys came to the gate, and told lord colambre 'there was no use in going into the church, becaase there was no church there; nor had not been this twelvemonth; becaase there was no curate; and the parson was away always, since the lord was at home--that is, was not at home--he nor the family.' lord colambre returned to the inn, where, after waiting a considerable time, he gave up the point--he could not get any dinner--and in the evening he walked out again into the town. he found several ale-houses, however, open, which were full of people; all of them as busy and as noisy as possible. he observed that the interest was created by an advertisement of several farms on the clonbrony estate, to be set by nicholas garraghty, esq. he could not help smiling at his being witness incognito to various schemes for outwitting the agents and defrauding the landlord; but, on a sudden, the scene was changed; a boy ran in, crying out, that 'st. dennis was riding down the hill into the town; and, if you would not have the license,' said the boy, 'take care of yourself.' 'if you wouldn't have the licence,' lord colambre perceived, by what followed, meant, 'if you have not a licence.' brannagan immediately snatched an untasted glass of whisky from a customer's lips (who cried, murder!) gave it and the bottle he held in his hand to his wife, who swallowed the spirits, and ran away with the bottle and glass into some back hole; whilst the bystanders laughed, saying, 'well thought of, peggy!' 'clear out all of you at the back door, for the love of heaven, if you wouldn't be the ruin of me,' said the man of the house, setting a ladder to a corner of the shop. 'phil, hoist me up the keg to the loft,' added he, running up the ladder; 'and one of yees step up street, and give rose m'givney notice, for she's selling too.' the keg was hoisted up; the ladder removed; the shop cleared of all the customers; the shutters shut; the door barred; the counter cleaned. 'lift your stones, sir, if you plase,' said the wife, as she rubbed the counter, 'and say nothing of what you seen at all; but that you're a stranger and a traveller seeking a lodging, if you're questioned, or waiting to see mr. dennis. there's no smell of whisky in it now, is there, sir?' lord colambre could not flatter her so far as to say this--he could only hope no one would perceive it. 'oh, and if he would, the smell of whisky was nothing,' as the wife affirmed, 'for it was everywhere in nature, and no proof again' any one, good or bad.' 'now st. dennis may come when he will, or old nick himself!' so she tied up a blue handkerchief over her head, and had the toothache, 'very bad.' lord colambre turned to look for the man of the house. 'he's safe in bed,' said the wife. 'in bed! when?' 'whilst you turned your head, while i was tying the handkerchief over my face. within the room, look, he is snug.' and there he was in bed certainly, and his clothes on the chest. a knock, a loud knock at the door. 'st. dennis himself!--stay, till i unbar the door,' said the woman; and, making a great difficulty, she let him in, groaning, and saying-- 'we was all done up for the night, plase your honour, and myself with the toothache, very bad--and the lodger, that's going to take an egg only, before he'd go into his bed. my man's in it, and asleep long ago.' with a magisterial air, though with a look of blank disappointment, mr. dennis garraghty walked on, looked into the room, saw the good man of the house asleep, heard him snore, and then, returning, asked lord colambre 'who he was, and what brought him there?' our hero said he was from england, and a traveller; and now, bolder grown as a geologist, he talked of his specimens, and his hopes of finding a mine in the neighbouring mountains; then adopting, as well as he could, the servile tone and abject manner in which he found mr. dennis was to be addressed, 'he hoped he might get encouragement from the gentleman at the head of the estate.' 'to bore, is it?--well, don't bore me about it. i can't give you any answer now, my good friend; i'm engaged.' out he strutted. 'stick to him up the town, if you have a mind to get your answer,' whispered the woman. lord colambre followed, for he wished to see the end of this scene. 'well, sir, what are you following and sticking to me, like my shadow, for?' said mr. dennis, turning suddenly upon lord colambre. his lordship bowed low. 'waiting for my answer, sir, when you are at leisure. or, may i call upon you tomorrow?' 'you seem to be a civil kind of fellow; but, as to boring, i don't know--if you undertake it at your own expense. i dare say there may be minerals in the ground. well, you may call at the castle to-morrow, and when my brother has done with the tenantry, i'll speak to him for you, and we'll consult together, and see what we think. it's too late to-night. in ireland, nobody speaks to a gentleman about business after dinner--your servant, sir; anybody can show you the way to the castle in the morning.' and, pushing by his lordship, he called to a man on the other side of the street, who had obviously been waiting for him; he went under a gateway with this man, and gave him a bag of guineas. he then called for his horse, which was brought to him by a man whom colambre had heard declaring that he would bid for the land that was advertised; whilst another, who had the same intentions, most respectfully held st. dennis's stirrup, whilst he mounted without thanking either of these men. st. dennis clapped spurs to his steed, and rode away. no thanks, indeed, were deserved; for the moment he was out of hearing, both cursed him after the manner of their country. 'bad luck go with you, then!--and may you break your neck before you get home, if it was not for the lase i'm to get, and that's paid for.' lord colambre followed the crowd into a public-house, where a new scene presented itself to his view. the man to whom st. dennis gave the bag of gold was now selling this very gold to the tenants, who were to pay their rent next day at the castle. the agent would take nothing but gold. the same guineas were bought and sold several times over, to the great profit of the agent and loss of the poor tenants; for, as the rents were paid, the guineas were resold to another set, and the remittances made through bankers to the landlord; who, as the poor man who explained the transaction to lord colambre expressed it, 'gained nothing by the business, bad or good, but the ill-will of the tenantry.' the higgling for the price of the gold; the time lost in disputing about the goodness of the notes, among some poor tenants, who could not read or write, and who were at the mercy of the man with the bag in his hand; the vexation, the useless harassing of all who were obliged to submit ultimately--lord colambre saw; and all this time he endured the smell of tobacco and whisky, and of the sound of various brogues, the din of men wrangling, brawling, threatening, whining, drawling, cajoling, cursing, and every variety of wretchedness. 'and is this my father's town of clonbrony?' thought lord colambre. 'is this ireland?--no, it is not ireland. let me not, like most of those who forsake their native country, traduce it. let me not, even to my own mind, commit the injustice of taking a speck for the whole. what i have just seen is the picture only of that to which an irish estate and irish tenantry may be degraded in the absence of those whose duty and interest it is to reside in ireland, to uphold justice by example and authority; but who, neglecting this duty, commit power to bad hands and bad hearts--abandon their tenantry to oppression, and their property to ruin.' it was now fine moonlight, and lord colambre met with a boy, who said he could show him a short way across the fields to the widow o'neill's cottage. chapter xii all were asleep at the cottage, when lord colambre arrived, except the widow, who was sitting up, waiting for him; and who had brought her dog into the house, that he might not fly at him, or bark at his return. she had a roast chicken ready for her guest, and it was--but this she never told him the only chicken she had left; all the others had been sent with the duty-fowl as a present to the under-agent's lady. while he was eating his supper, which he ate with the better appetite, as he had had no dinner, the good woman took down from the shelf a pocket-book, which she gave him: 'is not that your book?' said she. 'my boy brian found it after you in the potato furrow, where you dropped it.' 'thank you,' said lord colambre; 'there are bank notes in it, which i could not afford to lose.' 'are there?' said she; 'he never opened it--nor i.' then, in answer to his inquiries about grace and the young man, the widow answered, 'they are all in heart now, i thank ye kindly, sir, for asking; they'll sleep easy to-night anyway, and i'm in great spirits for them and myself--for all's smooth now. after we parted you, brian saw mr. dennis himself about the lase and memorandum, which he never denied, but knew nothing about. "but, be that as it may," says he, "you're improving tenants, and i'm confident my brother will consider ye; so what you'll do is, you'll give up the possession to-morrow to myself, that will call for it by cock-crow, just for form's sake; and then go up to the castle with the new lase ready drawn, in your hand, and if all's paid off clear of the rent, and all that's due, you'll get the new lase signed; i'll promise you that upon the word and honour of a gentleman." and there's no going beyond that, you know, sir. so my boy came home as light as a feather, and as gay as a lark, to bring us the good news; only he was afraid we might not make up the rent, guineas and all; and because he could not get paid for the work he done, on account of the mistake in the overseer's tally, i sold the cow to a neighbour--dog-cheap; but needs must, as they say, when old nick drives,' said the widow, smiling. 'well, still it was but paper we got for the cow; then that must be gold before the agent would take or touch it so i was laying out to sell the dresser, and had taken the plates and cups, and little things off it, and my boy was lifting it out with andy the carpenter, that was agreeing for it, when in comes grace, all rosy, and out of breath--it's a wonder i minded her run out, and not missed her. "mother," says she, "here's the gold for you! don't be stirring your dresser."--"and where's your gown and cloak, grace?" says i. but i beg your pardon, sir; maybe i'm tiring you?' lord colambre encouraged her to go on. '"where's your gown and cloak, grace!" says i.--"gone," says she. "the cloak was too warm and heavy, and i don't doubt, mother, but it was that helped to make me faint this morning. and as to the gown, sure i've a very nice one here, that you spun for me yourself, mother; and that i prize above all the gowns ever came out of a loom; and that brian said become me to his fancy above any gown ever he see me wear; and what could i wish for more?" now i'd a mind to scold her for going to sell the gown unknown'st to me, but i don't know how it was, i couldn't scold her just then, so kissed her, and brian the same, and that was what no man ever did before. and she had a mind to be angry with him, but could not, nor ought not, says i; "for he's as good as your husband now, grace; and no man can part yees now," says i, putting their hands together. well, i never saw her look so pretty; nor there was not a happier boy that minute on god's earth than my son, nor a happier mother than myself; and i thanked god that had given them to me; and down they both fell on their knees for my blessing, little worth as it was; and my heart's blessing they had, and i laid my hands upon them. "it's the priest you must get to do this for you to-morrow," says i. and brian just held up the ring, to show me all was ready on his part, but could not speak. "then there's no america any more!" said grace low to me, and her heart was on her lips; but the colour came and went, and i was afeared she'd have swooned again, but not for sorrow, so i carried her off. well, if she was not my own--but she is not my own born so i may say it--there never was a better girl, nor a more kind-hearted, nor generous; never thinking anything she could do, or give, too much for them she loved, and anything at all would do for herself; the sweetest natured and tempered both, and always was, from this high; the bond that held all together, and joy of the house.' 'just like her namesake,' cried lord colambre. 'plase your honour?' 'is not it late?' said lord colambre, stretching himself and gaping; 'i've walked a great way to-day.' the old woman lighted his rushlight, showed him to his red check bed, and wished him a very good night; not without some slight sentiment of displeasure at his gaping thus at the panegyric on her darling grace. before she left the room, however, her short-lived resentment vanished, upon his saying that he hoped, with her permission, to be present at the wedding of the young couple. early in the morning brian went to the priest, to ask his reverence when it would be convenient to marry him; and, whilst he was gone, mr. dennis garraghty came to the cottage, to receive the rent and possession. the rent was ready, in gold, and counted into his hand. 'no occasion for a receipt; for a new lase is a receipt in full for everything.' 'very well, sir, said the widow; 'i know nothing of law. you know best--whatever you direct--for you are acting as a friend to us now. my son got the attorney to draw the pair of new lases yesterday, and here they are ready, all to signing.' mr. dennis said his brother must settle that part of the business, and that they must carry them up to the castle; 'but first give me the possession.' then, as he instructed her, she gave up the key of the door to him, and a bit of the thatch of the house; and he raked out the fire, and said every living creature must go out. 'it's only form of law,' said he. 'and must my lodger get up and turn out, sir?' said she. 'he must turn out, to be sure--not a living soul must be left in it, or it's no legal possession properly. who is your lodger?' on lord colambre's appearing, mr. dennis showed some surprise, and said, 'i thought you were lodging at brannagan's; are not you the man who spoke to me at his house about the gold mines?' 'no, sir, he never lodged at brannagan's,' said the widow. 'yes, sir, i am the person who spoke to you about the gold mines at brannagan's; but i did not like to lodge--' 'well, no matter where you liked to lodge; you must walk out of this lodging now, if you please, my good friend.' so mr. dennis pushed his lordship out by the shoulders, repeating, as the widow turned back and looked with some surprise and alarm, 'only for form sake, only for form sake!' then locking the door, took the key, and put it into his pocket. the widow held out her hand for it: 'the form's gone through now, sir, is not it? be plased to let us in again.' 'when the new lease is signed, i'll give you possession again; but not till then--for that's the law. so make away with you to the castle; and mind,' added he, winking slily, 'mind you take sealing-money with you, and something to buy gloves.' 'oh, where will i find all that?' said the widow. 'i have it, mother; don't fret,' said grace. 'i have it--the price of---what i can want. [what i can do without.] so let us go off to the castle without delay. brian will meet us on the road, you know.' they set off for clonbrony castle, lord colambre accompanying them. brian met them on the road. 'father tom is ready, dear mother; bring her in, and he'll marry us. i'm not my own man till she's mine. who knows what may happen?' 'who knows? that's true,' said the widow. 'better go to the castle first,' said grace. 'and keep the priest waiting! you can't use his reverence so.' said brian. so she let him lead her into the priest's house, and she did not make any of the awkward draggings back, or ridiculous scenes of grimace sometimes exhibited on these occasions; but blushing rosy red, yet with more self-possession than could have been expected from her timid nature, she gave her hand to the man she loved, and listened with attentive devotion to the holy ceremony. 'ah!' thought lord colambre, whilst he congratulated the bride, 'shall i ever be as happy as these poor people are at this moment?' he longed to make them some little present, but all he could venture at this moment was to pay the priest's dues. the priest positively refused to take anything. 'they are the best couple in my parish,' said he; 'and i'll take nothing, sir, from you, a stranger and my guest.' 'now, come what will, i'm a match for it. no trouble can touch me,' said brian. 'oh, don't be bragging,' said the widow. 'whatever trouble god sends, he has given one now will help to bear it, and sure i may be thankful,' said grace. 'such good hearts must be happy--shall be happy!' said lord colambre. 'oh, you're very kind,' said the widow, smiling; 'and i wouldn't doubt you, if you had the power. i hope, then, the agent will give you encouragement about them mines, that we may keep you among us.' 'i am determined to settle among you, warm-hearted, generous people!' cried lord colambre, 'whether the agent gives me encouragement or not,' added he. it was a long walk to clonbrony castle; the old woman, as she said herself, would not have been able for it, but for a lift given to her by a friendly carman, whom they met on the road with an empty car. this carman was finnucan, who dissipated lord colambre's fears of meeting and being recognised by mrs. raffarty; for he, in answer to the question of, 'who is at the castle?' replied, 'mrs. raffarty will be in it afore night; but she's on the road still. there's none but old nick in it yet; and he's more of a neger than ever; for think, that he would not pay me a farthing for the carriage of his shister's boxes and bandboxes down. if you're going to have any dealings with him, god grant ye a safe deliverance!' 'amen!' said the widow, and her son and daughter. lord colambre's attention was now engaged by the view of the castle and park of clonbrony. he had not seen it since he was six years old. some faint reminiscence from his childhood made him feel or fancy that he knew the place. it was a fine castle, spacious park; but all about it, from the broken piers at the great entrance, to the messy gravel and loose steps at the hall-door, had an air of desertion and melancholy. walks overgrown, shrubberies wild, plantations run up into bare poles; fine trees cut down, and lying on the gravel in lots to be sold. a hill that had been covered with an oak wood, in which, in his childhood, our hero used to play, and which he called the black forest, was gone; nothing to be seen but the white stumps of the trees, for it had been freshly cut down, to make up the last remittances.--'and how it went, when sold!--but no matter,' said finnucan; 'it's all alike.--it's the back way into the yard, i'll take you, i suppose.' and such a yard! 'but it's no matter,' repeated lord colambre to himself; 'it's all alike.' in the kitchen a great dinner was dressing for mr. garraghty's friends, who were to make merry with him when the business of the day was over. 'where's the keys of the cellar, till i get out the claret for after dinner,' says one; 'and the wine for the cook--sure there's venison,' cries another.--'venison!--that's the way my lord's deer goes,' says a third, laughing.--'ay, sure! and very proper, when he's not here to eat 'em.'--'keep your nose out of the kitchen, young man, if you plase,' said the agent's cook, shutting the door in lord colambre's face. 'there's the way to the office, if you've money to pay, up the back stairs.' 'no; up the grand staircase they must--mr. garraghty ordered,' said the footman; 'because the office is damp for him, and it's not there he'll see anybody to-day; but in my lady's dressing-room.' so up the grand staircase they went, and through the magnificent apartments, hung with pictures of great value, spoiling with damp. 'then, isn't it a pity to see them? there's my lady, and all spoiling,' said the widow. lord colambre stopped before a portrait of miss nugent.--'shamefully damaged!' cried he. 'pass on, or let me pass, if you plase,' said one of the tenants; 'and don't be stopping the doorway.' 'i have business more nor you with the agent,' said the surveyor; 'where is he?' 'in the presence-chamber,' replied another; 'where should the viceroy be but in the presence-chamber?' there was a full levee, and fine smell of greatcoats. 'oh! would you put your hats on the silk cushions?' said the widow to some men in the doorway, who were throwing off their greasy hats on a damask sofa.--'why not? where else?' 'if the lady was in it, you wouldn't,' said she, sighing.--'no, to be sure, i wouldn't; great news! would i make no differ in the presence of old nick and my lady?' said he, in irish. 'have i no sense or manners, good woman, think ye?' added he, as he shook the ink out of his pen on the wilton carpet, when he had finished signing his name to a paper on his knee. 'you may wait long before you get to the speech of the great man,' said another, who was working his way through numbers. they continued pushing forward, till they came within sight of mr. nicholas garraghty, seated in state; and a worse countenance, or a more perfect picture of an insolent, petty tyrant in office, lord colambre had never beheld. we forbear all further detail of this levee. 'it's all the same!' as lord colambre repeated to himself, on every fresh instance of roguery or oppression to which he was witness; and, having completely made up his mind on the subject, he sat down quietly in the background, waiting till it should come to the widow's turn to be dealt with, for he was now interested only to see how she would be treated. the room gradually thinned; mr. dennis garraghty came in, and sat down at the table, to help his brother to count the heaps of gold. 'oh, mr. dennis, i'm glad to see you as kind as your promise, meeting me here,' said the widow o'neill, walking up to him; 'i'm sure you'll speak a good word for me; here's the lases--who will i offer this to?' said she, holding the glove-money and sealing-money,--'for i'm strange and ashamed.' 'oh, don't be ashamed--there's no strangeness in bringing money or taking it,' said mr. nicholas garraghty, holding out his hand. 'is this the proper compliment?' 'i hope so, sir; your honour knows best.' 'very well,' slipping it into his private purse. 'now, what's your business?' 'the lases to sign--the rent's all paid up.' 'leases! why, woman, is the possession given up?' 'it was, plase your honour; and mr. dennis has the key of our little place in his pocket.' 'then i hope he'll keep it there. your little place--it's no longer yours; i've promised it to the surveyor. you don't think i'm such a fool as to renew to you at this rent.' 'mr. dennis named the rent. but anything your honour plases--anything at all that we can pay.' 'oh, it's out of the question--put it out of your head. no rent you can offer would do, for i've promised it to the surveyor.' 'sir, mr. dennis knows my lord gave us his promise in writing of a renewal, on the back of the ould lase.' 'produce it.' 'here's the lase, but the promise is rubbed out.' 'nonsense! coming to me with a promise that's rubbed out. who'll listen to that in a court of justice, do you think?' 'i don't know, plase your honour; but this i'm sure of, my lord and miss nugent, though but a child at the time, god bless her! who was by when my lord wrote it with his pencil, will remember it.' 'miss nugent! what can she know of business?--what has she to do with the management of my lord clonbrony's estate, pray?' 'management!--no, sir.' 'do you wish to get miss nugent turned out of the house?' 'oh, god forbid!--how could that be?' 'very easily; if you set about to make her meddle and witness in what my lord does not choose.' 'well then, i'll never mention miss nugent's name in it at all, if it was ever so with me. but be plased, sir, to write over to my lord, and ask him; i'm sure he'll remember it.' 'write to my lord about such a trifle--trouble him about such nonsense!' 'i'd be sorry to trouble him. then take it on my word, and believe me, sir; for i would not tell a lie, nor cheat rich or poor, if in my power, for the whole estate, nor the whole world: for there's an eye above.' 'cant! nonsense!--take those leases off the table; i never will sign them. walk off; ye canting hag; it's an imposition--i will never sign them.' 'you will then, sir,' cried brian, growing red with indignation; 'for the law shall make you, so it shall; and you'd as good have been civil to my mother, whatever you did--for i'll stand by her while i've life; and i know she has right, and shall have law. i saw the memorandum written before ever it went into your hands, sir, whatever became of it after; and will swear to it, too.' 'swear away, my good friend; much your swearing will avail in your own case in a court of justice,' continued old nick. 'and against a gentleman of my brother's established character and property,' said st. dennis. 'what's your mother's character against a gentleman's like his?' 'character! take care how you go to that, anyway, sir,' cried brian. grace put her hand before his mouth, to stop him. 'grace, dear, i must speak, if i die for it; sure it's for my mother,' said the young man, struggling forward, while his mother held him back; 'i must speak.' 'oh, he's ruin'd, i see it,' said grace, putting her hand before her eyes, 'and he won't mind me.' 'go on, let him go on, pray, young woman,' said mr. garraghty, pale with anger and fear, his lips quivering; 'i shall be happy to take down his words.' 'write them; and may all the world read it, and welcome!' his mother and wife stopped his mouth by force. 'write you, dennis,' said mr. garraghty, giving the pen to his brother; for his hand shook so he could not form a letter. 'write the very words, and at the top' (pointing) after warning, with malice prepense.' 'write, then--mother, grace--let me,' cried brian, speaking in a smothered voice, as their hands were over his mouth. 'write then, that, if you'd either of you a character like my mother, you might defy the world; and your word would be as good as your oath.' 'oath! mind that, dennis,' said mr. garraghty. 'oh, sir! sir! won't you stop him?' cried grace, turning suddenly to lord colambre. 'oh dear, dear, if you haven't lost your feeling for us,' cried the widow. 'let him speak,' said lord colambre, in a tone of authority; 'let the voice of truth be heard.' 'truth!' cried st. dennis, and dropped the pen. 'and who the devil are you, sir?' said old nick. 'lord colambre, i protest!' exclaimed a female voice; and mrs. raffarty at this instant appeared at the open door. 'lord colambre!' repeated all present, in different tones. 'my lord, i beg pardon;' continued mrs. raffarty, advancing as if her legs were tied; 'had i known you was down here, i would not have presumed. i'd better retire; for i see you're busy.' 'you'd best; for you're mad, sister,' said st. dennis, pushing her back; 'and we are busy; go to your room, and keep quiet, if you can.' 'first, madam,' said lord colambre, going between her and the door, 'let me beg that you will consider yourself as at home in this house, whilst any circumstances make it desirable to you. the hospitality you showed me you cannot think that i now forget.' 'oh, my lord, you're too good--how few--too kind--kinder than my own,' and bursting into tears, she escaped out of the room. lord colambre returned to the party round the table, who were in various attitudes of astonishment, and with faces of fear, horror, hope, joy, doubt. 'distress,' continued his lordship, 'however incurred, if not by vice, will always find a refuge in this house. i speak in my father's name, for i know i speak his sentiments. but never more shall vice,' said he, darting such a look at the brother agents as they felt to the backbone--'never more shall vice, shall fraud enter here.' he paused, and there was a momentary silence. 'there spoke the true thing! and the rael gentleman; my own heart's satisfied,' said brian, folding his arms, and standing erect. 'then so is mine,' said grace, taking breath, with a deep sigh. the widow advancing, put on her spectacles, and, looking up close at lord colambre's face--'then it's a wonder i didn't know the family likeness.' lord colambre now recollecting that he still wore the old greatcoat, threw it off. 'oh, bless him! then now i'd know him anywhere. i'm willing to die now, for we'll all be happy.' 'my lord, since it is so--my lord, may i ask you,' said mr. garraghty, now sufficiently recovered to be able to articulate, but scarcely to express his ideas; 'if what your lordship hinted just now--' 'i hinted nothing, sir; i spoke plainly.' 