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TALES AND NOVELS, VOLUME VIII

PATRONAGE, concluded; COMIC DRAMAS; LEONORA; AND LETTERS.

BY

MARIA EDGEWORTH.

IN TEN VOLUMES. WITH ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL.

PATRONAGE

CHAPTER XXXVI.

No less an event than Alfred's marriage, no event calling less imperatively
upon her feelings, could have recovered Lady Jane's sympathy for Caroline.
But Alfred Percy, who had been the restorer of her fortune, her friend in
adversity, what pain it would give him to find her, at the moment when he
might expect her congratulations, quarrelling with his sister--that sister,
too, who had left her home, where she was so happy, and Hungerford Castle,
where she was adored, on purpose to tend Lady Jane in sickness and
obscurity!

Without being put exactly into these words, or, perhaps, into any words,
thoughts such as these, with feelings of gratitude and affection, revived
for Caroline in Lady Jane's mind the moment she heard of Alfred's intended
marriage.

"Good young man!--Excellent friend!--Well, tell me all About it, _my
dear_."

It was the first time that her ladyship had said _my dear_ to Caroline
since the day of the fatal refusal.

Caroline was touched by this word of reconciliation--and the tears it
brought into her eyes completely overcame Lady Jane, who hastily wiped her
own.

"So, my dear Caroline--where were we? Tell me about your brother's
marriage--when is it to be?--How has it been brought about?--The last I
heard of the Leicesters was the good dean's death--I remember pitying them
very much--Were they not left in straitened circumstances, too? Will
Alfred have any fortune with Miss Leicester?--Tell me every thing--read me
his letters."

To go back to Dr. Leicester's death. For some months his preferments were
kept in abeyance. Many were named, or thought of, as likely to succeed him.
The deanery was in the gift of the crown, and as it was imagined that the
vicarage was also at the disposal of government, applications had poured
in, on all sides, for friends, and friends' friends, to the remotest link
of the supporters of ministry--But--to use their own elegant, phrase--the
hands of government were tied.

It seems that in consequence of some parliamentary interest, formerly given
opportunely, and in consideration of certain arrangements in his diocese,
to serve persons whom ministers were obliged to oblige, a promise had long
ago been given to Bishop Clay that his recommendation to the deanery should
be accepted on the next vacancy. The bishop, who had promised the living to
his sister's husband, now presented it to Mr. Buckhurst Falconer, with the
important addition of Dr. Leicester's deanery.

To become a dean was once the height of Buckhurst's ambition, that for
which in a moment of elation he prayed, scarcely hoping that his wishes
would ever be fulfilled: yet now that his wish was accomplished, and
that he had attained this height of his ambition, was he happy? No!--far
from it; farther than ever. How could he be happy--dissatisfied with his
conduct, and detesting his wife? In the very act of selling himself to this
beldam, he abhorred his own meanness; but he did not know how much reason
he should have to repent, till the deed was done. It was done in a hurry,
with all the precipitation of a man who hates himself for what he feels
forced to do. Unused to bargain and sale in any way, in marriage never
having thought of it before, Buckhurst did not take all precautions
necessary to make his sacrifice answer his own purpose. He could not
conceive the avaricious temper and habits of his lady, till he was hers
past redemption. Whatever accession of income he obtained from his
marriage, he lived up to; immediately, his establishment, his expenses,
surpassed his revenue. His wife would not pay or advance a shilling beyond
her stipulated quota to their domestic expenses. He could not hear the
parsimonious manner in which she would have had him live, or the shabby
style in which she received his friends. He was more profuse in proportion
as she was more niggardly; and whilst she scolded and grudged every penny
she paid, he ran in debt magnanimously for hundreds. When the living and
deanery came into his possession, the second year's fruits had been eaten
beforehand. Money he must have, and money his wife would not give--but
a litigious agent suggested to him a plan for raising it, by demanding
a considerable sum from the executors of the late Dr. Leicester, for
what is called _dilapidation_. The parsonage-house seemed to be in good
repair; but to make out charges of dilapidation was not difficult to
those who understood the business--and fifteen hundred pounds was the
charge presently made out against the executors of the late incumbent.
It was invidious, it was odious for the new vicar, in the face of his
parishioners, of all those who loved and respected his predecessor, to
begin by making such a demand--especially as it was well known that the
late dean had not saved any of the income of his preferment, but had
disposed of it amongst his parishioners as a steward for the poor. He had
left his family in narrow circumstances. They were proud of his virtues,
and not ashamed of the consequences. With dignity and ease they retrenched
their expenses; and after having lived as became the family of a dignitary
of the church, on quitting the parsonage, the widow and her niece retired
to a small habitation, suited to their altered circumstances, and lived
with respectable and respected economy. The charge brought against them by
the new dean was an unexpected blow. It was an extortion, to which Mrs.
Leicester would not submit--could not without injury to her niece, from
whose fortune the sum claimed, if yielded, must be deducted.

Alfred Percy, from the first moment of their distress, from the time of
good Dr. Leicester's death, had been assiduous in his attentions to Mrs.
Leicester; and by the most affectionate letters, and, whenever he could
get away from London, by his visits to her and to his Sophia, had proved
the warmth and constancy of his attachment Some months had now passed--he
urged his suit, and besought Sophia no longer to delay his happiness. Mrs.
Leicester wished that her niece should now give herself a protector and
friend, who might console her for the uncle she had lost. It was at this
period the _dilapidation charge_ was made. Mrs. Leicester laid the whole
statement before Alfred, declaring that for his sake, as well as for her
niece's, she was resolute to defend herself against injustice. Alfred could
scarcely bring himself to believe that Buckhurst Falconer had acted in the
manner represented, with a rapacity, harshness, and cruelty, so opposite to
his natural disposition. Faults, Alfred well knew that Buckhurst had; but
they were all, he thought, of quite a different sort from those of which he
now stood accused. What was to be done? Alfred was extremely averse from
going to law with a man who was his relation, for whom he had early felt,
and still retained, a considerable regard: yet he could not stand by, and
see the woman he loved, defrauded of nearly half the small fortune she
possessed. On the other hand, he was employed as a professional man, and
called upon to act. He determined, however, before he should, as a last
resource, expose the truth and maintain the right in a court of justice,
previously to try every means of conciliation in his power. To all his
letters the new dean answered evasively and unsatisfactorily, by referring
him to his attorney, into whose hands he said he had put the business, and
he knew and wished to hear nothing more about it. The attorney, Solicitor
Sharpe, was impracticable--Alfred resolved to see the dean himself; and
this, after much difficulty, he at length effected. He found the dean and
his lady tete-a-tete. Their raised voices suddenly stopped short as he
entered. The dean gave an angry look at his servant as Alfred came into the
room.

"Your servants," said Alfred, "told me that you were not at home, but I
told them that I knew the dean would be at home to an old friend."

"You are very good,--(said Buckhurst)--you do me a great deal of honour,"
said the dean.

Two different manners appeared in the same person: one natural--belonging
to his former, the other assumed, proper, as he thought, for his present
self, or rather for his present situation.

"Won't you be seated? I hope all our friends--" Mrs. Buckhurst, or, as she
was called, Mrs. Dean Falconer, made divers motions, with a very ugly chin,
and stood as if she thought there ought to be an introduction. The dean
knew it, but being ashamed to introduce her, determined against it. Alfred
stood in suspension, waiting their mutual pleasure.

"Won't you sit down, sir?" repeated the dean.

Down plumped Mrs. Falconer directly, and taking out her spectacles, as
if to shame her husband, by heightening the contrast of youth and age,
deliberately put them on; then drawing her table nearer, settled herself to
her work.

Alfred, who saw it to be necessary, determined to use his best address to
conciliate the lady.

"Mr. Dean, you have never yet done me the honour to introduce me to Mrs.
Falconer."

"I thought--I thought we had met before--since--Mrs. Falconer, Mr. Alfred
Percy."

The lady took off her spectacles, smiled, and adjusted herself, evidently
with an intention to be more agreeable. Alfred sat down by her work-table,
directed his conversation to her, and soon talked, or rather induced her to
talk herself into fine humour. Presently she retired to dress for dinner,
and "hoped Mr. Alfred Percy had no intention of running away--_she_ had a
well-aired bed to offer him."

The dean, though he cordially hated his lady, was glad, for his own sake,
to be relieved from her fits of crossness; and was pleased by Alfred's
paying attention to her, as this was a sort of respect to himself, and what
he seldom met with from those young men who had been his companions before
his marriage--they usually treated his lady with a neglect or ridicule
which reflected certainly upon her husband.

Alfred never yet had touched upon his business, and Buckhurst began to
think this was merely a friendly visit. Upon Alfred's observing some
alteration which had been lately made in the room in which they were
sitting, the dean took him to see other improvements in the house; in
pointing out these, and all the conveniences and elegancies about the
parsonage, Buckhurst totally forgot the _dilapidation suit_; and every
thing he showed and said tended unawares to prove that the house was in
the most perfect repair and best condition possible. Gradually, whatever
solemnity and beneficed pomp there had at first appeared in the dean's
manner, wore off, or was laid aside; and, except his being somewhat more
corpulent and rubicund than in early years, he appeared like the original
Buckhurst. His gaiety of heart, indeed, was gone, but some sparkles of his
former spirits remained.

"Here," said he, showing Alfred into his study, "here, as our good friend
Mr. _Blank_ said, when he showed us his study, '_Here_ is _where_ I read
all day long--quite snug--and nobody's a bit the wiser for it.'"

The dean seated himself in his comfortable arm-chair. "Try that chair,
Alfred, excellent for sleeping in at one's ease."

"To rest the cushion and soft dean invite."

"Ah!" said Alfred, "often have I sat in this room with my excellent friend,
Dr. Leicester!"

The new dean's countenance suddenly changed: but endeavouring to pass
it off with a jest, he said, "Ay, poor good old Leicester, he sleeps
for ever,--that's one comfort--to me--if not to you." But perceiving
that Alfred continued to look serious, the dean added some more proper
reflections in a tone of ecclesiastical sentiment, and with a sigh of
decorum--then rose, for he smelt that the _dilapidation suit_ was coming.

"Would not you like, Mr. Percy, to wash your hands before dinner?"

"I thank you, Mr. Dean, I must detain you a moment to speak to you on
business."

Black as Erebus grew the face of the dean--he had no resource but to
listen, for he knew it would come after dinner, if it did not come now; and
it was as well to have it alone in the study, where nobody might be a bit
the wiser.

When Alfred had stated the whole of what he had to say, which he did in as
few and strong words as possible, appealing to the justice and feelings
of Buckhurst--to the fears which the dean must have of being exposed, and
ultimately defeated, in a court of justice--"Mrs. Leicester," concluded he,
"is determined to maintain the suit, and has employed me to carry it on for
her."

"I should very little have expected," said the dean, "that Mr. Alfred Percy
would have been employed in such a way against me."

"Still less should I have expected that I could be called upon in such a
way against you," replied Alfred. "No one can feel it more than I do. The
object of my present visit is to try whether some accommodation may not be
made, which will relieve us both from the necessity of going to law, and
may prevent me from being driven to the performance of this most painful
professional duty."

"Duty! professional duty!" repeated Buckhurst: "as if I did not understand
all those _cloak-words_, and know how easy it is to put them on and off at
pleasure!"

"To some it may be, but not to me," said Alfred, calmly.

Anger started into Buckhurst's countenance: but conscious how inefficacious
it would be, and how completely he had laid himself open, the dean
answered, "You are the best judge, sir. But I trust--though I don't pretend
to understand the honour of lawyers--I trust, as a gentleman, you will not
take advantage against me in this suit, of any thing my openness has shown
you about the parsonage."

"You trust rightly, Mr. Dean," replied Alfred, in his turn, with a look not
of anger, but of proud indignation; "you trust rightly, Mr. Dean, and as I
should have expected that one who has had opportunities of knowing me so
well ought to trust."

"That's a clear answer," said Buckhurst. "But how could I tell?--so much
_jockeying_ goes on in every profession--how could I tell that a lawyer
would be more conscientious than another man? But now you assure me of
it--I take it upon your word, and believe it in your case. About the
accommodation--_accommodation_ means money, does not it?--frankly, I have
not a shilling. But Mrs. Falconer is all _accommodation_. Try what you can
do with her--and by the way you began, I should hope you would do a great
deal," added he, laughing.

Alfred would not undertake to speak to his lady, unless the dean would, in
the first instance, make some sacrifice. He represented that he was not
asking for money, but for a relinquishment of a claim, which he apprehended
not to be justly due: "And the only use I shall ever make of what you have
shown me here, is to press upon your feelings, as I do at this moment,
the conviction of the injustice of that claim, which I am persuaded your
lawyers only instigated, and that you will abandon."

Buckhurst begged him not to be persuaded of any such thing. The instigation
of an attorney, he laughing said, was not in law counted the instigation of
the devil--at law no man talked of feelings. In matters of property judges
did not understand them, whatever figure they might make with a jury in
criminal cases--with an eloquent advocate's hand on his breast.

Alfred let Buckhurst go on with his vain wit and gay rhetoric till he had
nothing more to say, knowing that he was hiding consciousness of unhandsome
conduct. Sticking firmly to his point, Alfred showed that his client,
though gentle, was resolved, and that, unless Buckhurst yielded, law must
take its course--that though he should never give any hint, the premises
must be inspected, and disgrace and defeat must follow.

Forced to be serious, fretted and hurried, for the half-hour bell before
dinner had now rung, and the dean's stomach began to know canonical hours,
he exclaimed, "The upshot of the whole business is, that Mr. Alfred Percy
is in love, I understand, with Miss Sophia Leicester, and this fifteen
hundred pounds, which he pushes me to the bare wall to relinquish, is
eventually, as part of her fortune, to become his. Would it not have been
as fair to have stated this at once?"

"No--because it would not have been the truth."

"No!--You won't deny that you are in love with Miss Leicester?"

"I am as much in love as man can be with Miss Leicester; but her fortune is
nothing to me, for I shall never touch it."

"Never touch it! Does the aunt--the widow--the cunning widow, refuse
consent?"

"Far from it: the aunt is all the aunt of Miss Leicester should be--all the
widow of Dr. Leicester ought to be. But her circumstances are not what they
ought to be; and by the liberality of a friend, who lends me a house, rent
free, and by the resources of my profession, I am better able than Mrs.
Leicester is to spare fifteen hundred pounds: therefore, in the recovery of
this money I have no personal interest at present. I shall never receive it
from her."

"Noble! Noble!--just what I could have done myself--once! What a contrast!"

Buckhurst laid his head down upon his arms flat on the table, and remained
for some moments silent--then, starting upright, "I'll never claim a penny
from her--I'll give it all up to you! I will, if I sell my band for it, by
Jove!"

"Oh! what has your father to answer for, who forced you into the church!"
thought Alfred.

"My dear Buckhurst," said he, "my dear dean--"

"Call me Buckhurst, if you love me."

"I do love you, it is impossible to help it, in spite of--"

"All my faults--say it out--say it out--in spite of your conscience," added
Buckhurst, trying to laugh.

"Not in spite of my conscience, but in favour of yours," said Alfred,
"against whose better dictates you have been compelled all your life to
act."

"I have so, but that's over. What remains to be done at present? I am in
real distress for five hundred pounds. Apropos to your being engaged in
this dilapidation suit, you can speak to Mrs. Falconer about it. Tell her I
have given up the thing; and see what she will do."

Alfred promised he would speak to Mrs. Falconer. "And, Alfred, when you
see your sister Caroline, tell her that I am not in one sense such a
wretch--quite, as she thinks me. But tell her that I am yet a greater
wretch--infinitely more miserable than she, I hope, can conceive--beyond
redemption--beyond endurance miserable." He turned away hastily in an agony
of mind. Alfred shut the door and escaped, scarcely able to bear I his own
emotion.

When they met at dinner, Mrs. Dean Falconer was an altered person--her
unseemly morning costume and well-worn shawl being cast aside, she appeared
in bloom-coloured gossamer gauze, and primrose ribbons, a would-be young
lady. Nothing of that curmudgeon look, or old fairy cast of face and
figure, to which he had that morning been introduced, but in their place
smiles, and all the false brilliancy which rouge can give to the eyes,
proclaimed a determination to be charming.

The dean was silent, and scarcely ate any thing, though the dinner was
excellent, for his lady was skilled in the culinary department, and in
favour of Alfred had made a more hospitable display than she usually
condescended to make for her husband's friends. There were no other guests,
except a young lady, companion to Mrs. Falconer. Alfred was as agreeable
and entertaining as circumstances permitted; and Mrs. Buckhurst Falconer,
as soon as she got out of the dining-room, even before she reached the
drawing-room, pronounced him to be a most polite and accomplished young
man, very different indeed from the _common run_, or the usual style, of
Mr. Dean Falconer's dashing bachelor beaux, who in her opinion were little
better than brute bears.

At coffee, when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing-room, as
Alfred was standing beside Mrs. Falconer, meditating how and when to speak
of the object of his visit, she cleared the ground by choosing the topic of
conversation, which, at last fairly drove her husband out of the room. She
judiciously, maliciously, or accidentally, began to talk of the proposal
which she had heard a near relation of hers had not long since made to a
near relation of Mr. Alfred Percy's--Mr. Clay, of Clay-hall, her nephew,
had proposed for Mr. Alfred's sister, Miss Caroline Percy. She was really
sorry the match was not to take place, for she had heard a very high
character of the young lady in every way, and her nephew was rich enough
to do without fortune--not but what that would be very acceptable to all
men--especially young men, who are now mostly all for money instead of all
for love--except in the case of very first rate extraordinary beauty, which
therefore making a woman a prey, just as much one as the other, might be
deemed a misfortune as great, though hardly _quite_, Mrs. Buckhurst said,
as she had found a great fortune in her own particular case. The involution
of meaning in these sentences rendering it not easy to be comprehended, the
dean stood it pretty well, only stirring his coffee, and observing that it
was cold; but when his lady went on to a string of interrogatories about
Miss Caroline Percy--on the colour of her eyes and hair--size of her mouth
and nose--requiring in short a complete full-length portrait of the young
lady, poor Buckhurst set down his cup, and pleading business in his study,
left the field open to Alfred.

"Near-sighted glasses! Do you never use them, Mr. Percy?" said Mrs. Dean
Falconer, as she thought Alfred's eyes fixed upon her spectacles, which lay
on the table.

No--he never used them, he thanked her: he was rather far-sighted than
short-sighted. She internally commended his politeness in not taking them
up to verify her assertion, and put them into her pocket to avoid all
future danger.