'i beg pardon, my lord,' said old nick;--'respecting vice, was levelled at me; because, if it was, my lord,' trying to stand erect; 'let me tell your lordship, if i could think it was--' 'if it did not hit you, sir, no matter at whom it was levelled.' 'and let me ask, my lord, if i may presume, whether, in what you suggested by the word fraud, your lordship had any particular meaning?' said st. dennis. 'a very particular meaning, sir,--feel in your pocket for the key of this widow's house, and deliver it to her.' 'oh, if that's all the meaning, with all the pleasure in life. i never meant to detain it longer than till the leases were signed,' said st. dennis. 'and i'm ready to sign the leases this minute,' said the brother. 'do it, sir, this minute; i have read them; i will be answerable to my father.' 'oh, as to that, my lord, i have power to sign for your father.' he signed the leases; they were duly witnessed by lord colambre. 'i deliver this as my act and deed,' said mr. garraghty;--'my lord,' continued he, 'you see, at the first word from you; and had i known sooner the interest you took in the family, there would have been no difficulty; for i'd make it a principle to oblige you, my lord.' 'oblige me!' said lord colambre, with disdain. 'but when gentlemen and noblemen travel incognito, and lodge in cabins,' added st. dennis, with a satanic smile, glancing his eye on grace, 'they have good reasons, no doubt.' 'do not judge my heart by your own, sir,' said lord colambre, coolly; 'no two things in nature can, i trust, be more different. my purpose in travelling incognito has been fully answered: i was determined to see and judge how my father's estates were managed; and i have seen, compared, and judged. i have seen the difference between the clonbrony and the colambre property; and i shall represent what i have seen to my father.' 'as to that, my lord, if we are to come to that but i trust your lordship will suffer me to explain these matters.--go about your business, my good friends; you have all you want;--and, my lord, after dinner, when you are cool, i hope i shall be able to make you sensible that things have been represented to your lordship in a mistaken light; and i flatter myself i shall convince you i have not only always acted the part of a friend to the family, but am particularly willing to conciliate your lordship's goodwill,' said he, sweeping the rouleaus of gold into a bag; 'any accommodation in my power, at any time.' 'i want no accommodation, sir,--were i starving, i would accept of none from you. never can you conciliate my goodwill; for you can never deserve it.' 'if that be the case, my lord, i must conduct myself accordingly; but it's fair to warn you, before you make any representation to my lord clonbrony, that if he should think of changing his agent, there are accounts to be settled between us--that may be a consideration.' 'no, sir; no consideration--my father never shall be the slave of such a paltry consideration.' 'oh, very well, my lord; you know best. if you choose to make an assumpsit, i'm sure i shall not object to the security. your lordship will be of age soon, i know--i'm sure i'm satisfied--but,' added he with a malicious smile, 'i rather apprehend you don't know what you undertake; i only premise that the balance of accounts between us is not what can properly be called a paltry consideration.' 'on that point, perhaps, sir, you and i may differ.' 'very well, my lord, you will follow your own principles, if it suits your convenience.' 'whether it does or not, sir, i shall abide by my principles.' 'dennis! the letters to the post.--when do you go to england, my lord?' 'immediately, sir,' said lord colambre; his lordship saw new leases from his father to mr. dennis garraghty, lying on the table, unsigned. 'immediately!' repeated messrs. nicholas and dennis, with an air of dismay. nicholas got up, looked out of the window, and whispered something to his brother, who instantly left the room. 'lord colambre saw the post-chaise at the door, which had brought mrs. raffarty to the castle, and larry standing beside it; his lordship instantly threw up the sash, and holding between his finger and thumb a six-shilling piece, cried, 'larry, my friend, let me have the horses!' 'you shall have 'em--your honour,' said larry. mr. dennis garraghty appeared below, speaking in a magisterial tone. 'larry, my brother must have the horses.' 'he can't, plase your honour--they're engaged.' half a crown! a crown!--half a guinea!' said mr. dennis garraghty, raising his voice, as he increased his proffered bribe. to each offer larry replied, 'you can't, plase your honour, they're engaged;'--and, looking up to the window at lord colambre, he said, 'as soon as they have eaten their oats, you shall have 'em.' no other horses were to be had. the agent was in consternation. lord colambre ordered that larry should have some dinner, and whilst the postillion was eating, and the horses finishing their oats, his lordship wrote the following letter to his father, which, to prevent all possibility of accident, he determined to put, with his own hand, into the post-office at clonbrony, as he passed through the town. my dear father, i hope to be with you in a few days. lest anything should detain me on the road, i write this, to make an earnest request to you, that you will not sign any papers, or transact any farther business with messrs. nicholas or dennis garraghty, before you see your affectionate son, colambre. the horses came out. larry sent word he was ready, and lord colambre, having first eaten a slice of his own venison, ran down to the carriage, followed by the thanks and blessings of the widow, her son, and daughter, who could hardly make their way after him to the chaise-door, so great was the crowd which had gathered on the report of his lordship's arrival. 'long life to your honour! long life to your lordship!' echoed on all sides. 'just come, and going, are you?' 'good-bye to you all, good people!' 'then good-bye is the only word we wouldn't wish to hear from your honour.' 'for the sake both of landlord and tenant, i must leave you now, my good friends; but i hope to return to you at some future time.' 'god bless you! and speed ye! and a safe journey to your honour!--and a happy return to us, and soon!' cried a multitude of voices. lord colambre stopped at the chaise-door and beckoned to the widow o'neill, before whom others had pressed. an opening was made for her instantly. there! that was the very way his father stood with his feet on the steps. and miss nugent was in it.' lord colambre forgot what he was going to say--with some difficulty recollected. 'this pocket-book,' said he, 'which your son restored to me--i intend it for your daughter--don't keep it, as your son kept it for me, without opening it. let what is within-side,' added he, as he got into the carriage, 'replace the cloak and gown, and let all things necessary for a bride be bought; "for the bride that has all things to borrow has surely mickle to do."--shut the door, and drive on.' 'blessings be wid you,' cried the widow, 'and god give you grace!' chapter xiii larry drove off at full gallop, and kept on at a good rate, till he got out of the great gate, and beyond the sight of the crowd; then, pulling up, he turned to lord colambre--'plase your honour, i did not know nor guess ye was my lord, when i let you have the horses; did not know who you was from adam, i'll take my affidavit.' 'there's no occasion,' said lord colambre; 'i hope you don't repent letting me have the horses, now you do know who i am?' 'oh! not at all, sure; i'm as glad as the best horse i ever crossed, that your honour is my lord--but i was only telling your honour, that you might not be looking upon me as a time-server.' 'i do not look upon you as a time-server, larry; but keep on, that time may serve me.' in two words, he explained his cause of haste; and no sooner explained than understood. larry thundered away through the town of clonbrony, bending over his horses, plying the whip, and lending his very soul at every lash. with much difficulty, lord colambre stopped him at the end of the town, at the post-office. the post was gone out-gone a quarter of an hour. 'maybe we'll overtake the mail,' said larry; and, as he spoke, he slid down from his seat, and darted into the public-house, reappearing, in a few moments, with a copper of ale and a horn in his hand; he and another man held open the horses' mouths, and poured the ale through the horn down their throats. 'now, they'll go with spirit!' and, with the hope of overtaking the mail, larry made them go 'for life or death,' as he said; but in vain! at the next stage, at his own inn-door, larry roared for fresh horses till he got them, harnessed them with his own hands, holding the six-shilling piece, which lord colambre had given him, in his mouth, all the while; for he could not take time to put it into his pocket. 'speed ye! i wish i was driving you all the way, then,' said he. the other postillion was not yet ready. 'then your honour sees,' said he, putting his head into the carriage, 'consarning of them garraghties--old nick and st. dennis--the best part, that is the worst part, of what i told you, proved true; and i'm glad of it, that is, i'm sorry for it--but glad your honour knows it in time. so heaven prosper you! and may all the saints (barring st. dennis) have charge of you, and all belonging to you, till we see you here again!--and when will it be?' 'i cannot say when i shall return to you myself, but i will do my best to send your landlord to you soon. in the meantime, my good fellow, keep away from the sign of the horse-shoe--a man of your sense to drink and make an idiot and a brute of yourself!' 'true!--and it was only when i had lost hope i took to it--but now! bring me the book, one of yees, out of the landlady's parlour.--by the virtue of this book, and by all the books that ever was shut and opened, i won't touch a drop of spirits, good or bad, till i see your honour again, or some of the family, this time twelvemonth--that long i'll live on hope--but mind, if you disappoint me, i don't swear but i'll take to the whisky, for comfort, all the rest of my days. but don't be staying here, wasting your time, advising me. bartley! take the reins, can't ye?' cried he, giving them to the fresh postillion; 'and keep on, for your life, for there's thousands of pounds depending on the race--so, off, off, bartley, with speed of light!' bartley did his best; and such was the excellence of the roads, that, notwithstanding the rate at which our hero travelled, he arrived safely in dublin, and just in time to put his letter into the post-office, and to sail in that night's packet. the wind was fair when lord colambre went on board, but before they got out of the bay it changed; they made no way all night; in the course of the next day, they had the mortification to see another packet from dublin sail past them, and when they landed at holyhead, were told the packet, which had left ireland twelve hours after them, had been in an hour before them. the passengers had taken their places in the coach, and engaged what horses could be had. lord colambre was afraid that mr. garraghty was one of them; a person exactly answering his description had taken four horses, and set out half an hour before in great haste for london. luckily, just as those who had taken their places in the mail were getting into the coach, lord colambre saw among them a gentleman, with whom he had been acquainted in dublin, a barrister, who was come over during the long vacation, to make a tour of pleasure in england. when lord colambre explained the reason he had for being in haste to reach london, he had the good-nature to give up to him his place in the coach. lord colambre travelled all night, and delayed not one moment, till he reached his father's house in london. 'my father at home?' 'yes, my lord, in his own room--the agent from ireland with him, on particular business--desired not to be interrupted--but i'll go and tell him, my lord, you are come.' lord colambre ran past the servant, as he spoke--made his way into the room--found his father, sir terence o'fay, and mr. garraghty--leases open on the table before them; a candle lighted; sir terence sealing; garraghty emptying a bag of guineas on the table, and lord clonbrony actually with a pen in his hand, ready to sign. as the door opened, garraghty started back, so that half the contents of his bag rolled upon the floor. 'stop, my dear father, i conjure you,' cried lord colambre, springing forward, and kneeling to his father; at the same moment snatching the pen from his hand. colambre! god bless you, my dear boy! at all events. but how came you here?--and what do you mean?' said his father. 'burn it!' cried sir terence, pinching the sealing-wax; 'for i burnt myself with the pleasure of the surprise.' garraghty, without saying a word, was picking up the guineas that were scattered upon the floor. 'how fortunate i am,' cried lord colambre, 'to have arrived just in time to tell you, my dear father, before you put your signature to these papers, before you conclude this bargain, all i know, all i have seen, of that man!' 'nick garraghty, honest old nick; do you know him, my lord?' said sir terence. 'too well, sir.' 'mr. garraghty, what have you done to offend my son? i did not expect this,' said lord clonbrony. 'upon my conscience, my lord, nothing to my knowledge,' said mr. garraghty, picking up the guineas; 'but showed him every civility, even so far as offering to accommodate him with cash without security; and where will you find the other agent, in ireland or anywhere else, will do that? to my knowledge, i never did anything, by word or deed, to offend my lord colambre; nor could not, for i never saw him, but for ten minutes, in my days; and then he was in such a foaming passion--begging his lordship's pardon--owing to the misrepresentations he met with of me, i presume, from a parcel of blackguards that he went amongst, incognito, he would not let me or my brother dennis say a word to set him right; but exposed me before all the tenantry, and then threw himself into a hack, and drove off here, to stop the signing of these leases, i perceive. but i trust,' concluded he, putting the replenished money-bag down with a heavy sound on the table, opposite to lord clonbrony,--'i trust, my lord clonbrony will do me justice; that's all i have to say.' 'i comprehend the force of your last argument fully, sir,' said lord colambre. 'may i ask how many guineas there are in the bag? i don't ask whether they are my father's or not.' 'they are to be your lordship's father's, sir, if he thinks proper,' replied garraghty. 'how many, i don't know that i can justly, positively say--five hundred, suppose.' 'and they would be my father's if he signed those leases--i understand that perfectly, and understand that my father would lose three times that sum by the bargain.--my dear father, you start--but it is true. is not this the rent, sir, at which you were going to let mr. garraghty have the land?' placing a paper before lord clonbrony. 'it is--the very thing.' 'and here, sir, written with my own hand, are copies of the proposals i saw, from responsible, respectable tenants, offered and refused.--is it so, or is it not, mr. garraghty?--deny it, if you can.' mr. garraghty grew pale; his lips quivered; he stammered; and, after a shocking convulsion of face, could at last articulate--only-- 'that there was a great difference between tenant and tenant, his lordship must be sensible, especially for so large a rent.'--'as great a difference as between agent and agent, i am sensible--especially for so large a property!' said lord colambre, with cool contempt. 'you find, sir, i am well informed with regard to this transaction; you will find, also, that i am equally well informed with respect to every part of your conduct towards my father and his tenantry. if, in relating to him what i have seen and heard, i should make any mistakes, you are here; and i am glad you are, to set me right, and to do yourself justice.' 'oh! as to that, i should not presume to contradict anything your lordship asserts from your own authority: where would be the use? i leave it all to your lordship. but, as it is not particularly agreeable to stay to hear one's self abused--sir terence! i'll thank you to hand me my hat!--and if you'll have the goodness, my lord clonbrony, to look over finally the accounts before morning, i'll call at your leisure to settle the balance, as you find convenient; as to the leases, i'm quite indifferent.' so saying, he took up his money-bag. 'well, you'll call again in the morning, mr. garraghty!' said sir terence; 'and, by that time, i hope we shall understand this misunderstanding better.' sir terence pulled lord clonbrony's sleeve: 'don't let him go with the money--it's much wanted!' 'let him go,' said lord colambre; 'money can be had by honourable means.' 'wheugh!--he talks as if he had the bank of england at his command, as every young man does,' said sir terence. lord colambre deigned no reply. lord clonbrony walked undecidedly between his agent and his son--looked at sir terence, and said nothing. mr. garraghty departed; lord clonbrony called after him from the head of the stairs, 'i shall be at home and at leisure in the morning.' sir terence ran downstairs after him; lord colambre waited quietly for their return. 'fifteen hundred guineas, at a stroke of a goose-quill!--that was a neat hit, narrowly missed, of honest nick's!' said lord clonbrony. 'too bad! too bad, faith!--i am much, very much obliged to you, colambre, for that hint; by to-morrow morning we shall have him in another tune.' 'and he must double the bag, or quit,' said sir terence. 'treble it, if you please, terry. sure, three times five's fifteen;--fifteen hundred down, or he does not get my signature to those leases for his brother, nor get the agency of the colambre estate.--colambre, what more have you to tell of him? for, since he is making out his accounts against me, it is no harm to have a per contra against him that may ease my balance.' 'very fair! very fair!' said sir terence. 'my lord, trust me for remembering all the charges against him--every item; and when he can't clear himself, if i don't make him buy a good character dear enough, why, say i'm a fool, and don't know the value of character, good or bad!' 'if you know the value of character, sir terence,' said lord colambre, 'you know that it is not to be bought or sold.' then, turning from sir terence to his father, he gave a full and true account of all he had seen in his progress through his irish estates; and drew a faithful picture both of the bad and good agent. lord clonbrony, who had benevolent feelings, and was fond of his tenantry, was touched; and, when his son ceased speaking, repeated several times-- 'rascal! rascal! how dare he use my tenants so--the o'neills in particular!--rascal! bad heart!-i'll have no more to do with him.' but, suddenly recollecting himself, he turned to sir terence, and added, 'that's sooner said than done--i'll tell you honestly, colambre, your friend mr. burke may be the best man in the world--but he is the worst man to apply to for a remittance, or a loan, in a hurry! he always tells me "he can't distress the tenants."'--'and he never, at coming into the agency even,' said sir terence, 'advanced a good round sum to the landlord, by way of security for his good behaviour. now honest nick did that much for us at coming in.' 'and at going out is he not to be repaid?' said lord colambre. 'that's the devil!' said lord clonbrony; that's the very reason i can't conveniently turn him out.' 'i will make it convenient to you, sir, if you will permit me,' said lord colambre. 'in a few days i shall be of age, and will join with you in raising whatever sum you want, to free you from this man. allow me to look over his account; and whatever the honest balance may be, let him have it.' 'my dear boy!' said lord clonbrony, 'you're a generous fellow. fine irish heart!--glad you're my son! but there's more, much more, that you don't know,' added he, looking at sir terence, who cleared his throat; and lord clonbrony, who was on the point of opening all his affairs to his son, stopped short. 'colambre,' said he, 'we will not say anything more of this at present; for nothing effectual can be done till you are of age, and then we shall see all about it.' lord colambre perfectly understood what his father meant, and what was meant by the clearing of sir terence's throat. lord clonbrony wanted his son to join him in opening the estate to pay his debts; and sir terence feared that, if lord colambre were abruptly told the whole sum total of the debts he would never be persuaded to join in selling or mortgaging so much of his patrimony as would be necessary for their payment. sir terence thought that the young man, ignorant probably of business, and unsuspicious of the state of his father's affairs, might be brought, by proper management, to any measures they desired. lord clonbrony wavered between the temptation to throw himself upon the generosity of his son, and the immediate convenience of borrowing a sum of money from his agent, to relieve his present embarrassments. 'nothing can be settled,' repeated he, 'till colambre is of age; so it does not signify talking of it.' 'why so, sir?' said lord colambre. 'though my act, in law, may not be valid, till i am of age, my promise, as a man of honour, is binding now; and, i trust, would be as satisfactory to my father as any legal deed whatever.' 'undoubtedly, my dear boy; but--' 'but what?' said lord colambre, following his father's eye, which turned to sir terence o'fay, as if asking his permission to explain. 'as my father's friend, sir, you ought, permit me to say, at this moment to use your influence to prevail upon him to throw aside all reserve with a son, whose warmest wish is to serve him, and to see him at ease and happy.' 'generous, dear boy,' cried lord clonbrony. 'terence, i can't stand it; but how shall i bring myself to name the amount of the debts?' 'at some time or other, i must know it,' said lord colambre; 'i cannot be better prepared at any moment than the present; never more disposed to give my assistance to relieve all difficulties. blindfold, i cannot be led to any purpose, sir,' said he, looking at sir terence; 'the attempt would be degrading and futile. blindfolded i will not be--but, with my eyes open, i will see, and go straight and prompt as heart can go, to my father's interest, without a look or thought to my own.' 'by st. patrick! the spirit of a prince, and an irish prince, spoke there,' cried sir terence; 'and if i'd fifty hearts, you'd have all in your hand this minute, at your service, and warm. blindfold you! after that, the man that would attempt it desarves to be shot; and i'd have no sincerer pleasure in life than shooting him this moment, was he my best friend. but it's not clonbrony, or your father, my lord, would act that way, no more than sir terence o'fay--there's the schedule of the debts,' drawing a paper from his bosom; 'and i'll swear to the lot, and not a man on earth could do that but myself.' lord colambre opened the paper. his father turned aside, covering his face with both his hands. 'tut, man,' said sir terence; 'i know him now better than you; he will stand, you'll find, the shock of that regiment of figures--he is steel to the backbone, and proof spirit.' 'i thank you, my dear father,' said lord colambre, 'for trusting me thus at once with a view of the truth. at first sight it is, i acknowledge, worse than i expected; but i make no doubt that, when you allow me to examine mr. garraghty's accounts and mr. mordicai's claims, we shall be able to reduce this alarming total considerably, my dear father. you think we learn nothing but latin and greek at cambridge; but you are mistaken.' 'the devil a pound, nor a penny,' said sir terence; 'for you have to deal with a jew and old nick; and i'm not a match for them. i don't know who is; and i have no hope of getting any abatement. i've looked over the accounts till i'm sick.' 'nevertheless, you will observe that fifteen hundred guineas have been saved to my father, at one stroke, by his not signing those leases.' 'saved to you, my lord; not your father, if you plase,' said sir terence. 'for now i'm upon the square with you, i must be straight as an arrow, and deal with you as the son and friend of my friend; before, i was considering you only as the son and heir, which is quite another thing, you know; accordingly, acting for your father here, i was making the best bargain against you i could; honestly, now, i tell you. i knew the value of the lands well enough; we were as sharp as garraghty, and he knew it; we were to have had the difference from him, partly in cash and partly in balance of accounts--you comprehend--and you only would have been the loser, and never would have known it, maybe, till after we all were dead and buried; and then you might have set aside garraghty's lease easy, and no harm done to any but a rogue that desarved it; and, in the meantime, an accommodation to my honest friend, my lord, your father, here. but, as fate would have it, you upset all by your progress incognito through them estates. well, it's best as it is, and i am better pleased to be as we are, trusting all to a generous son's own heart. now put the poor father out of pain, and tell us what you'll do, my dear.' 'in one word, then,' said lord colambre, 'i will, upon two conditions, either join my father in levying fines to enable him to sell or mortgage whatever portion of his estate is necessary for the payment of these debts; or i will, in whatever other mode he can point out, as more agreeable or more advantageous to him, join in giving security to his creditors.' 'dear, noble fellow!' cried sir terence; 'none but an irishman could do it.' lord clonbrony, melted to tears, could not articulate, but held his arms open to embrace his son. 'but you have not heard my conditions yet,' said lord colambre. 'oh, confound the conditions!' cried sir terence. 'what conditions could he ask that i could refuse at this minute?' said lord clonbrony. 'nor i--was it my heart's blood, and were i to be hanged for it,' cried sir terence. 'and what are the conditions?' 'that mr. garraghty shall be dismissed from the agency.' 'and welcome, and glad to get rid of him--the rogue, the tyrant,' said lord clonbrony; 'and, to be beforehand with you in your next wish, put mr. burke into his place.' 'i'll write the letter for you to sign, my lord, this minute,' cried terry, 'with all the pleasure in life. no; it's my lord colambre should do that in all justice.' 'but what's your next condition? i hope it's no worse,' said lord clonbrony. 'that you and my mother should cease to be absentees.' 'oh murder!' said sir terence; 'maybe that's not so easy; for there are two words to that bargain.' lord clonbrony declared that, for his own part, he was ready to return to ireland next morning, and to promise to reside on his estate all the rest of his days; that there was nothing he desired more, provided lady clonbrony would consent to it; but that he could not promise for her; that she was as obstinate as a mule on that point; that he had often tried, but that there was no moving her; and that, in short, he could not promise on her part. but it was on this condition, lord colambre said, he must insist. without this condition was granted, he would not engage to do anything. 'well, we must only see how it will be when she comes to town; she will come up from buxton the day you're of age to sign some papers,' said lord clonbrony; 'but,' added he, with a very dejected look and voice, 'if all's to depend on my lady clonbrony's consenting to return to ireland, i'm as far from all hope of being at ease as ever.' 'upon my conscience, we're all at sea again,' said sir terence. lord colambre was silent: but in his silence there was such an air of firmness, that both lord clonbrony and sir terence were convinced entreaties would on this point be fruitless--lord clonbrony sighed deeply. 'but when it's ruin or safety, and her husband and all belonging to her at stake, the woman can't persist in being a mule,' said sir terence. 'of whom are you talking?' said lord colambre. 'of whom? oh, i beg your lordship's pardon--i thought i was talking to my lord; but, in other words, as you are her son, i'm persuaded her ladyship, your mother, will prove herself a reasonable woman--when she sees she can't help it. so, my lord clonbrony, cheer up; a great deal may be done by the fear of mordicai, and an execution, especially now the prior creditor. since there's no reserve between you and i now, my lord colambre,' said sir terence, 'i must tell you all, and how we shambled on those months while you were in ireland. first, mordicai went to law, to prove i was in a conspiracy with your father, pretending to be prior creditor, to keep him off and out of his own; which, after a world of swearing and law---law always takes time to do justice, that's one comfort--the villain proved at last to be true enough, and so cast us; and i was forced to be paid off last week. so there's no prior creditor, or any shield of pretence that way. then his execution was coming down upon us, and nothing to stay it till i thought of a monthly annuity to mordicai, in the shape of a wager. so, the morning after he cast us, i went to him: "mr. mordicai," says i, "you must be plased to see a man you've beaten so handsomely; and though i'm sore, both for myself and my friend, yet you see i can laugh still; though an execution is no laughing matter, and i'm sinsible you've one in petto in your sleeve for my friend lord clonbrony. but i'll lay you a wager of a hundred guineas in paper that a marriage of his son with a certain heiress, before next lady-day, will set all to rights, and pay you with a compliment too."' 'good heavens, sir terence! surely you said no such thing?' 'i did--but what was it but a wager? which is nothing but a dream; and, when lost, as i am as sinsible as you are that it must be, why, what is it, after all, but a bonus, in a gentleman-like form, to mordicai? which, i grant you, is more than he deserves, for staying the execution till you be of age; and even for my lady clonbrony's sake, though i know she hates me like poison, rather than have her disturbed by an execution, i'd pay the hundred guineas this minute out of my own pocket, if i had' em in it.' a thundering knock at the door was heard at this moment. 'never heed it; let 'em thunder,' said sir terence; 'whoever it is, they won't get in; for my lord bid them let none in for their life. it's necessary for us to be very particular about the street-door now; and i advise a double chain for it, and to have the footmen well tutored to look before they run to a double rap; for a double rap might be a double trap.' 'my lady and miss nugent, my lord,' said a footman, throwing open the door. 'my mother! miss nugent!' cried lord colambre, springing eagerly forward. 'colambre! here!' said his mother; 'but it's all too late now, and no matter where you are.' lady clonbrony coldly suffered her son to embrace her; and he, without considering the coldness of her manner, scarcely hearing, and not at all understanding the words she said, fixed his eyes on his cousin, who, with a countenance all radiant with affectionate joy, held out her hand to him. 'dear cousin colambre, what an unexpected pleasure!' he seized the hand; but, as he was going to kiss it, the recollection of st. omar crossed his mind; he checked himself, and said something about joy and pleasure, but his countenance expressed neither; and miss nugent, much surprised by the coldness of his manner, withdrew her hand, and, turning away, left the room. 'grace! darling!' called lord clonbrony, 'whither so fast, before you've given me a word or a kiss?' she came back, and hastily kissed her uncle, who folded her in his arms. 'why must i let you go? and what makes you so pale, my dear child?' 'i am a little--a little tired. i will be with you again soon.' her uncle let her go. 'your famous buxton baths don't seem to have agreed with her, by all i can see,' said lord clonbrony. 'my lord, the buxton baths are no way to blame; but i know what is to blame, and who is to blame,' said lady clonbrony, in a tone of displeasure, fixing her eyes upon her son. 'yes, you may well look confounded, colambre; but it is too late now--you should have known your own mind in time. i see you have heard it, then--but i am sure i don't know how; for it was only decided the day i left buxton. the news could hardly travel faster than i did. pray, how did you hear it?' 'hear what, ma'am?' said lord colambre. 'why, that miss broadhurst is going to be married.' 'oh, is that all, ma'am!' said our hero, much relieved. 'all! now, lord colambre, you reelly are too much for my patience. but i flatter myself you will feel, when i tell you, that it is your friend, sir arthur berryl, as i always prophesied, who has carried off the prize from you.' 'but for the fear of displeasing my dear mother, i should say, that i do feel sincere pleasure in this marriage--i always wished it: my friend, sir arthur, from the first moment, trusted me with the secret of his attachment; he knew that he had my warm good wishes for his success; he knew that i thought most highly of the young lady; but that i never thought of her as a wife for myself.' 'and why did not you? that is the very thing i complain of,' said lady clonbrony. 'but it is all over now. you may set your heart at ease, for they are to be married on thursday; and poor mrs. broadhurst is ready to break her heart, for she was set upon a coronet for her daughter; and you, ungrateful as you are, you don't know how she wished you to be the happy man. but only conceive, after all that had passed, miss broadhurst had the assurance to expect i would let my niece be her bridesmaid. oh, i flatly refused; that is, i told grace it could not be; and, that there might be no affront to mrs. broadhurst, who did not deserve it, i pretended grace had never mentioned it; but ordered my carriage, and left buxton directly. grace was hurt, for she is very warm in her friendships. i am sorry to hurt grace. but reelly i could not let her be bridesmaid;--and that, if you must know, is what vexed her, and made the tears come in her eyes, i suppose--and i'm sorry for it; but one must keep up one's dignity a little. after all, miss broadhurst was only a citizen--and reelly now, a very odd girl; never did anything like anybody else; settled her marriage at last in the oddest way. grace, can you tell the particulars? i own, i am tired of the subject, and tired of my journey. my lord, i shall take leave to dine in my own room to-day,' continued her ladyship, as she quitted the room. 'i hope her ladyship did not notice me,' said sir terence o'fay, coming from behind a window-curtain. 'why, terry, what did you hide for?' said lord clonbrony. 'hide! i didn't hide, nor wouldn't from any man living, let alone any woman. [leaving any woman out of the question.] hide! no; but i just stood looking out of the window, behind this curtain, that my poor lady clonbrony might not be discomfited and shocked by the sight of one whom she can't abide, the very minute she come home. oh, i've some consideration--it would have put her out of humour worse with both of you too; and for that there's no need, as far as i see. so i'll take myself off to my coffee-house to dine, and maybe you may get her down and into spirits again. but, for your lives, don't touch upon ireland the night, nor till she has fairly got the better of the marriage. apropos--there's my wager to mordicai gone at a slap. it's i that ought to be scolding you, my lord colambre; but i trust you will do as well yet, not in point of purse, maybe. but i'm not one of those that think that money's everything--though, i grant you, in this world, there's nothing to be had without it--love excepted--which most people don't believe in--but not i--in particular cases. so i leave you, with my blessing, and i've a notion, at this time, that is better than my company--your most devoted--' the good-natured sir terence would not be persuaded by lord clonbrony to stay. nodding at lord colambre as he went out of the room, he said, 'i've an eye, in going, to your heart's ease too. when i played myself, i never liked standers-by.' sir terence was not deficient in penetration, but he never could help boasting of his discoveries. lord colambre was grateful for his judicious departure; and followed his equally judicious advice, not to touch upon ireland this night. lady clonbrony was full of buxton, and he was glad to be relieved from the necessity of talking; and he indulged himself in considering what might be passing in miss nugent's mind. she now appeared in remarkably good spirits; for her aunt had given her a hint that she thought her out of humour because she had not been permitted to be miss broadhurst's bridesmaid, and she was determined to exert herself to dispel this notion. this it was now easy for her to do, because she had, by this time, in her own imagination, found a plausible excuse for that coldness in lord colambre's reception of her, by which she had at first been hurt; she had settled it, that he had taken it for granted she was of his mother's sentiments respecting miss broadhurst's marriage, and that this idea, and perhaps the apprehension of her reproaches, had caused his embarrassment--she knew that she could easily set this misunderstanding right. accordingly, when lady clonbrony had talked herself to sleep about buxton, and was taking her afternoon's nap, as it was her custom to do when she had neither cards nor company to keep her awake, miss nugent began to explain her own sentiments, and to give lord colambre, as her aunt had desired, an account of the manner in which miss broadhurst's marriage had been settled. 'in the first place,' said she, 'let me assure you that i rejoice in this marriage; i think your friend, sir arthur berryl, is every way deserving of my friend, miss broadhurst; and this from me,' said she, smiling, 'is no slight eulogium. i have marked the rise and progress of their attachment; and it has been founded on the perception of such excellent qualities on each side, that i have no fear for its permanence. sir arthur berryl's honourable conduct in paying his father's debts, and his generosity to his mother and sisters, whose fortunes were left entirely dependent upon him, first pleased my friend. it was like what she would have done herself, and like--in short, it is what few young men, as she said, of the present day would do. then his refraining from all personal expenses, his going without equipage and without horses, that he might do what he felt to be right, whilst it exposed him continually to the ridicule of fashionable young men, or to the charge of avarice, made a very different impression on miss broadhurst's mind; her esteem and admiration were excited by these proofs of strength of character, and of just and good principles.' 'if you go on, you will make me envious and jealous of my friend,' said lord colambre. 'you jealous!--oh, it is too late now--besides, you cannot be jealous, for you never loved.' 'i never loved miss broadhurst, i acknowledge.' 'there was the advantage sir arthur berryl had over you--he loved, and my friend saw it.' 'she was clear-sighted,' said lord colambre. 'she was clear-sighted,' repeated miss nugent; 'but if you mean that she was vain, and apt to fancy people in love with her, i can assure you that you are mistaken. never was woman, young or old, more clear-sighted to the views of those by whom she was addressed. no flattery, no fashion, could blind her judgment.' 'she knew how to choose a friend well, i am sure,' said lord colambre. 'and a friend for life too, i am sure you will allow and she had such numbers, such strange variety of admirers, as might have puzzled the choice and turned the brain of any inferior person. such a succession of lovers as she has had this summer, ever since you went to ireland--they appeared and vanished like figures in a magic-lantern. she had three noble admirers--rank in three different forms offered themselves. first came in, hobbling, rank and gout; next, rank and gaming; then rank, very high rank, over head and ears in debt. all of these were rejected; and, as they moved off; i thought mrs. broadhurst would have broken her heart. next came fashion, with his head, heart, and soul in his cravat--he quickly made his bow, or rather his nod, and walked off, taking a pinch of snuff. then came a man of gallantry, but,' whispered miss nugent, 'there was a mistress in the wood; and my friend could have nothing to do with that gentleman.' 'now, if she liked the man, interrupted lord clonbrony, 'and i suppose she did, for all women, but yourself, grace, like men of gallantry, miss broadhurst was a goose for refusing him on account of the mistress; because she might have been bought up, and settled with a few thousand pounds.' 'be that as it may,' said miss nugent; 'my friend did not like, and would not accept, of the man of gallantry; so he retired and comforted himself with a copy of verses. then came a man of wit--but still it was wit without worth; and presently came "worth without wit." she preferred "wit and worth united," which she fortunately at last found, lord colambre, in your friend, sir arthur berryl.' 'grace, my girl!' said her uncle, 'i'm glad to see you've got up your spirits again, though you were not to be bridesmaid. well, i hope you'll be bride soon--i'm sure you ought to be--and you should think of rewarding that poor mr. salisbury, who plagues me to death, whenever he can catch hold of me, about you. he must have our definitive at last, you know, grace.' a silence ensued, which neither miss nugent nor lord colambre seemed willing, or able, to break. very good company, faith, you three!--one of ye asleep, and the other two saying nothing, to keep one awake. colambre, have you no dublin news? grace, have you no buxton scandal? what was it lady clonbrony told us you'd tell us, about the oddness of miss broadhurst's settling her marriage? tell me that, for i love to hear odd things.' 'perhaps you will not think it odd,' said she. 'one evening--but i should begin by telling you that three of her admirers, beside sir arthur berryl, had followed her to buxton, and had been paying their court to her all the time we were there; and at last grew impatient for her decision.' 'ay, for her definitive!' said lord clonbrony. miss nugent was put out again, but resumed-- 'so one evening, just before the dancing began, the gentlemen were all standing round miss broadhurst; one of them said, "i wish miss broadhurst would decide--that whoever she dances with to-night should be her partner for life; what a happy man he would be!" '"but how can i decide?" said miss broadhurst. '"i wish i had a friend to plead for me!" said one of the suitors, looking at me. '"have you no friend of your own?" said miss broadhurst. '"plenty of friends," said the gentleman. '"plenty!--then you must be a very happy man," replied miss broadhurst. "come," said she, laughing, "i will dance with that man who can convince me--that he has, near relations excepted, one true friend in the world! that man who has made the best friend, i dare say, will make the best husband!" 'at that moment,' continued miss nugent, 'i was certain who would be her choice. the gentlemen all declared at first that they had abundance of excellent friends the best friends in the world! but when miss broadhurst cross-examined them, as to what their friends had done for them, or what they were willing to do, modern friendship dwindled into a ridiculously small compass. i cannot give you the particulars of the cross-examination, though it was conducted with great spirit and humour by miss broadhurst; but i can tell you the result--that sir arthur berryl, by incontrovertible facts, and eloquence warm from the heart, convinced everybody present that he had the best friend in the world; and miss broadhurst, as he finished speaking, gave him her hand, and he led her off in triumph--so you see, lord colambre, you were at last the cause of my friend's marriage!' she turned to lord colambre as she spoke these words, with such an affectionate smile, and such an expression of open, inmost tenderness in her whole countenance, that our hero could hardly resist the impulse of his passion--could hardly restrain himself from falling at her feet that instant, and declaring his love. 'but st. omar! st. omar!--it must not be!' 'i must be gone!' said lord clonbrony, pulling out his watch. 'it is time to go to my club; and poor terry will wonder what has become of me.' lord colambre instantly offered to accompany his father; much to lord clonbrony's, and more to miss nugent's surprise. 'what!' said she to herself, 'after so long an absence, leave me!--leave his mother, with whom he always used to stay--on purpose to avoid me! what can i have done to displease him? it is clear it was not about miss broadhurst's marriage he was offended; for he looked pleased, and like himself, whilst i was talking of that; but the moment afterwards, what a constrained, unintelligible expression of countenance and leaves me to go to a club which he detests!' as the gentlemen shut the door on leaving the room, lady clonbrony wakened, and, starting up, exclaimed-- 'what's the matter? are they gone? is colambre gone?' 'yes, ma'am, with my uncle.' 'very odd! very odd of him to go and leave me! he always used to stay with me--what did he say about me?' 'nothing, ma'am.' 'well, then, i have nothing to say about him, or about anything, indeed, for i'm excessively tired and stupid--alone in london's as bad as anywhere else. ring the bell, and we'll go to bed directly--if you have no objection, grace.' grace made no objection; lady clonbrony went to bed and to sleep in ten minutes, miss nugent went to bed; but she lay awake, considering what could be the cause of her cousin colambre's hard unkindness, and of 'his altered eye.' she was openness itself and she determined that, the first moment she could speak to him alone, she would at once ask for an explanation. with this resolution, she rose in the morning, and went down to the breakfast-room, in hopes of meeting him, as it had formerly been his custom to be early; and she expected to find him reading in his usual place. chapter xiv no--lord colambre was not in his accustomed place, reading in the breakfast-room: nor did he make his appearance till both his father and mother had been some time at breakfast. 'good morning to you, my lord colambre,' said his mother, in a reproachful tone, the moment he entered; 'i am much obliged to you for your company last night.' 'good morning to you, colambre,' said his father, in a more jocose tone of reproach; 'i am obliged to you for your good company last night.' 'good morning to you, lord colambre,' said miss nugent; and though she endeavoured to throw all reproach from her looks, and to let none be heard in her voice, yet there was a slight tremulous motion in that voice which struck our hero to the heart. 'i thank you, ma'am, for missing me,' said he, addressing himself to his mother; 'i stayed away but half an hour; i accompanied my father to st. james's street, and when i returned i found that every one had retired to rest.' 'oh, was that the case?' said lady clonbrony; 'i own i thought it very unlike you to leave me in that sort of way.' 'and, lest you should be jealous of that half-hour when he was accompanying me,' said lord clonbrony, 'i must remark, that, though i had his body with me, i had none of his mind; that he left at home with you ladies, or with some fair one across the water, for the deuce of two words did he bestow upon me, with all his pretence of accompanying me.' 'lord colambre seems to have a fair chance of a pleasant breakfast,' said miss nugent, smiling; 'reproaches on all sides.' 'i have heard none on your side, grace,' said lord clonbrony; 'and that's the reason, i suppose, he wisely takes his seat beside you. but, come, we will not badger you any more, my dear boy. we have given him as fine a complexion amongst us as if he had been out hunting these three hours; have not we, grace?' 'when colambre has been a season or two more in lon'on, he'll not be so easily put out of countenance,' said lady clonbrony; 'you don't see young men of fashion here blushing about nothing.' 'no, nor about anything, my dear,' said lord clonbrony; 'but that's no proof they do nothing they ought to blush for.' 'what they do, there's no occasion for ladies to inquire,' said lady clonbrony; 'but this i know, that it's a great disadvantage to a young man of a certain rank to blush; for no people, who live in a certain set, ever do; and it is the most opposite thing possible to a certain air, which, i own, i think colambre wants; and now that he has done travelling in ireland, which is no use in pint of giving a gentleman a travelled air, or anything of that sort, i hope he will put himself under my conduct for next winter's campaign in town.' lord clonbrony looked as if he did not know how to look; and, after drumming on the table for some seconds, said-- 'colambre, i told you how it would be. that's a fatal hard condition of yours.' 'not a hard condition, i hope, my dear father,' said lord colambre. 'hard it must be, since it can't be fulfilled, or won't be fulfilled, which comes to the same thing,' replied lord clonbrony, sighing. 'i am persuaded, sir, that it will be fulfilled,' said lord colambre; 'i am persuaded that, when my mother hears the truth, and the whole truth--when she finds that your happiness, and the happiness of her whole family, depend upon her yielding her taste on one subject--' 'oh, i see now what you are about,' cried lady clonbrony; 'you are coming round with your persuasions and prefaces to ask me to give up lon'on, and go back with you to ireland, my lord. you may save yourselves the trouble, all of you, for no earthly persuasions shall make me do it. i will never give up my taste on that pint. my happiness has a right to be as much considered as your father's, colambre, or anybody's; and, in one word, i won't do it,' cried she, rising angrily from the breakfast-table. 'there! did not i tell you how it would be?' cried lord clonbrony. 'my mother has not heard me, yet,' said lord colambre, laying his hand upon his mother's arm, as she attempted to pass; 'hear me, madam, for your own sake. you do not know what will happen, this very day--this very hour, perhaps--if you do not listen to me.' 'and what will happen?' said lady clonbrony, stopping short. 'ay, indeed; she little knows,' said lord clonbrony, 'what's hanging over her head.' 'hanging over my head?' said lady clonbrony, looking up; 'nonsense! what?' an execution, madam!' said lord colambre. 'gracious me! an execution!' said lady clonbrony, sitting down again; 'but i heard you talk of an execution months ago, my lord, before my son went to ireland, and it blew over i heard no more of it.' 'if won't blow over now,' said lord clonbrony; 'you'll hear more of it now. sir terence o'fay it was, you may remember, that settled it then.' 'well, and can't he settle it now? send for him, since he understands these cases; and i will ask him to dinner myself, for your sake, and be very civil to him, my lord.' 'all your civility, either for my sake or your own, will not signify a straw, my dear, in this case--anything that poor terry could do, he'd do, and welcome, without it; but he can do nothing.' 'nothing!--that's very extraordinary. but i'm clear no one dare to bring a real execution against us in earnest; and you are only trying to frighten me to your purpose, like a child; but it shan't do.' 'very well, my dear; you'll see--too late.' a knock at the house door. 'who is it?--what is it?' cried lord clonbrony, growing very pale. lord colambre changed colour too, and ran downstairs. 'don't let 'em let anybody in, for your life, colambre; under any pretence,' cried lord clonbrony, calling from the head of the stairs; then running to the window, 'by all that's good, it's mordicai himself! and the people with him.' 'lean your head on me, my dear aunt,' said miss nugent. lady clonbrony leant back, trembling, and ready to faint. 'but he's walking off now; the rascal could not get in--safe for the present!' cried lord clonbrony, rubbing his hands, and repeating, 'safe for the present!' 'safe for the present!' repeated lord colambre, coming again into the room. 'safe for the present hour.' 'he could not get in, i suppose--oh, i warned all the servants well,' said lord clonbrony,' and so did terry. ay, there's the rascal, mordicai, walking off, at the end of the street; i know his walk a mile off. gad! i can breathe again. i am glad he's gone. but he will come back and always lie in wait, and some time or other, when we're off our guard (unawares), he'll slide in.' slide in! oh, horrid!' cried lady clonbrony, sitting up, and wiping away the water which miss nugent had sprinkled on her face. 'were you much alarmed?' said lord colambre, with a voice of tenderness, looking at his mother first, but his eyes fixing on miss nugent. 'shockingly!' said lady clonbrony; 'i never thought it would reelly come to this.' 'it will really come to much more, my dear,' said lord clonbrony, 'that you may depend upon, unless you prevent it.' 'lord! what can i do?--i know nothing of business; how should i, lord clonbrony; but i know there's colambre--i was always told that when he was of age everything should be settled; and why can't he settle it when he's upon the spot?' 'and upon one condition, i will,' cried lord colambre; 'at what loss to myself, my dear mother, i need not mention.' 'then i will mention it,' cried lord clonbrony; 'at the loss it will be of nearly half the estate he would have had, if we had not spent it.' 'loss! oh, i am excessively sorry my son's to be at such a loss--it must not be.' 'it cannot be otherwise,' said lord clonbrony; 'nor it can't be this way either, my lady clonbrony, unless you comply with his condition, and consent to return to ireland.' 'i cannot--i will not,' replied lady clonbrony. 'is this your condition, colambre?--i take it exceedingly ill of you. i think it very unkind, and unhandsome, and ungenerous, and undutiful of you, colambre; you, my son!' she poured forth a torrent of reproaches; then came to entreaties and tears. but our hero, prepared for this, had steeled his mind; and he stood resolved not to indulge his own feelings, or to yield to caprice or persuasion, but to do that which he knew was best for the happiness of hundreds of tenants who depended upon them--best for both his father and his mother's ultimate happiness and respectability. 'it's all in vain,' cried lord clonbrony; 'i have no resource but one, and i must condescend now to go to him this minute, for mordicai will be back and seize all--i must sign and leave all to garraghty.' 'well, sign, sign, my lord, and settle with garraghty.--colambre, i've heard all the complaints you brought over against that man. my lord spent half the night telling them to me; but all agents are bad, i suppose; at any rate i can't help it--sign, sign, my lord; he has money--yes, do; go and settle with him, my lord.' lord colambre and miss nugent, at one and the same moment, stopped lord clonbrony as he was quitting the room, and then approached lady clonbrony with supplicating looks; but she turned her head to the other side, and, as if putting away their entreaties, made a repelling motion with both her hands, and exclaimed, 'no, grace nugent!--no, colambre--no--no, colambre! i'll never hear of leaving lon'on--there's no living out of lon'on--i can't, i won't live out of lon'on, i say.' her son saw that the londonomania was now stronger than ever upon her, but resolved to make one desperate appeal to her natural feelings, which, though smothered, he could not believe were wholly extinguished; he caught her repelling hands, and pressing them with respectful tenderness to his lips-- 'oh, my dear mother, you once loved your son,' said he; 'loved him better than anything in this world; if one spark of affection for him remains, hear him now, and forgive him, if he pass the bounds--bounds he never passed before of filial duty. mother, in compliance with your wishes my father left ireland--left his home, his duties, his friends, his natural connexions, and for many years he has lived in england, and you have spent many seasons in london.' 'yes, in the very best company--in the very first circles,' said lady clonbrony; 'cold as the high-bred english are said to be in general to strangers.' 'yes,' replied lord colambre; 'the very best company (if you mean the most fashionable) have accepted of our entertainments. we have forced our way into their frozen circles; we have been permitted to breathe in these elevated regions of fashion; we have it to say, that the duke of this, and my lady that, are of our acquaintance. we may say more; we may boast that we have vied with those whom we could never equal. and at what expense have we done all this? for a single season, the last winter (i will go no farther), at the expense of a great part of your timber, the growth of a century--swallowed in the entertainments of one winter in london! our hills to be bare for another half century to come! but let the trees go; i think more of your tenants--of those left under the tyranny of a bad agent, at the expense of every comfort, every hope they enjoyed!