He saw it was a favourable moment, and entered at once into his
business--beginning by observing that the dean was much out of spirits. The
moment money was touched upon, the curmudgeon look returned upon the lady;
and for some time Alfred had great difficulty in making himself heard: she
poured forth such complaints against the extravagance of the dean, with
lists of the debts she had paid, the sums she had given, and the vow she
had made, never to go beyond the weekly allowance she had, at the last
settlement, agreed to give her husband.

Alfred pleaded strongly the expense of law, and the certainty, in his
opinion, of ultimate defeat, with the being obliged to pay all the
costs, which would fall upon the dean. The dean was willing to withdraw
his claim--he had promised to do so, in the most handsome manner; and
therefore, Alfred said, he felt particularly anxious that he should not be
distressed for five hundred pounds, a sum for which he knew Mr. Falconer
was immediately pressed. He appealed to Mrs. Falconer's generosity. He
had been desired by the dean to speak to her on the subject, otherwise he
should not have presumed--and it was as a professional man, and a near
relation, that he now took the liberty: this was the first transaction he
had ever had with her, and he hoped he should leave the vicarage impressed
with a sense of her generosity, and enabled to do her justice in the
opinion of those who did not know her.

That was very little to her, she bluntly said--she acted only up to her own
notions--she lived only for herself.

"And for her husband." Love, Alfred Percy said, he was assured, was
superior to money in her opinion. "And after all, my dear madam, you set me
the example of frankness, and permit me to speak to you without reserve.
What can you, who have no reason, you say, to be pleased with either of
your nephews, do better with your money, than spend it while you live and
for yourself, in securing happiness in the gratitude and affection of a
husband, who, generous himself, will be peculiarly touched and attached by
generosity?"

The words, _love, generosity, generous_, sounded upon the lady's ear,
and she was unwilling to lose that high opinion which she imagined
Alfred entertained of her sentiments and character. Besides, she was
conscious that he was in fact nearer the truth than all the world would
have believed. Avaricious in trifles, and parsimonious in those every-day
habits which brand the reputation immediately with the fault of avarice,
this woman was one of those misers who can be generous by fits and starts,
and who have been known to _give_ hundreds of pounds, but never without
reluctance would part with a shilling.

She presented the dean, her husband, with an order on her banker for the
money he wanted, and Alfred had the pleasure of leaving his unhappy friend
better, at least, than he found him. He rejoiced in having compromised this
business so successfully, and in thus having prevented the litigation,
ill-will, and disgraceful circumstances, which, without his interference,
must have ensued.

The gratitude of Mrs. Leicester and her niece was delightful. The aunt
urged him to accept what he had been the means of saving, as part of
her niece's fortune; but this he absolutely refused, and satisfied Mrs.
Leicester's delicacy, by explaining, that he could not, if he would, now
yield to her entreaties, as he had actually obtained the money from poor
Buckhurst's generous repentance, upon the express faith that he had no
private interest in the accommodation.

"You would not," said Alfred, "bring me under the act against raising money
upon false pretences?"

What Alfred lost in money he gained in love. His Sophia's eyes beamed upon
him with delight. The day was fixed for their marriage, and at Alfred's
suggestion, Mrs. Leicester consented, painful as it was, in some respects,
to her feelings, that they should be married by the dean in the parish
church.

Alfred brought his bride to town, and as soon as they were established in
their own house, or rather in that house which Mr. Gresham insisted upon
their calling their own, Lady Jane Granville was the first person to offer
her congratulations.--Alfred begged his sister Caroline from Lady Jane, as
he had already obtained his father's and mother's consent. Lady Jane was
really fond of Caroline's company, and had forgiven her, as well as she
could; yet her ladyship had no longer a hope of being _of use_ to her,
and felt that even if any other offer were to occur--and none such as
had been made could ever more be expected--it would lead only to fresh
disappointment and altercation; therefore she, with the less reluctance,
relinquished Caroline altogether.

Caroline's new sister had been, from the time they were first acquainted,
her friend, and she rejoiced in seeing all her hopes for her brother's
happiness accomplished by this marriage. His Sophia had those habits of
independent occupation which are essential to the wife of a professional
man, and which enable her to spend cheerfully many hours alone, or at least
without the company of her husband. On his return home every evening,
he was sure to find a smiling wife, a sympathizing friend, a cheerful
fireside.--She had musical talents--her husband was fond of music; and she
did not lay aside the accomplishments which had charmed the lover, but made
use of them to please him whom she had chosen as her companion for life.
Her voice, her harp, her utmost skill, were ready at any moment, and she
found far more delight in devoting her talents to him than she had ever
felt in exhibiting them to admiring auditors. This was the domestic use
of accomplishments to which Caroline had always been accustomed; so that
joining in her new sister's occupations and endeavours to make Alfred's
evenings pass pleasantly, she felt at once as much _at home_ as if she had
been in the country; for the mind is its own place, and domestic happiness
may be naturalized in a capital city.

At her brother's house, Caroline had an opportunity of seeing a society
that was new to her, that of the professional men of the first eminence
both in law and medicine, the men of science and of literature, with whom
Alfred and Erasmus had been for years assiduously cultivating acquaintance.
They were now happy to meet at Alfred's house, for they liked and esteemed
him, and they found his wife and sister sensible, well-informed women, to
whom their conversation was of real amusement and instruction; and who, in
return, knew how to enliven their leisure hours by female sprightliness
and elegance. Caroline now saw the literary and scientific world to the
best advantage: not the amateurs, or the mere _show_ people, but those who,
really excelling and feeling their own superiority, had too much pride and
too little time to waste upon idle flattery, or what to them were stupid,
uninteresting _parties_. Those who refused to go to Lady Spilsbury's, or to
Lady Angelica Headingham's, or who were seen there, perhaps, once or twice
in a season as a great favour and honour, would call three or four evenings
every week at Alfred's.

The first news, the first hints of discoveries, inventions, and literary
projects, she heard from time to time discussed. Those men of talent, whom
she had heard were to be seen at _conversaziones_, or of whom she had had
a glimpse in fine society, now appeared in a new point of view, and to the
best advantage; without those pretensions and rivalships with which they
sometimes are afflicted in public, or those affectations and singularities,
which they often are supposed to assume, to obtain notoriety among persons
inferior to them in intellect and superior in fashion. Instead of playing,
as they sometimes did, a false game to amuse the multitude, they were
obliged now to exert their real skill, and play fair with one another.

Sir James Harrington tells us, that in his days the courtiers who played at
divers games in public, had a way of exciting the admiration and amazement
of the commoner sort of spectators, by producing heaps of golden counters,
and seeming to stake immense sums, when all the time they had previously
agreed among one another, that each guinea should stand for a shilling, or
each hundred guineas for one: so that in fact two modes of calculation were
used for the initiated and uninitiated; and this exoteric practice goes on
continually to this hour, among literary performers in the intellectual, as
well as among courtiers in the fashionable world.

Besides the pleasure of studying celebrated characters, and persons of
eminent merit, at their ease and at her own, Caroline had now opportunities
of seeing most of those objects of rational curiosity, which with Lady Jane
Granville had been prohibited as _mauvais ton_. With men of sense she found
it was not _mauvais ton_ to use her eyes for the purposes of instruction or
entertainment.

With Mrs. Alfred Percy she saw every thing in the best manner; in the
company of well-informed guides, who were able to point out what was
essential to be observed; ready to explain and to illustrate; to procure
for them all those privileges and advantages as spectators, which common
gazers are denied, but which liberal and enlightened men are ever not only
ready to allow, but eager to procure for intelligent, unassuming females.

Among the gentlemen of learning, talents, and eminence in Alfred's own
profession, whom Caroline had the honour of seeing at her brother's, were
Mr. Friend, the _friend_ of his early years at the bar; and that great
luminary, who in a higher orbit had cheered and guided him in his ascent.
The chief justice was in a station, and of an age, where praise can be
conferred without impropriety, and without hurting the feelings of delicacy
or pride. He knew how to praise--a difficult art, but he excelled in it.
As Caroline once, in speaking of him, said, "Common compliments compared
to praise from him, are as common coin compared to a medal struck and
appropriated for the occasion."

About this time Mr. Temple came to tell Alfred, that a ship had been
actually ordered to be in readiness to carry him on his intended embassy;
that Mr. Shaw had recovered; that Cunningham Falconer had no more excuses
or pretences for delay; despatches, the last Lord Oldborough said he should
ever receive from him as envoy, had now arrived, and Temple was to have set
out immediately; but that the whole embassy bad been delayed, because Lord
Oldborough had received a letter from Count Altenberg, giving an account
of alarming revolutionary symptoms, which had appeared in the capital, and
in the provinces, in the dominions of his sovereign, Lord Oldborough had
shown Mr. Temple what related to public affairs, but had not put the whole
letter into his hands. All that he could judge from what he read was, that
the Count's mind was most seriously occupied with the dangerous state of
public affairs in his country. "I should have thought," added Mr. Temple,
"that the whole of this communication was entirely of a political nature,
but that in the last page which Lord Oldborough put into my hand, the
catch-words at the bottom were _Countess Christina_."

Alfred observed, "that, without the aid of Rosamond's imagination to
supply something more, nothing could be made of this. However, it was a
satisfaction to have had direct news of Count Altenberg."

The next day Mr. Temple came for Alfred. Lord Oldborough desired to see
him.

"Whatever his business may be, I am sure it is important and interesting,"
said Mr. Temple; "by this time I ought to be well acquainted with Lord
Oldborough--I know the signs of his suppressed emotion, and I have seldom
seen him put such force upon himself to appear calm, and to do the business
of the day, before he should yield his mind to what pressed on his secret
thoughts."

CHAPTER XXXVII.

When Alfred arrived, Lord Oldborough was engaged with some gentlemen
from the city about a loan. By the length of time which the negotiators
stayed, they tried Alfred's patience; but the minister sat with immoveable
composure, till they knew their own minds, and till they departed. Then,
the loan at once dismissed from his thoughts, he was ready for Alfred.

"You have married, I think, Mr. Alfred Percy, since I saw you last--I
congratulate you."

His lordship was not in the habit of noticing such common events; Alfred
was surprised and obliged by the interest in his private affairs which this
congratulation denoted.

"I congratulate you, sir, because I understand you have married a woman
of sense. To marry a fool--to form or to have any connexion with a fool,"
continued his lordship, his countenance changing remarkably as he spoke, "I
conceive to be the greatest evil, the greatest curse, that can be inflicted
on a man of sense."

He walked across the room with long, firm, indignant strides--then stopping
short, he exclaimed, "_Lettres de cachet_!--Dangerous instruments in bad
hands!--As what are not?--But one good purpose they answered--they put it
in the power of the head of every noble house to disown, and to deprive of
the liberty to disgrace his family, any member who should manifest the will
to commit desperate crime or desperate folly."

Alfred was by no means disposed to join in praise even of this use of a
_lettre de cachet_, but he did not think it a proper time to argue the
point, as he saw Lord Oldborough was under the influence of some strong
passion. He waited in silence till his lordship should explain himself
farther.

His lordship unlocked a desk, and produced a letter.

"Pray, Mr. Percy--Mr. Alfred Percy--have you heard any thing lately of the
Marchioness of Twickenham?"

"No, my lord."

Alfred, at this instant, recollected the whisper which he had once heard at
chapel, and he added, "Not of late, my lord."

"There," said Lord Oldborough, putting a letter into Alfred's hands--"there
is the sum of what I have heard."

The letter was from the Duke of Greenwich, informing Lord Oldborough
that an unfortunate discovery had been made of _an affair_ between the
Marchioness of Twickenham and a certain Captain Bellamy, which rendered an
immediate separation necessary.

"So!" thought Alfred, "my brother Godfrey had a fine escape of this fair
lady!"

"I have seen her once since I received that letter, and I never will see
her again," said Lord Oldborough: "that's past--all that concerns her is
past and irremediable. Now as to the future, and to what concerns myself. I
have been informed--how truly, I cannot say--that some time ago a rumour, a
suspicion of this intrigue was whispered in what they call the fashionable
world."

"I believe that your lordship has been truly informed," said Alfred; and he
then mentioned the whisper he had heard at the chapel.

"Ha!--Farther, it has been asserted to me, that a hint was given to the
Marquis of Twickenham of the danger of suffering that--what is the man's
name?--Bellamy, to be so near his wife; and that the hint was disregarded."

"The marquis did very weakly or very wickedly," said Alfred.

"All wickedness is weakness, sir, you know: but to our point. I have been
assured that the actual discovery of the intrigue was made to the marquis
some months previously to the birth of his child--and that he forbore to
take any notice of this, lest it might affect the legitimacy of that child.
After the birth of the infant--a boy--subsequent indiscretions on the part
of the marchioness, the marquis would make it appear, gave rise to his
first suspicions. Now, sir, these are the points, of which, as my friend,
and as a professional man, I desire you to ascertain the truth. If the
facts are as I have thus heard, I presume no divorce can be legally
obtained."

"Certainly not, my lord."

"Then I will direct you instantly to the proper channels for information."

Whilst Lord Oldborough wrote directions, Alfred assured him he would fulfil
his commission with all the discretion and celerity in his power.

"The next step," continued Lord Oldborough--"for, on such a subject, I
wish to say all that is necessary at once, that it may be banished from
my mind--your next step, supposing the facts to be ascertained, is to go
with this letter--my answer to the Duke of Greenwich. See him--and see
the marquis. In matters of consequence have nothing to do with secondary
people--deal with the principals. Show in the first place, as a lawyer,
that their divorce is unattainable--next, show the marquis that he destroys
his son and heir by attempting it. The duke, I believe, would be glad of a
pretext for dissolving the political connexion between me and the Greenwich
family. He fears me, and he fears the world: he dares not abandon me
without a pretence for the dissolution of friendship. He is a weak man, and
never dares to act without a pretext; but show him that a divorce is not
necessary for his purpose--a separation will do as well--Or without it, I
am ready to break with him at council, in the House of Lords, on a hundred
political points; and let him shield himself as he may from the reproach of
desertion, by leaving the blame of quarrel on my impracticability, or on
what he will, I care not--so that my family be saved from the ignominy of
divorce."

As he sealed his letter, Lord Oldborough went on in abrupt sentences.

"I never counted on a weak man's friendship--I can do without his
grace--Woman! Woman! The same--ever since the beginning of the world!"

Then turning to Alfred to deliver the letter into his hand, "Your brother,
Major Percy, sir--I think I recollect--He was better in the West Indies."

"I was just thinking so, my lord," said Alfred.

"Yes--better encounter the plague than a fool."

Lord Oldborough had never before distinctly adverted to his knowledge of
his niece's partiality for Godfrey, but his lordship now added, "Major
Percy's honourable conduct is not unknown: I trust honourable conduct never
was, and never will be, lost upon me.--This to the Duke of Greenwich--and
this to the marquis.--Since it was to be, I rejoice that this Captain
Bellamy is the gallant.--Had it been your brother, sir--could there have
been any love in the case--not, observe, that I believe in love, much less
am I subject to the weakness of remorse--but a twinge might have seized
my mind--I might possibly have been told that the marchioness was married
against her inclination.--But I am at ease on that point--my judgment of
her was right.--You will let me know, in one word, the result of your
negotiation without entering into particulars--divorce, or no divorce, is
all I wish to hear."

Alfred did not know all the circumstances of the Marchioness of
Twickenham's marriage, nor the peremptory manner in which it had been
insisted upon by her uncle, otherwise he would have felt still greater
surprise than that which he now felt, at the stern, unbending character of
the man. Possessed as Lord Oldborough was by the opinion, that he had at
the time judged and acted in the best manner possible, no after-events
could make him doubt the justice of his own decision, or could at all shake
him in his own estimation.

Alfred soon brought his report. "In one word--no divorce, my lord."

"That's well--I thank you, sir."

His lordship made no farther inquiries--not even whether there was to be a
_separation_.

Alfred was commissioned by the Duke of Greenwich to deliver a message,
which, like the messages of the gods in Homer, he delivered verbatim,
and without comment: "His grace of Greenwich trusts Lord Oldborough will
believe, that, notwithstanding the unfortunate circumstances, which
dissolved in some degree the family connexion, it was the farthest possible
from his grace's wish or thoughts to break with Lord Oldborough, as long
as private feelings, and public principles, could be rendered by any means
compatible."

Lord Oldborough smiled in scorn--and Alfred could scarcely command his
countenance.

Lord Oldborough prepared to give his grace the opportunity, which he knew
he desired, of differing with him on principle: his lordship thought his
favour and power were now sufficiently established to be able to do without
the Duke of Greenwich, and his pride prompted him to show this to his grace
and to the world. He carried it with a high hand for a short time; but even
whilst he felt most secure, and when all seemed to bend and bow before his
genius and his sway, many circumstances and many persons were combining to
work the downfall of his power.

One of the first slight circumstances which shook his favour, was a speech
he had made to some gentleman, about the presentation of the deanery to
Buckhurst Falconer. It had been supposed by many, who knew the court which
Commissioner Falconer paid to Lord Oldborough, that it was through his
lordship's interest, that this preferment was given to the son; but when
some person, taking this for granted, spoke of it to his lordship, he
indignantly disclaimed all part in the transaction, and it is said that
he added, "Sir, I know what is due to private regard as a man--and as a
minister what must be yielded to parliamentary influence; but I never could
have advised the bestowing ecclesiastical benefice and dignity upon any one
whose conduct was not his first recommendation."

This speech, made in a moment of proud and perhaps unguarded indignation,
was repeated with additions, suppressions, variations, and comments. Any
thing will at court serve the purpose of those who wish to injure, and it
is inconceivable what mischief was done to the minister by this slight
circumstance. In the first place, the nobleman high in office, and the
family connexions of the nobleman who had made the exchange of livings,
and given the promise of the deanery to Bishop Clay, were offended beyond
redemption--because they were in the wrong. Then, all who had done, or
wished to do wrong, in similar instances, were displeased by reflection
or by anticipation. But Lord Oldborough chiefly was injured by
misrepresentation in the quarter where it was of most consequence to him
to preserve his influence. It was construed by the highest authority into
disrespect, and an imperious desire to encroach on favour, to control
prerogative, and to subdue the mind of his sovereign. Insidious arts had
long been secretly employed to infuse these ideas; and when once the
jealousy of power was excited, every trifle confirmed the suspicion which
Lord Oldborough's uncourtier-like character was little calculated to
dispel. His popularity now gave umbrage, and it was hinted that he wished
to make himself the _independent_ minister of the people.