--tenants, who were thriving and prosperous; who used to smile upon you, and to bless you both! in one cottage, i have seen--' here lord clonbrony, unable to restrain his emotion, hurried out of the room. 'then i am sure it is not my fault,' said lady clonbrony; 'for i brought my lord a large fortune; and i am confident i have not, after all, spent more any season, in the best company, than he has among a set of low people, in his muddling, discreditable way.' 'and how has he been reduced to this?' said lord colambre. 'did he not formerly live with gentlemen, his equals, in his own country; his contemporaries? men of the first station and character, whom i met in dublin, spoke of him in a manner that gratified the heart of his son; he was respectable and respected at his own home; but when he was forced away from that home, deprived of his objects, his occupations induced him to live in london, or at watering-places, where he could find no employments that were suitable to him--set down, late in life, in the midst of strangers, to him cold and reserved--himself too proud to bend to those who disdained him as an irishman--is he not more to be pitied than blamed for--yes, i, his son, must say the word--the degradation which has ensued? and do not the feelings, which have this moment forced him to leave the room, show that he is capable?--oh, mother!' cried lord colambre, throwing himself at lady clonbrony's feet, 'restore my father to himself! should such feelings be wasted?--no; give them again to expand in benevolent, in kind, useful actions; give him again to his tenantry, his duties, his country, his home; return to that home yourself, dear mother! leave all the nonsense of high life--scorn the impertinence of these dictators of fashion, by whom, in return for all the pains we take to imitate, to court them--in return for the sacrifice of health, fortune, peace of mind, they bestow sarcasm, contempt, ridicule, and mimickry!' 'oh, colambre! colambre! mimickry--i'll never believe it.' 'believe me--believe me, mother; for i speak of what i know. scorn them--quit them! return to an unsophisticated people--to poor, but grateful hearts, still warm with the remembrance of your kindness, still blessing you for favours long since conferred, ever praying to see you once more. believe me, for i speak of what i know--your son has heard these prayers, has felt these blessings. here! at my heart felt, and still feel them, when i was not known to be your son, in the cottage of the widow o'neill.' 'oh, did you see the widow o'neill? and does she remember me?' said lady clonbrony. 'remember you! and you, miss nugent! i have slept in the bed--i would tell you more, but i cannot.' 'well! i never should have thought they would have remembered me so long!--poor people!' said lady clonbrony. 'i thought all in ireland must have forgotten me, it is now so long since i was at home.' 'you are not forgotten in ireland by any rank, i can answer for that. return home, my dearest mother--let me see you once more among your natural friends, beloved, respected, happy!' 'oh, return! let us return home!' cried miss nugent, with a voice of great emotion. 'return, let us return home! my beloved aunt, speak to us! say that you grant our request!' she kneeled beside lord colambre, as she spoke. 'is it possible to resist that voice--that look?' thought lord colambre. 'if anybody knew,' said lady clonbrony, 'if anybody could conceive, how i detest the sight, the thoughts of that old yellow damask furniture, in the drawing-room at clonbrony castle--' 'good heavens!' cried lord colambre, starting up, and looking at his mother in stupefied astonishment; 'is that what you are thinking of, ma'am?' 'the yellow damask furniture!' said her niece, smiling. oh, if that's all, that shall never offend your eyes again. aunt, my painted velvet chairs are finished; and trust the furnishing that room to me. the legacy lately left me cannot be better applied you shall see how beautifully it will be furnished.' 'oh, if i had money, i should like to do it myself; but it would take an immensity to new furnish clonbrony castle properly.' 'the furniture in this house,' said miss nugent, looking round. 'would do a great deal towards it, i declare,' cried lady clonbrony; 'that never struck me before, grace, i protest--and what would not suit one might sell or exchange here--and it would be a great amusement to me--and i should like to set the fashion of something better in that country. and i declare, now, i should like to see those poor people, and that widow o'neill. i do assure you, i think i was happier at home; only, that one gets, i don't know how, a notion, one's nobody out of lon'on. but, after all, there's many drawbacks in lon'on--and many people are very impertinent, i'll allow--and if there's a woman in the world i hate, it is mrs. dareville--and, if i was leaving lon'on, i should not regret lady langdale neither--and lady st. james is as cold as a stone. colambre may well say frozen circles--these sort of people are really very cold, and have, i do believe, no hearts. i don't verily think there is one of them would regret me more--hey! let me see, dublin--the winter merrion square--new furnished--and the summer--clonbrony castle!' lord colambre and miss nugent waited in silence till her mind should have worked itself clear. one great obstacle had been removed; and now that the yellow damask had been taken out of her imagination, they no longer despaired. lord clonbrony put his head into the room. 'what hopes?--any? if not, let me go.' he saw the doubting expression of lady clonbrony's countenance--hope in the face of his son and niece. 'my dear, dear lady clonbrony, make us all happy by one word,' said he, kissing her. 'you never kissed me so since we left ireland before,' said lady clonbrony. 'well, since it must be so, let us go,' said she. 'did i ever see such joy!' said lord clonbrony, clasping his hands; 'i never expected such joy in my life!--i must go and tell poor terry!' and off he ran. 'and now, since we are to go,' said lady clonbrony, 'pray let us go immediately, before the thing gets wind, else i shall have mrs. dareville, and lady langdale, and lady st. james, and all the world, coming to condole with me, just to satisfy their own curiosity; and then miss pratt, who hears everything that everybody says, and more than they say, will come and tell me how it is reported everywhere that we are ruined. 'oh! i never could bear to stay and hear all this. i'll tell you what i'll do--you are to be of age the day after to-morrow, colambre--very well, there are some papers for me to sign--i must stay to put my name to them, and that done, that minute i'll leave you and lord clonbrony to settle all the rest; and i'll get into my carriage with grace, and go down to buxton again; where you can come for me, and take me up, when you're all ready to go to ireland--and we shall be so far on our way. colambre, what do you say to this?' 'that--if you like it, madam,' said he, giving one hasty glance at miss nugent, and withdrawing his eyes, 'it is the best possible arrangement.' 'so,' thought grace, 'that is the best possible arrangement which takes us away.' 'if i like it!' said lady clonbrony; 'to be sure i do, or i should not propose it. what is colambre thinking of? i know, grace, at all events, what you and i must think of--of having the furniture packed up, and settling what's to go, and what's to be exchanged, and all that. now, my dear, go and write a note directly to mr. soho, and bid him come himself, immediately; and we'll go and make out a catalogue this instant of what furniture i will have packed.' so, with her head full of furniture, lady clonbrony retired. 'i go to my business, colambre; and i leave you to settle yours in peace.' in peace!--never was our hero's mind less at peace than at this moment. the more his heart felt that it was painful, the more his reason told him it was necessary that he should part from grace nugent. to his union with her there was an obstacle, which his prudence told him ought to be insurmountable; yet he felt that, during the few days he had been with her, the few hours he had been near her, he had, with his utmost power over himself, scarcely been master of his passion, or capable of concealing it from its object. it could not have been done but for her perfect simplicity and innocence. but how could this be supposed on his part? how could he venture to live with this charming girl? how could he settle at home? what resource? his mind turned towards the army; he thought that abroad, and in active life, he should lose all the painful recollections, and drive from his heart all the resentments, which could now be only a source of unavailing regret. but his mother--his mother, who had now yielded her own taste to his entreaties, for the good of her family--she expected him to return and live with her in ireland. though not actually promised or specified, he knew that she took it for granted; that it was upon this hope, this faith, she consented; he knew that she would be shocked at the bare idea of his going into the army. there was one chance--our hero tried, at this moment, to think it the best possible chance--that miss nugent might marry mr. salisbury, and settle in england. on this idea he relied as the only means of extricating him from difficulties. it was necessary to turn his thoughts immediately to business, to execute his promises to his father. two great objects were now to be accomplished--the payment of his father's debts, and the settlement of the irish agent's accounts; and, in transacting this complicated business, he derived considerable assistance from sir terence o'fay, and from sir arthur berryl's solicitor, mr. edwards. whilst acting for sir arthur, on a former occasion, lord colambre had gained the entire confidence of this solicitor, who was a man of the first eminence. mr. edwards took the papers and lord clonbrony's title-deeds home with him, saying that he would give an answer the next morning. he then waited upon lord colambre, and informed him, that he had just received a letter from sir arthur berryl, who, with the consent and desire of his lady, requested that whatever money might be required by lord clonbrony should be immediately supplied on their account, without waiting till lord colambre should be of age, as the ready money might be of same convenience to him in accelerating the journey to ireland, which sir arthur and lady berryl knew was his lordship's object. sir terence o'fay now supplied mr. edwards with accurate information as to the demands that were made upon lord clonbrony, and of the respective characters of the creditors. mr. edwards undertook to settle with the fair claimants; sir terence with the rogues; so that by the advancement of ready money from the berryls, and by the detection of false and exaggerated charges, which sir terence made among the inferior class, the debts were reduced nearly to one half of their former amount. mordicai, who had been foiled in his vile attempt to become sole creditor, had, however, a demand of more than seven thousand pounds upon lord clonbrony, which he had raised to this enormous sum in six or seven years, by means well known to himself. he stood the foremost in the list, not from the greatness of the sum, but from the danger of his adding to it the expenses of law. sir terence undertook to pay the whole with five thousand pounds. lord clonbrony thought it impossible; the solicitor thought it improvident, because he knew that upon a trial a much greater abatement would be allowed; but lord colambre was determined, from the present embarrassments of his own situation, to leave nothing undone that could be accomplished immediately. sir terence, pleased with his commission, immediately went to mordicai. 'well, sir terence,' said mordicai, 'i hope you are come to pay me my hundred guineas; for miss broadhurst is married!' 'well, mister mordicai, what then? the ides of march are come, but not gone! stay, if you plase, mister mordicai, till lady-day, when it becomes due; in the meantime, i have a handful, or rather an armful, of bank-notes for you, from my lord colambre.' 'humph!' said mordicai; 'how's that? he'll not be of age these three days.' 'don't matter for that; he has sent me to look over your account, and to hope that you will make some small abatement in the total.' 'harkee, sir terence you think yourself very clever in things of this sort, but you've mistaken your man; i have an execution for the whole, and i'll be d--d if all your cunning shall make me take up with part!' 'be easy, mister mordicai!--you shan't make me break your bones, nor make me drop one actionable word against your high character; for i know your clerk there, with that long goose-quill behind his ear, would be ready evidence again' me. but i beg to know, in one word, whether you will take five thousand down, and give lord clonbrony a discharge?' 'no, mr. terence! nor six thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine pounds. my demand is l , odd shillings: if you have that money, pay it; if not, i know how to get it, and along with it complete revenge for all the insults i have received from that greenhorn, his son.' 'paddy brady!' cried sir terence, 'do you hear that? remember that word, revenge!--mind, i call you to witness!' 'what, sir, will you raise a rebellion among my workmen?' 'no, mr. mordicai, no rebellion; and i hope you won't cut the boy's ears off for listening to a little of the brogue--so listen, my good lad. now, mr. mordicai, i offer you here, before little goose-quill, l ready penny--take it, or leave it; take your money, and leave your revenge; or, take your revenge, and lose your money.' 'sir terence, i value neither your threats nor your cunning. good morning to you.' 'good morning to you, mr. mordicai--but not kindly! mr. edwards, the solicitor, has been at the office to take off the execution; so now you may have law to your heart's content! and it was only to plase the young lord that the ould one consented to my carrying this bundle to you,'--showing the bank-notes. 'mr. edwards employed!' cried mordicai. 'why, how the devil did lord clonbrony get into such hands as his? the execution taken off! well, sir, go to law i am ready for you; jack latitat is a match for your sober solicitor.' 'good morning again to you, mr. mordicai; we're fairly out of your clutches, and we have enough to do with our money.' 'well, sir terence, i must allow you have a very wheedling way--here, mr. thompson, make out a receipt for lord clonbrony: i never go to law with an old customer, if i can help it.' this business settled, mr. soho was next to be dealt with. he came at lady clonbrony's summons; and was taking directions, with the utmost sang froid, for packing up and sending off the very furniture for which he was not paid. lord colambre called him into his father's study; and, producing his bill, he began to point out various articles which were charged at prices that were obviously extravagant. 'why, really, my lord, they are abundantly extravagant; if i charged vulgar prices, i should be only a vulgar tradesman. i, however, am not a broker, nor a jew. of the article superintendence, which is only l , i cannot abate a dolt; on the rest of the bill, if you mean to offer ready, i mean, without any negotiation, to abate thirty per cent; and i hope that is a fair and gentlemanly offer.' 'mr. soho, there is your money!' 'my lord colambre! i would give the contents of three such bills to be sure of such noblemanly conduct as yours. lady clonbrony's furniture shall be safely packed, without costing her a farthing.' with the help of mr. edwards, the solicitor, every other claim was soon settled; and lord clonbrony, for the first time since he left ireland, found himself out of debt, and out of danger. old nick's account could not be settled in london. lord colambre had detected numerous false charges, and sundry impositions; the land, which had been purposely let to run wild, so far from yielding any rent, was made a source of constant expense, as remaining still unset: this was a large tract, for which st. dennis had at length offered a small rent. upon a fair calculation of the profits of the ground, and from other items in the account, nicholas garraghty, esq., appeared at last to be, not the creditor, but the debtor to lord clonbrony. he was dismissed with disgrace, which perhaps he might not have felt, if it had not been accompanied by pecuniary loss, and followed by the fear of losing his other agencies, and by the dread of immediate bankruptcy. mr. burke was appointed agent in his stead to the clonbrony as well as the colambre estate. his appointment was announced to him by the following letter:-- to mrs. burke, at colambre. dear madam, the traveller whom you so hospitably received some months ago was lord colambre--he now writes to you in his proper person. he promised you that he would, as far as it might be in his power, do justice to mr. burke's conduct and character, by representing what he had done for lord clonbrony in the town of colambre, and in the whole management of the tenantry and property under his care. happily for my father, my dear madam, he is now as fully convinced as you could wish him to be of mr. burke's merits; and he begs me to express his sense of the obligations he is under to him and to you. he entreats that you will pardon the impropriety of a letter, which, as i assured you the moment i saw it, he never wrote or read. this will, he says, cure him, for life, of putting his signature to any paper without reading it. he hopes that you will forget that such a letter was ever received, and that you will use your influence with mr. burke to induce him to continue to our family his regard and valuable services. lord clonbrony encloses a power of attorney, enabling mr. burke to act in future for him, if mr. burke will do him that favour, in managing the clonbrony as well as the colambre estate. lord clonbrony will be in ireland in the course of next month, and intends to have the pleasure of soon paying his respects in person to mr. burke, at colambre.--i am, dear madam, your obliged guest, and faithful servant, colambre. grosvenor square, london. lord colambre was so continually occupied with business during the two days previous to his coming of age, every morning at his solicitor's chambers, every evening in his father's study, that miss nugent never saw him but at breakfast or dinner; and, though she watched for it most anxiously, never could find an opportunity of speaking to him alone, or of asking an explanation of the change and inconsistencies of his manner. at last, she began to think that, in the midst of so much business of importance, by which he seemed harassed, she should do wrong to torment him, by speaking of any small disquietude that concerned only herself. she determined to suppress her doubts, to keep her feelings to herself, and to endeavour, by constant kindness, to regain that place in his affections which she imagined that she had lost. 'everything will go right again,' thought she, 'and we shall all be happy, when he returns with us to ireland--to that dear home which he loves as well as i do!' the day lord colambre was of age, the first thing he did was to sign a bond for five thousand pounds, miss nugent's fortune, which had been lent to his father, who was her guardian. 'this, sir, i believe,' said he, giving it to his father as soon as signed--'this, i believe, is the first debt you would wish to have secured.' 'well thought of, my dear boy i--god bless you!--that has weighed more upon my conscience and heart than all the rest, though i never said anything about it. i used, whenever i met mr. salisbury, to wish myself fairly down at the centre of the earth; not that he ever thought of fortune, i'm sure; for he often told me, and i believed him, he would rather have miss nugent without a penny, if he could get her, than the first fortune in the empire. but i'm glad she will not go to him penniless, for all that; and by my fault, especially. there, there's my name to it--do witness it, terry. but, colambre, you must give it to her--you must take it to grace.' 'excuse me, sir; it is no gift of mine--it is a debt of yours. i beg you will take the bond to her yourself, my dear father.' 'my dear son, you must not always have your own way, and hide everything good you do, or give me the honour of it. i won't be the jay in borrowed feathers. i have borrowed enough in my life, and i've done with borrowing now, thanks to you, colambre--so come along with me; for i'll be hanged if ever i give this joint bond to miss nugent, without you along with me. leave lady clonbrony here to sign these papers. terry will witness them properly, and you come along with me.' 'and pray, my lord,' said her ladyship, 'order the carriage to the door; for, as soon as you have my signature, i hope you'll let me off to buxton.' 'oh, certainly--the carriage is ordered--everything ready, my dear.' 'and pray tell grace to be ready,' added lady clonbrony. 'that's not necessary; for she is always ready,' said lord clonbrony. 'come, colambre,' added he, taking his son under the arm, and carrying him up to miss nugent's dressing-room. they knocked, and were admitted. 'ready!' said lord clonbrony; 'ay, always ready--so i said. here's colambre, my darling,' continued he, 'has secured your fortune to you to my heart's content; but he would not condescend to come up to tell you so, till i made him. here's the bond; put your hand to it, colambre; you were ready enough to do that when it cost you something; and now, all i have to ask of you is, to persuade her to marry out of hand, that i may see her happy before i die. now my heart's at ease! i can meet mr. salisbury with a safe conscience. one kiss, my little grace. if anybody can persuade you, i'm sure it's that man that's now leaning against the mantelpiece. it's colambre's will, or your heart's not made like mine--so i leave you.' and out of the room walked he, leaving his poor son in as awkward, embarrassing, and painful a situation, as could well be conceived. half a dozen indistinct ideas crossed his mind; quick conflicting feelings made his heart beat and stop. and how it would have ended, if he had been left to himself, whether he would have stood or fallen, have spoken or have continued silent, can never now be known, for all was decided without the action of his will. he was awakened from his trance by these simple words from miss nugent-- 'i'm much obliged to you, cousin colambre--more obliged to you for your kindness in thinking of me first, in the midst of all your other business, than by your securing my fortune. friendship--and your friendship--is worth more to me than fortune. may i believe that is secured?' 'believe it! oh, grace, can you doubt it?' 'i will not; it would make me too unhappy. i will not.' 'you need not.' 'that is enough--i am satisfied--i ask no farther explanation. you are truth itself--one word from you is security sufficient. we are friends for life,' said she, taking his hand between both of hers; 'are not we?' 'we are--and therefore sit down, cousin grace, and let me claim the privilege of friendship, and speak to you of him who aspires to be more than your friend for life, mr.--' mr. salisbury!' said miss nugent; 'i saw him yesterday. we had a very long conversation; i believe he understands my sentiments perfectly, and that he no longer thinks of being more to me than a friend for life.' 'you have refused him!' 'yes. i have a high opinion of mr. salisbury's understanding, a great esteem for his character; i like his manners and conversation; but i do not love him, and therefore, you know, i could not marry him.' 'but, my dear miss nugent, with a high opinion, a great esteem, and liking his manners and conversation, in such a well-regulated mind as yours, can there be a better foundation for love?' 'it is an excellent foundation,' said she; 'but i never went any farther than the foundation; and, indeed, i never wished to proceed any farther.' lord colambre scarcely dared to ask why; but, after some pause, he said-- 'i don't wish to intrude upon your confidence.' 'you cannot intrude upon my confidence; i am ready to give it to you entirely, frankly; i hesitated only because another person was concerned. do you remember, at my aunt's gala, a lady who danced with mr. salisbury?' 'not in the least.' 'a lady with whom you and mr. salisbury were talking, just before supper, in the turkish tent.' 'not in the least.' 'as we went down to supper, you told me you had had a delightful conversation with her--that you thought her a charming woman.' 'a charming woman!--i have not the slightest recollection of her.' 'and you told me that she and mr. salisbury had been praising me a l'envie l'une et l'autre.' 'oh, i recollect her now perfectly,' said lord colambre; 'but what of her?' 'she is the woman who, i hope, will be mrs. salisbury. ever since i have been acquainted with them both, i have seen that they were suited to each other; and fancy, indeed i am almost sure, that she could love him, tenderly love him--and, i know, i could not. but my own sentiments, you may be sure, are all i ever told mr. salisbury.' 'but of your own sentiments you may not be sure,' said lord colambre; 'and i see no reason why you should give him up from false generosity.' 'generosity?' interrupted miss nugent; 'you totally misunderstand me; there is no generosity, nothing for me to give up in the case. i did not refuse mr. salisbury from generosity, but because i did not love him. perhaps my seeing this at first prevented me from thinking of him as a lover; but, from whatever cause, i certainly never felt love for mr. salisbury, nor any of that pity which is said to lead to love; perhaps,' added she, smiling, 'because i was aware that he would be so much better off after i refused him--so much happier with one suited to him in age, talents, fortune, and love--"what bliss, did he but know his bliss," were his!' 'did he but know his bliss,' repeated lord colambre; 'but is not he the best judge of his own bliss?' 'and am not i the best judge of mine?' said miss nugent; 'i go no farther.' 'you are; and i have no right to go farther. yet, this much permit me to say, my dear grace, that it would give me sincere pleasure, that is, real satisfaction, to see you happily--established.' 'thank you, my dear lord colambre; but you spoke that like a man of seventy at least, with the most solemn gravity of demeanour.' 'i meant to be serious, not solemn,' said lord colambre, endeavouring to change his tone. 'there now,' said she, in a playful tone, 'you have seriously accomplished the task my good uncle set you; so i will report well of you to him, and certify that you did all that in you lay to exhort me to marry; that you have even assured me that it would give you sincere pleasure, that is, real satisfaction, to see me happily established.' 'oh, grace, if you knew how much i felt when i said that, you would spare this raillery.' 'i will be serious--i am most seriously convinced of the sincerity of your affection for me; i know my happiness is your object in all you have said, and i thank you from my heart for the interest you take about me. but really and truly, i do not wish to marry. this is not a mere commonplace speech; but i have not yet seen any man i could love. i like you, cousin colambre, better than mr. salisbury--i would rather live with you than with him; you know that is a certain proof that i am not likely to be in love with him. i am happy as i am, especially now we are all going to dear ireland, home, to live together: you cannot conceive with what pleasure i look forward to that.' lord colambre was not vain; but love quickly sees love where it exists, or foresees the probability, the possibility of its existence. he saw that miss nugent might love him tenderly, passionately; but that duty, habit, the prepossession that it was impossible she could marry her cousin colambre--a prepossession instilled into her by his mother--had absolutely prevented her from ever yet thinking of him as a lover. he saw the hazard for her, he felt the danger for himself. never had she appeared to him so attractive as at this moment, when he felt the hope that he could obtain return of love. 'but st. omar!--why! why is she a st, omar!--illegitimate!--"no st. omar sans reproche." my wife she cannot be--i will not engage her affections.' swift as thoughts in moments of strong feeling pass in the mind without being put into words, our hero thought all this, and determined, cost what it would, to act honourably. 'you spoke of my returning to ireland, my dear grace. i have not yet told you my plans.' 'plans! are not you returning with us?' said she, precipitately; 'are not you going to ireland--home--with us?' 'no--i am going to serve a campaign or two abroad. i think every young man in these times--' 'good heavens! what does this mean? what can you mean?' cried she, fixing her eyes upon his, as if she would read his very soul. 'why? what reason?--oh, tell me the truth and at once.' his change of colour--his hand that trembled, and withdrew from hers--the expression of his eyes as they met hers--revealed the truth to her at once. as it flashed across her mind, she started back; her face grew crimson, and, in the same instant, pale as death. 'yes--you see, you feel the truth now,' said lord colambre. 'you see, you feel, that i love you--passionately.' 'oh, let me not hear it!' said she; 'i must not--ought not. never, till this moment, did such a thought cross my mind--i thought it impossible--oh, make me think so still.' 'i will--it is impossible that we can ever be united.' 'i always thought so,' said she, taking breath with a deep sigh. 'then why not live as we have lived?' 'i cannot--i cannot answer for myself--i will not run the risk; and therefore i must quit you--knowing, as i do, that there is an invincible obstacle to our union, of what nature i cannot explain; i beg you not to inquire.' 'you need not beg it--i shall not inquire--i have no curiosity--none,' said she, in a passive, dejected tone; 'that is not what i am thinking of in the least. i know there are invincible obstacles; i wish it to be so. but, if invincible, you who have so much sense, honour, and virtue--' 'i hope, my dear cousin, that i have honour and virtue. but there are temptations to which no wise, no good man will expose himself. innocent creature! you do not know the power of love. i rejoice that you have always thought it impossible--think so still--it will save you from--all i must endure. think of me but as your cousin, your friend--give your heart to some happier man. as your friend, your true friend, i conjure you, give your heart to some more fortunate man. marry, if you can feel love--marry, and be happy. honour! virtue! yes, i have both, and i will not forfeit them. yes, i will merit your esteem and my own--by actions, not words; and i give you the strongest proof, by tearing myself from you at this moment. farewell!' 'the carriage at the door, miss nugent, and my lady calling for you,' said her maid. 'here's your key, ma'am, and here's your gloves, my dear ma'am.' 'the carriage at the door, miss nugent,' said lady clonbrony's woman, coming eagerly with parcels in her hand, as miss nugent passed her and ran downstairs; 'and i don't know where i laid my lady's numbrella, for my life--do your anne?' 'no, indeed--but i know here's my own young lady's watch that she has left. bless me! i never knew her to forget anything on a journey before.' 'then she is going to be married, as sure as my name's le maistre, and to my lord colambre; for he has been here this hour, to my certain bible knowledge. oh, you'll see, she will be lady colambre!' 'i wish she may, with all my heart' said anne; 'but i must run down--they're waiting.' 'oh no,' said mrs. le maistre, seizing anne's arm, and holding her fast; 'stay--you may safely--for they're all kissing and taking leave, and all that, you know; and my lady is talking on about mr. soho, and giving a hundred directions about legs of tables, and so forth, i warrant--she's always an hour after she's ready before she gets in--and i'm looking for the numbrella. so stay, and tell me--mrs. petito wrote over word it was to be lady isabel; and then a contradiction came--it was turned into the youngest of the killpatricks; and now here he's in miss nugent's dressing-room to the last moment. now, in my opinion, that am not censorious, this does not look so pretty; but, according to my verdict, he is only making a fool of miss nugent, like the rest; and his lordship seems too like what you might call a male cocket, or a masculine jilt.' 'no more like a masculine jilt than yourself, mrs. le maistre,' cried anne, taking fire. 'and my young lady is not a lady to be made a fool of, i promise you; nor is my lord likely to make a fool of any woman.' 'bless us all! that's no great praise for any young nobleman. miss anne.' 'mrs. le maistre! mrs. le maistre! are you above?' cried a footman from the bottom of the stairs; 'my lady's calling for you.' 'very well! very well!' said sharp mrs. le maistre; 'very well! and if she is--manners, sir!--come up for one, can't you, and don't stand bawling at the bottom of the stairs, as if one had no ears to be saved. i'm coming as fast as i conveniently can.' mrs. le maistre stood in the doorway, so as to fill it up, and prevent anne from passing. 'miss anne! miss anne! mrs. le maistre!' cried another footman; 'my lady's in the carriage, and miss nugent.' 'miss nugent!--is she?' cried mrs. le maistre, running downstairs, followed by anne. 'now, for the world in pocket-pieces wouldn't i have missed seeing him hand miss nugent in; for by that i could have judged definitively.' 'my lord, i beg pardon!--i'm afeard i'm late,' said mrs. le maistre, as she passed lord colambre, who was standing motionless in the hall. 'i beg a thousand pardons; but i was hunting high and low, for my lady's numbrella.' lord colambre did not hear or heed her; his eyes were fixed, and they never moved. lord clonbrony was at the open carriage-door, kneeling on the step, and receiving lady clonbrony's 'more last words' for mr. soho. the two waiting-maids stood together on the steps. 'look at our young lord, how he stands,' whispered mrs. le maistre to anne, 'the image of despair! and she, the picture of death!--i don't know what to think.' 'nor i; but don't stare if you can help it,' said anne. 'get in, get in, mrs. le maistre,' added she, as lord clonbrony now rose from the step, and made way for them. 'ay, in with you--in with you, mrs. le maistre,' said lord clonbrony. 'good-bye to you, anne, and take care of your young mistress at buxton; let me see her blooming when we meet again; i don't half like her looks, and i never thought buxton agreed with her.' 'buxton never did anybody harm,' said lady clonbrony; 'and as to bloom, i'm sure, if grace has not bloom enough in her cheeks this moment to please you, i don't know what you'd have, my dear lord--rouge?--shut the door, john! oh, stay!--colambre! where upon earth's colambre?' cried her ladyship, stretching from the farthest side of the coach to the window. 'colambre!' colambre was forced to appear. 'colambre, my dear! i forgot to say that, if anything detains you longer than wednesday se'nnight, i beg you will not fail to write, or i shall be miserable.' 'i will write; at all events, my dearest mother, you shall hear from me.' 'then i shall be quite happy. go on!' the carriage drove on. 'i do believe colambre's ill; i never saw a man look so ill in my life--did you, grace?--as he did the minute we drove on. he should take advice. i've a mind, cried lady clonbrony, laying her hand on the cord to stop the coachman--'i've a mind to turn about, tell him so, and ask what is the matter with him.' 'better not!' said miss nugent; 'he will write to you, and tell you--if anything is the matter with him. better go on now to buxton!' continued she, scarcely able to speak. lady clonbrony let go the cord. 'but what is the matter with you, my dear grace? for you are certainly going to die too!' 'i will tell you--as soon as i can; but don't ask me now, my dear aunt!' 'grace, grace! pull the cord!' cried lady clonbrony--'mr. salisbury's phaeton!--mr. salisbury, i'm happy to see you! we're on our way to buxton--as i told you.' 'so am i,' said mr. salisbury. 'i hope to be there before your ladyship; will you honour me with any commands!--of course, i will see that everything is ready for your reception.' her ladyship had not any commands. mr. salisbury drove on rapidly. lady clonbrony's ideas had now taken the salisbury channel. 'you didn't know that mr. salisbury was going to buxton to meet you, did you, grace?' said lady clonbrony. 'no, indeed, i did not!' said miss nugent; 'and i am very sorry for it.' 'young ladies, as mrs. broadhurst says, "never know, or at least never tell, what they are sorry or glad for,"' replied lady clonbrony. 'at all events, grace, my love, it has brought the fine bloom back to your cheeks; and i own i am satisfied.' chapter xv 'gone! for ever gone from me!' said lord colambre to himself, as the carriage drove away. 'never shall i see her more--never will i see her more, till she is married.' lord colambre went to his own room, locked the door, and was relieved in some degree by the sense of privacy; by the feeling that he could now indulge his reflections undisturbed. he had consolation--he had done what was honourable--he had transgressed no duty, abandoned no principle--he had not injured the happiness of any human being--he had not, to gratify himself, hazarded the peace of the woman he loved--he had not sought to win her heart. of her innocent, her warm, susceptible heart, he might perhaps have robbed her--he knew it--but he had left it untouched, he hoped entire, in her own power, to bless with it hereafter some man worthy of her. in the hope that she might be happy, lord colambre felt relief; and in the consciousness that he had made his parents happy, he rejoiced. but, as soon as his mind turned that way for consolation, came the bitter concomitant reflection, that his mother must be disappointed in her hopes of his accompanying her home, and of his living with her in ireland; she would be miserable when she should hear that he was going abroad into the army--and yet it must be so--and he must write, and tell her so. 'the sooner this difficulty is off my mind, the sooner this painful letter is written, the better,' thought he. 'it must be done--i will do it immediately.' he snatched up his pen, and began a letter. my dear mother--miss nugent--' he was interrupted by a knock at his door. 'a gentleman below, my lord,' said a servant, 'who wishes to see you.' i cannot see any gentleman. did you say i was at home?' 'no, my lord; i said you was not at home; for i thought you would not choose to be at home, and your own man was not in the way for me to ask--so i denied you; but the gentleman would not be denied; he said i must come and see if you was at home. so, as he spoke as if he was a gentleman not used to be denied, i thought it might be somebody of consequence, and i showed him into the front drawing-room. i think he said he was sure you'd be at home for a friend from ireland.' 'a friend from ireland! why did not you tell me that sooner?' said lord colambre, rising, and running downstairs. 'sir james brooke, i daresay.' no, not sir james brooke; but one he was almost as glad to see--count o'halloran! 'my dear count! the greater pleasure for being unexpected.' 'i came to london but yesterday,' said the count; 'but i could not be here a day, without doing myself the honour of paying my respects to lord colambre.' 'you do me not only honour, but pleasure, my dear count. people when they like one another, always find each other out, and contrive to meet even in london.' 'you are too polite to ask what brought such a superannuated militaire as i am,' said the count, 'from his retirement into this gay world again. a relation of mine, who is one of our ministry, knew that i had some maps, and plans, and charts, which might be serviceable in an expedition they are planning. i might have trusted my charts across the channel, without coming myself to convoy them, you will say. but my relation fancied--young relations, you know, if they are good for anything, are apt to overvalue the heads of old relations--fancied that mine was worth bringing all the way from halloran castle to london, to consult with tete-a-tete. so you know, when this was signified to me by a letter from the secretary in office, private, most confidential, what could i do, but do myself the honour to obey? for though honour's voice cannot provoke the silent dust, yet "flattery soothes the dull cold ear of age."--but enough, and too much of myself,' said the count: 'tell me, my dear lord, something of yourself. i do not think england seems to agree with you so well as ireland; for, excuse me, in point of health, you don't look like the same man i saw some weeks ago.' 'my mind has been ill at ease of late,' said lord colambre. 'ay, there's the thing! the body pays for the mind--but those who have feeling minds, pain and pleasure altogether computed, have the advantage; or at least they think so; for they would not change with those who have them not, were they to gain by the bargain the most robust body that the most selfish coxcomb, or the heaviest dunce extant, ever boasted. for instance, would you now, my lord, at this moment change altogether with major benson, or captain williamson, or even our friend, 'eh, really now, "pon honour"--would you!--i'm glad to see you smile.' 'i thank you for making me smile, for i assure you i want it. i wish--if you would not think me encroaching upon your politeness and kindness in honouring me with this visit--you see,' continued he, opening the doors of the back drawing-room, and pointing to large packages--'you see we are all preparing for a march; my mother has left town half an hour ago--my father engaged to dine abroad--only i at home--and, in this state of confusion, could i even venture to ask count o'halloran to stay and dine with me, without being able to offer him irish ortolans or irish plums--in short, will you let me rob you of two or three hours of your time? i am anxious to have your opinion on a subject of some importance to me, and on one where you are peculiarly qualified to judge and decide for me.' 'my dear lord, frankly, i have nothing half so good or so agreeable to do with my time; command my hours. i have already told you how much it flatters me to be consulted by the most helpless clerk in office; how much more about the private concerns of an enlightened young--friend, will lord colambre permit me to say? i hope so; for though the length of our acquaintance might not justify the word, yet regard and intimacy are not always in proportion to the time people have known each other, but to their mutual perception of certain attaching qualities, a certain similarity and suitableness of character.' the good count, seeing that lord colambre was in much distress of mind, did all he could to soothe him by kindness; far from making any difficulty about giving up a few hours of his time, he seemed to have no other object in london, and no purpose in life, but to attend to our hero. to put him at ease, and to give him time to recover and arrange his thoughts, the count talked of indifferent subjects. 'i think i heard you mention the name of sir james brooke.' 'yes, i expected to have seen him when the servant first mentioned a friend from ireland; because sir james had told me that, as soon as he could get leave of absence, he would come to england.' 'he is come; is now at his estate is huntingdonshire; doing, what do you think? i will give you a leading hint; recollect the seal which the little de cresey put into your hands the day you dined at oranmore. faithful to his motto, "deeds not words," he is this instant, i believe, at deeds, title-deeds; making out marriage settlements, getting ready to put his seal to the happy articles.' 'happy man! i give him joy,' said lord colambre; 'happy man! going to be married to such a woman--daughter of such a mother.' 'daughter of such a mother! that is indeed a great addition and a great security to his happiness,' said the count. 'such a family to marry into; good from generation to generation; illustrious by character as well as by genealogy; "all the sons brave, and all the daughters chaste."'--lord colambre with difficulty repressed his feelings.--'if i could choose, i would rather that a woman i loved were of such a family than that she had for her dower the mines of peru.' 'so would i,' cried lord colambre. 'i am glad to hear you say so, my lord, and with such energy; so few young men of the present day look to what i call good connexion. in marrying, a man does not, to be sure, marry his wife's mother; and yet a prudent man, when he begins to think of the daughter, would look sharp at the mother; ay, and back to the grandmother too, and along the whole female line of ancestry.' 'true--most true--he ought he must.' 'and i have a notion,' said the count, smiling, 'your lordship's practice has been conformable to your theory.' 'i!--mine!' said lord colambre, starling, and looking at the count with surprise. 'i beg your pardon,' said the count; 'i did not intend to surprise your confidence. but you forget that i was present, and saw the impression which was made on your mind by a mother's want of a proper sense of delicacy and propriety--lady dashfort.' 'oh, lady dashfort! she was quite out of my head.' 'and lady isabel?--i hope she is quite out of your heart.' 'she never was in it,' said lord colambre. 'only laid siege to it,' said the count. 'well, i am glad your heart did not surrender at discretion, or rather without discretion. then i may tell you, without fear or preface, that the lady isabel, who "talks of refinement, delicacy, sense," is going to stoop at once, and marry--heathcock.' lord colambre was not surprised, but concerned and disgusted, as he always felt, even when he did not care for the individual, from hearing anything which tended to lower the female sex in public estimation. 'as to myself,' said he, 'i cannot say i have had an escape, for i don't think i ever was in much danger.' 'it is difficult to measure danger when it is over--past danger, like past pain, is soon forgotten,' said the old general. 'at all events, i rejoice in your present safety.' 'but is she really going to be married to heathcock?' said lord colambre. 'positively; they all came over in the same packet with me, and they are all in town now, buying jewels, and equipages, and horses. heathcock, you know, is as good as another man, a peu pres, for all those purposes; his father is dead, and left him a large estate. que voulez vous? as the french valet said to me on the occasion. c'est que monsieur est un homme de bien: il a des biens, a ce qu'on dit.' lord colambre could not help smiling. 'how they got heathcock to fall in love is what puzzles me,' said his lordship. 'i should as soon have thought of an oyster's falling in love as that being!' 'i own i should have sooner thought,' replied the count, 'of his falling in love with an oyster; and so would you, if you had seen him, as i did, devouring oysters on shipboard. 'say, can the lovely heroine hope to vie<br /> with a fat turtle or a ven'son pie?<br /> but that is not our affair; let the lady isabel look to it.' dinner was announced; and no farther conversation of any consequence passed between the count and lord colambre till the cloth was removed and the servants had withdrawn. then our hero opened on the subject which was heavy at his heart. 'my dear count--to go back to the burial place of the nugents, where my head was lost the first time i had the pleasure of seeing you--you know, or, possibly,' said he, smiling, 'you do not know, that i have a cousin of the name of nugent?' 'you told me,' replied the count, 'that you had near relations of that name; but i do not recollect that you mentioned any one in particular.' 'i never named miss nugent to you. no! it is not easy to me to talk of her, and impossible to me to describe her. if you had come one half-hour sooner this morning, you would have seen her: i know she is exactly suited to your excellent taste. but it is not at first sight she pleases most; she gains upon the affections, attaches the heart, and unfolds upon the judgment. in temper, manners, and good sense, in every quality a man can or should desire in a wife, i never saw her equal. yet, there is an obstacle, an invincible obstacle, the nature of which i cannot explain to you, that forbids me to think of her as a wife. she lives with my father and mother: they are returning to ireland, i wished, earnestly wished, on many accounts, to have accompanied them, chiefly on my mother's; but it cannot be. the first thing a man must do is to act honourably; and, that he may do so, he must keep out of the way of a temptation which he believes to be above his strength. i will never see miss nugent again till she is married; i must either stay in england, or go abroad. i have a mind to serve a campaign or two, if i could get a commission in a regiment going to spain; but i understand so many are eager to go at this moment, that it is very difficult to get a commission in such a regiment.' 'it is difficult,' said the count. 'but,' added he, after thinking for a moment, 'i have it! i can get the thing done for you, and directly. major benson, in consequence of that affair, you know, about his mistress, is forced to quit the regiment. when the lieutenant-colonel came to quarters, and the rest of the officers heard the fact, they would not keep company with benson, and would not mess with him. i know he wants to sell out; and that regiment is to be ordered immediately to spain. i will have the thing done for you, if you request it.' 'first, give me your advice, count o'halloran; you are well acquainted with the military profession, with military life. would you advise me--i won't speak of myself, because we judge better by general views than by particular cases--would you advise a young man at present to go into the army?' the count was silent for a few minutes, and then replied: 'since you seriously ask my opinion, my lord, i must lay aside my own prepossessions, and endeavour to speak with impartiality. to go into the army in these days, my lord, is, in my sober opinion, the most absurd and base, or the wisest and noblest thing a young man can do. to enter into the army, with the hope of escaping from the application necessary to acquire knowledge, letters, and science--i run no risk, my lord, in saying this to you--to go into the army, with the hope of escaping from knowledge, letters, science, and morality; to wear a red coat and an epaulette; to be called captain; to figure at a ball; to lounge away time in country sports, at country quarters, was never, even in times of peace, creditable; but it is now absurd and base. submitting to a certain portion of ennui and contempt, this mode of life for an officer was formerly practicable--but now cannot be submitted to without utter, irremediable disgrace. officers are now, in general, men of education and information; want of knowledge, sense, manners, must consequently be immediately detected, ridiculed, and despised in a military man. of this we have not long since seen lamentable examples in the raw officers who have lately disgraced themselves in my neighbourhood in ireland--that major benson and captain williamson. but i will not advert to such insignificant individuals, such are rare exceptions--i leave them out of the question--i reason on general principles. the life of an officer is not now a life of parade, of coxcombical, or of profligate idleness--but of active service, of continual hardship and danger. all the descriptions which we see in ancient history of a soldier's life--descriptions which, in times of peace, appeared like romance--are now realised; military exploits fill every day's newspapers, every day's conversation. a martial spirit is now essential to the liberty and the existence of our own country. in the present state of things, the military must be the most honourable profession, because the most useful. every movement of an army is followed, wherever it goes, by the public hopes and fears. every officer must now feel, besides this sense of collective importance, a belief that his only dependence must be on his own merit and thus his ambition, his enthusiasm, are raised; and when once this noble ardour is kindled in the breast, it excites to exertion, and supports under endurance. but i forget myself,' said the count, checking his enthusiasm; 'i promised to speak soberly. if i have said too much, your own good sense, my lord, will correct me, and your good-nature will forgive the prolixity of an old man, touched upon his favourite subject--the passion of his youth.' lord colambre, of course, assured the count that he was not tired. indeed, the enthusiasm with which this old officer spoke of his profession, and the high point of view in which he placed it, increased our hero's desire to serve a campaign abroad. good sense, politeness, and experience of the world preserved count o'halloran from that foible with which old officers are commonly reproached, of talking continually of their own military exploits. though retired from the world, he had contrived, by reading the best books, and corresponding with persons of good information, to keep up with the current of modern affairs; and he seldom spoke of those in which he had been formerly engaged. he rather too studiously avoided speaking of himself; and this fear of egotism diminished the peculiar interest he might have inspired: it disappointed curiosity, and deprived those with whom he conversed of many entertaining and instructive anecdotes. however, he sometimes made exceptions to his general rule in favour of persons who peculiarly pleased him, and lord colambre was of this number. he this evening, for the first time, spoke to his lordship of the years he had spent in the austrian service; told him anecdotes of the emperor; spoke of many distinguished public characters whom he had known abroad; of those officers who had been his friends and companions. among others he mentioned, with particular regard, a young english officer who had been at the same time with him in the austrian service, a gentleman of the name of reynolds. the name struck lord colambre; it was the name of the officer who had been the cause of the disgrace of miss st. omar--of miss nugent's mother. 'but there are so many reynoldses.' he eagerly asked the age--the character of this officer. 'he was a gallant youth,' said the count, 'but too adventurous--too rash. he fell, after distinguishing himself in a glorious manner, in his twentieth year--died in my arms.' 'married or unmarried?' cried lord colambre. 'married--he had been privately married, less than a year before his death, to a very young english lady, who had been educated at a convent in vienna. he was heir to a considerable property, i believe, and the young lady had little fortune; and the affair was kept secret from the fear of offending his friends, or for some other reason--i do not recollect the particulars.' 'did he acknowledge his marriage?' said lord colambre. 'never till he was dying--then he confided his secret to me.' 'do you recollect the name of the young lady he married?' 'yes--miss st. omar.' 'st. omar!' repeated lord colambre, with an expression of lively joy in his countenance. 'but are you certain, my dear count, that she was really married, legally married, to mr. reynolds? her marriage has been denied by all his friends and relations--hers have never been able to establish it--her daughter is--my dear count, were you present at the marriage?' 'no,' said the count, 'i was not present at the marriage; i never saw the lady, nor do i know anything of the affair, except that mr. reynolds, when he was dying, assured me that he was privately married to a miss st. omar, who was then boarding at a convent in vienna. the young man expressed great regret at leaving her totally unprovided for; but said that he trusted his father would acknowledge her, and that her friends would be reconciled to her. he was not of age, he said, to make a will; but i think he told me that his child, who at that time was not born, would, even if it should be a girl, inherit a considerable property. with this, i cannot, however, charge my memory positively; but he put a packet into my hands which, he told me, contained a certificate of his marriage, and, i think he said, a letter to his father; this he requested that i would transmit to england by some safe hand. immediately after his death, i went to the english ambassador, who was then leaving vienna, and delivered the packet into his hands; he promised to have it safely delivered. i was obliged to go the next day, with the troops, to a distant part of the country. when i returned, i inquired at the convent what had become of miss st. omar--i should say mrs. reynolds; and i was told that she had removed from the convent to private lodgings in the town, some time previous to the birth of her child. the abbess seemed much scandalised by the whole transaction; and i remember i relieved her mind by assuring her that there had been a regular marriage. for poor young reynolds's sake, i made farther inquiries about the widow, intending, of course, to act as a friend, if she was in any difficulty or distress. but i found, on inquiry at her lodgings, that her brother had come from england for her, and had carried her and her infant away. the active scenes,' continued the count, 'in which i was immediately afterwards engaged, drove the whole affair from my mind. now that your questions have recalled them, i feel certain of the facts i have mentioned; and i am ready to establish them by my testimony.' lord colambre thanked him with an eagerness that showed how much he was interested in the event. it was clear, he said, either that the packet left with the ambassador had not been delivered, or that the father of mr. reynolds had suppressed the certificate of the marriage, as it had never been acknowledged by him or by any of the family. lord colambre now frankly told the count why he was so anxious about this affair; and count o'halloran, with all the warmth of youth, and with all the ardent generosity characteristic of his country, entered into his feelings, declaring that he would never rest till he had established the truth. 