The affairs of the country prospered, however, under his administration;
there was trouble, there was hazard in change. It was argued, that it was
best to wait at least for some reverse of fortune in war, or some symptom
of domestic discontent, before an attempt should be made to displace
this minister, formidable by his talents, and by the awe his commanding
character inspired.

The habit of confidence and deference for his genius and integrity
remained, and to him no difference for some time appeared, in consequence
of the secret decay of favour.

Commissioner Falconer, timid, anxious, restless, was disposed by
circumstances and by nature, or by second nature, to the vigilance of a
dependent's life; accustomed to watch and consult daily the barometer
of court favour, he soon felt the coming storm; and the moment he saw
prognostics of the change, he trembled, and considered how he should best
provide for his own safety before the hour of danger arrived. Numerous
libels against the minister appeared, which Lord Oldborough never read, but
the commissioner, with his best spectacles, read them all; for he well knew
and believed what the sage Selden saith, that "though some make slight of
libels, yet you may see by them how the wind sets."

After determining by the throwing up of these straws which way the wind
set, the commissioner began with all possible skill and dexterity to trim
his boat. But dexterous trimmer though he was, and "prescient of change,"
he did yet not foresee from what quarter the storm would come.

Count Altenberg's letters had unveiled completely the envoy Cunningham
Falconer's treachery, as far as it related to his intrigues abroad, and
other friends detected some of his manoeuvres with politicians at home, to
whom he had endeavoured to pay court, by betraying confidence reposed in
him respecting the Tourville papers. Much of the mischief Cunningham had
done this great minister still operated, unknown to his unsuspicious mind:
but sufficient was revealed to determine Lord Oldborough to dismiss him
from all future hopes of his favour.

"Mr. Commissioner Falconer," he began one morning, the moment the
commissioner entered his cabinet, "Mr. Commissioner Falconer," in a tone
which instantly dispelled the smile at entrance from the commissioner's
countenance, and in the same moment changed his whole configurature.
"My confidence is withdrawn from your son, Mr. Cunningham Falconer--for
ever--and not without good reason--as you may--if you are not aware of it
already--see, by those papers."

Lord Oldborough turned away, and asked his secretaries for his red box, as
he was going to council.

Just as he left his cabinet, he looked back, and said, "Mr. Falconer, you
should know, if you be not already apprised of it, that your son Cunningham
is on his road to Denmark. You should be aware that the journey is not made
by my desire, or by his majesty's order, or by any official authority;
consequently he is travelling to the court of Denmark at his own expense
or yours--unless he can prevail upon his Grace of Greenwich to defray his
ambassadorial travelling charges, or can afford to wait for them till a
total change of administration--of which, sir, if I see any symptoms to-day
in council," added his lordship, in the tone of bitter irony; "I will give
you fair notice--for fair dealing is what I practise."

This said, the minister left the commissioner to digest his speech as he
might, and repaired to council, where he found every thing apparently
as smooth as usual, and where he was received by all, especially by the
highest, with perfect consideration.

Meantime Commissioner Falconer was wretched beyond expression--wretched
in the certainty that his son, that he himself, had probably lost,
irrecoverably, one excellent patron, before they had secured, even in case
of change, another. This premature discovery of Cunningham's intrigues
totally disconcerted and overwhelmed him; and, in the bitterness of his
heart, he cursed the duplicity which he had taught and encouraged, still
more by example, than by precept. But Cunningham's duplicity had more and
closer folds than his own. Cunningham, conceited of his diplomatic genius,
and fearful of the cautious timidity of his father, did not trust that
father with the knowledge of all he did, or half of what he intended; so
that the commissioner, who had thought himself at the bottom of every
thing, now found that he, too, had been cheated by his son with false
confidences; and was involved by him in the consequences of a scheme, of
which he had never been the adviser. Commissioner Falconer knew too well,
by the experience of Cumberland and others, the fate of those who suffer
themselves to be lured on by second-hand promises; and who venture, without
being publicly acknowledged by their employers, to undertake any diplomatic
mission. Nor would Cunningham, whose natural disposition to distrust was
greater than his father's, have sold himself to any political tempter,
without first signing and sealing the compact, had he been in possession
of his cool judgment, and had he been in any other than the desperate
circumstances in which he was placed. His secret conscience whispered that
his recall was in consequence of the detection of some of his intrigues,
and he dreaded to appear before the haughty, irritated minister. Deceived
also by news from England that Lord Oldborough's dismission or resignation
could not be distant, Cunningham had ventured upon this bold stroke for an
embassy.

On Lord Oldborough's return from council, the commissioner, finding, from
his secret informants, that every thing had gone on smoothly, and being
over-awed by the confident security of the minister, began to doubt his
former belief; and, in spite of all the symptoms of change, was now
inclined to think that none would take place. The sorrow and contrition
with which he next appeared before Lord Oldborough were, therefore, truly
sincere; and when he found himself alone once more with his lordship,
earnest was the vehemence with which he disclaimed his unworthy son, and
disavowed all knowledge of the transaction.

"If I had seen cause to believe that you had any part in this transaction,
sir, you would not be here at this moment: therefore your protestations are
superfluous--none would be accepted if any were necessary."

The very circumstance of the son's not having trusted the father
completely, saved the commissioner, for this time, from utter ruin: he took
breath; and presently--oh, weak man! doomed never to know how to deal with
a strong character--fancying that his intercession might avail for his
son, and that the pride of Lord Oldborough might be appeased, and might be
suddenly wrought to forgiveness, by that tone and posture of submission
and supplication used only by the subject to offended majesty, he actually
threw himself at the feet of the minister.

"My gracious lord--a pardon for my son!"

"I beseech you, sir!" cried Lord Oldborough, endeavouring to stop him from
kneeling--the commissioner sunk instantly on his knee.

"Never will the unhappy father rise till his son be restored to your
favour, my lord."

"Sir," said Lord Oldborough, "I have no favour for those who have no sense
of honour: rise, Mr. Falconer, and let not the father degrade himself for
the son--_unavailingly_."

The accent and look were decisive--the commissioner rose. Instead of being
gratified, his patron seemed shocked, if not disgusted: far from being
propitiated by this sacrifice of dignity, it rendered him still more
averse; and no consolatory omen appearing, the commissioner withdrew in
silence, repenting that he had abased himself. After this, some days and
nights passed with him in all the horrors of indecision--Could the minister
weather the storm or not?--should Mr. Falconer endeavour to reinstate
himself with Lord Oldborough, or secure in time favour with the Duke of
Greenwich?--Mrs. Falconer, to whom her husband's groans in the middle of
the night at last betrayed the sufferings of his mind, drew from him the
secret of his fears and meditations. She advised strongly the going over,
decidedly, and in time, but secretly, to the Greenwich faction.

The commissioner knew that this could not be done secretly. The attention
of the minister was now awake to all his motions, and the smallest movement
towards his grace of Greenwich must be observed and understood. On the
other hand, to abide by a falling minister was folly, especially when
he had positively withdrawn his favour from Cunningham, who had the
most to expect from his patronage. Between these opposite difficulties,
notwithstanding the urgent excitations of Mrs. Falconer, the poor
commissioner could not bring himself to decide, till the time for action
was past.

Another blow came upon him for which he was wholly unprepared--there
arrived from abroad accounts of the failure of a secret expedition; and the
general in his despatches named Colonel John Falconer as the officer to
whose neglect of orders he principally attributed the disappointment. It
appeared that orders had been sent to have his regiment at a certain place
at a given hour. At the moment these orders came, Colonel John Falconer was
out on a shooting party without leave. The troops, of course, on which the
general had relied, did not arrive in time, and all his other combinations
failed from this neglect of discipline and disobedience of orders. Colonel
Falconer was sent home to be tried by a court-martial.

"I pity you, sir," said Lord Oldborough, as Commissioner Falconer, white
as ashes, read in his presence these despatches--"I pity you, sir, from my
soul: here is no fault of yours--the fault is mine."

It was one of the few faults of this nature which Lord Oldborough had
ever committed. Except in the instance of the Falconer family, none could
name any whom his lordship had placed in situations, for which they
were inadequate or unfit. Of this single error he had not foreseen the
consequences; they were more important, more injurious to him and to the
public, than he could have calculated or conceived. It appeared now as if
the Falconer family were doomed to be his ruin. That the public knew, in
general, that John Falconer had been promoted by ministerial favour, Lord
Oldborough was aware; but he imagined that the peculiar circumstances of
that affair were known only to himself and to Commissioner Falconer's
family. To his astonishment he found, at this critical moment, that the
whole transaction had reached the ear of majesty, and that it was soon
publicly known. The commissioner, with protestations and oaths, declared
that the secret had never, by his means, transpired--it had been divulged
by the baseness of his son Cunningham, who betrayed it to the Greenwich
faction. They, skilled in all the arts of undermining a rival, employed the
means that were thus put into their power with great diligence and effect.

It was observed at the levee, that the sovereign looked coldly upon the
minister. Every courtier whispered that Lord Oldborough had been certainly
much to blame. Disdainful of their opinions, Lord Oldborough was sensibly
affected by the altered eye of his sovereign.

"What! After all my services!--At the first change of fortune!"

This sentiment swelled in his breast; but his countenance was rigidly calm,
his demeanour towards the courtiers and towards his colleagues more than
usually firm, if not haughty.

After the levee, he demanded a private audience.

Alone with the king, the habitual influence of this great minister's
superior genius operated. The cold manner was changed, or rather, it was
changed involuntarily. From one "not used to the language of apology," the
frank avowal of a fault has a striking effect. Lord Oldborough took upon
himself the whole blame of the disaster that had ensued, in consequence
of his error, an error frequent in other ministers, in him, almost
unprecedented.

He was answered with a smile of royal raillery, that the peculiar family
circumstances which had determined his lordship so rapidly to promote that
officer, must, to all fathers of families and heads of houses, if not to
statesmen and generals, be a sufficient and home apology.

Considering the peculiar talent which his sovereign possessed, and in which
he gloried, that of knowing the connexions and domestic affairs, not only
of the nobility near his person, but of private individuals remote from
his court, Lord Oldborough had little cause to be surprised that this
secret transaction should be known to his majesty. Something of this his
lordship, with all due respect, hinted in reply. At the termination of this
audience, he was soothed by the condescending assurance, that whilst the
circumstances of the late unfortunate reverse naturally created regret and
mortification, no dissatisfaction with his ministerial conduct mixed with
these feelings; on the contrary, he was assured that fear of the effect
a disappointment might have on the mind of the public, in diminishing
confidence in his lordship's efforts for the good of the country, was the
sentiment which had lowered the spirits and clouded the brow of majesty.

His lordship returned thanks for the gracious demonstration of these
sentiments--and, bowing respectfully, withdrew. In the faces and behaviour
of the courtiers, as in a glass, he saw reflected the truth. They all
pretended to be in the utmost consternation; and he heard of nothing but
"apprehensions for the effect on the public mind," and "fears for his
lordship's popularity." His secretary, Mr. Temple, heard, indeed, more of
this than could reach his lordship's ear directly; for, even now, when they
thought they foresaw his fall, few had sufficient courage to hazard the
tone of condolence with Lord Oldborough, or to expose the face of hypocrisy
to the severity of his penetrating eye. In secret, every means had been
taken to propagate in the city, the knowledge of all the circumstances that
were unfavourable to the minister, and to increase the dissatisfaction
which any check in the success of our armies naturally produces. The tide
of popularity, which had hitherto supported the minister, suddenly ebbed;
and he fell, in public opinion, with astonishing rapidity. For the moment
all was forgotten, but that he was the person who had promoted John
Falconer to be a colonel, against whom the cry of the populace was raised
with all the clamour of national indignation. The Greenwich faction
knew how to take advantage of this disposition. It happened to be some
festival, some holiday, when the common people, having nothing to do,
are more disposed than at any other time to intoxication and disorder.
The emissaries of designing partisans mixed with the populace, and a mob
gathered round the minister's carriage, as he was returning home late one
day--the same carriage, and the same man, whom, but a few short weeks
before, this populace had drawn with loud huzzas, and almost with tears of
affection. Unmoved of mind, as he had been when he heard their huzzas, Lord
Oldborough now listened to their execrations, till from abuse they began to
proceed to outrage. Stones were thrown at his carriage. One of his servants
narrowly escaped being struck. Lord Oldborough was alone--he threw open his
carriage-door, and sprang out on the step.

"Whose life is it you seek?" cried he, in a voice which obtained instant
silence. "Lord Oldborough's? Lord Oldborough stands before you. Take his
life who dares--a life spent in your service. Strike! but strike openly.
You are Englishmen, not assassins."

Then, turning to his servants, he added, in a calm voice, "Home--slowly.
Not a man here will touch you. Keep your master in sight. If I fall, mark
by what hand."

Then stepping down into the midst of the people, he crossed the street
to the flagged pathway, the crowd opening to make way for him. He walked
on with a deliberate firm step; the mob moving along with him, sometimes
huzzaing, sometimes uttering horrid execrations in horrid tones. Lord
Oldborough, preserving absolute silence, still walked on, never turned his
head, or quickened his pace, till he reached his own house. Then, facing
the mob, as he stood waiting till the door should be opened, the people,
struck with his intrepidity, with one accord joined in a shout of applause.

The next instant, and before the door was opened, they cried, "Hat
off!--Hat off!"

Lord Oldborough's hat never stirred. A man took up a stone.

"Mark that man!" cried Lord Oldborough.

The door opened. "Return to your homes, my countrymen, and bless God that
you have not any of you to answer this night for murder!"

Then entering his house, he took off his hat, and gave it to one of his
attendants. His secretary, Temple, had run down stairs to meet him,
inquiring what was the cause of the disturbance.

"Only," said Lord Oldborough, "that I have served the people, but never
bent to them."

"Curse them! they are not worth serving. Oh! I thought they'd have taken
my lord's life that minute," cried his faithful servant Rodney. "The sight
left my eyes. I thought he was gone for ever. Thank God! he's safe. Take
off my lord's coat--I can't--for the soul of me. Curse those ungrateful
people!"

"Do not curse them, my good Rodney," said Lord Oldborough, smiling. "Poor
people, they are not ungrateful, only mistaken. Those who mislead them are
to blame. The English are a fine people. Even an English mob, you see, is
generous, and just, as far as it knows."

Lord Oldborough was sound asleep this night, before any other individual in
the house had finished talking of the dangers he had escaped.

The civil and military courage shown by the minister in the sudden attack
upon his character and person were such as to raise him again at once to
his former height in public esteem. His enemies were obliged to affect
admiration. The Greenwich party, foiled in this attempt, now disavowed it.
News of a victory effaced the memory of the late disappointment. Stocks
rose--addresses for a change of ministry were quashed--addresses of thanks
and congratulation poured in--Lord Oldborough gave them to Mr. Temple to
answer, and kept the strength of his attention fixed upon the great objects
which were essential to the nation and the sovereign he served.

Mr. Falconer saw that the storm had blown over, the darkness was past--Lord
Oldborough, firm and superior, stood bright in power, and before him the
commissioner bent more obsequious, more anxious than ever. Anxious he might
well be--unhappy father! the life, perhaps, of one of his sons, his honour,
certainly, at stake--the fortune of another--his existence ruined! And what
hopes of propitiating him, who had so suffered by the favour he had already
shown, who had been betrayed by one of the family and disgraced by another.
The commissioner's only hope was in the recollection of the words, "I pity
you from my soul, sir," which burst from Lord Oldborough even at the moment
when he had most reason to be enraged against Colonel Falconer. Following
up this idea, and working on the generous compassion, of which, but for
this indication, he should not have supposed the stern Lord Oldborough to
be susceptible, the commissioner appeared before him every day the image
of a broken-hearted father. In silence Lord Oldborough from time to time
looked at him; and by these looks, more than by all the promises of all the
great men who had ever spoken to him, Mr. Falconer was reassured; and, as
he told Mrs. Falconer, who at this time was in dreadful anxiety, he felt
certain that Lord Oldborough would not punish him for the faults of his
sons--he was satisfied that his place and his pension would not he taken
from him--and that, at least in fortune, they should not be utterly ruined.
In this security the commissioner showed rather more than his customary
degree of strength of mind, and more knowledge of Lord Oldborough's
character than he had upon most other occasions evinced.

Things were in this state, when, one morning, after the minister had given
orders that no one should be admitted, as he was dictating some public
papers of consequence to Mr. Temple, the Duke of Greenwich was announced.
His grace sent in a note to signify that he waited upon Lord Oldborough by
order of his majesty; and that, if this hour were not convenient, he begged
to have the hour named at which his grace could be admitted. His grace was
admitted instantly. Mr. Temple retired--for it was evident this was to be a
secret conference. His grace of Greenwich entered with the most important
solemnity--infinitely more ceremonious than usual; he was at last seated,
and, after heavy and audible sighs, still hesitated to open his business.
Through the affected gloom and dejection of his countenance Lord Oldborough
saw a malicious pleasure lurking, whilst, in a studied exordium, he spoke
of the infinite reluctance with which he had been compelled, by his
majesty's express orders, to wait upon his lordship on a business the most
painful to his feelings. As being a public colleague--as a near and dear
connexion--as a friend in long habits of intimacy with his lordship, he had
prayed his majesty to be excused; but it was his majesty's pleasure: he had
only now to beg his lordship to believe that it was with infinite concern,
&c. Lord Oldborough, though suffering under this circumlocution, never
condescended to show any symptom of impatience; but allowing his grace
to run the changes on the words and forms of apology, when these were
exhausted, his lordship simply said, that "his majesty's pleasure of course
precluded all necessity for apology."

His grace was vexed to find Lord Oldborough still unmoved--he was sure
this tranquillity could not long endure: he continued, "A sad business, my
lord--a terrible discovery--I really can hardly bring myself to speak--"

Lord Oldborough gave his grace no assistance.

"My private regard," he repeated.

A smile of contempt on Lord Oldborough's countenance.

"Your lordship's hitherto invulnerable public integrity--"

A glance of indignation from Lord Oldborough.

"_Hitherto_ invulnerable!--your grace will explain."

"Let these--these fatal notes--letters--unfortunately got into the hands
of a leading, impracticable member of opposition, and by him laid--Would
that I had been apprised, or could have conceived it possible, time
enough to prevent that step; but it was done before I had the slightest
intimation--laid before his majesty--"

Lord Oldborough calmly received the letters from his grace.

"My own handwriting, and private seal, I perceive."