'unfortunately,' said the count, 'the ambassador who took the packet in charge is dead. i am afraid we shall have difficulty.' 'but he must have had some secretary,' said lord colambre; 'who was his secretary?--we can apply to him.' 'his secretary is now charge d'affaires in vienna--we cannot get at him.' 'into whose hands have that ambassador's papers fallen--who is his executor?' said lord colambre. 'his executor!--now you have it,' cried the count. 'his executor is the very man who will do your business--your friend sir james brooke is the executor. all papers, of course, are in his hands; or he can have access to any that are in the hands of the family. the family seat is within a few miles of sir james brooke's, in huntingdonshire, where, as i told you before, he now is.' 'i'll go to him immediately--set out in the mail this night. just in time!' cried lord colambre, pulling out his watch with one hand, and ringing the bell with the other. 'run and take a place for me in the mail for huntingdon. go directly,' said lord colambre to the servant. 'and take two places, if you please, sir,' said the count. 'my lord, i will accompany you.' but this lord colambre would not permit, as it would be unnecessary to fatigue the good old general; and a letter from him to sir james brooke would do all that the count could effect by his presence; the search for the papers would be made by sir james, and if the packet could be recovered, or if any memorandum or mode of ascertaining that it had actually been delivered to old reynolds could be discovered, lord colambre said he would then call upon the count for his assistance, and trouble him to identify the packet; or to go with him to mr. reynolds to make farther inquiries; and to certify, at all events, the young man's dying acknowledgment of his marriage and of his child. the place in the mail, just in time, was taken. lord colambre sent a servant in search of his father, with a note explaining the necessity of his sudden departure. all the business which remained to be done in town he knew lord clonbrony could accomplish without his assistance. then he wrote a few lines to his mother, on the very sheet of paper on which, a few hours before, he had sorrowfully and slowly begun-- my dear mother miss nugent. he now joyfully and rapidly went on--my dear mother and miss nugent, i hope to be with you on wednesday se'nnight; but if unforeseen circumstances should delay me, i will certainly write to you again.--dear mother, believe me, your obliged and grateful son, colambre. the count, in the meantime, wrote a letter for him to sir james brooke, describing the packet which he had given to the ambassador, and relating all the circumstances that could lead to its recovery. lord colambre, almost before the wax was hard, seized possession of the letter; the count seeming almost as eager to hurry him off as he was to set out. he thanked the count with few words, but with strong feeling. joy and love returned in full tide upon our hero's soul; all the military ideas, which but an hour before filled his imagination, were put to flight: spain vanished, and green ireland reappeared. just as they shook hands at parting, the good old general, with a smile, said to him, 'i believe i had better not stir in the matter of benson's commission till i hear more from you. my harangue, in favour of the military profession, will, i fancy, prove like most other harangues, en pure perte.' chapter xvi in what words of polite circumlocution, or of cautious diplomacy, shall we say, or hint, that the deceased ambassador's papers were found in shameful disorder. his excellency's executor, sir james brooke, however, was indefatigable in his researches. he and lord colambre spent two whole days in looking over portfolios of letters and memorials, and manifestoes, and bundles of paper of the most heterogeneous sorts; some of them without any docket or direction to lead to a knowledge of their contents; others written upon in such a manner as to give an erroneous notion of their nature; so that it was necessary to untie every paper separately. at last, when they had opened, as they thought, every paper, and, wearied and in despair, were just on the point of giving up the search, lord colambre spied a bundle of old newspapers at the bottom of a trunk. 'they are only old vienna gazettes; i looked at them,' said sir james. lord colambre, upon this assurance, was going to throw them into the trunk again; but observing that the bundle had not been untied, he opened it, and within-side of the newspapers he found a rough copy of the ambassador's journal, and with it the packet, directed to ralph reynolds sen., esq., old court, suffolk, per favour of his excellency, earl --, a note on the cover, signed o'halloran, stating when received by him, and the date of the day when delivered to the ambassador--seals unbroken. our hero was in such a transport of joy at the sight of this packet, and his friend sir james brooke so full of his congratulations, that they forgot to curse the ambassador's carelessness, which had been the cause of so much evil. the next thing to be done was to deliver the packet to ralph reynolds, old court, suffolk. but when lord colambre arrived at old court, suffolk, he found all the gates locked, and no admittance to be had. at last an old woman came out of the porter's lodge, who said mr. reynolds was not there, and she could not say where he was. after our hero had opened her heart by the present of half a guinea, she explained, that she 'could not justly say where he was, because that he never let anybody of his own people know where he was any day; he had several different houses and places in different parts, and far-off counties, and other shires, as she heard, and by times he was at one, and by times at another.' the names of two of the places, toddrington and little wrestham, she knew; but there were others to which she could give no direction. he had houses in odd parts of london, too, that he let; and sometimes, when the lodgers' time was out, he would go, and be never heard of for a month, maybe, in one of them. in short, there was no telling or saying where he was or would be one day of the week, by where he had been the last.' when lord colambre expressed some surprise that an old gentleman, as he conceived mr. ralph reynolds to be, should change places so frequently, the old woman answered, 'that though her master was a deal on the wrong side of seventy, and though, to look at him, you'd think he was glued to his chair, and would fall to pieces if he should stir out of it, yet was as alert, and thought no more of going about, than if he was as young as the gentleman who was now speaking to her. it was old mr. reynolds's delight to come down and surprise his people at his different places, and see that they were keeping all tight.' 'what sort of a man is he;--is he a miser?' said lord colambre. 'he is a miser, and he is not a miser,' said the woman. 'now he'd think as much of the waste of a penny as another man would of a hundred pounds, and yet he would give a hundred pounds easier than another would give a penny, when he's in the humour. but his humour is very odd, and there's no knowing where to have him; he's gross-grained, and more positiver-like than a mule; and his deafness made him worse in this, because he never heard what nobody said, but would say on his own way--he was very odd but not cracked--no, he was as clear-headed, when he took a thing the right way, as any man could be, and as clever, and could talk as well as any member of parliament,--and good-natured, and kind-hearted, where he would take a fancy--but then, maybe, it would be to a dog (he was remarkable fond of dogs), or a cat, or a rat even, that he would take a fancy, and think more of 'em than he would of a christian. but, poor gentleman, there's great allowance,' said she, 'to be made for him, that lost his son and heir--that would have been heir to all, and a fine youth that he doted upon. but,' continued the old woman, in whose mind the transitions from great to little, from serious to trivial, were ludicrously abrupt, 'that was no reason why the old gentleman should scold me last time he was here, as he did, for as long as ever he could stand over me, only because i killed a mouse who was eating my cheese; and, before night, he beat a boy for stealing a piece of that same cheese; and he would never, when down here, let me set a mouse-trap.' 'well, my good woman,' interrupted lord colambre, who was little interested in this affair of the mouse-trap, and nowise curious to learn more of mr. reynolds's domestic economy, 'i'll not trouble you any farther, if you can be so good as to tell me the road to toddrington, or to little wickham, i think you call it.' little wickham!' repeated the woman, laughing--' bless you, sir, where do you come from?--it's little wrestham; surely everybody knows, near lantry; and keep the pike till you come to the turn at rotherford, and then you strike off into the by-road to the left, and then again turn at the ford to the right. but, if you are going to toddrington, you don't go the road to market, which is at the first turn to the left, and the cross-country road, where there's no quarter, and toddrington lies--but for wrestham, you take the road to market.' it was some time before our hero could persuade the old woman to stick to little wrestham, or to toddrington, and not to mix the directions for the different roads together--he took patience, for his impatience only confused his director the more. in process of time, he made out, and wrote down, the various turns that he was to follow, to reach little wrestham; but no human power could get her from little wrestham to toddrington, though she knew the road perfectly well; but she had, for the seventeen last years, been used to go 'the other road,' and all the carriers went that way, and passed the door, and that was all she could certify. little wrestham, after turning to the left and right as often as his directory required, our hero happily reached; but, unhappily, he found no mr. reynolds there; only a steward, who gave nearly the same account of his master as had been given by the old woman, and could not guess even where the gentleman might now be. toddrington was as likely as any place--but he could not say. 'perseverance against fortune.' to toddrington our hero proceeded, through cross-country roads--such roads!--very different from the irish roads. waggon ruts, into which the carriage wheels sunk nearly to the nave--and, from time to time, 'sloughs of despond,' through which it seemed impossible to drag, walk, wade, or swim, and all the time with a sulky postillion. 'oh, how unlike my larry!' thought lord colambre. at length, in a very narrow lane, going up a hill, said to be two miles of ascent, they overtook a heavy laden waggon, and they were obliged to go step by step behind it, whilst, enjoying the gentleman's impatience much, and the postillion's sulkiness more, the waggoner, in his embroidered frock, walked in state, with his long sceptre in his hand. the postillion muttered 'curses not loud, but deep.' deep or loud, no purpose would they have answered; the waggoner's temper was proof against curse in or out of the english language; and from their snail's pace neither dickens nor devil, nor any postillion in england, could make him put his horses. lord colambre jumped out of the chaise, and, walking beside him, began to talk to him; and spoke of his horses, their bells, their trappings; the beauty and strength of the thill-horse--the value of the whole team, which his lordship happening to guess right within ten pounds, and showing, moreover, some skill about road-making and waggon-wheels, and being fortunately of the waggoner's own opinion in the great question about conical and cylindrical rims, he was pleased with the young chap of a gentleman; and, in spite of the chuffiness of his appearance and churlishness of his speech, this waggoner's bosom 'being made of penetrating stuff,' he determined to let the gentleman pass. accordingly, when half-way up the hill, and the head of the fore-horse came near an open gate, the waggoner, without saying one word or turning his head, touched the horse with his long whip--and the horse turned in at the gate, and then came-- 'dobbin!--jeho!' and strange calls and sounds, which all the other horses of the team obeyed; and the waggon turned into the farmyard. 'now, master! while i turn, you may pass.' the covering of the waggon caught in the hedge as the waggon turned in; and as the sacking was drawn back, some of the packages were disturbed--a cheese was just rolling off on the side next lord colambre; he stopped it from falling; the direction caught his quick eye--'to ralph reynolds, esq.'--'toddrington' scratched out; 'red lion square, london,' written in another hand below. 'now i have found him! and surely i know that hand!' said lord colambre to himself, looking more closely at the direction. the original direction was certainly in a handwriting well known to him it was lady dashfort's. 'that there cheese, that you're looking at so cur'ously,' said the waggoner, has been a great traveller; for it came all the way down from lon'on, and now it's going all the way up again back, on account of not finding the gentleman at home; and the man that booked it told me as how it came from foreign parts.' lord colambre took down the direction, tossed the honest waggoner a guinea, wished him good-night, passed, and went on. as soon as he could, he turned into the london road--at the first town, got a place in the mail--reached london--saw his father--went directly to his friend, count o'halloran, who was delighted when he beheld the packet. lord colambre was extremely eager to go immediately to old reynolds, fatigued as he was; for he had travelled night and day, and had scarcely allowed himself, mind or body, one moment's repose. 'heroes must sleep, and lovers too; or they soon will cease to be heroes or lovers!' said the count. 'rest, rest, perturbed spirit! this night; and to-morrow morning we'll finish the adventure in red lion square, or i will accompany you when and where you will; if necessary, to earth's remotest bounds.' the next morning lord colambre went to breakfast with the count. the count, who was not in love, was not up, for our hero was half an hour earlier than the time appointed. the old servant ulick, who had attended his master to england, was very glad to see lord colambre again, and, showing him into the breakfast parlour, could not help saying, in defence of his master's punctuality-- 'your clocks, i suppose, my lord, are half an hour faster than ours; my master will be ready to the moment.' the count soon appeared--breakfast was soon over, and the carriage at the door; for the count sympathised in his young friend's impatience. as they were setting out, the count's large irish dog pushed out of the house door to follow them and his master would have forbidden him, but lord colambre begged that he might be permitted to accompany them; for his lordship recollected the old woman's having mentioned that mr. reynolds was fond of dogs. they arrived in red lion square, found the house of mr. reynolds, and, contrary to the count's prognostics, found the old gentleman up, and they saw him in his red night-cap at his parlour window. after some minutes' running backwards and forwards of a boy in the passage, and two or three peeps taken over the blinds by the old gentleman, they were admitted. the boy could not master their names; so they were obliged reciprocally to announce themselves--'count o'halloran and lord colambre.' the names seemed to make no impression on the old gentleman; but he deliberately looked at the count and his lordship, as if studying what rather than who they were. in spite of the red night-cap, and a flowered dressing-gown, mr. reynolds looked like a gentleman, an odd gentleman--but still a gentleman. as count o'halloran came into the room, and as his large dog attempted to follow, the count's voice expressed: 'say, shall i let him in, or shut the door?' 'oh, let him in, by all means, sir, if you please! i am fond of dogs; and a finer one i never saw; pray, gentlemen, be seated,' said he--a portion of the complacency inspired by the sight of the dog, diffusing itself over his manner towards the master of so fine an animal, and even extending to the master's companion, though in an inferior degree. whilst mr. reynolds stroked the dog, the count told him that 'the dog was of a curious breed, now almost extinct--the irish greyhound, of which only one nobleman in ireland, it is said, has now a few of the species remaining in his possession--now, lie down, hannibal,' said the count. 'mr. reynolds, we have taken the liberty, though strangers, of waiting upon you--' 'i beg your pardon, sir,' interrupted mr. reynolds; 'but did i understand you rightly, that a few of the same species are still to be had from one nobleman in ireland? pray, what is his name?' said he, taking out his pencil. the count wrote the name for him, but observed, that 'he had asserted only that a few of these dogs remained in the possession of that nobleman; he could not answer for it that they were to be had.' 'oh, i have ways and means,' said old reynolds; and, rapping his snuff-box, and talking, as it was his custom, loud to himself, 'lady dashfort knows all those irish lords; she shall get one for me--ay! ay!' count o'halloran replied, as if the words had been addressed to him-- 'lady dashfort is in england.' 'i know it, sir; she is in london,' said mr. reynolds, hastily. 'what do you know of her?' 'i know, sir, that she is not likely to return to ireland, and that i am; and so is my young friend here; and if the thing can be accomplished, we will get it done for you.' lord colambre joined in this promise, and added that, 'if the dog could be obtained, he would undertake to have him safely sent over to england.' 'sir--gentlemen! i'm much obliged; that is, when you have done the thing i shall be much obliged. but, maybe, you are only making me civil speeches!' 'of that, sir,' said the count, smiling with much temper, 'your own sagacity and knowledge of the world must enable you to judge.' 'for my own part, i can only say,' cried lord colambre, 'that i am not in the habit of being reproached with saying one thing and meaning another.' 'hot! i see,' said old reynolds, nodding, as he looked at lord colambre. 'cool!' added he, nodding at the count. 'but a time for everything; i was hot once--both answers good, for their ages.' this speech lord colombre and the count tacitly agreed to consider as another apart, which they were not to hear, or seem to hear. the count began again on the business of their visit, as he saw that lord colambre was boiling with impatience, and feared that he should boil over, and spoil all. the count commenced with-- 'mr. reynolds, your name sounds to me like the name of a friend; for i had once a friend of that name; i had once the pleasure (and a very great pleasure it was to me) to be intimately acquainted abroad, on the continent, with a very amiable and gallant youth--your son!' 'take care, sir,' said the old man, starting up from his chair, and instantly sinking down again--'take care! don't mention him to me--unless you would strike me dead on the spot!' the convulsed motions of his fingers and face worked for some moments; whilst the count and lord colambre, much shocked and alarmed, stood in silence. the convulsed motions ceased; and the old man unbuttoned his waistcoat, as if to relieve some sense of expression; uncovered his gray hairs; and, after leaning back to rest himself, with his eyes fixed, and in reverie for a few moments, he sat upright again in his chair, and exclaimed, as he looked round-- 'son!--did not somebody say that word? who is so cruel to say that word before me? nobody has ever spoken of him to me--but once, since his death! do you know, sir,' said he, fixing his eyes on count o'halloran, and laying his cold hand on him, 'do you know where he was buried, i ask you, sir? do you remember how he died?' 'too well! too well!' cried the count, so much affected as to be scarcely able to pronounce the words; 'he died in my arms; i buried him myself!' 'impossible!' cried mr. reynolds. 'why do you say so, sir?' said he, studying the count's face with a sort of bewildered earnestness. 'impossible! his body was sent over to me in a lead coffin; and i saw it and i was asked--and i answered, "in the family vault." but the shock is over,' said he; 'and, gentlemen, if the business of your visit relates to that subject, i trust i am now sufficiently composed to attend to you. indeed, i ought to be prepared; for i had reason, for years, to expect the stroke; and yet, when it came, it seemed sudden!--it stunned me--put an end to all my worldly prospects--left me childless, without a single descendant or relation near enough to be dear to me! i am an insulated being!' 'no, sir, you are not an insulated being,' said lord colambre 'you have a near relation, who will, who must be dear to you; who will make you amends for all you have lost, all you have suffered--who will bring peace and joy to your heart. you have a grand-daughter.' 'no, sir; i have no grand-daughter,' said old reynolds, his face and whole form becoming rigid with the expression of obstinacy. 'rather have no descendant than be forced to acknowledge an illegitimate child.' 'my lord, i entreat as a friend--i command you to be patient,' said the count, who saw lord colambre's indignation suddenly rise. 'so, then, this is the purpose of your visit,' continued old reynolds; 'and you come from my enemies, from the st. omars, and you are in a league with them,' continued old reynolds; 'and all this time it is of my eldest son you have been talking.' 'yes, sir,' replied the count; 'of captain reynolds, who fell in battle, in the austrian service, about nineteen years ago--a more gallant and amiable youth never lived.' pleasure revived through the dull look of obstinacy in the father's eyes. 'he was, as you say, sir, a gallant, an amiable youth, once and he was my pride, and i loved him, too, once but did not you know i had another?' 'no, sir, we did not--we are, you may perceive, totally ignorant of your family and of your affairs we have no connexion whatever or knowledge of any of the st. omars.' 'i detest the sound of the name,' cried lord colambre. 'oh, good! good!--well! well! i beg your pardon, gentlemen, a thousand times--i am a hasty, very hasty old man; but i have been harassed, persecuted, hunted by wretches, who got a scent of my gold; often in my rage i longed to throw my treasure-bags to my pursuers, and bid them leave me to die in peace. you have feelings, i see, both of you, gentlemen; excuse me, and bear with my temper.' 'bear with you! much enforced, the best tempers will emit a hasty spark,' said the count, looking at lord colambre, who was now cool again; and who, with a countenance full of compassion, sat with his eyes fixed upon the poor--no, not the poor, but the unhappy old man. 'yes, i had another son,' continued mr. reynolds, 'and on him all my affections concentrated when i lost my eldest, and for him i desired to preserve the estate which his mother brought into my family. since you know nothing of my affairs, let me explain to you; that estate was so settled, that it would have gone to the child, even the daughter of my eldest son, if there had been a legitimate child. but i knew there was no marriage, and i held out firm to my opinion. "if there was a marriage," said i, "show me the marriage certificate, and i will acknowledge the marriage, and acknowledge the child;" but they could not, and i knew they could not; and i kept the estate for my darling boy,' cried the old gentleman, with the exultation of successful positiveness again appearing strong in his physiognomy; but suddenly changing and relaxing, his countenance fell, and he added, 'but now i have no darling boy. what use all!--all must go to the heir-at-law, or i must will it to a stranger--a lady of quality, who has just found out she is my relation--god knows how--i'm no genealogist--and sends me irish cheese and iceland moss, for my breakfast, and her waiting-gentlewoman to namby-pamby me. oh, i'm sick of it all--see through it--wish i was blind--wish i had a hiding-place, where flatterers could not find me--pursued, chased--must change my lodgings again to-morrow--will, will--i beg your pardon, gentlemen, again; you were going to tell me, sir, something more of my eldest son; and how i was led away from the subject, i don't know; but i meant only to have assured you that his memory was dear to me, till i was so tormented about that unfortunate affair of his pretended marriage, that at length i hated to hear him named; but the heir-at-law, at last, will triumph over me.' 'no, my good sir, not if you triumph over yourself, and do justice,' cried lord colambre; 'if you listen to the truth, which my friend will tell you, and if you will read and believe the confirmation of it, under your son's own hand, in this packet.' 'his own hand indeed! his seal unbroken. but how--when where--why was it kept so long, and how came it into your hands?' count o'halloran told mr. reynolds that the packet had been given to him by captain reynolds on his deathbed; related the dying acknowledgment which captain reynolds had made of his marriage; and gave an account of the delivery of the packet to the ambassador, who had promised to transmit it faithfully. lord colambre told the manner in which it had been mislaid, and at last recovered from among the deceased ambassador's papers. the father still gazed at the direction, and re-examined the seals. 'my son's handwriting--my son's seals! but where is the certificate of the marriage?' repeated he; 'if it is withinside of this packet, i have done great in- but i am convinced it never was a marriage. 'yet i wish now it could be proved--only, in that case, i have for years done great--' 'won't you open the packet, sir?' said lord colambre. mr. reynolds looked up at him with a look that said, 'i don't clearly know what interest you have in all this.' but, unable to speak, and his hands trembling so that he could scarcely break the seals, he tore off the cover, laid the papers before him, sat down, and took breath. lord colambre, however impatient, had now too much humanity to hurry the old gentleman; he only ran for the spectacles, which he espied on the chimney-piece, rubbed them bright, and held them ready. mr. reynolds stretched his hand out for them, put them on, and the first paper he opened was the certificate of the marriage; he read it aloud, and, putting it down, said-- 'now i acknowledge the marriage. i always said, if there is a marriage there must be a certificate. and you see now there is a certificate i acknowledge the marriage.' 'and now,' cried lord colambre, 'i am happy, positively happy. acknowledge your grand-daughter, sir--acknowledge miss nugent.' 'acknowledge who, sir?' 'acknowledge miss reynolds--your grand-daughter; i ask no more--do what you will with your fortune.' 'oh, now i understand--i begin to understand this young gentleman is in love--but where is my grand-daughter?--how shall i know she is my grand-daughter? i have not heard of her since she was an infant--i forgot her existence--i have done her great injustice.' 'she knows nothing of it, sir,' said lord colambre, who now entered into a full explanation of miss nugent's history, and of her connexion with his family, and of his own attachment to her; concluding the whole by assuring mr. reynolds that his grand-daughter had every virtue under heaven. 