The duke sighed--and whilst Lord Oldborough drew out, opened, and read the
first letter in the parcel, his grace went on--"This affair has thrown us
all into the greatest consternation. It is to be brought before parliament
immediately--unless a resignation should take place--which we should all
deplore. The impudence, the inveteracy of that fellow, is astonishing--no
silencing him. We might hush up the affair if his majesty had not been
apprised; but where the interest of the service is concerned, his majesty
is warm."

"His majesty!" cried Lord Oldborough: "His majesty could not, I trust, for
a moment imagine these letters to be I mine?"

"But for the hand and seal which I understood your lordship to acknowledge,
I am persuaded his majesty could not have believed it."

"Believed! My king! did he believe it?" cried Lord Oldborough. His
agitation was for a moment excessive, uncontrollable. "No! that I will
never credit, till I have it from his own lips." Then commanding himself,
"Your grace will have the goodness to leave these letters with me till
to-morrow."

His grace, with infinite politeness and regret, was under the necessity
of refusing this request. His orders were only to show the letters to his
lordship, and then to restore them to the hands of the member of opposition
who had laid them before his majesty.

Lord Oldborough took off the cover of one of the letters, on which was
merely the address and seal. The address was written also at the bottom
of the letter enclosed, therefore the cover could not be of the least
importance. The duke could not, Lord Oldborough said, refuse to leave this
with him.

To this his grace agreed--protesting that he was far from wishing to make
difficulties. If there were any thing else he could do--any thing his
lordship would wish to have privately insinuated or publicly said--

His lordship, with proud thanks, assured the duke he did not wish to have
any thing privately insinuated; and whatever it was necessary to say or do
publicly, he should do himself, or give orders to have done. His lordship
entered into no farther explanation. The duke at last was obliged to take
his leave, earnestly hoping and trusting that this business would terminate
to his lordship's entire satisfaction.

No sooner was the duke gone than Lord Oldborough rang for his carriage.

"Immediately--and Mr. Temple, instantly."

Whilst his carriage was coming to the door, in the shortest manner possible
Lord Oldborough stated the facts to his secretary, that letters had been
forged in his lordship's name, promising to certain persons promotion
in the army--and navy--gratification--and pensions. Some were addressed
to persons who had actually obtained promotion, shortly after the time
of these letters; others contained reproaches for having been ill-used.
Even from the rapid glance Lord Oldborough had taken of these papers,
he had retained the names of several of the persons to whom they were
addressed--and the nature of the promotion obtained. They were persons who
could have had no claim upon an honest minister. His lordship left a list
of them with Mr. Temple--also the cover of the letter, on which was a
specimen of the forged writing and the private seal.

"I am going to the king. In my absence, Mr. Temple, think for me--I know
you feel for me. The object is to discover the authors of this forgery."

"My lord, may I consult with Mr. Alfred Percy?"

"Yes--with no other person."

It was not Lord Oldborough's day for doing business with the king. He was
late--the king was going out to ride. His majesty received the minister as
usual; but notwithstanding the condescension of his majesty's words and
manner, it was evident to Lord Oldborough's penetration, that there was a
coldness and formality in the king's countenance.

"I beg I may not detain your majesty--I see I am late," said Lord
Oldborough.

"Is the business urgent, my lord?"

"No, sir; for it concerns principally myself: it can, therefore, wait your
majesty's leisure at any hour your majesty may appoint."

The king dismounted instantly.

"This moment, my lord, I am at leisure for any business that concerns your
lordship."

The king returned to the palace--Lord Oldborough followed, and all the
spectators on foot and horseback were left full of curiosity.

Notwithstanding the condescension of his majesty's words and manner,
and the polite promptitude to attend to any business that concerned his
lordship, it was evident to Lord Oldborough's penetration that there was an
unusual coldness and formality in the king's countenance and deportment,
unlike the graciousness of his reception when satisfied and pleased. As
soon as the business of the day had been gone through, Lord Oldborough said
he must now beg his majesty's attention on a subject which principally
concerned himself. The king looked as one prepared to hear, but determined
to say as little as possible.

Lord Oldborough placed himself so as to give the king the advantage of the
light, which he did not fear to have full on his own countenance.

"Sir, certain letters, signed with my name, and sealed with my seal, have,
I am informed, been laid before your majesty."

"Your lordship has been rightly informed."

"I trust--I hope that your majesty--"

At the firm assertion, in the tone with which Lord Oldborough pronounced, I
_trust_--his majesty's eye changed--and moved away from Lord Oldborough's,
when he, with respectful interrogation of tone, added, "I _hope_ your
majesty could not believe those letters to be mine."

"Frankly, my lord," said the king, "the assertions, the insinuations of no
man, or set of men, of any rank or weight in my dominions, could by any
imaginable means have induced me to conceive it possible that such letters
had been written by your lordship. Not for one moment could my belief have
been compelled by any evidence less strong than your lordship's handwriting
and seal. I own, I thought I knew your lordship's seal and writing; but I
now see that I have been deceived, and I rejoice to see it."

"I thank your majesty. I cannot feel surprise that a forgery and a
counterfeit which, at first view, compelled my own belief of their being
genuine, should, for a moment, have deceived you, sir; but, I own, I had
flattered myself that my sovereign knew my heart and character, yet better
than my seal and signature."

"Undoubtedly, my lord."

"And I should have hoped that, if your majesty had perused those letters,
no assertions could have been necessary, on my part, to convince you, sir,
that they could not be mine. I have now only to rejoice that your majesty
is undeceived; and that I have not intruded unnecessarily with this
explanation. I am fully sensible, sir, of your goodness, in having thus
permitted me to make, as early as possible, this assertion of my innocence.
For the proofs of it, and for the detection of the guilty, I am preparing;
and I hope to make these as clear to you, sir, as your majesty's assurance
of the pleasure you feel in being undeceived is satisfactory--consolatory
to me," concluded Lord Oldborough, with a bow of profound yet proud
respect.

"My lord," said the king, "I have no doubt that this affair will redound to
your honour, and _terminate to your lordship's entire satisfaction_."

The very phrase used by the Duke of Greenwich.

"As to myself, your lordship can have no farther anxiety; but I wish your
lordship's endeavours to detect and bring proofs home to the guilty may
be promptly successful--for the gratification of your own feelings, and
the satisfaction of the public mind, before the matter should be brought
forward in parliament."

His majesty bowed, and as Lord Oldborough retired, he added some gracious
phrases, expressive of the high esteem he felt for the minister, and
the interest he had always, and should always take, in whatever could
contribute to his public and private--_satisfaction_--(again).

To an eye and ear less practised in courts than this minister's, all that
had been said would have been really satisfactory: but Lord Oldborough
discerned a secret embarrassment in the smile, a constraint in the manner,
a care, an effort to be gracious in the language, a caution, a rounding of
the periods, a recurrence to technical phrases of compliment and amity, a
want of the free fluent language of the heart; language which, as it flows,
whether from sovereign or subject, leaves a trace that the art of courtier
or of monarch cannot imitate. In all attempts at such imitation, there is a
want, of which vanity and even interest is not always sensible, but which
feeling perceives instantly. Lord Oldborough felt it--and twice, during
this audience, he was on the point of offering his resignation, and twice,
exerting strong power over himself, he refrained.

He saw plainly that he was not where he had been in the king's confidence;
that his enemies had been at work, and, in some measure, had succeeded;
that suspicions had been infused into the king's mind. That his king had
doubted him, his majesty had confessed--and Lord Oldborough discerned that
there was no genuine joy at the moment his majesty was undeceived, no real
anxiety for his honour, only the ostensible manifestation suitable to the
occasion--repeatable--or recordable.

Still there was nothing of which he could complain; every expression, if
written down or repeated, must have appeared proper and gracious from
the sovereign to his minister; and for that minister to resign at such a
moment, from pride or pique, would have been fatal to the dignity, perhaps
to the integrity, of his character.

Lord Oldborough reasoned thus as he stood in the presence of the king,
and compelled himself, during the whole audience, and to the last parting
moment, to preserve an air and tone of calm, respectful self-possession.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

During Lord Oldborough's absence, his faithful secretary had been active in
his service. Mr. Temple went immediately to his friend Alfred Percy. Alfred
had just returned fatigued from the courts, and was resting himself, in
conversation with his wife and Caroline.

"I am sorry to disturb you, Alfred," said Mr. Temple, "but I must take you
away from these ladies to consult you on particular business."

"Oh! let the particular business wait till he has rested himself," said
Mrs. Percy, "unless it be a matter of life and death."

"Life and death!" cried Lady Frances Arlington, running in at the open
door--"Yes, it is a matter of life and death!--Stay, Mr. Temple! Mr. Percy!
going the moment I come into the room--Impossible!"

"Impossible it would be," said Mr. Temple, "in any other case; but--"

"'When a lady's in the case,
You know all other things give place,'"

cried Lady Frances. "So, positively, gentlemen, I stop the way. But, Mr.
Temple, to comfort you--for I never saw a man, gallant or ungallant, look
so impatient--I shall not be able to stay above a moment--Thank you, Mrs.
Percy, I can't sit down--Mrs. Crabstock, the crossest of Crabstocks and
stiffest of pattern-women, is in the carriage waiting for me. Give me
joy--I have accomplished my purpose, and without Lady Jane Granville's
assistance--obtained a permit to go with Lady Trant, and made her take me
to Lady Angelica's last night. Grand conversazione!--Saw the German baron!
Caught both the profiles--have 'em here--defy you not to smile. Look,"
cried her ladyship, drawing out of her _reticule_ a caricature, which she
put into Caroline's hand; and, whilst she was looking at it, Lady Frances
went on speaking rapidly. "Only a sketch, a scrawl in pencil, while they
thought I was copying a Sonnet to Wisdom--on the worst bit of paper, too,
in the world--old cover of a letter I stole from Lady Trant's _reticule_
while she was at cards. Mr. Temple, you shall see my _chef-d'oeuvre_ by and
by; don't look at the reverse of the medal, pray. Did not I tell you, you
were the most impatient man in the world?"

It was true that Mr. Temple was at this instant most impatient to get
possession of the paper, for on the back of that cover of the letter, on
which the caricature was drawn, the hand-writing of the direction appeared
to him--He dared scarcely believe his eyes--his hopes.

"Mrs. Crabstock, my lady," said the footman, "is waiting."

"I know, sir," said Lady Frances: "so, Caroline, you won't see the
likeness. Very well; if I can't get a compliment, I must be off. When you
draw a caricature, I won't praise it. Here! Mr. Temple, one look, since you
are dying for it."

"One look will not satisfy me," cried Mr. Temple, seizing the paper: "your
ladyship must leave the drawing with us till to-morrow."

"_Us--must_. Given at our court of St. James's. Lord Oldborough's own
imperative style."

"Imperative! no; humbly I beseech your ladyship, thus humbly," cried Mr.
Temple, kneeling in jest, but keeping in earnest fast hold of the paper.

"But why--why? Are you acquainted with Lady Angelica? I did not know you
knew her."

"It is excellent!--It is admirable!--I cannot let it go. This hand that
seized it long shall hold the prize."

"The man's mad! But don't think I'll give it to you--I would not give it to
my mother: but I'll lend it to you, if you'll tell me honestly why you want
it."

"Honestly--I want to show it to a particular friend, who will be delighted
with it."

"Tell me who, this minute, or you shall not have it."

"Mrs. Crabstock, my lady, bids me say, the duchess--"

"The duchess--the deuce!--if she's come to the duchess, I must go. I hope
your man, Mrs. Percy, won't tell Mrs. Crabstock he saw this gentleman
kneeling."

"Mrs. Crabstock's getting out, my lady," said the footman, returning.

"Mr. Temple, for mercy's sake, get up."

"Never, till your ladyship gives the drawing."

"There! there! let me go--audacious!"

"Good morning to you, Mrs. Percy--Good bye, Caroline--Be at Lady Jane's
to-night, for I'm to be there."

Her ladyship ran off, and met Mrs. Crabstock on the stairs, with whom we
leave her to make her peace as she pleases.

"My dear Temple, I believe you are out of your senses," said Alfred: "I
never saw any man so importunate about a drawing that is not worth a
straw--trembling with eagerness, and kneeling!--Caroline, what do you think
Rosamond would have thought of all this?"

"If she knew the whole, she would have thought I acted admirably," said Mr.
Temple. "But come, I have business."

Alfred took him into his study, and there the whole affair was explained.
Mr. Temple had brought with him the specimen of the forgery to show to
Alfred, and, upon comparing it with the handwriting on the cover of the
letter on which the caricature was drawn, the similarity appeared to
be strikingly exact. The cover, which had been stolen, as Lady Frances
Arlington said, from Lady Trant's _reticule_, was directed to Captain
Nuttall. He was one of the persons to whom forged letters had been written,
as appeared by the list which Lord Oldborough had left with Mr. Temple.
The secretary was almost certain that his lordship had never written with
his own hand to any Captain Nuttall; but this he could ask the moment he
should see Lord Oldborough again. It seemed as if this paper had never been
actually used as the cover of a letter, for it had no post-mark, seal, or
wafer. Upon farther inspection, it was perceived that a _t_ had been left
out in the name of _Nuttall_; and it appeared probable that the cover had
been thrown aside, and a new one written, in consequence of this omission.
But Alfred did not think it possible that Lady Trant could be the forger
of these letters, because he had seen some of her ladyship's notes of
invitation to Caroline, and they were written in a wretched cramped hand.

"But that cramped hand might be feigned to conceal the powers of
penmanship," said Mr. Temple.

"Well! granting her ladyship's talents were equal to the mere execution,"
Alfred persisted in thinking she had not abilities sufficient to invent or
combine all the parts of such a scheme. "She might be an accomplice, but
she must have had a principal--and who could that principal be?"

The same suspicion, the same person, came at the same moment into the heads
of both gentlemen, as they sat looking at each other.

"There is an intimacy between them," said Alfred. "Recollect all the pains
Lady Trant took for Mrs. Falconer about English Clay--they--"

"Mrs. Falconer! But how could she possibly get at Lord Oldborough's private
seal--a seal that is always locked up--a seal never used to any common
letter, never to any but those written by his own hand to some private
friend, and on some very particular occasion? Since I have been with him I
have not seen him use that seal three times."

"When and to whom, can you recollect?" said Alfred.

"I recollect!--I have it all!" exclaimed Mr. Temple, striking the table--"I
have it! But, Lady Frances Arlington--I am sorry she is gone."

"Why! what of her?--Lady Frances can have nothing more to do with the
business."

"She has a great deal more, I can assure you--but without knowing it."

"Of that I am certain, or all the world would have known it long ago: but
tell me how."

"I recollect, at the time when I was dangling after Lady Frances--there's
good in every thing--just before we went down to Falconer-court, her
ladyship, who, you know, has always some reigning fancy, was distracted
about what she called _bread-seals_. She took off the impression of seals
with bread--no matter how, but she did--and used to torment me--no, I
thought it a great pleasure at the time--to procure for her all the pretty
seals I could."

"But, surely, you did not give her Lord Oldborough's?"

"I!--not I!--how could you imagine such a thing?"

"You were in love, and might have forgotten consequences."

"A man in love may forget every thing, I grant--except his fidelity. No, I
never gave the seal; but I perfectly recollect Lady Frances showing it to
me in her collection, and my asking her how she came by it."

"And how did she?"

"From the cover of a note which the duke, her uncle, had received from Lord
Oldborough; and I, at the time, remembered his lordship's having written it
to the Duke of Greenwich on the birth of his grandson. Lord Oldborough had,
upon a former occasion, affronted his grace by sending him a note sealed
with a wafer--this time his lordship took special care, and sealed it with
his private _seal of honour_."

"Well! But how does this bring the matter home to Mrs. Falconer?" said
Alfred.

"Stay--I am bringing it as near home to her as possible. We all went
down to Falconer-court together; and there I remember Lady Frances had
her collection of bread-seals, and was daubing and colouring them with
vermilion--and Mrs. Falconer was so anxious about them--and Lady Frances
gave her several--I must see Lady Frances again directly, to inquire
whether she gave her, among the rest, Lord Oldborough's--I'll go to Lady
Jane Granville's this evening on purpose. But had I not better go this
moment to Lady Trant?"

Alfred advised, that having traced the matter thus far, they should not
hazard giving any alarm to Lady Trant or to Mrs. Talconer, but should
report to Lord Oldborough what progress had been made.

Mr. Temple accordingly went home, to be in readiness for his lordship's
return. In the mean time the first exaltation of indignant pride having
subsided, and his cool judgment reflecting upon what had passed, Lord
Oldborough considered that, however satisfactory to his own mind might he
the feeling of his innocence, the proofs of it were necessary to satisfy
the public; he saw that his character would be left doubtful, and at the
mercy of his enemies, if he were in pique and resentment hastily to resign,
before he had vindicated his integrity. "_If_ your proofs be produced, my
lord!"--these words recurred to him, and his anxiety to obtain these proofs
rose high; and high was his satisfaction the moment he saw his secretary,
for by the first glance at Mr. Temple's countenance he perceived that some
discovery had been made.

Alfred, that night, received through Mr. Temple his lordship's request,
that he would obtain what farther information he could relative to the
private seal, in whatever way he thought most prudent. His lordship trusted
entirely to his discretion--Mr. Temple was engaged with other business.

Alfred went with Caroline to Lady Jane Granville's, to meet Lady Frances
Arlington; he entered into conversation, and by degrees brought her to
his point, playing all the time with her curiosity, and humouring her
childishness, while he carried on his cross-examination.

At first she could not recollect any thing about making the seals he talked
of. "It was a fancy that had passed--and a past fancy," she said, "was
like a past love, or a past beauty, good for nothing but to be forgotten."
However, by proper leading of the witness, and suggesting time, place, and
circumstance, he did bring to the fair lady's mind all that he wanted her
to remember. She could not conceive what interest Mr. Percy could take in
the matter--it was some jest about Mr. Temple, she was sure. Yes, she did
recollect a seal with a Cupid riding a lion, that Mr. Temple gave her just
before they went to Falconer-court--was that what he meant?

"No--but a curious seal--" (Alfred described the device.)

"Lord Oldborough's! Yes, there was some such odd seal." But it was not
given to her by Mr. Temple--she took that from a note to her uncle, the
Duke of Greenwich.

Yes--that, Alfred said, he knew; but what did her ladyship do with it?

"You know how I got it! Bless me! you seem to know every thing I do and
say. You know my affairs vastly well--you act the conjuror admirably--pray,
can you tell me whom I am to marry?"

"That I will--when your ladyship has told me to whom you gave that seal."

"That I would, and welcome, if I could recollect--but I really can't. If
you think I gave it to Mr. Temple, I assure you, you are mistaken--you may
ask him."

"I know your ladyship did not give it to Mr. Temple--but to whom did you
give it?"

"I remember now--not to any gentleman, after all--you are positively out. I
gave it to Mrs. Falconer."

"You are certain of that, Lady Frances Arlington?"

"I am certain, Mr. Alfred Percy."

"And how can you prove it to me, Lady Frances?"

"The easiest way in the world--by asking Mrs. Falconer. Only I don't go
there now much, since Georgiana and I have quarrelled--but what can make
you so curious about it?"

"That's a secret."--At the word _secret_, her attention was fixed.--"May I
ask if your ladyship would know the seal again if you saw it?--Is this any
thing like the impression?" (showing her the seal on the forged cover.)

"The very same that I gave Mrs. Falconer, I'll swear to it--I'll tell you
how I know it particularly. There's a little outer rim here, with points to
it, which there is not to the other. I fastened my bread-seal into an old
setting of my own, from which I had lost the stone. Mrs. Falconer took a
fancy to it, among a number of others, so I let her have it. Now I have
answered all your questions--answer mine--Whom am I to marry?"

"Your ladyship will marry whomsoever--your ladyship _pleases_."

"That was an ambiguous answer," she observed; "for that she _pleased_
every body." Her ladyship was going to run on with some further questions,
but Alfred pretending that the oracle was not permitted to answer more
explicitly, left her completely in the dark as to what his meaning had been
in this whole conversation.

He reported progress to Lord Oldborough--and his lordship slept as soundly
this night as he did the night after he had been attacked by the mob.

The next morning the first person he desired to see was Mr. Falconer--his
lordship sent for him into his cabinet.

"Mr. Commissioner Falconer, I promised to give you notice, whenever I
should see any probability of my going out of power."

"Good Heaven! my lord," exclaimed the commissioner, starting back. The
surprise, the consternation were real--Lord Oldborough had his eye upon him
to determine that point.

"Impossible, surely!--I hope--"

His hope flitted at the moment to the Duke of Greenwich--but returned
instantly: he had made no terms--had missed his time. If Lord Oldborough
should go out of office--his place, his pension, gone--utter ruin.

Lord Oldborough marked the vacillation and confusion of his countenance,
and saw that he was quite unprepared.

"I hope--Merciful Powers! I trust--I thought your lordship had triumphed
over all your enemies, and was firmer in favour and power than ever. What
can have occurred?"

Without making any answer, Lord Oldborough beckoned to the commissioner
to approach nearer the window where his lordship was standing, and then
suddenly put into his hand the cover with the forged handwriting and seal.

"What am I to understand by this, my lord?" said the bewildered
commissioner, turning it backwards and forwards. "Captain Nuttall!--I never
saw the man in my life. May I ask, my lord, what I am to comprehend from
this?"

"I see, sir, that you know nothing of the business."

The whole was explained by Lord Oldborough succinctly. The astonishment
and horror in the poor commissioner's countenance and gestures, and still
more, the eagerness with which he begged to be permitted to try to discover
the authors of this forgery, were sufficient proofs that he had not the
slightest suspicion that the guilt could be traced to any of his own
family.

Lord Oldborough's look, fixed on the commissioner, expressed what it had
once before expressed--"Sir, from my soul, I pity you!"

The commissioner saw this look, and wondered why Lord Oldborough should
pity _him_ at a time when all his lordship's feelings should naturally be
for himself.

"My lord, I would engage we shall discover--we shall trace it."

"I believe that I have discovered--that I have traced it," said Lord
Oldborough; and he sighed.

Now that sigh was more incomprehensible to the commissioner than all the
rest, and he stood with his lips open for a moment before he could utter,
"Why then resign, my lord?"

"That is my affair," said Lord Oldborough. "Let us, if you please, sir,
think of yours; for, probably, this is the only time I shall ever more have
it in my power to be of the least service to you."

"Oh! my lord--my lord, don't say so!" said the commissioner quite
forgetting all his artificial manner, and speaking naturally: "the last
time you shall have it in your power!--Oh! my dear lord, don't say so!"

"My dear sir, I must--it gives me pain--you see it does."

"At such a time as this to think of me instead of yourself! My lord, I
never knew you till this moment--so well."

"Nor I you, sir," said Lord Oldborough. "It is the more unfortunate for us
both, that our connexion and intercourse must now for ever cease."

"Never, never, my lord, if you were to go out of power to-morrow--which
Heaven, in its mercy and justice, forbid! I could never forget the
goodness--I would never desert--in spite of all interest--I should
continue--I hope your lordship would permit me to pay my duty--all
intercourse could never cease."

Lord Oldborough saw, and almost smiled at the struggle between the courtier
and the man--the confusion in the commissioner's mind between his feelings
and his interest. Partly his lordship relieved, and partly he pained Mr.
Falconer, by saying, in his firm tone, "I thank you, Mr. Falconer; but all
intercourse must cease. After this hour, we meet no more. I beg you, sir,
to collect your spirits, and to listen to me calmly. Before this day is at
an end, you will understand why all farther intercourse between us would
be useless to your interest, and incompatible with my honour. Before many
hours are past, a blow will be struck which will go to your heart--for I
see you have one--and deprive you of the power of thought. It is my wish to
make that blow fall as lightly upon you as possible."

"Oh! my lord, your resignation would indeed be a blow I could never
recover. The bare apprehension deprives me at this moment of all power of
thought; but still I hope--"

"Hear me, sir, I beg, without interruption: it is my business to think
for you. Go immediately to the Duke of Greenwich, make what terms with
him you can--make what advantage you can of the secret of my approaching
resignation--a secret I now put in your power to communicate to his grace,
and which no one yet suspects--I having told it to no one living but to
yourself. Go quickly to the duke--time presses--I wish you success--and a
better patron than I have been, than my principles would permit me to be.
Farewell, Mr. Falconer."

The commissioner moved towards the door when Lord Oldborough said "_Time
presses_;" but the commissioner stopped--turned back--could not go: the
tears--real tears--rolled down his cheeks--Lord Oldborough went forward,
and held out his hand to him--the commissioner kissed it, with the
reverence with which he would have kissed his sovereign's hand; and bowing,
he involuntarily backed to the door, as if quitting the presence of
majesty.

"It is a pity that man was bred a mere courtier, and that he is cursed with
a family on none of whom there is any dependence," thought Lord Oldborough,
as the door closed upon the commissioner for ever.

Lord Oldborough delayed an hour purposely, to give Mr. Falconer advantage
of the day with the Duke of Greenwich: then ordered his carriage, and drove
to--Mrs. Falconer's.

Great was her surprise at the minister's entrance.--"Concerned the
commissioner was not at home."

"My business is with Mrs. Falconer."

"My lord--your lordship--the honour and the pleasure of a visit--Georgiana,
my dear."

Mrs. Falconer nodded to her daughter, who most unwillingly, and as if dying
with curiosity, retired.

The smile died away upon Mrs. Falconer's lips as she observed the stern
gravity of Lord Oldborough's countenance. She moved a chair towards his
lordship--he stood, and leaning on the back of the chair, paused, as he
looked at her.

"What is to come?--Cunningham, perhaps," thought Mrs. Falconer; "or perhaps
something about John. When will he speak?--I can't--I must--I am happy to
see your lordship looking so well."

"Is Mrs. Falconer acquainted with Lady Trant?"

"Lady Trant--yes, my lord."

"Mercy! Is it possible?--No, for her own sake she would not betray me,"
thought Mrs. Falconer.

"Intimately?" said Lord Oldborough.

"Intimately--that is, as one's intimate with every body of a certain
sort--one visits--but no farther--I can't say I have the honour--"

Mrs. Falconer was so distracted by seeing Lord Oldborough searching in his
pocket-book for a letter, that in spite of all her presence of mind, she
knew not what she said; and all her presence of countenance failed, when
Lord Oldborough placed before her eyes the cover directed to Captain
Nuttall.

Can you guess how this came into Lady Trant's possession, madam?"

"I protest, my lord," her voice trembling, in spite of her utmost efforts
to command it, "I don't know--nor can I conceive--"

"Nor can you conceive by whom it was written, madam?"

"It appears--it bears a resemblance--some likeness--as far as I
recollect--but it is so long since I have seen your lordship's own
hand--and hands are so like--sometimes--and I am so bad a judge--every
hand, all fashionable hands, are so like."

"And every seal like every seal?" said Lord Oldborough, placing the
counterfeit seal before Mrs. Falconer. "I recommend it to you, madam, to
waste no farther time in evasion; but to deliver to me the counterpart
of this seal, the impression of my private seal, which you had from Lady
Frances Arlington."

"A mere bread-seal! Her ladyship surely has not said--I really have lost
it--if I ever had it--I declare your lordship terrifies me so, by this
strange mode--"

"I recommend it to you once more, madam, and for the last time I earnestly
recommend it to you, to deliver up to me that seal, for I have sworn to
my belief that it is in your possession; a warrant will in consequence be
issued, to seize and search your papers. The purport of my present visit,
of which I should gladly have been spared the pain, is to save you, madam,
from the public disgrace of having a warrant executed. Do not faint, madam,
if you can avoid it, nor go into hysterics; for if you do, I must retire,
and the warrant must be executed. Your best course is to open that desk,
to give me up the seal, to make to me at this instant a full confession of
all you know of this transaction. If you do thus, for your husband's sake,
madam, I will, as far as I can consistently with what is due to myself,
spare you the shame of an arrest."

Mrs. Falconer, with trembling hands, unlocked the desk, and delivered the
seal.

"And a letter which I see in the same hand-writing, madam, if you please."

She gave it; and then, unable to support herself longer, sunk upon a sofa:
but she neither fainted nor screamed--she was aware of the consequences.
Lord Oldborough opened the window to give her air. She was relieved by a
burst of tears, and was silent--and nothing was heard but her sobs, which
she endeavoured to suppress in vain. She was more relieved on looking up
by one glance at Lord Oldborough's countenance, where she saw compassion
working strongly.

But before she could take any advantage of it, the expression was
changed, the feeling was controlled: he was conscious of its weakness--he
recollected what public justice, and justice to his own character,
required--he recollected all the treachery, the criminality, of which she
had been guilty.

"Madam, you are not now in a condition, I see, to explain yourself
farther--I will relieve you from my presence: my reproaches you will never
hear; but I shall expect from you, before one hour, such an avowal in
writing of this whole transaction, as may, with the written confession of
Lady Trant, afford the proofs which are due to my sovereign, and to the
public, of my integrity."

Mrs. Falconer bowed her head, covered her face, clasped her hands in agony:
as Lord Oldborough retired, she sprang up, followed to throw herself at his
feet, yet without knowing what she could say.

"The commissioner is innocent!--If you forsake him, he is undone--all, all
of us, utterly ruined! Oh! Georgiana! Georgiana! where are you? speak for
me!"

Georgiana was in an inner apartment, trying on a new robe _a la
Georgienne_.

"Whatever you may wish farther to say to me, madam," said Lord Oldborough,
disengaging himself from her, and passing decidedly on, before Georgiana
appeared, "you will put in writing, and let me have within this hour--or
never."

Within that hour, Commissioner Falconer brought, for Lord Oldborough, the
paper his wife had drawn up, but which he was obliged to deliver to Mr.
Temple; for Lord Oldborough had so ordered, and his lordship persevered in
refusing to see him more. Mrs. Falconer's paper was worded with all the
art and address of which she was mistress, and all the pathos she could
command--Lord Oldborough looked only for facts--these he marked with his
pencil, and observed where they corroborated and where they differed from
Lady Trant's confession, which Mr. Temple had been charged to obtain during
his lordship's visit to Mrs. Falconer. The greater part of the night Lord
Oldborough and Mr. Alfred Percy were employed arranging these documents, so
as to put the proofs in the clearest and shortest form, to be laid before
his majesty the succeeding day.

It appeared that Mrs. Falconer had been first tempted to these practices by
the distress for money into which extravagant entertainments, or, as she
stated, the expenses incident to her situation--expenses which far exceeded
her income--had led her. It was supposed, from her having kept open
house at times for the minister, that she and the commissioner had great
influence; she had been applied to--presents had been offered, and she had
long withstood. But at length, Lady Trant acting in concert with her, they
had been supplied with information by a clerk in one of the offices, a
relation of Lady Trant, who was a vain, incautious youth, and, it seems,
did not know the use made of his indiscretion: he told what promotions he
heard spoken of--what commissions were making out. The ladies prophesied,
and their prophecies being accomplished, they gained credit. For some time
they kept themselves behind the scenes--and many, applying to A.B., and
dealing with they did not know whom, paid for promotions which would have
come unpaid for; others paid, and were never promoted, and wrote letters
of reproach--Captain Nuttall was among these, and he it was, who, finding
himself duped, first stirred in the business; and by means of an active
member of opposition, to whom he made known his secret grievance, brought
the whole to light.

The proofs arranged (and Lord Oldborough never slept till they were
perfected), he reposed tranquilly. The next day, asking an audience of his
majesty, he simply laid the papers on his majesty's table, observing that
he had been so fortunate as to succeed in tracing the forgery, and that he
trusted these papers contained all the necessary proofs.

His lordship bowed and retired instantly, leaving his majesty to examine
the papers alone.

The resolution to resign his ministerial station had long been forming in
Lord Oldborough's mind. It was not a resolution taken suddenly in pride
or pique, but after reflection, and upon strong reasons. It was a measure
which he had long been revolving in his secret thoughts. During the
enthusiasm of political life, the proverbial warnings against the vanity
of ambition, and the danger of dependence on the favour of princes, had
passed on his ear but as a schoolboy's lesson: a phrase "to point a moral,
or adorn a tale." He was not a reading man, and the maxims of books he
disregarded or disbelieved; but in the observations he made for himself he
trusted: the lessons he drew from life were never lost upon him, and he
acted in consequence of that which he believed, with a decision, vigour,
and invariability, seldom found even among philosophers. Of late years he
had, in real life, seen striking instances of the treachery of courtiers,
and had felt some symptoms of insecurity in the smile of princes. Fortune
had been favourable to him--she was fickle--he determined to quit her
before she should change. Ambition, it is true, had tempted him--he had
risen to her highest pinnacle: he would not be hurled from high--he would
descend voluntarily, and with dignity. Lord Oldborough's habits of thought
were as different as possible from those of a metaphysician: he had
reflected less upon the course of his own mind than upon almost any other
subject; but he knew human nature practically; disquisitions on habit,
passion, or the sovereign good, were unread by him, nor, in the course of
his life, had he ever formed a system, moral or prudential; but the same
penetration, the same _longanimity_, which enabled him to govern the
affairs of a great nation, gave him, when his attention turned towards
himself, a foresight for his own happiness. In the meridian of life, he had
cherished ambition, as the only passion that could supply him with motive
strong enough to call great powers into great action. But of late years
he had felt something, not only of the waywardness of fortune, but of the
approaches of age--not in his mind, but in his health, which had suffered
by his exertions. The attacks of hereditary gout had become more violent
and more frequent. If he lived, these would, probably, at seasons, often
incapacitate him from his arduous ministerial duties: much, that he did
well, must be ill done by deputy. He had ever reprobated the practice of
leaving the business of the nation to be done by clerks and underlings
in office. Yet to this the minister, however able, however honest, must
come at last, if he persist in engrossing business and power beyond what
an individual can wield. Love for his country, a sense of his own honour,
integrity, and consistency, here combined to determine this great minister
to retire while it was yet time--to secure, at once, the dignity and
happiness of the evening of life. The day had been devoted to good and high
purposes--that was enough--he could now, self-satisfied and full of honour,
bid adieu to ambition. This resolution, once formed, was fixed. In vain
even his sovereign endeavoured to dissuade him from carrying it into
execution.

When the king had examined the papers which Lord Oldborough had laid before
him, his majesty sent for his lordship again, and the moment the minister
entered the cabinet, his majesty expressed his perfect satisfaction in
seeing that his lordship had, with so little trouble, and with his usual
ability, got to the bottom of this affair.

What was to be done next? The Duke of Greenwich was to be summoned. His
grace was in astonishment when he saw the papers which contained Lord
Oldborough's complete vindication, and the crimination of Mrs. Falconer.
Through the whole, as he read on, his grace had but one idea, viz.
"Commissioner Falconer has deceived me with false intelligence of the
intended resignation." Not one word was said by Lord Oldborough to give his
grace hope of that event--till the member of opposition by whom the forged
letters had been produced--till all those who knew or had heard any thing
of the transaction were clearly and fully apprised of the truth. After
this was established, and that all saw Lord Oldborough clear and bright in
honour, and, at least apparently, as firm in power as he had ever been, to
the astonishment of his sovereign his lordship begged permission to resign.

Whatever might have been the effect of misrepresentation, to lower Lord
Oldborough's favour, at the moment when he spoke of retiring, his king
recollected all his past services--all that must, in future, be hazarded
and lost in parting with such a minister--so eminent in abilities, of
such tried integrity, of such fidelity, such attachment to his person,
such a zealous supporter of royalty, such a favourite with his people, so
successful as well as so able a minister! Never was he so much valued as at
this moment. All his sovereign's early attachment returned in full strength
and warmth.

"No, my lord, you must not--you will not leave me."

These simple words, spoken with the warmth of the heart, touched Lord
Oldborough more than can be told. It was difficult to resist them,
especially when he saw tears in the eyes of the monarch whom he loved.

But his resolution was taken. He thanked his majesty, not with the
common-place thanks of courtiers, but with his whole heart and soul he
thanked his majesty for this gracious condescension--this testimony
of approbation--these proofs of sensibility to his attachment, which
paid--overpaid him, in a moment, for the labours of a life. The
recollection of them would be the glory, the solace of his age--could never
leave his memory while life lasted--would, he thought, be present to him,
if he should retain his senses, in his dying moment. But he was, in the
midst of this strong feeling, firm to the resolution his reason had taken.
He humbly represented, that he had waited for a favourable time when the
affairs of the country were in a prosperous train, when there were few
difficulties to embarrass those whom his majesty might name to succeed to
his place at the head of administration: there were many who were ambitious
of that station--zeal, talents, and the activity of youth were at his
majesty's command. For himself, he found it necessary for his health and
happiness to retire from public business; and to resign the arduous trust
with which he had been honoured.