'and as to your fortune, sir, i know that she will, as i do, say--' 'no matter what she will say,' interrupted old reynolds; 'where is she? when i see her, i shall hear what she says. tell me where she is, let me see her. i long to see whether there is any likeness to her poor father. where is she? let me see her immediately.' 'she is one hundred and sixty miles off, sir, at buxton.' 'well, my lord, and what is a hundred and sixty miles? i suppose you think i can't stir from my chair, but you are mistaken. i think nothing of a journey of a hundred and sixty miles--i'm ready to set off to-morrow--this instant.' lord colambre said, that he was sure miss reynolds would obey her grandfather's slightest summons, as it was her duty to do, and would be with him as soon as possible, if this would be more agreeable to him. 'i will write to her instantly,' said his lordship, 'if you will commission me.' 'no, my lord, i do not commission--i will go--i think nothing, i say, of a journey of a hundred and sixty miles--i'll go--and set out to-morrow morning.' lord colambre and the count, perfectly satisfied with the result of their visit, now thought it best to leave old reynolds at liberty to rest himself, after so many strong and varied feelings. they paid their parting compliments, settled the time for the next day's journey, and were just going to quit the room when lord colambre heard in the passage a well-known voice the voice of mrs. petito. 'oh no, my compliments, and my lady dashfort's best compliments, and i will call again.' 'no, no,' cried old reynolds, pulling his bell; 'i'll have no calling again--i'll be hanged if i do! let her in now, and i'll see her--jack! let in that woman now or never.' 'the lady's gone, sir, out of the street door.' 'after her, then--now or never, tell her.' 'sir, she was in a hackney coach.' old reynolds jumped up, and went to the window himself, and, seeing the hackney coachman just turning beckoned at the window, and mrs. petito was set down again, and ushered in by jack, who announced her as-- 'the lady, sir.' the only lady he had seen in that house. 'my dear mr. reynolds, i'm so obliged to you for letting me in,' cried mrs. petito, adjusting her shawl in the passage, and speaking in a voice and manner well mimicked after her betters. 'you are so very good and kind, and i am so much obliged to you.' 'you are not obliged to me, and i am neither good nor kind,' said old reynolds. 'you strange man,' said mrs. petito, advancing graceful in shawl drapery; but she stopped short. 'my lord colambre and count o'halloran, as i hope to be saved!' 'i did not know mrs. petito was an acquaintance of yours, gentlemen,' said mr. reynolds, smiling shrewdly. count o'halloran was too polite to deny his acquaintance with a lady who challenged it by thus naming him; but he had not the slightest recollection of her, though it seems he had met her on the stairs when he visited lady dashfort at killpatrickstown. lord colambre was 'indeed undeniably an old aquaintance:' and as soon as she had recovered from her first natural start and vulgar exclamation, she with very easy familiarity hoped 'my lady clonbrony, and my lord, and miss nugent, and all her friends in the family, were well;' and said, 'she did not know whether she was to congratulate his lordship or not upon miss broadhurst, my lady berryl's marriage, but she should soon have to hope for his lordship's congratulations for another marriage in her present family--lady isabel to colonel heathcock, who has come in for a large portion, and they are buying the wedding clothes--sights of clothes--and the di'monds, this day; and lady dashfort and my lady isabel sent me especially, sir, to you, mr. reynolds, and to tell you, sir, before anybody else; and to hope the cheese come safe up again at last; and to ask whether the iceland moss agrees with your chocolate, and is palatable; it's the most diluent thing upon the universal earth, and the most tonic and fashionable--the dutches of torcaster takes it always for breakfast, and lady st. james' too is quite a convert, and i hear the duke of v--takes it too.' 'and the devil may take it too, for anything that i care,' said old reynolds. 'oh, my dear, dear sir! you are so refractory a patient.' 'i am no patient at all, ma'am, and have no patience either; i am as well as you are, or my lady dashfort either, and hope, god willing, long to continue so.' mrs. petito smiled aside at lord colambre, to mark her perception of the man's strangeness. then, in a cajoling voice, addressing herself to the old gentleman-- 'long, long, i hope, to continue so, if heaven grants my daily and nightly prayers, and my lady dashfort's also. so, mr. reynolds, if the ladies' prayers are of any avail, you ought to be purely, and i suppose ladies' prayers have the precedency in efficacy. but it was not of prayers and deathbed affairs i came commissioned to treat--not of burials, which heaven above forbid, but of weddings my diplomacy was to speak; and to premise my lady dashfort would have come herself in her carriage, but is hurried out of her senses, and my lady isabel could not in proper modesty; so they sent me as their double to hope you, my dear mr. reynolds, who is one of the family relations, will honour the wedding with your presence.' 'it would be no honour, and they know that as well as i do,' said the intractable mr. reynolds. 'it will be no advantage, either; but that they do not know as well as i do. mrs. petito, to save you and your lady all trouble about me in future, please to let my lady dashfort know that i have just received and read the certificate of my son captain reynolds's marriage with miss st. omar. i have acknowledged the marriage. better late than never; and to-morrow morning, god willing, shall set out with this young nobleman for buxton, where i hope to see, and intend publicly to acknowledge, my grand-daughter--provided she will acknowledge me.' 'crimini!' exclaimed mrs. petito, 'what new turns are here! well, sir, i shall tell my lady of the metamorphoses that have taken place, though by what magic (as i have not the honour to deal in the black art) i can't guess. but, since it seems annoying and inopportune, i shall take my finale, and shall thus have a verbal p.p.c.--as you are leaving town, it seems, for buxton so early in the morning. my lord colambre, if i see rightly into a millstone, as i hope and believe i do on the present occasion, i have to congratulate your lordship (haven't i?) upon something like a succession, or a windfall, in this denewment. and i beg you'll make my humble respects acceptable to the ci-devant miss grace nugent that was; and i won't derrogate her by any other name in the interregnum, as i am persuaded it will only be a temporary name, scarce worth assuming, except for the honour of the public adoption; and that will, i'm confident, be soon exchanged for a viscount's title, or i have no sagacity nor sympathy. i hope i don't (pray don't let me) put you to the blush, my lord.' lord colambre would not have let her, if he could have helped it. 'count o'halloran, your most obedient! i had the honour of meeting you at killpatrickstown,' said mrs. petito, backing to the door, and twitching her shawl. she stumbled, nearly fell down, over the large dog--caught by the door, and recovered herself. hannibal rose and shook his ears. 'poor fellow! you are of my acquaintance too.' she would have stroked his head; but hannibal walked off indignant, and so did she. thus ended certain hopes; for mrs. petito had conceived that her diplomacy might be turned to account; that in her character of an ambassadress, as lady dashfort's double, by the aid of iceland moss in chocolate, flattery properly administered; that, by bearing with all her dear mr. reynolds's oddnesses and roughneses, she might in time--that is to say, before he made a new will become his dear mrs. petito; or (for stranger things have happened and do happen every day) his dear mrs. reynolds! mrs. petito, however, was good at a retreat; and she flattered herself that at least nothing of this underplot had appeared; and at all events she secured by her services in this embassy, the long-looked-for object of her ambition, lady dashfort's scarlet velvet gown--'not yet a thread the worse for the wear!' one cordial look at this comforted her for the loss of her expected octogenaire; and she proceeded to discomfit her lady, by repeating the message with which strange old mr. reynolds had charged her. so ended all lady dashfort's hopes of his fortune. since the death of his youngest son, she had been indefatigable in her attentions, and sanguine in her hopes; the disappointment affected both her interest and her pride, as an intrigante. it was necessary, however, to keep her feelings to herself; for if heathcock should hear anything of the matter before the articles were signed, he might 'be off!'--so she put him and lady isabel into her coach directly--drove to gray's, to make sure at all events of the jewels. in the meantime count o'halloran and lord colambre, delighted with the result of their visit, took leave of mr. reynolds, after having arranged the journey, and appointed the hour for setting off the next day. lord colambre proposed to call upon mr. reynolds in the evening, and introduce his father, lord clonbrony; but mr. reynolds said-- 'no, no! i'm not ceremonious. i have given you proofs enough of that, i think, in the short time we've been already acquainted. time enough to introduce your father to me when we are in a carriage, going our journey; then we can talk, and get acquainted; but merely to come this evening in a hurry, and say, "lord clonbrony, mr. reynolds;--mr. reynolds, lord clonbrony," and then bob our two heads at one another, and scrape one foot back, and away!--where's the use of that nonsense at my time of life, or at any time of life? no, no! we have enough to do without that, i daresay.--good morning to you, count o'halloran! i thank you heartily. from the first moment i saw you, i liked you; lucky too that you brought your dog with you! 'twas hannibal made me first let you in; i saw him over the top of the blind.--hannibal, my good fellow! i'm more obliged to you than you can guess.' 'so are we all,' said lord colambre. hannibal was well patted, and then they parted. in returning home they met sir james brooke. 'i told you,' said sir james, 'i should be in london almost as soon as you. have you found old reynolds!' 'just come from him.' 'how does your business prosper! i hope as well as mine.' a history of all that had passed up to the present moment was given, and hearty congratulations received. 'where are you going now, sir james?--cannot you come with us?' said lord colambre and the count. 'impossible,' replied sir james;--'but, perhaps, you can come with me--i'm going to gray's, to give some old family diamonds, either to be new set or exchanged. count o'halloran, i know you are a judge of these things; pray, come and give me your opinion.' 'better consult your bride elect!' said the count. 'no; she knows little of the matter--and cares less,' replied sir james. 'not so this bride elect, or i mistake her much,' said the count, as they passed by the window and saw lady isabel, who, with lady dashfort, had been holding consultation deep with the jeweller; and heathcock, playing personnage muet. lady dashfort, who had always, as old reynolds expressed it, 'her head upon her shoulders'--presence of mind where her interests were concerned--ran to the door before the count and lord colambre could enter, giving a hand to each--as if they had all parted the best friends in the world. 'how do? how do?--give you joy! give me joy! and all that. but mind! not a word,' said she, laying her finger upon her lips--'not a word before heathcock of old reynolds, or of the best part of the old fool,--his fortune!' the gentlemen bowed, in sign of submission to her ladyship's commands; and comprehended that she feared heathcock might be off, if the best part of his bride (her fortune, or her expectations) were lowered in value or in prospect. 'how low is she reduced,' whispered lord colambre, 'when such a husband is thought a prize--and to be secured by a manoeuvre!' he sighed. 'spare that generous sigh!' said sir james brooke; 'it is wasted.' lady isabel, as they approached, turned from a mirror, at which she was trying on a diamond crescent. her face clouded at sight of count o'halloran and lord colambre, and grew dark as hatred when she saw sir james brooke. she walked away to the farther end of the shop, and asked one of the shopmen the price of a diamond necklace which lay upon the counter. the man said, 'he really did not know; it belonged to lady oranmore; it had just been new set for one of her ladyship's daughters, who is going to be married to sir james brooke--one of the gentlemen, my lady, who are just come in.' then, calling to his master, he asked him the price of the necklace; he named the value, which was considerable. 'i really thought lady oranmore and her daughters were vastly too philosophical to think of diamonds,' said lady isabel to her mother, with a sort of sentimental sneer in her voice and countenance. 'but it is some comfort to me to find, in these pattern-women, philosophy and love do not so wholly engross the heart, that they "feel every vanity in fondness lost."' ''twould be difficult, in some cases,' thought many present. ''pon honour, di'monds are cursed expensive things, i know!' said heathcock. 'but, be that as it may,' whispered he to the lady, though loud enough to be heard by others, 'i've laid a damned round wager, that no woman's diamonds married this winter, under a countess, in lon'on, shall eclipse lady isabel heathcock's!--and mr. gray here's to be judge.' lady isabel paid for this promise one of her sweetest smiles; with one of those smiles which she had formerly bestowed upon lord colambre, and which he had once fancied expressed so much sensibility--such discriminative and delicate application. our hero felt so much contempt, that he never wasted another sigh of pity for her degradation. lady dashfort came up to him as he was standing alone; and, whilst the count and sir james were settling about the diamonds-- 'my lord colambre,' said she, in a low voice, 'i know your thoughts, and i could moralise as well as you, if i did not prefer laughing--you are right enough; and so am i, and so is isabel; we are all right. for look here: women have not always the liberty of choice, and therefore they can't be expected to have always the power of refusal.' the mother, satisfied with her convenient optimism, got into her carriage with her daughter, her daughter's diamonds, and her precious son-in-law, her daughter's companion for life. 'the more i see,' said count o'halloran to lord colambre, as they left the shop, 'the more i find reason to congratulate you upon your escape, my dear lord.' 'i owe it not to my own wit or wisdom,' said lord colambre; 'but much to love, and much to friendship,' added he, turning to sir james brooke; 'here was the friend who early warned me against the siren's voice; who, before i knew lady isabel, told me what i have since found to be true, that, 'two passions alternately govern her fate--<br /> her business is love, but her pleasure is hate.'<br /> 'that is dreadfully severe, sir james,' said count o'halloran; 'but i am afraid it is just.' 'i am sure it is just, or i would not have said it,' replied sir james brooke. 'for the foibles of the sex, i hope, i have as much indulgence as any man, and for the errors of passion as much pity; but i cannot repress the indignation, the abhorrence i feel against women, cold and vain, who use their wit and their charms only to make others miserable.' lord colambre recollected at this moment lady isabel's look and voice, when she declared that 'she would let her little finger be cut off to purchase the pleasure of inflicting on lady de cresey, for one hour, the torture of jealousy.' 'perhaps,' continued sir james brooke, 'now that i am going to marry into an irish family, i may feel, with peculiar energy, disapprobation of this mother and daughter on another account; but you, lord colambre, will do me the justice to recollect that, before i had any personal interest in the country, i expressed, as a general friend to ireland, antipathy to those who return the hospitality they received from a warm-hearted people, by publicly setting the example of elegant sentimental hypocrisy, or daring disregard of decorum, by privately endeavouring to destroy the domestic peace of families, on which, at last, public as well as private virtue and happiness depend. i do rejoice, my dear lord colambre, to hear you say that i had any share in saving you from the siren; and now, i will never speak of these ladies more. i am sorry you cannot stay in town to see--but why should i be sorry--we shall meet again, i trust, and i shall introduce you; and you, i hope, will introduce me to a very different charmer. farewell!--you have my warm good wishes wherever you go.' sir james turned off quickly to the street in which lady oranmore lived, and lord colambre had not time to tell him that he knew and admired his intended bride. count o'halloran promised to do this for him. 'and now,' said the good count, 'i am to take leave of you; and i assure you i do it with so much reluctance that nothing less than positive engagements to stay in town would prevent me from setting off with you to-morrow; but i shall be soon, very soon, at liberty to return to ireland; and clonbrony castle, if you will give me leave, i will see before i see halloran castle.' lord colambre joyfully thanked his friend for this promise. 'nay, it is to indulge myself. i long to see you happy--long to behold the choice of such a heart as yours. pray do not steal a march upon me--let me know in time. i will leave everything--even the siege of--for your wedding. but i trust i shall be in time.' 'assuredly you will, my dear count; if ever that wedding--' 'if,' repeated the count. 'if,' repeated lord colambre. 'obstacles which, when we last parted, appeared to me invincible, prevented my having ever even attempted to make an impression on the heart of the woman i love; and if you knew her, count, as well as i do, you would know that her love could "not unsought be won."' 'of that i cannot doubt, or she would not be your choice; but when her love is sought, we have every reason to hope,' said the count, smiling, 'that it may, because it ought to be won by tried honour and affection. i only require to be left in hope.' 'well, i leave you hope,' said lord colambre; 'miss nugent--miss reynolds, i should say, has been in the habit of considering a union with me as impossible; my mother early instilled this idea into her mind. miss nugent thought that duty forbad her to think of me; she told me so: i have seen it in all her conduct and manners. the barriers of habit, the ideas of duty, cannot, ought not, to be thrown down or suddenly changed in a well-regulated female mind. and you, i am sure, know enough of the best female hearts, to be aware that time--' 'well, well, let this dear good charmer take her own time, provided there's none given to affectation, or prudery, or coquetry; and from all these, of course, she must be free; and of course i must be content. adieu au revoir.' chapter xvii as lord colambre was returning home, he was overtaken by sir terence o'fay. 'well, my lord,' cried sir terence, out of breath, 'you have led me a pretty dance all over the town; here's a letter somewhere down in my safe pocket for you, which has cost me trouble enough. phoo! where is it now?--it's from miss nugent,' said he, holding up the letter. the direction to grosvenor square, london, had been scratched out; and it had been re-directed by sir terence to the lord viscount colambre, at sir james brooke's, bart., brookwood, huntingdonshire, or elsewhere, with speed. 'but the more haste the worse speed; for away it went to brookwood, huntingdonshire, where i knew, if anywhere, you was to be found; but, as fate and the post would have it, there the letter went coursing after you, while you were running round, and back and forwards, and everywhere, i understand, to toddrington and wrestham, and where not, through all them english places, where there's no cross-post; so i took it for granted that it found its way to the dead-letter office, or was sticking up across a pane in the d--d postmaster's window at huntingdon, for the whole town to see, and it a love-letter, and some puppy to claim it, under false pretence; and you all the time without it, and it might breed a coolness betwixt you and miss nugent.' 'but, my dear sir terence, give me the letter now you have me.' 'oh, my dear lord, if you knew what a race i have had, missing you here by five minutes, and there by five seconds--but i have you at last, and you have it--and i'm paid this minute for all i liquidated of my substance, by the pleasure i have in seeing you crack the seal and read it. but take care you don't tumble over the orange woman--orange barrows are a great nuisance, when one's studying a letter in the streets of london, or the metropolis. but never heed; stick to my arm, and i'll guide you, like a blind man, safe through the thick of them.' miss nugent's letter, which lord colambre read in spite of the jostling of passengers, and the incessant talking of sir terence, was as follows:-- let me not be the cause of banishing you from your home and your country, where you would do so much good, and make so many happy. let me not be the cause of your breaking your promise to your mother; of your disappointing my dear aunt, so cruelly, who has complied with all our wishes, and who sacrifices, to oblige us, her favourite tastes. how could she ever be happy in ireland--how could clonbrony castle be a home to her, without her son? if you take away all she had of amusement and pleasure, as it is called, are not you bound to give her, in their stead, that domestic happiness, which she can enjoy only with you, and by your means? if, instead of living with her, you go into the army, she will be in daily, nightly anxiety and alarm about you; and her son will, instead of being a comfort, be a source of torment to her. i will hope that you will do now, as you have always hitherto done, on every occasion where i have seen you act, what is right, and just, and kind. come here on the day you promised my aunt you would; before that time i shall be in cambridgeshire, with my friend lady berryl; she is so good as to come to buxton for me--i shall remain with her, instead of returning to ireland. i have explained my reasons to my dear aunt--could i have any concealment from her, to whom, from my earliest childhood, i owe everything that kindness and affection could give? she is satisfied--she consents to my living henceforward with lady berryl. let me have the pleasure of seeing, by your conduct, that you approve of mine.--your affectionate cousin and friend, grace nugent. this letter, as may be imagined by those who, like him, are capable of feeling honourable and generous conduct, gave our hero exquisite pleasure. poor, good-natured sir terence o'fay enjoyed his lordship's delight; and forgot himself so completely, that he never even inquired whether lord colambre had thought of an affair on which he had spoken to him some time before, and which materially concerned sir terence's interest. the next morning, when the carriage was at the door, and sir terence was just taking leave of his friend lord clonbrony, and actually in tears, wishing them all manner of happiness, though he said there was none left now in london, or the wide world, even, for him--lord colambre went up to him, and said, 'sir terence, you have never inquired whether i have done your business?' 'oh, my dear, i'm not thinking of that now--time enough by the post--i can write after you; but my thoughts won't turn for me to business now no matter.' 'your business is done,' replied lord colambre. 'then i wonder how you could think of it, with all you had upon your mind and heart. when anything's upon my heart, good morning to my head, it's not worth a lemon. good-bye to you, and thank you kindly, and all happiness attend you.' 'good-bye to you, sir terence o'fay,' said lord clonbrony; 'and, since it's so ordered, i must live without you.' 'oh! you'll live better without me! my lord; i am not a good liver, i know, nor the best of all companions for a nobleman, young or old; and now you'll be rich, and not put to your shifts and your wits, what would i have to do for you?--sir terence o'fay, you know, was only the poor nobleman's friend, and you'll never want to call upon him again, thanks to your jewel, your pitt's-di'mond of a son there. so we part here, and depend upon it you're better without me--that's all my comfort, or my heart would break. the carriage is waiting this long time, and this young lover's itching to be off. god bless you both!--that's my last word.' they called in red lion square, punctual to the moment, on old mr. reynolds, but his window-shutters were shut; he had been seized in the night with a violent fit of the gout, which, as he said, held him fast by the leg. 'but here,' said he, giving lord colambre a letter, 'here's what will do your business without me. take this written acknowledgment i have penned for you, and give my grand-daughter her father's letter to read--it would touch a heart of stone--touched mine--wish i could drag the mother back out of her grave, to do her justice--all one now. you see at last i'm not a suspicious rascal, however, for i don't suspect you of palming a false grand-daughter upon me.' 'will you,' said lord colambre, 'give your grand-daughter leave to come up to town to you, sir? you would satisfy yourself, at least, as to what resemblance she may bear to her father; miss reynolds will come instantly, and she will nurse you.' 'no, no; i won't have her come. if she comes, i won't see her--shan't begin by nursing me--not selfish. as soon as i get rid of this gout, i shall be my own man, and young again, and i'll soon be after you across the sea, that shan't stop me; i'll come to--what's the name of your place in ireland? and see what likeness i can find to her poor father in this grand-daughter of mine, that you puffed so finely yesterday. and let me see whether she will wheedle me as finely as mrs. petito would. don't get ready your marriage settlements, do you hear, till you have seen my will, which i shall sign at--what's the name of your place? write it down there; there's pen and ink; and leave me, for the twinge is coming, and i shall roar.' 'will you permit me, sir, to leave my own servant with you to take care of you? i can answer for his attention and fidelity.' 'let me see his face, and i'll tell you.' lord colambre's servant was summoned. 'yes, i like his face. god bless you!--leave me.' lord colambre gave his servant a charge to bear with mr. reynolds's rough manner and temper, and to pay the poor old gentleman every possible attention. then our hero proceeded with his father on his journey, and on this journey nothing happened worthy of note. on his first perusal of the letter from grace, lord colambre had feared that she would have left buxton with lady berryl before he could reach it; but, upon recollection, he hoped that the few lines he had written, addressed to his mother and miss nugent, with the assurance that he should be with them on wednesday, would be sufficient to show her that some great change had happened, and consequently sufficient to prevent her from quitting her aunt, till she could know whether such a separation would be necessary. he argued wisely, more wisely than grace had reasoned; for, notwithstanding this note, she would have left buxton before his arrival, but for lady berryl's strength of mind, and positive determination not to set out with her till lord colambre should arrive to explain. in the interval, poor grace was, indeed, in an anxious state of suspense; and her uncertainty, whether she was doing right or wrong, by staying to see lord colambre, tormented her most. 'my dear, you cannot help yourself; be quiet,' said lady berryl; 'i will take the whole upon my conscience; and i hope my conscience may never have anything worse to answer for.' grace was the first person who, from her window, saw lord colambre, the instant the carriage drove to the door. she ran to her friend lady berryl's apartment--'he is come!--now, take me away!' 'not yet, my sweet friend! lie down upon this sofa, if you please; and keep yourself tranquil, whilst i go and see what you ought to do; and depend upon me for a true friend, in whose mind, as in your own, duty is the first object.' 'i depend on you entirely,' said grace, sinking down on the sofa; 'and you see i obey you!' 'many thanks to you for lying down, when you can't stand.' lady berryl went to lady clonbrony's apartment; she was met by sir arthur. 'come, my love! come quick!--lord colambre is arrived.' 