"My lord, if I must accept of your resignation, I must--but I do it with
regret. Is there any thing your lordship wishes--any thing you will name
for yourself or your friends, that I can do, to show my sense of your
services and merit?"

"For myself, your majesty's bounty has left me nothing to wish."

"For your friends, then, my lord?--Let me have the satisfaction of obliging
you through them."

Nothing could be more gracious or more gratifying than the whole of this
parting audience. It was Lord Oldborough's last audience.

The news of his resignation, quickly whispered at court, was not that day
publicly known or announced. The next morning his lordship's door was
crowded beyond example in the memory of ministers. Mr. Temple, by his
lordship's order, announced as soon as possible the minister's having
resigned. All were in astonishment--many in sorrow: some few--a very few
of the most insignificant of the crowd, persons incapable of generous
sympathy, who thought they could follow their own paltry interests
unnoticed--left the room, without paying their farewell respects to this
great minister--minister now no more.

The moment he appeared, there was sudden silence. All eyes were fixed upon
him, every one pressing to get into the circle.

"Gentlemen, thank you for these marks of attention--of regard. Mr. Temple
has told you--you know, my friends, that I am a man without power."

"We know," answered a distinguished gentleman, "that you are Lord
Oldborough. With or without power, the same in the eyes of your friends,
and of the British nation."

Lord Oldborough bowed low, and looked gratified. His lordship then went
round the circle with an air more cheerful, more free from reserve, than
usual; with something in his manner more of sensibility, but nothing less
of dignity. All who merited distinction he distinguished by some few
appropriate words, which each remembered afterwards, and repeated to their
families and friends. He spoke or listened to each individual with the
attention of one who is courting, not quitting, popularity. Free from that
restraint and responsibility which his public and ministerial duties had
imposed upon him, he now entered into the private concerns of all, and gave
his parting assistance or counsel. He noted all grievances--registered
all promises that ought to be recommended to the care of his successor
in office. The wishes of many, to whom he had forborne to give any
encouragement, he now unexpectedly fulfilled and surpassed. When all were
satisfied, and had nothing more to ask or to hope from him, they yet
delayed, and parted from Lord Oldborough with difficulty and regret.

A proof that justice commands more than any other quality the respect and
gratitude of mankind. Take time and numbers into the calculation, and all
discover, in their turn, the advantage of this virtue. This minister, a few
regretted instances excepted, had shown no favour, but strict justice, in
his patronage.

All Lord Oldborough's requests for his friends were granted--all his
recommendations attended to: it was grateful to him to feel that his
influence lasted after his power had ceased. Though the sun had apparently
set, its parting rays continued to brighten and cheer the prospect.

Under a new minister, Mr. Temple declined accepting of the embassy which
had been offered to him. Remuneration suitable to his services, and to the
high terms in which Lord Oldborough had spoken of his merit, was promised;
and without waiting to see in what form, or manner, this promise would be
accomplished, the secretary asked and obtained permission to accompany his
revered master to his retirement. Alfred Percy, zealous and ardent in Lord
Oldborough's service, the more this great man's character had risen upon
his admiration, had already hastened to the country to prepare every thing
at Clermont-park for his reception. By his orders, that establishment had
been retrenched; by Alfred Percy's activity it was restored. Services,
which the richest nobleman in the land could not have purchased, or the
highest have commanded, Alfred was proud to pay as a voluntary tribute to a
noble character.

Lord Oldborough set out for the country at a very early hour in the
morning, and no one previously knew his intentions, except Mr. Temple. He
was desirous to avoid what it had been whispered was the design of the
people, to attend him in crowds through the streets of the metropolis.

As they drove out of town, Lord Oldborough recollected that in some
account, either of the Duke of Marlborough, or the Duke of Ormond's leaving
London, after his dismission from court, it is said, that of all those whom
the duke had served, all those who had courted and flattered him in the
time of his prosperity and power, none showed any gratitude or attachment,
excepting one page, who appeared at the coach-door as his master was
departing, and gave some signs of genuine sorrow and respect.

"I am fortunate," said Lord Oldborough, "in having few complaints to make
of ingratitude. I make none. The few I might make," continued his lordship,
who now rewarded Mr. Temple's approved fidelity, by speaking to him with
the openness and confidence of friendship, "the few I might make have been
chiefly caused by errors of my own in the choice of the persons I have
obliged. I thank Heaven, however, that upon the whole I leave public life
not only with a good conscience, but with a good opinion of human nature.
I speak not of courtiers--there is nothing of nature about them--they are
what circumstances make them. Were I to live my life over again, the hours
spent with courtiers are those which I should most wish to be spared; but
by a statesman, or a minister, these cannot be avoided. For myself, in
resigning my ministerial office, I might say, as Charles the Fifth, when he
abdicated, said to his successor, 'I leave you a heavy burthen; for since
my shoulders have borne it, I have not passed one day exempt from anxiety.'

"But from the first moment I started in the course of ambition, I was aware
that tranquillity must be sacrificed; and to the last moment I abided by
the sacrifice. The good I had in view, I have reached--the prize at which
I aimed, I have won. The glory of England was my object--her approbation
my reward. Generous people!--If ever I bore toil or peril in your cause,
I am rewarded, and never shall you hear me say that 'the unfruitful
glories please no more.' The esteem of my sovereign!--I possess it. It is
indefeasibly mine. His favour, his smiles, are his to give, or take away.
Never shall he hear from me the _wailings_ of disappointed ambition."

CHAPTER XXXIX.

Caroline took advantage of the opportunity of returning home with her
brother Alfred, when he went to the country, to prepare Clermont-park for
the reception of Lord Oldborough. And now she saw her home again with more
than wonted delight. Every thing animate and inanimate seemed to smile
upon her, every heart rejoiced at her return; and she enjoyed equally
the pleasure of loving, and of being beloved by, such friends. She
had been amused and admired during her residence in London; but a life
of dissipation she had always thought, and now she was convinced from
experience, could never suit her taste or character. She would immediately
have resumed her former occupations, if Rosamond would have permitted; but
Rosamond took entire possession of her at every moment when her father or
mother had not claimed their prior right to hear and to be heard.

"Caroline, my dear, don't natter yourself that you shall be left in
peace--See!--she is sitting down to write a letter, as if she had
not been away from us these six months--You must write to Lady Jane
Granville!--Well, finish your gratitude quickly--and no more writing,
reading, or drawing, this day; you must think of nothing but talking,
or listening to me."

Much as she loved talking in general, Rosamond now so far preferred the
pleasure of hearing, that, with her eyes fixed on Caroline, her countenance
varying with every variety of Caroline's expression, she sat perfectly
silent all the time her sister spoke. And scarcely was her voice heard,
even in exclamation. But, during the pauses of narrative, when the pause
lasted more than a minute, she would say, "Go on, my dear Caroline, go on.
Tell us something more."

The conversation was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Mr. Temple--and
Rosamond did not immediately find her fluency of speech increase. Mr.
Temple had seized the first moment that duty and gratitude to his master
and friend permitted to hasten to the Hills, nor had Lord Oldborough been
unmindful of his feelings. Little as his lordship was disposed to think
of love affairs, it seems he recollected those of his secretary; for,
the morning after their arrival at Clermont-park, when he proffered his
services, Lord Oldborough said, that he had only to trouble Mr. Temple to
pay a visit for him, if it would not be disagreeable, to his old friend Mr.
Percy.

"Tell him that I know his first wish will be to come to show me that it is
the man, not the minister, for whom he had a regard: tell him this proof of
his esteem is unnecessary. He will wish to see me for another reason: he is
a philosopher--and will have a philosophical curiosity to discover how I
exist without ambition. But of that he cannot yet form a judgment--nor can
I: therefore, if he pleases, let his visit be delayed till next week. I
have some papers to arrange, which I should wish to show him, and I cannot
have them sooner in readiness. If you, Mr. Temple, can contrive to pass
this week at Mr. Percy's, let me not detain you. There is no fear," added
he, smiling, that "in solitude I should be troubled by the spectre which
haunted the minister in Gil Blas in his retirement."

Never was man happier than Mr. Temple, when he found himself in the midst
of the family circle at the Hills, and seated beside Rosamond, free from
all cares, all business, all intrigues of courtiers, and restraints of
office; no longer in the horrors of, attendance and dependence, but with
the promise of a competent provision for life--with the consciousness of
its having been, honourably obtained; and to brighten all, the hope, the
delightful hope, of soon prevailing on the woman he loved, to become his
for ever.

Alfred Percy had been obliged to return directly to London, and for once in
his life Mr. Temple benefited by the absence of, his friend. In the small
house at the Hills, Alfred's was the only room that could have been spared
for him; and in this room, scarcely fourteen feet square, the ex-secretary
found himself lodged more entirely to his satisfaction than he had ever
been in the sumptuous apartments of the great. The happy are not fastidious
as to their accommodations; they never miss the painted ceiling, or the
long arcade, and their slumbers require no bed of down. The lover's only
fear was, that this happy week would pass too swiftly; and, indeed, time
flew unperceived by him, and by Rosamond. One fine day, after dinner, Mrs.
Percy proposed, that instead of sitting longer in the house, they should
have their dessert of strawberries in some pleasant place in the lawn or
wood. Rosamond eagerly seconded this proposal, and whispered, "Caroline's
bower."

Thither they went. This bower of Caroline, this favourite spot, Rosamond,
during her sister's absence, had taken delight in ornamenting, and it did
credit as much to her taste as to her kindness. She had opened a view on
one side to a waterfall among the rocks; on the other, to a winding path
descending through the glen. Honey-suckle, rose, and eglantine, near the
bower, were in rich and wild profusion; all these, the song of birds, and
even the smell of the new-mown grass, seemed peculiarly delightful to Mr.
Temple. Of late years he had been doomed to close confinement in a capital
city; but all his tastes were rural, and, as he said, he feared he should
expose himself to the ridicule Dr. Johnson throws on those "who talk of
sheep and goats, and who babble of green fields."

Mr. Percy thought Dr. Johnson was rather too intolerant of rural
description, and of the praises of a country life, but acknowledged that
he quite agreed with him in disliking, pastorals--excepting always that
beautiful drama, "The Gentle Shepherd." Mr. Percy said, that, in his
opinion, a life purely pastoral must, if it could be realized, prove as
insufferably tiresome in reality, as it usually is found to be in fiction.
He hated Delias and shepherdesses, and declared that he should soon grow
tired of any companion with whom he had no other occupation in common but
"_tending a few sheep_." There was a vast difference, he thought, between
pastoral and domestic life. His idea of domestic life comprised all the
varieties of literature, exercise, and amusement for the faculties, with
the delights of cultivated society.

The conversation turned from pastoral life and pastorals to Scotch and
English ballads and songs. Their various merits of simplicity, pathos, or
elegance, were compared and discussed. After the Reliques of Ancient Poetry
had been sufficiently admired, Rosamond and Caroline mentioned two modern
compositions, both by the same author, each exquisite in its different
style of poetry--one beautiful, the other sublime. Rosamond's favourite was
the Exile of Erin; Caroline's, the Mariners of England. To justify their
tastes, they repeated the poems. Caroline fixed the attention of the
company on the flag, which has

"Braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze,"

when suddenly her own attention seemed to be distracted by some object
in the glen below. She endeavoured to go on, but her voice faltered--her
colour changed. Rosamond, whose quick eye followed her sister's, instantly
caught a glimpse of a gentleman coming up the path from the glen. Rosamond
started from her seat, and clasping her hands, exclaimed, "It is! It _is_
he!--It is Count Altenberg!"

They had not recovered from their astonishment when Count Altenberg stood
before them. To Mr. Percy, to Mrs. Percy, to Rosamond, to each he spoke,
before he said one word to Caroline. But one look had said all, had spoken,
and had been understood.

That he was not married she was certain--for that look said he loved
her--and her confidence in his honour was secure: Whatever had delayed his
return, or had been mysterious in his conduct, she felt convinced that he
had never been to blame.

And on his part did he read as distinctly the truth in her
countenance?--Was the high colour, the radiant pleasure in that countenance
unmarked? The joy was so veiled by feminine modesty, that he doubted,
trembled, and if at last the rapid feelings ended in hope, it was
respectful hope. With deference the most marked, mingled with dignity,
tenderness, and passion, he approached Caroline. He was too delicate, too
well-bred, to distress her by distinguishing her more particularly; but as
he took the seat, which she left for him beside her mother, the open and
serene expression of her eye, with the soft sound of her voice, in the few
words she answered to what he said, were enough to set his heart at ease.
The sight of Mr. Temple had at first alarmed the Count, but the alarm was
only momentary. One glance at Rosamond re-assured him.

Ideas, which it requires many words to tell, passed instantaneously with
the rapidity of light. After they were seated, some minutes were spent in
common-place questions and answers, such as those which Benjamin Franklin
would wisely put all together, into one formula, to satisfy curiosity.
Count Altenberg landed the preceding day--had not stopped to see any one in
England--had not even heard of Lord Oldborough's resignation--had proceeded
directly to the Hills--had left his equipage at a town a few miles
distant--thought he had been fully master of the well-known road, but the
approach having been lately changed, he had missed his way.

This settled, to make room for a more interesting explanation, Mr. Temple
had the politeness to withdraw. Rosamond had the humanity, and Caroline the
discretion, to accompany him in his walk.

Count Altenberg then said, addressing himself to Mr. Percy, on whose
regard he seemed to have reliance, and to Mrs. Percy, whom he appeared
most anxious to interest in his favour, "You certainly, sir, as a man of
penetration, and a father; you, madam, as a mother, and as a lady who must
have been accustomed to the admiration of our sex, could not avoid seeing,
when I was in this country before, that I felt the highest admiration, that
I had formed the strongest attachment for your daughter--Miss Caroline
Percy."

Mr. and Mrs. Percy both acknowledged that they thought Count Altenberg
had shown some preference for Caroline; but as he had never declared his
attachment, they had not felt themselves justified in inferring more from
his attentions than his general good opinion. A change in his manner, which
they observed shortly before they quitted Hungerford Castle, had impressed
them with the idea that he had no such views as they had once been led
to imagine, and their never having heard any thing from him since, had
confirmed them in this belief.

"Painful--exquisitely painful, as it was to me," said Count Altenberg, "I
felt myself bound in honour to leave you in that error; and, at all hazards
to myself, to suffer you to continue under that persuasion, as I was then,
and have been till within these few days, in dread of being obliged to
fulfil an engagement, made without my concurrence or knowledge, and which
must for ever have precluded me from indulging the first wish of my heart.
The moment, literally the moment I was at liberty, I hastened hither, to
declare my real sentiments, and to solicit your permission to address your
daughter. But before I can expect that permission, before I can hope for
your approbation of my suit--an approbation which, I am well aware, must
depend entirely upon your opinion of my character--I must, to explain
whatever may have appeared unintelligible in my conduct, be permitted to
make you fully acquainted with the circumstances in which I have been
placed."

Beginning with the history of his father's letters and his own, respecting
the projected marriage with the Countess Christina, he related, nearly as
follows, all that passed, after his having, in obedience to his father's
summons, returned home. He found contracts drawn up and ready for his
signature--the friends of both families apprized of the proposed alliance,
and every thing actually prepared for his marriage. Remonstrances with his
father were vain. The old Count said that it was impossible to break off
the match, that his honour and the honour of his house was pledged. But
independently of all promises, he considered the accomplishment of this
marriage as most desirable and advantageous: with all the vehemence of
affection, and all the force of parental authority, he charged his son to
fulfil his engagements. The old Count was a fond but an imperious father; a
good but an ambitious man. It was his belief that love is such a transient
passion, that it is folly to sacrifice to its indulgence any of the
solid and permanent interests of life. His experience at courts, and his
observation on the gallantries of young princes and nobles, had taught him
to believe that love is not only a transient, but a variable and capricious
feeling, easily changing its object, and subsisting only by novelty. All
that his son said of his attachment to Caroline, of the certainty of its
permanence, and of its being essential to the happiness of his life, the
father heard but as the common language of every enamoured youth. He let
his son speak without interruption, but smiled incredulous, and listened
only as to the voice of one in the paroxysm of a passion, which, however
violent, would necessarily subside. Between the fits, he endeavoured
to control the fever of his mind, and as a spell repeated these words,
"Albert! see the young Countess Christina--but once--I ask no more."

Albert, with the respect due to a father, but with the firmness due
to himself, and with all the courage which love only could have given
to oppose the authority and affection of a parent, refused to ratify
the contract that had been prepared, and declined the proposed
interview. He doubted not, he said, that the lady was all his father
described--beautiful, amiable, and of transcendant talents; he doubted
not her power to win any but a heart already won. He would enter into no
invidious comparisons, nor bid defiance to her charms--his own choice
was made, he was sure of his constancy, and he thought it not only the
most honourable course, but the most respectful to the Lady Christina,
ingenuously at once, and without having any interview with her, or her
friends, to state the truth--that the treaty had been commenced by his
father without his knowledge, and carried on under total ignorance of an
attachment he had formed in England. The father, after some expressions
of anger and disappointment, was silent, and appeared to acquiesce. He no
longer openly urged the proposed interview, but he secretly contrived that
it should take place. At a masked ball at court, Count Albert entered into
conversation with a Minerva, whose majestic air and figure distinguished
her above her companions, whose language, thoughts, and sentiments,
perfectly sustained the character which she assumed. He was struck with
admiration by her talents, and by a certain elevation of thought and
sentiment, which, in all she said, seemed the habitual expression of a real
character, not the strained language of a feigned personage. She took off
her mask--he was dazzled by her beauty. They were at this moment surrounded
by numbers of her friends and of his, who were watching the effect produced
by this interview. His father, satisfied by the admiration he saw in Count
Albert's countenance, when they both took off their masks, approached
and whispered, "the Countess Christina." Count Altenberg grew pale, and
for a moment stood in silent consternation. The lady smiled with an air
of haughty superiority, which in some degree relieved him, by calling
his own pride to his aid, and by convincing him that tenderness, or
feminine timidity, which he would have most dreaded to wound, were
not the characteristics of her mind. He instantly asked permission to
pay his respects to her at her father's palace the ensuing day. She
changed colour--darted a penetrating glance at the Count; and after
an incomprehensible and quick alternation of pleasure and pain in her
countenance, she replied, that "she consented to grant Count Albert
Altenberg that interview which he and their mutual friends desired." She
then retired with friends from the assembly.