'i know it; and does he go to ireland? speak instantly, that i may tell grace nugent.' 'you can tell her nothing yet, my love; for we know nothing. lord colambre will not say a word till you come; but i know, by his countenance, that he has good and extraordinary news.' they passed rapidly along the passage to lady clonbrony's room. 'oh, my dear, dear lady berryl, come! or i shall die with impatience,' cried lady clonbrony, in a voice and manner between laughing and crying. 'there, now you have congratulated, are very happy, and very glad, and all that--now, for mercy's sake, sit down, lord clonbrony! for heaven's sake, sit down--beside me here--or anywhere! now, colambre, begin; and tell us all at once!' but as nothing is so tedious as a twice-told tale, lord colambre's narrative need not here be repeated. he began with count o'halloran's visit, immediately after lady clonbrony had left london; and went through the history of the discovery that captain reynolds was the husband of miss st. omar, and the father of grace; the dying acknowledgment of his marriage; the packet delivered by count o'halloran to the careless ambassador--how recovered, by the assistance of his executor, sir james brooke; the travels from wrestham to toddrington, and thence to red lion square; the interview with old reynolds, and its final result; all was related as succinctly as the impatient curiosity of lord colambre's auditors could desire. 'oh, wonder upon wonder! and joy upon joy!' cried lady clonbrony. 'so my darling grace is as legitimate as i am, and an heiress after all. where is she? where is she? in your room, lady berryl?--oh, colambre! why wouldn't you let her be by?--lady berryl, do you know, he would not let me send for her, though she was the person of all others most concerned!' 'for that very reason, ma'am; and that lord colambre was quite right, i am sure you must be sensible, when you recollect, that grace has no idea that she is not the daughter of mr. nugent; she has no suspicion that the breath of blame ever lighted upon her mother. this part of the story cannot be announced to her with too much caution; and, indeed, her mind has been so much harassed and agitated, and she is at present so far from strong, that great delicacy--' 'true! very true, lady berryl,' interrupted lady clonbrony; 'and i'll be as delicate as you please about it afterwards; but, in the first and foremost place, i must tell her the best part of the story--that she's an heiress, madam, never killed anybody!' so, darting through all opposition, lady clonbrony made her way into the room where grace was lying--'yes, get up! get up! my own grace, and be surprised--well you may!--you are an heiress, after all.' 'am i, my dear aunt?' said grace. 'true, as i'm lady clonbrony--and a very great heiress--and no more colambre's cousin than lady berryl here. so now begin and love him as fast as you please--i give my consent--and here he is.' lady clonbrony turned to her son, who just appeared at the door. 'oh, mother! what have you done?' 'what have i done?' cried lady clonbrony, following her son's eyes:--'lord bless me!--grace fainted dead--lady berryl? oh, what have i done? my dear lady berryl, what shall we do?' 'there! her colour's coming again,' said lord clonbrony; 'come away, my dear lady clonbrony, for the present, and so will i--though i long to talk to the darling girl myself; but she is not equal to it yet.' when grace came to herself, she first saw lady berryl leaning over her, and, raising herself a little, she said-- 'what has happened?--i don't know yet--i don't know whether i am happy or not.' then seeing lord colambre, she sat quite upright. 'you received my letter, cousin, i hope?--do you go to ireland with my aunt?' 'yes; and with you, i hope, my beloved friend,' said colambre; 'you once assured me that i had such a share of your esteem and affection, that the idea of my accompanying you to ireland was not disagreeable to you; you flattered me that i formed part of your agreeable associations with home.' 'yes--sit down by me, won't you, my dear lady berryl--but then i considered you as my cousin, lord colambre, and i thought you felt the same towards me; but now--' 'but now, my charming grace,' said lord colambre, kneeling beside her, and taking her hand, 'no invincible obstacle opposes my passion--no invincible obstacle, did i say? let me hope that i may say no obstacle, but what depends on the change in the nature of your sentiments. you heard my mother's consent; you saw her joy.' 'i scarcely knew what i heard or saw,' said grace, blushing deeply, 'or what i now see and hear; but of this i feel secure, before i comprehend the mystery, before you explain to me the causes of your--change of conduct, that you have never been actuated by caprice, but governed by wise and honourable motives. as to my going to ireland, or remaining with lady berryl, she has heard all the circumstances--she is my friend and yours--a better friend cannot be; to her i appeal--she will decide for me what i ought to do; she promised to take me from hence instantly, if i ought to go.' 'i did; and i would do so without hesitation, if any duty or any prudence required it. but, after having heard all the circumstances, i can only tell you that i willingly resign the pleasure of your company.' 'but tell her, my dear lady berryl,' said lord colambre, 'excellent friend as you are--explain to her you can, better than any of us, all that is to be known; let her know my whole conduct, and then let her decide for herself, and i shall submit to her decision. it is difficult, my dear grace, to restrain the expression of love, of passion, such as i feel; but i have some power over myself--you know it--and this i can promise you, that your affections shall be free as air--that: no wishes of friends, no interference, nothing but your own unbiassed choice will i allow, if my life depended upon it, to operate in my favour. be assured, my dearest grace,' added he, smiling as he retired, 'you shall have time to know whether you are happy or not.' the moment he had left the room, she threw herself into the arms of her friend, and her heart, oppressed with various feelings, was relieved by tears--a species of relief to which she was not habituated. 'i am happy,' said she; 'but what was the invincible obstacle?--what was the meaning of my aunt's words?--and what was the cause of her joy? explain all this to me, my dear friend; for i am still as if i were in a dream.' with all the delicacy which lady clonbrony deemed superfluous lady berryl explained. nothing could surpass the astonishment of grace, on first learning that mr. nugent was not her father. when she was told of the stigma that had been cast on her birth; the suspicions, the disgrace, to which her mother had been subjected for so many years--that mother, whom she had so loved and respected; who had, with such care, instilled into the mind of her daughter the principles of virtue and religion; that mother whom grace had always seen the example of every virtue she taught; on whom her daughter never suspected that the touch of blame, the breath of scandal, could rest--grace could express her sensations only by repeating, in tones of astonishment, pathos, indignation--'my mother!--my mother!--my mother!' for some time she was incapable of attending to any other idea, or of feeling any other sensations. when her mind was able to admit the thought, her friend soothed her, by recalling the expressions of lord colambre's love--the struggle by which he had been agitated, when he fancied a union with her opposed by an invincible obstacle. grace sighed, and acknowledged that, in prudence, it ought to have been an invincible obstacle--she admired the firmness of his decision, the honour with which he had acted towards her. one moment she exclaimed, 'then, if i had been the daughter of a mother who had conducted herself ill, he never would have trusted me!' the next moment she recollected, with pleasure, the joy she had just seen in his eyes--the affection, the passion, that spoke in every word and look; then dwelt upon the sober certainty, that all obstacles were removed. 'and no duty opposes my loving him! and my aunt wishes it! my kind aunt! and i may think of him.--you, my best friend, would not assure me of this if you were not certain of the truth.--oh, how can i thank you for all your kindness, and for that best of all kindness, sympathy. you see, your calmness, your strength of mind supports and tranquillises me. i would rather have heard all i have just learnt from you than from any other person living. i could not have borne it from any one else. no one else knows my mind so perfectly--yet my aunt is very good,--and my dear uncle! should not i go to him?--but he is not my uncle, she is not my aunt. i cannot bring myself to think that they are not my relations, and that i am nothing to them.' 'you may be everything to them, my dear grace,' said lady berryl; 'whenever you please, you may be their daughter.' grace blushed, and smiled, and sighed, and was consoled. but then she recollected her new relation. mr. reynolds, her grandfather, whom she had never seen, who had for years disowned her--treated her mother with injustice. she could scarcely think of him with complaisancy; yet, when his age, his sufferings, his desolate state, were represented, she pitied him; and, faithful to her strong sense of duty, would have gone instantly to offer him every assistance and attention in her power. lady berryl assured her that mr. reynolds had positively forbidden her going to him; and that he had assured lord colambre he would not see her if she went to him. after such rapid and varied emotions, poor grace desired repose, and her friend took care that it should be secured to her for the remainder of the day. in the meantime, lord clonbrony had kindly and judiciously employed his lady in a discussion about certain velvet furniture, which grace had painted for the drawing-room at clonbrony castle. in lady clonbrony's mind, as in some bad paintings, there was no keeping; all objects, great and small, were upon the same level. the moment her son entered the room, her ladyship exclaimed-- 'everything pleasant at once! here's your father tells me, grace's velvet furniture's all packed; really, soho's the best man in the world of his kind, and the cleverest--and so, after all, my dear colambre, as i always hoped and prophesied, at last you will marry an heiress.' 'and terry,' said lord clonbrony, 'will win his wager from mordicai.' 'terry!' repeated lady clonbrony, 'that odious terry!--i hope, my lord, that he is not to be one of my comforts in ireland.' 'no, my dear mother; he is much better provided for than we could have expected. one of my father's first objects was to prevent him from being any encumbrance to you. we consulted him as to the means of making him happy; and the knight acknowledged that he had long been casting a sheep's eye at a little snug place, that will soon be open, in his native country--the chair of assistant barrister at the sessions. "assistant barrister!" said my father; "but, my dear terry, you have all your life been evading the laws, and very frequently breaking the peace; do you think this has qualified you peculiarly for being a guardian of the laws?" sir terence replied, "yes, sure; set a thief to catch a thief is no bad maxim. and did not mr. colquhoun, the scotchman, get himself made a great justice, by his making all the world as wise as himself, about thieves of all sorts, by land and by water, and in the air too, where he detected the mud-larks?--and is not barrington chief-justice of botany bay?" 'my father now began to be seriously alarmed, lest sir terence should insist upon his using his interest to make him an assistant barrister. he was not aware that five years' practice at the bar was a necessary accomplishment for this office; when, fortunately for all parties, my good friend, count o'halloran, helped us out of the difficulty, by starting an idea full of practical justice. a literary friend of the count's had been for some time promised a lucrative situation under government; but, unfortunately, he was a man of so much merit and ability, that they could not find employment for him at home, and they gave him a commission, i should rather say a contract, abroad, for supplying the army with hungarian horses. now the gentleman had not the slightest skill in horseflesh; and, as sir terence is a complete jockey, the count observed that he would be the best possible deputy for his literary friend. we warranted him to be a thoroughgoing friend; and i do think the coalition will be well for both parties. the count has settled it all, and i left sir terence comfortably provided for, out of your way, my dear mother, and as happy as he could be, when parting from my father.' lord colambre was assiduous in engaging his mother's attention upon any subject which could for the present draw her thoughts away from her young friend; but, at every pause in the conversation, her ladyship repeated, 'so grace is an heiress, after all--so, after all, they know they are not cousins! well! i prefer grace, a thousand times over, to any other heiress in england. no obstacle, no objection. they have my consent. i always prophesied colambre would marry an heiress; but why not marry directly?' her ardour and impatience to hurry things forward seemed now likely to retard the accomplishment of her own wishes; and lord clonbrony, who understood rather more of the passion of love than his lady ever had felt or understood, saw the agony into which she threw her son, and felt for his darling grace. with a degree of delicacy and address of which few would have supposed lord clonbrony capable, his lordship co-operated with his son in endeavours to keep lady clonbrony quiet, and to suppress the hourly thanksgivings of grace's turning out an heiress. on one point, however, she vowed she would not be overruled--she would have a splendid wedding at clonbrony castle, such as should become an heir and heiress; and the wedding, she hoped, would be immediately on their return to ireland; she should announce the thing to her friends directly on her arrival at clonbrony castle. 'my dear,' said lord clonbrony, 'we must wait, in the first place, the pleasure of old mr. reynolds's fit of the gout.' 'why, that's true, because of his will,' said her ladyship; 'but a will's soon made, is not it? that can't be much delay.' 'and then there must be settlements,' said lord clonbrony; 'they take time. lovers, like all the rest of mankind, must submit to the law's delay. in the meantime, my dear, as these buxton baths agree with you so well, and as grace does not seem to be over and above strong for travelling a long journey, and as there are many curious and beautiful scenes of nature here in derbyshire--matlock, and the wonders of the peak, and so on--which the young people would be glad to see together, and may not have another opportunity soon--why not rest ourselves a little? for another reason, too,' continued his lordship, bringing together as many arguments as he could--for he had often found, that though lady clonbrony was a match for any single argument, her understanding could be easily overpowered by a number, of whatever sort--'besides, my dear, here's sir arthur and lady berryl come to buxton on purpose to meet us; and we owe them some compliment, and something more than compliment, i think; so i don't see why we should be in a hurry to leave them, or quit buxton--a few weeks sooner or later can't signify--and clonbrony castle will be getting all the while into better order for us. burke is gone down there; and if we stay here quietly, there will be time for the velvet furniture to get there before us, and to be unpacked, and up in the drawing-room.' 'that's true, my lord,' said lady clonbrony; 'and there is a great deal of reason in all you say--so i second that motion, as colambre, i see, subscribes to it.' they stayed some time in derbyshire, and every day lord clonbrony proposed some pleasant excursion, and contrived that the young people should be left to themselves, as mrs. broadhurst used so strenuously to advise; the recollection of whose authoritative maxims fortunately still operated upon lady clonbrony, to the great ease and advantage of the lovers. happy as a lover, a friend, a son; happy in the consciousness of having restored a father to respectability, and persuaded a mother to quit the feverish joys of fashion for the pleasures of domestic life; happy in the hope of winning the whole heart of the woman he loved, and whose esteem, he knew, he possessed and deserved; happy in developing every day, every hour, fresh charm in his destined bride--we leave our hero, returning to his native country. and we leave him with the reasonable expectation that he will support through life the promise of his early character; that his patriotic views will extend with his power to carry wishes into action; that his attachment to his warm-hearted countrymen will still increase upon further acquaintance; and that he will long diffuse happiness through the wide circle, which is peculiarly subject to the influence and example of a great resident irish proprietor. letter from larry to his brother, pat brady, at mr. mordicai's, coachmaker, london. my dear brother, yours of the th, inclosing the five pound note for my father, came safe to hand monday last; and with his thanks and blessing to you, he commends it to you herewith inclosed back again, on account of his being in no immediate necessity, nor likelihood to want in future, as you shall hear forthwith; but wants you over with all speed, and the note will answer for travelling charges; for we can't enjoy the luck it has pleased god to give us without yees: put the rest in your pocket, and read it when you've time. old nick's gone, and st. dennis along with him, to the place he come from--praise be to god! the ould lord has found him out in his tricks; and i helped him to that, through the young lord that i driv, as i informed you in my last, when he was a welchman, which was the best turn ever i did, though i did not know it no more than adam that time. so ould nick's turned out of the agency clean and clear; and the day after it was known, there was surprising great joy through the whole country; not surprising either, but just what you might, knowing him, rasonably expect. he (that is, old nick and st. dennis) would have been burnt that night--i mane, in effigy, through the town of clonbrony, but that the new man, mr. burke, come down that day too soon to stop it, and said, 'it was not becoming to trample on the fallen,' or something that way, that put an end to it; and though it was a great disappointment to many, and to me in particular, i could not but like the jantleman the better for it anyhow. they say, he is a very good jantleman, and as unlike old nick or the saint as can be; and takes no duty fowl, nor glove, nor sealing-money; nor asks duty work nor duty turf. well, when i was disappointed of the effigy, i comforted myself by making a bonfire of old nick's big rick of duty turf, which, by great luck, was out in the road, away from all dwelling-house, or thatch, or yards, to take fire; so no danger in life or objection. and such another blaze! i wished you'd seed it--and all the men, women, and children in the town and country, far and near, gathered round it, shouting and dancing like mad!--and it was light as day quite across the bog, as far as bartley finnigan's house. and i heard after, they seen it from all parts of the three counties, and they thought it was st. john's eve in a mistake--or couldn't make out what it was; but all took it in good part, for a good sign, and were in great joy. as for st. dennis and ould nick, an attorney had his foot upon em, with an habere a latitat, and three executions hanging over 'em; and there's the end of rogues! and a great example in the country. and--no more about it; for i can't be wasting more ink upon them that don't desarve it at my hands, when i want it for them that do, you shall see. so some weeks past, and there was great cleaning at clonbrony castle, and in the town of clonbrony; and the new agent's smart and clever; and he had the glaziers, and the painters, and the slaters up and down in the town wherever wanted; and you wouldn't know it again. thinks i, this is no bad sign! now, cock up your ears, pat! for the great news is coming, and the good. the master's come home--long life to him!--and family come home yesterday, all entirely! the ould lord and the young lord (ay, there's the man, paddy!), and my lady, and miss nugent. and i driv miss nugent's maid, that maid that was, and another; so i had the luck to be in it along wid 'em, and see all, from first to last. and first, i must tell you, my young lord colambre remembered and noticed me the minute he lit at our inn, and condescended to beckon at me out of the yard to him, and axed me--'friend larry,' says he, 'did you keep your promise?'--'my oath again' the whisky, is it?' says i. 'my lord, i surely did,' said i; which was true, as all the country knows i never tasted a drop since. 'and i'm proud to see your honour, my lord, as good as your word too, and back again among us. so then there was a call for the horses; and no more at that time passed betwix' my young lord and me, but that he pointed me out to the ould one, as i went off. i noticed and thanked him for it in my heart, though i did not know all the good was to come of it. well, no more of myself, for the present. ogh, it's i driv 'em well; and we all got to the great gate of the park before sunset, and as fine an evening as ever you see; with the sun shining on the tops of the trees, as the ladies noticed; the leaves changed, but not dropped, though so late in the season. i believe the leaves knew what they were about, and kept on, on purpose to welcome them; and the birds were singing, and i stopped whistling, that they might hear them; but sorrow bit could they hear when they got to the park gate, for there was such a crowd, and such a shout, as you never see--and they had the horses off every carriage entirely, and drew'em home, with, blessings, through the park. and, god bless 'em! when they got out, they didn't go shut themselves up in the great drawing-room, but went straight out to the tirrass, to satisfy the eyes and hearts that followed them. my lady laning on my young lord, and miss grace nugent that was, the beautifullest angel that ever you set eyes on, with the finest complexion and sweetest of smiles, laning upon the ould lord's arm, who had his hat off, bowing to all, and noticing the old tenants as he passed by name. oh, there was great gladness and tears in the midst; for joy i could scarce keep from myself. after a turn or two upon the tirrass, my lord colambre quit his mother's arm for a minute, and he come to the edge of the slope, and looked down and through all the crowd for some one. 'is it the widow o'neill, my lord?' says i; 'she's yonder, with the spectacles on her nose, betwixt her son and daughter, as usual.' then my lord beckoned, and they did not know which of the tree would stir; and then he gave tree beckons with his own finger, and they all tree came fast enough to the bottom of the slope forenent my lord; and he went down and helped the widow up (oh, he's the true jantleman), and brought 'em all tree up on the tirrass, to my lady and miss nugent; and i was up close after, that i might hear, which wasn't manners, but i couldn't help it. so what he said i don't well know, for i could not get near enough, after all. but i saw my lady smile very kind, and take the widow o'neill by the hand, and then my lord colambre 'troduced grace to miss nugent, and there was the word namesake, and something about a check curtains; but, whatever it was, they was all greatly pleased; then my lord colambre turned and looked for brian, who had fell back, and took him with some commendation to my lord his father. and my lord the master said, which i didn't know till after, that they should have their house and farm at the ould rent; and at the surprise, the widow dropped down dead; and there was a cry as for ten berrings. 'be qui'te,' says i, 'she's only kilt for joy;' and i went and lift her up, for her son had no more strength that minute than the child new born; and grace trembled like a leaf, as white as the sheet, but not long, for the mother came to, and was as well as ever when i brought some water, which miss nugent handed to her with her own hand. 'that was always pretty and good, said the widow, laying her hand upon miss nugent, 'and kind and good to me and mine.' that minute there was music from below. the blind harper, o'neill, with his harp, that struck up 'gracey nugent.' and that finished, and my lord colambre smiling, with the tears standing in his eyes too, and the ould lord quite wiping his, i ran to the tirrass brink to bid o'neill play it again; but as i run, i thought i heard a voice call larry. 'who calls larry?' says i. 'my lord colambre calls you, larry,' says all at once; and four takes me by the shoulders and spins me round. 'there's my young lord calling you, larry--run for your life.' so i run back for my life, and walked respectful, with my hat in my hand, when i got near. 'put on your hat, my father desires it, says my lord colambre. the ould lord made a sign to that purpose, but was too full to speak. 'where's your father?' continues my young lord.--' he's very ould, my lord,' says i. 'i didn't ask you how ould he was,' says he; 'but where is he?'--'he's behind the crowd below, on account of his infirmities; he couldn't walk so fast as the rest, my lord,' says i; 'but his heart is with you, if not his body. 'i must have his body too, so bring him bodily before us; and this shall be your warrant for so doing,' said my lord, joking; for he knows the natur of us, paddy, and how we love a joke in our hearts, as well as if he had lived all his life in ireland; and by the same token will, for that rason, do what he pleases with us, and more maybe than a man twice as good, that never would smile on us. but i'm telling you of my father. 'i've a warrant for you, father,' says i; 'and must have you bodily before the justice, and my lord chief-justice.' so he changed colour a bit at first; but he saw me smile. 'and i've done no sin,' said he; 'and, larry, you may lead me now, as you led me all my life.' and up the slope he went with me as light as fifteen; and, when we got up, my lord clonbrony said, 'i am sorry an old tenant, and a good old tenant, as i hear you were, should have been turned out of your farm.' 'don't fret, it's no great matter, my lord,' said my father. 'i shall be soon out of the way; but if you would be so kind to speak a word for my boy here, and that i could afford, while the life is in me, bring my other boy back out of banishment--' 'then,' says my lord clonbrony, 'i'll give you and your sons three lives, or thirty-one years, from this day, of your former farm. return to it when you please.' 'and,' added my lord colambre, 'the flaggers, i hope, will be soon banished.' oh, how could i thank him--not a word could i proffer--but i know i clasped my two hands, and prayed for him inwardly. and my father was dropping down on his knees, but the master would not let him; and obsarved, that posture should only be for his god. and, sure enough, in that posture, when he was out of sight, we did pray for him that night, and will all our days. but, before we quit his presence, he called me back, and bid me write to my brother, and bring you back, if you've no objections, to your own country. so come, my dear pat, and make no delay, for joy's not joy complate till you're in it--my father sends his blessing, and peggy her love. the family entirely is to settle for good in ireland, and there was in the castle yard last night a bonfire made by my lord's orders of the ould yellow damask furniture, to plase my lady, my lord says. and the drawing-room, the butler was telling me, is new hung; and the chairs with velvet as white as snow, and shaded over with natural flowers, by miss nugent. oh! how i hope what i guess will come true, and i've rason to believe it will, for i dreamt in my bed last night it did. but keep yourself to yourself--that miss nugent (who is no more miss nugent, they say, but miss reynolds, and has a new-found grandfather, and is a big heiress, which she did not want in my eyes, nor in my young lord's), i've a notion will be sometime, and maybe sooner than is expected, my lady viscountess colambre--so haste to the wedding. and there's another thing: they say the rich ould grandfather's coming over;--and another thing, pat, you would not be out of the fashion--and you see it's growing the fashion not to be an absentee.-- your loving brother, larry brady.