In spite of the haughtiness of her demeanour, it had been obvious that
she had desired to make an impression upon Count Albert; and all who knew
her agreed that she had never on any occasion been seen to exert herself
so much to shine and please. She shone, but had not pleased. The father,
however, was content; an interview was promised--he trusted to the charms
and talents of the Countess--he trusted to her flattering desire to
captivate, and with impatience and confidence, he waited for the event
of the succeeding day. Some intervening hours, a night of feverish and
agonizing suspense, would have been spared to Count Albert, had he at this
time known any thing of an intrigue--an intrigue which an artful enemy had
been carrying on, with design to mortify, disgrace, and ruin his house. The
plan was worthy of him by whom it was formed--M. de Tourville--a person,
between whom and Count Albert there seemed an incompatibility of character,
and even of manner; an aversion openly, indiscreetly shown by the Count,
even from his boyish years, but cautiously concealed on the part of M.
de Tourville, masked in courtly smiles and a diplomatic air of perfect
consideration. Fear mixed with M. de Tourville's dislike. He was aware
that if Count Albert continued in confidence with the hereditary prince,
he would, when the prince should assume the reins of government, become,
in all probability, his prime minister, and then adieu to all M. de
Tourville's hopes of rising to favour and fortune. Fertile in the resources
of intrigue, gallant and political, he combined them, upon this occasion,
with exquisite address. When the Countess Christina was first presented
at court, he had observed that the Prince was struck by her beauty. M. de
Tourville took every means that a courtier well knows how to employ, to
flatter the taste by which he hoped to benefit. In secret he insinuated
into the lady's ear that she was admired by the prince. M. de Tourville
knew her to be of an aspiring character, and rightly judged that ambition
was her strongest passion. When once the hope of captivating the prince had
been suggested to her, she began to disdain the proposed alliance with the
house of Altenberg; but she concealed this disdain, till she could show it
with security: she played her part with all the ability, foresight, and
consummate prudence, of which ambition, undisturbed by love, is capable.
Many obstacles opposed her views: the projected marriage with Count Albert
Altenberg--the certainty that the reigning prince would never consent to
his son's forming an alliance with the daughter of a subject. But the old
Prince was dying, and the Lady Christina calculated, that till his decease,
she could protract the time appointed for her marriage with Count Albert.
The young Prince might then break off the projected match, prevail upon
the Emperor to create her a Princess of the empire, and then, without
derogating from his rank, or giving offence to German ideas of propriety,
he might gratify his passion, and accomplish the fulness of her ambition.
Determined to take no counsel but her own, she never opened her scheme to
any of her friends, but pursued her plan secretly, in concert with M. de
Tourville, whom she considered but as a humble instrument devoted to her
service. He all the while considering her merely as a puppet, played by his
art, to secure at once the purposes of his interest and of his hatred. He
thought he foresaw that Count Albert would never yield his intended bride
peaceably to his prince--he knew nothing of the Count's attachment in
England--the Lady Christina was charming--the alliance highly advantageous
to the house of Altenberg--the breaking off such a marriage, and the
disappointment of a passion which he thought the young Countess could not
fail to inspire, would, as M. de Tourville hoped, produce an irreparable
breach between the Prince and his favourite. On Count Albert's return
from England, symptoms of alarm and jealousy had appeared in the Prince,
unmarked by all but by the Countess Christina, and by the confidant, who
was in the secret of his passion.

So far M. de Tourville's scheme had prospered, and from the character of
the hereditary Prince, it was likely to succeed in its ultimate view. He
was a Prince of good dispositions, but wanting in resolution and civil
courage: capable of resisting the allurements of pleasure for a certain
time, but soon weary of painful endurance in any cause; with a taste for
virtue, but destitute of that power to bear and forbear, without which
there is no virtue: a hero, when supported by a stronger mind, such as
that of his friend, Count Albert; but relaxing and sinking at once, when
exposed to the influence of a flatterer such as M. de Tourville: subject to
exquisite shame and self-reproach, when he had acted contrary to his own
idea of right; yet, from the very same weakness that made him err, disposed
to be obstinate in error. M. de Tourville argued well from his knowledge
of his character, that the Prince, enamoured as he was of the charms of
the fair Christina, would not long be able to resist his passion; and that
if once he broke through his sense of honour, and declared that passion
to the destined bride of his friend, he would ever afterwards shun and
detest the man whom he had injured. All this M. de Tourville had admirably
well combined: no man understood and managed better the weaknesses of
human nature, but its strength he could not so well estimate; and as for
generosity, as he could not believe in its sincerity, he was never prepared
for its effects. The struggles which the Prince made against his passion
were greater, and of longer duration, than M. de Tourville had expected. If
Count Albert had continued absent, the Prince might have been brought more
easily to betray him; but his return recalled, in the midst of love and
jealousy, the sense of respect he had for the superior character of this
friend of his early days: he knew the value of a friend--even at the moment
he yielded his faith to a flatterer. He could not at once forfeit the
esteem of the being who esteemed him most--he could not sacrifice the
interest, and as he thought, the happiness, of the man who loved him best.
The attachment his favourite had shown him, his truth, his confiding
openness of temper, the pleasure in his countenance when he saw him first
upon his return from England, all these operated on the heart of the
Prince, and no declaration of his passion had been made at the time when
the appointed interview took place between Count Albert and the Countess
Christina at her father's palace. Her friends not doubting that her
marriage was on the eve of its accomplishment, had no scruple, even in that
court of etiquette, in permitting the affianced lovers to have as private
a conference as each seemed to desire. The lady's manner was this morning
most alarmingly gracious. Count Albert was, however, struck by a difference
in her air the moment she was alone with him, from what it had been whilst
in the presence of her friends. All that he might without vanity have
interpreted as marking a desire to please, to show him favour, and to
evince her approbation, at least, of the choice her friends had made for
her, vanished the moment they withdrew. What her motives might be, Count
Altenberg could not guess; but the hope he now felt, that she was not
really inclined to consider him with partiality, rendered it more easy to
enter into that explanation, upon which he was, at all events, resolved.
With all the delicacy due to her sex, with all the deference due to her
character, and all the softenings by which politeness can soothe and
conciliate pride, he revealed to the Countess Christina the real state of
his affections: he told her the whole truth, concluding, by repeating the
assurance of his belief, that her charms and merit would be irresistible to
any heart that was disengaged.

The lady heard him in astonishment: for this turn of fate she had been
wholly unprepared--the idea of his being attached to another had never
once presented itself to her imagination; she had never calculated on the
possibility that her alliance should be declined by any individual of a
family less than sovereign. She possessed, however, pride of character
superior to her pride of rank, and strength of mind suited to the loftiness
of her ambition. With dignity in her air and countenance, after a pause of
reflection, she replied, "Count Albert Altenberg is, I find, equal to the
high character I have heard of him: deserving of my esteem and confidence,
by that which can alone command esteem and merit confidence--sincerity.
His example has recalled me to my nobler self, and he has, in this moment,
rescued me from the labyrinth of a diplomatist. Count Albert's sincerity
I--little accustomed to imitation, but proud to _follow_ in what is good
and great--shall imitate. Know then, sir, that my heart, like your own,
is engaged: and that you may be convinced I do not mock your ear with the
semblance of confidence, I shall, at whatever hazard to myself, trust to
you my secret. My affections have a high object--are fixed upon him, whose
friend and favourite Count Albert Altenberg deservedly is. I should scorn
myself--no throne upon earth could raise me in my own opinion, if I could
deceive or betray the man who has treated me with such sincerity."

Relieved at once by this explanation, and admiring the manner in which it
was made, mingled joy and admiration were manifest in his countenance; and
the lady forgave him the joy, in consideration of the tribute he paid to
her superiority. Admiration was a tribute he was most willing to yield at
this moment, when released from that engagement to love, which it had been
impossible for him to fulfil.

The Countess recalled his attention to her affairs and to his own. Without
his making any inquiry, she told him all that had been done, and all that
yet remained to be done, for the accomplishment of her hopes: she had
been assured, she said, by one now in the favour and private confidence
of the hereditary prince, that his inclination for her was--painfully
and with struggles, which, in her eyes, made his royal heart worthy her
conquest--suppressed by a sense of honour to his friend.

"This conflict would now cease," Count Albert said. "It should be his
immediate care to relieve his Prince from all difficulty on his account."

"By what means?" the Countess asked.

"Simply by informing him of the truth--as far as I am concerned. Your
secret, madam, is safe--your confidence sacred. Of all that concerns
myself--my own attachment, and the resignation of any pretensions that
might interfere with his, he shall immediately be acquainted with the whole
truth."

The Countess coloured, and repeating the words, "_the whole truth_,"
looked disconcerted, and in great perplexity replied, that Count Albert's
speaking to the Prince directly--his immediate resignation of his
pretensions--would, perhaps, defeat her plans. This was not the course she
had intended to pursue--far from that which M. de Tourville had pointed
out. After some moments' reflection, she said, "I abide by the truth--speak
to the prince--be it so: I trust to your honour and discretion to speak
to him in such terms as not to implicate me, to commit my delicacy, or to
derogate from my dignity. We shall see then whether he loves me as I desire
to be loved. If he does, he will free me, at once, from all difficulty
with my friends, for he will speak _en prince_--and not speak in vain; if
he loves me not, I need not tell you, sir, that you are equally free. My
friends shall be convinced that I will never be the bride of any other
man."

After the explanation with the Lady Christina, Count Albert lost no time;
he went instantly to the palace. In his way thither, he was met by one of
the pages, who told him the Prince desired to see him immediately. He found
the Prince alone. Advancing to meet him, with great effort in his manner to
command his emotion, the Prince said, "I have sent for you, Count Albert,
to give you a proof that the friendship of Princes is not, in every
instance, so vain a thing as it is commonly believed to be. Mine for you
has withstood strong temptation:--you come from the Countess Christina,
I believe, and can measure, better than any one, the force of that
temptation. Know, that in your absence it has been my misfortune to become
passionately enamoured of your destined bride; but I have never, either by
word or look, directly or indirectly, infringed on what I felt to be due to
your friendship and to my own honour. Never did I give her the slightest
intimation of my passion, never attempted to take any of the advantages
which my situation might be supposed to give."

Count Albert had just received the most convincing testimony corroborating
these assertions--he was going to express his sense of the conduct of his
Prince, and to explain his own situation, but the Prince went on speaking
with the eagerness of one who fears his own resolution, who has to say
something which he dreads that he should not be able to resume or finish,
if his feelings should meet with any interruption.

"And now let me, as your friend and prince, congratulate you, Count Albert,
on your happiness; and, with the same sincerity, I request that your
marriage may not be delayed, and that you will take your bride immediately
away from my father's court. Time will, I hope, render her presence less
dangerous; time will, I hope, enable me to enjoy your society in safety;
and when it shall become my duty to govern this state, I shall hope for the
assistance of your talents and integrity, and shall have deserved, in some
degree, your attachment."

The Count, in the strongest manner, expressed his gratitude to his Prince
for these proofs of his regard, given under circumstances the most trying
to the human heart. He felt, at this instant, exquisite pleasure in
revealing to his highness the truth, in showing him that the sacrifice he
had so honourably, so generously determined to make, was not requisite,
that their affections were fixed on different objects, that before Count
Albert had any idea of the prince's attachment to the Lady Christina, it
had been his ardent wish, his determination, at all hazards, to break off
engagements which he could not fulfil.

The Prince was in rapturous joy--all his ease of manner towards his friend
returned instantly, his affection and confidence flowed in full tide. Proud
of himself, and happy in the sense of the imminent danger from which he had
escaped, he now described the late conflicts his heart had endured with the
eloquence of self-complacency, and with that sense of relief which is felt
in speaking on the most interesting of all subjects to a faithful friend
from whom a secret has been painfully concealed. The Prince now threw open
every thought, every feeling of his mind. Count Altenberg rose higher
than ever in his favour: not the temporary favourite of the moment--the
companion of pleasures--the flatterer of present passion or caprice; but
the friend in whom there is certainty of sympathy, and security of counsel.
The Prince, confiding in Count Albert's zeal and superior powers, now took
advice from him, and made a confidant no longer of M. de Tourville. The
very means which that intriguing courtier had taken to undermine the Count
thus eventually proved the cause of establishing more firmly his credit.
The plain sincerity of the Count, and the generous magnanimity of the lady,
at once disconcerted and destroyed the artful plan of the diplomatist. M.
de Tourville's disappointment when he heard from the Countess Christina the
result of her interview with Count Albert, and the reproaches which in that
moment of vexation he could not refrain from uttering against the lady for
having departed from their plan, and having trusted to the Count, unveiled
to her the meanness of his character and the baseness of his designs. She
plainly saw that his object had been not to assist her love, but to gratify
his own hate: not merely to advance his own fortune--that, she knew, must
be the first object of every courtier--but "to rise upon the ruins of
another's fame;" and this, she determined, should never be accomplished by
her assistance, or with her connivance. She put Count Albert on his guard
against this insidious enemy.

The Count, grateful to the lady, yet biassed neither by hope of her future
favour nor by present desire to please, firm in honour and loyalty to
the Prince who asked his counsel, carefully studied the character of the
Countess Christina, to determine whether she possessed the qualities
fit for the high station to which love was impatient that she should
be elevated. When he was convinced that her character was such as was
requisite to ensure the private happiness of the prince, to excite him to
the attainment of true glory--then, and not till then, he decidedly advised
the marriage, and zealously offered any assistance in his power to promote
the union. The hereditary Prince about this time became, by the death of
his father, sole master of his actions; but it was not prudent to begin his
government with an act in open defiance of the prejudices or customs of his
country. By these customs, he could not marry any woman under the rank of
a Princess; and the Emperor had been known to refuse conferring this rank,
even on favourites of powerful potentates, by whom he had been in the most
urgent manner solicited. Count Albert Altenberg stood high in the esteem
of the Emperor, at whose court he had spent some time; and his prince now
commissioned him to go to Vienna, and endeavour to move the Emperor to
concede this point in his favour. This embassy was a new and terrible delay
to the Count's anxious desire of returning to England. But he had offered
his services, and he gave them generously. He repaired to Vienna, and
persevering through many difficulties, at length succeeded in obtaining
for the Countess the rank of Princess. The attachment of the Prince was
then publicly declared--the marriage was solemnized--all approved of the
Prince's choice--all--except the envious, who never approve of the happy.
Count Albert received, both from the Prince and Princess, the highest marks
of esteem and favour. M. de Tourville, detected and despised, retired from
court in disgrace and in despair.

Immediately after his marriage, the Prince declared his intention of
appointing Count Albert Altenberg his prime minister; but before he entered
on the duties of his office and the very moment that he could be spared
by his Prince, he asked and obtained permission to return to England, to
the lady on whom his affections were fixed. The old Count, his father,
satisfied with the turn which affairs had taken, and gratified in his
utmost ambition by seeing his son minister of state, now willingly
permitted him to follow his own inclination in the choice of a wife. "And,"
concluded Count Albert, "my father rejoices that my heart is devoted to
an Englishwoman: having himself married an English lady, he knows, from
experience, how to appreciate the domestic merits of the ladies of England;
he is prepossessed in their favour. He agrees, indeed, with foreigners of
every nation, who have had opportunities of judging, and who all allow
that--next to their own countrywomen--the English are the most charming and
the most amiable women in the world."

When the Count had finished, and had pronounced this panegyric of a nation,
while he thought only of an individual, he paused, anxious to know what
effect his narrative had produced on Mr. and Mrs. Percy.

He was gratified both by their words and looks, which gave him full
assurance of their entire satisfaction.

"And since he had done them the honour of appealing to their opinion, they
might be permitted to add their complete approbation of every part of his
conduct, in the difficult circumstances in which he had been placed. They
were fully sensible of the high honour that such a man as Count Altenberg
conferred on their daughter by his preference. As to the rest, they must
refer him to Caroline herself." Mr. Percy said with a grave voice, but
with a smile from which the Count augured well, "that even for the most
advantageous and, in his opinion, desirable connexion, he would not
influence his daughter's inclination.--Caroline must decide."

The Count, with all the persuasive tenderness and energy of truth and love,
pleaded his own cause, and was heard by Caroline with a modest, dignified,
ingenuous sensibility, which increased his passion. Her partiality was
now heightened by her conviction of the strength and steadiness of his
attachment; but whilst she acknowledged how high he stood in her esteem,
and did not attempt to conceal the impression he had made on her heart, yet
he saw that she dreaded to yield to the passion which must at last require
from her the sacrifice of her home, country, friends, and parents. As long
as the idea of being united to him was faint and distant, so was the fear
of the sacrifices that union might demand; but now, the hope, the fear, the
certainty, at once pressed on her heart with the most agitating urgency.
The Count as far as possible relieved her mind by the assurance, that
though his duty to his Prince and his father, that though all his private
and public connexions and interests obliged him to reside some time in
Germany, yet that he could occasionally visit England, that he should seize
every opportunity of visiting a country he preferred to all others; and,
for his own sake, he should cultivate the friendship of her family, as each
individual was in different ways suited to his taste and stood high in his
esteem.

Caroline listened with fond anxiety to these hopes: she was willing
to believe in promises which she was convinced were made with entire
sincerity; and when her affections had been wrought to this point, when her
resolution was once determined, she never afterwards tormented the man to
whom she was attached, with wavering doubts and scruples.

Count Altenberg's promise to his prince obliged him to return at an
appointed time. Caroline wished that time had been more distant; she would
have delighted in spending the spring-time of love in the midst of those
who had formed till now all the happiness of her life--with her parents, to
whom she owed every thing, to whom her gratitude was as warm, as strong, as
her affection--with her beloved sister, who had sympathized so tenderly in
all her sorrow, and who ardently wished to have some time allowed to enjoy
her happiness. Caroline felt all this, but she felt too deeply to display
feeling: sensible of what the duty and honour of Count Altenberg demanded,
she asked for no delay.

The first letters that were written to announce her intended marriage were
to Mrs. Hungerford and to Lady Jane Granville. And it may be recorded as a
fact rather unusual, that Caroline was so fortunate as to satisfy all her
friends: not to offend one of her relations, by telling any too soon, or
too late, of her intentions. In fact, she made no secret, no mystery, where
none was required by good sense or propriety. Nor did she communicate it
under a strict injunction of secrecy to twenty friends, who were afterwards
each to be angry with the other for having, or not having, told that of
which they were forbidden to speak. The order of precedency in Caroline's
confidential communications was approved of even by all the parties
concerned.

Mrs. Hungerford was at Pembroke with her nieces when she received
Caroline's letter: her answer was as follows:

"MY DEAR CHILD,

"I am ten years younger since I read your letter, therefore do not be
surprised at the quickness of my motions--I shall be with you at the Hills,
in town, or wherever you are, as soon as it is possible, after you let me
know when and where I can embrace you and our dear Count. At the marriage
of my niece, Lady Mary Barclay, your mother will remember that I prayed to
Heaven I might live to see my beloved Caroline united to the man of her
choice--I am grateful that this blessing, this completion of all my earthly
hopes and happiness, has been granted to me.

"M. ELIZABETH HUNGERFORD."

The answer of Lady Jane Granville came next.

"_Confidential_.

"This is the last _confidential_ letter I shall ever be able to write
to you--for a married woman's letters, you know, or you will soon
know, become, like all the rest of her property, subject to her
husband--excepting always the secrets of which she was possessed before
marriage, which do not go into the common stock, if she be a woman of
honour--so I am safe with you, Caroline; and any erroneous opinion I might
have formed, or any hasty expressions I may have let drop, about a certain
Count, you will bury in oblivion, and never let me see you look even as if
you recollected to have heard them.

"You were right, my dear, in that whole business--I was wrong; and all I
can say for myself is, that I was wrong with the best possible intentions.
I now congratulate you with as sincere joy, as if this charming match had
been made by my advice, under my _chaperonage_, and by favour of that
_patronage of fashion_, of which I know your father thinks that both my
_head_ and _heart_ are full; there he is only half right, after all: so do
not let him be too proud. I will not allow that my heart is ever wrong,
certainly not where you are concerned.

"I am impatient, my dear Caroline, to see your Count Altenberg. I heard
him most highly spoken of yesterday by a Polish nobleman, whom I met at
dinner at the Duke of Greenwich's. Is it true, that the Count is to be
prime minister of the Prince of ----? the Duke of Greenwich asked me
this question, and I promised I would let his grace know from _the best
possible_ authority--but I did not _commit_ you.

"And now, my dear, for my own interest. If you have really and cordially
forgiven me, for having so rashly said, upon a late occasion, that I would
never forgive you, prove to me your placability and your sincerity--use
your all-powerful influence to obtain for me a favour on which I have set
my heart. Will you prevail on all your house to come up to town directly,
and take possession of mine?--Count Altenberg, you say, has business to
transact with ministers: whilst this is going on, and whilst the lawyers
are settling preliminaries, where can you all be better than with me? I
hope I shall be able to make Mr. and Mrs. Percy feel as much at home, in
one hour's time, as I found myself the first evening after my arrival at
the Hills some years ago.

"I know the Hungerfords will press you to go to them, and Alfred and Mrs.
A. Percy will plead _nearest of kin_--I can only throw myself upon your
generosity. The more inducements you have to go to other friends, the more
I shall feel gratified and obliged, if you favour me with this proof of
your preference and affection. Indulge me, my dear Caroline, perhaps for
the last time, with your company, of which, believe me, I have, though a
woman of the world, sense and feeling sufficient fully to appreciate the
value. Yours (at all events), ever and affectionately,

"J. GRANVILLE.

"_Spring Gardens--Tuesday_.

"P. S.--I hope your father is of my opinion, that weddings, especially
among persona of a certain rank of life, ought always to be
_public_,--attended by the friends and connexions of the families, and
conducted with something of the good old aristocratic formality, pomp, and
state, of former times."

Lady Jane Granville's polite and urgent request was granted. Caroline and
all her family had pleasure in showing Lady Jane that they felt grateful
for her kindness.

Mr. Temple obtained permission from Lord Oldborough to accompany the Percys
to town; and it was settled that Rosamond and Caroline should be married on
the same day.

But the morning after their arrival in London, Mr. Temple appeared with a
countenance very unlike that which had been seen the night before--Hope
and joy had fled.--All pale and in consternation!--Rosamond was ready to
die with terror. She was relieved when he declared that the evil related
only to his fortune. The place that had been promised to him was given;
indeed--the word of promise was kept to the ear--but by some management,
either of Lord Skreene's or Lord Skrimpshire's, the place had been
_saddled_ with a pension to the widow of the gentleman by whom it had been
previously held, and the amount of this pension was such as to reduce the
profits of the place to an annual income by no means sufficient to secure
independence, or even competence, to a married man. Mr. Temple knew that
when the facts were stated to Lord Oldborough, his lordship would, by his
representations to the highest authority, obtain redress; but the secretary
was unwilling to implicate him in this disagreeable affair, unwilling to
trouble his tranquillity again with court intrigues, especially, as Mr.
Temple said, where his own personal interest alone was concerned--at any
rate this business must delay his marriage. Count Altenberg could not
possibly defer the day named for his wedding--despatches from the continent
pressed the absolute necessity of his return. Revolutionary symptoms
had again appeared in the city--his prince could not dispense with his
services. His honour was at stake.

Mr. Temple did not attempt or pretend to bear his disappointment like a
philosopher: he bore it like a lover, that is to say, very ill. Rosamond,
poor Rosamond, rallied him with as much gaiety as she could command with a
very heavy heart.

After a little time for reflection, her good sense, which, when called upon
to act, never failed to guide her conduct, induced her to exert decisive
influence to prevent Mr. Temple from breaking out into violent complaints
against those in power, by whom he had been ill-treated.

The idea of being married on the same day with her sister, she said, after
all, was a mere childish fancy, for which no solid advantage should be
hazarded; therefore she conjured her lover, not in heat of passion to
precipitate things, but patiently to wait--to return and apply to Lord
Oldborough, if he should find that the representations he had already made
to Lord Skrimpshire failed of effect. With much reluctance, Mr. Temple
submitted to postpone the day promised for his marriage; but both Mr.
and Mrs. Percy so strongly supported Rosamond's arguments, that he was
compelled to be prudent. Rosamond now thought only of her sister's
approaching nuptials. Mrs. Hungerford and Mrs. Mortimer arrived in town,
and all Mr. and Mrs. Percy's troops of friends gathered round them for this
joyful occasion.

Lady Jane Granville was peculiarly happy in finding that Mr. Percy agreed
with her in opinion that marriages ought to be publicly solemnized; and
rejoiced that, when Caroline should be led to the altar by the man of
her choice, she would feel that choice sanctioned by the approbation of
her assembled family and friends. Lady Jane justly observed, that it
was advantageous to mark as strongly as possible the difference between
marriages with consent of friends, and clandestine unions, which from their
very nature must always be as private as possible.

If some little love of show, and some aristocratic pride of family, mixed
with Lady Jane's good sense upon this as upon most other occasions, the
truly philosophic will be inclined to pardon her; for they best know
how much of all the principles which form the strength and happiness of
society, depends upon mixed motives.

Mr. and Mrs. Percy, grateful to Lady Jane, and willing to indulge her
affection in its own way, gratified her with permission to arrange the
whole ceremonial of the wedding.

Now that Rosamond's marriage was postponed, she claimed first right to be
her sister's bridemaid; Lady Florence Pembroke, Mrs. Hungerford's niece,
had made her request, and obtained Caroline's promise, to be the second;
and these were all that Caroline desired to have: but Lady Jane Granville
evidently wished for the honour and glory of Lady Frances Arlington for
a third, because she was niece to the Duke of Greenwich; and besides, as
Lady Jane pleaded, "though a little selfish, she really would have been
generous, if she had not been spoiled: to be sure, she cared in general for
no one but herself; yet she absolutely showed particular interest about
Caroline. _Besides_, her ladyship had set her heart upon the matter, and
never would forgive a disappointment of a fancy." Her ladyship's request
was granted. Further than this affair of the three bridemaids we know
not--there is no record concerning who were the bride-men. But before
we come to the wedding-day, we think it necessary to mention, for the
satisfaction of the prudent part of the world, that the settlements were
duly signed, sealed, and delivered, in the presence of proper witnesses.

At the moment of recording this fact, we are well aware that as much as we
shall gain in the esteem of the old, we shall lose in the opinion of the
young. We must therefore be satisfied with the nod of approbation from
parents, and must endure the smile of scorn from lovers. We know that

"Jointure, portion, gold, estate,
Houses, household-stuff, or land,
The low conveniences of fate,
Are Greek, no lovers understand."

We regret that we cannot gratify some of our courteous readers with a
detailed account of the marriage of Caroline and Count Altenberg, with a
description of the wedding-dresses, or a list of the company, who, after
the ceremony, partook of an elegant collation at Lady Jane Granville's
house in Spring-Gardens. We lament that we cannot even furnish a paragraph
in honour of Count Altenberg's equipage.

After all their other friends had made their congratulations, had taken
leave of Caroline, and had departed, Mrs. Hungerford and Mrs. Mortimer
still lingered.

"I know, my love," said Mrs. Hungerford, "I ought to resign you, in these
last moments, to your parents, your brothers, your own Rosamond; yet I have
some excuse for my selfishness--they will see you again, it is to be hoped,
often--But I!--that is not in the course of nature: the blessing I scarcely
could have expected to live to enjoy has been granted to me. And now that I
have seen you united to one worthy of you, one who knows your value, I am
content--I am grateful. Farewell, again and again, my beloved Caroline, may
every--"

Tears spoke the rest. Turning from Caroline, she leaned on Count
Altenberg's arm; as he conducted her to her carriage, "You are a happy man,
Count Altenberg," said she: "forgive me, if I am not able to congratulate
you as I ought--Daughter Mortimer, you know my heart--speak for me, if you
can."

Count Altenberg was more touched by this strong affection for Caroline
than he could have been by any congratulatory compliments to himself. After
the departure of Mrs. Hungerford and Mrs. Mortimer, came the separation so
much dreaded by all the family, for which all stood prepared. Despising and
detesting the display of sensibility, they had fortified themselves for
this moment with all their resolution, and each struggled to repress their
own feelings.

Count Altenberg had delayed till the last moment. It was now necessary that
they should set out. Caroline, flushed crimson to the very temples one
instant, and pale the next, commanded with the utmost effort her emotion;
Rosamond, unable to repress hers, clung to her sister weeping. Caroline's
lips quivered with a vain attempt to speak--she could only embrace
Rosamond repeatedly, and then her mother. Her father pressed her to his
bosom--blessed her--and then drawing her arm within his, led her to her
husband.

As they passed through the hall, the faithful housekeeper, and the old
steward, who had come from the country to the marriage, pressed forward,
in hopes of a last look. Caroline stopped, and took leave of each. She was
able, though with difficulty, to speak, and she thanked them for all the
services and kindness she had received from them from childhood to this
hour: then her father led her to the carriage.

"It is the order of nature, my dear child," said he; "we are fond but not
selfish parents; your happiness is gained by the sacrifice, and we can part
with you."

CHAPTER XL.

Some sage moralist has observed, that even in the accomplishment of our
most ardent wishes in this world, there is always some circumstance that
disappoints our expectations, or mixes somewhat of pain with the joy.
"This is perfectly true," thought Rosamond. "How often have I wished for
Caroline's marriage with Count Altenberg--and now she is married--really
married--and gone!"

It had passed with the rapidity of a dream: the hurry of joy, the
congratulations--all, all was over; and in sad silence, Rosamond felt
the reality of her loss--by Rosamond doubly felt at this moment, when
all her own affairs were in great uncertainty. Mr. Temple was still
unable to obtain the performance of the promise which had been made him
of _remuneration_ and _competent provision_. He had gone through, in
compliance with the advice of his friends, the mortification of reiterating
vain memorials and applications to the Duke of Greenwich, Lord Skrimpshire,
Lord Skreene, and Mr. Secretary Cope. The only thing which Mr. Temple
refused to do, was to implicate Lord Oldborough, or to disturb him on the
subject. He had spent some weeks with his old master in his retirement
without once adverting to his own difficulties, still hoping that on
his return to town a promise would be fulfilled, which Lord Skreene had
given him, that "the affair should in his absence be settled to his
satisfaction." But on his return to town, his lordship found means of
evasion and delay, and threw the blame on others; the course of memorials
and representations was to be recommenced. Mr. Temple's pride revolted, his
love was in despair--and frequently, in the bitterness of disappointment,
he reiterated to his friend Alfred his exclamations of regret and
self-reproach, for having quitted, from pique and impatience of spirit, a
profession where his own perseverance and exertions would infallibly have
rendered him by this time independent. Rosamond saw with sympathy and
anguish the effect which these feelings of self-reproach, and hope delayed,
produced on Mr. Temple's spirits and health. His sensibility, naturally
quick, and rendered more acute by disappointment, seemed now continually to
draw from all characters and events, and even from every book he opened, a
moral against himself, some new illustration or example, which convinced
him more and more of the folly of being a dependant on the great. He was
just in this repentant mood, when one morning, at Mrs. Alfred Percy's,
Rosamond heard him sigh deeply several times, as he was reading with great
attention. She could not forbear asking what it was that touched him so
much. He put the book into her hands, pointing to the following passage.
"The whole of this letter[1]," said he, "is applicable to me and excellent;
but this really seems as if it had been written for me or by me."

[Footnote 1: Letter from Mr. Williams (secretary to Lord Chancellor West)
to Mrs. Williams.]

She read,

"I was a young man, and did not think that men were to die, or to be turned
out . . . What was to be done now?--No money, my former patron in
disgrace! friends that were in favour not able to serve me, or not willing;
that is, cold, timid, careful of themselves, and indifferent to a man whose
disappointments made him less agreeable . . . I languished on for three
long melancholy years, sometimes a little elated; a smile, a kind hint,
a downright promise, dealt out to me from those in whom I had placed
some silly hopes, now and then brought a little refreshment, but that never
lasted long; and to say nothing of the agony of being reduced to talk of
one's own misfortunes and one's wants, and that basest and lowest of all
conditions, the slavery of borrowing, to support an idle useless being--my
time, for those three years, was unhappy beyond description. What would
I have given then for a profession! . . . any useful profession is
infinitely better than a thousand patrons."

To this Rosamond entirely acceded, and admired the strong good sense of the
whole letter; but she observed to Mr. Temple, that it was very unjust, not
only to himself, but what was of much more consequence, to _her_, to say
that all this applied exactly to his case. "Did Mr. Temple," she asked,
"mean to assert that she could esteem a man who was _an idle useless
being_, a mere dependant on great men, a follower of courts? Could such a
man have recommended himself to her father? Could such a man ever have been
the chosen friend of her brother Alfred?

"It was true," she acknowledged, "that this friend of her brother had made
one mistake in early life; but who is there that can say that he has not
in youth or age committed a single error? Mr. Temple had done one silly
thing, to be sure, in quarrelling with his profession; but he had suffered,
and had made amends for this afterwards, by persevering application to
literature. There he had obtained the success he deserved. Gentlemen might
sigh and shake their heads, but could any gentleman deny this? Could it be
denied that Mr. Temple had distinguished himself in literature? Could any
person deny that a political pamphlet of his recommended him to the notice
of Lord Oldborough, one of the ablest statesmen in England, who made him
his secretary, and whose esteem and confidence he afterwards acquired by
his merit, and continued, in place and out, to enjoy?--Will any gentleman
deny this?" Rosamond added, that, "in defence of _her brother's friend_,
she could not help observing, that a man who had obtained the esteem of
some of the first persons of their day, who had filled an employment of
trust, that of secretary to a minister, with fidelity and credit, who had
published three celebrated political pamphlets, and two volumes of moral
and philosophical disquisitions, which, as she had heard the bookseller
say, were become _stock books_, could not deserve to be called an _idle
useless being_. To be born and die would not make all his history--no, such
a man would at least be secure of honourable mention in the Biographia
Britannica as a writer--moral--political--metaphysical."

But while Rosamond thus did her utmost to support the spirits of her lover,
her own began to fail; her vivacity was no longer natural: she felt every
day more and more the want of her sister's sympathy and strength of mind.

Letters from abroad gave no hope of Caroline's return--delay after delay
occurred. No sooner had quiet been restored to the country, than Count
Altenberg's father was taken ill, and his illness, after long uncertainty,
terminated fatally.

After the death of his father, the Count was involved in a variety of
domestic business, which respect for the memory of his parent, and
affection for surviving relations, could not allow him to leave. When all
this had been arranged, and when all seemed preparing for their return to
England, just when Rosamond hoped that the very next letter would announce
the day when they would set out, the French declared war, the French troops
were actually in motion--invasion was hourly expected--it was necessary to
prepare for the defence of the country. At such a moment the Count could
not quit his country or his Prince. And there was Caroline, in the midst
of a country torn by civil war, and in the midst of all the horrors of
revolution.

About this time, to increase the anxiety of the Percy family, they learned
that Godfrey was taken prisoner on his way home from the West Indies. The
transport, in which his division of the regiment had embarked had been
separated from her convoy by a gale of wind in the night, and it was
apprehended that she had been taken by the enemy. Godfrey's family hoped
for a moment that this might be a false alarm; but after enduring the
misery of reading contradictory paragraphs and contests of the newspaper
writers with each other for several successive days, it was at last too
clearly established and confirmed, by official intelligence, that the
transport was taken by a Dutch ship.

In the midst of these accumulating causes of anxiety, trials of another
kind were preparing for this family, as if Fortune was determined to do her
utmost to ruin and humble those who had despised her worshippers, struggled
against her influence, and risen in the world in defiance of her power.
To explain the danger which now awaited them, we must return to their old
family enemy, Sir Robert Percy. Master of Percy-hall, and of all that
wealth could give, he could not enjoy his prosperity, but was continually
brooding on plans of avarice and malice.

Since his marriage with Miss Falconer, Sir Robert Percy's establishment had
become so expensive as to fret his temper continually. His tenants had had
more and more reason to complain of their landlord, who, when any of his
farms were out of lease, raised his rents exorbitantly, to make himself
amends, as he said, for the extravagance of his wife. The tenants, who
had ever disliked him as the successor and enemy of their _own_ good
and beloved landlord, now could not and attempted not to conceal their
aversion. This renewed and increased the virulence of his dislike to _our_
branch of the Percys, who, as he knew, were always compared _with him and
his_, and seemed to be for ever present to the provoking memories of these
tenants.

Sir Robert was disappointed hitherto in the hope for which he married, the
hope of an heir, who should prevent the estate from returning to those
from whom it had been wrested by his arts. Envy at seeing the rising and
prosperous state of _those Percys_, who, in spite of their loss of fortune,
had made their way up again through all obstacles, combined to increase his
antipathy to his relations. His envy had been exasperated by the marriage
of Caroline to Count Altenberg, and by the high reputation of her brother.
He heard their praises till his soul sickened; and he was determined to
be their destruction. He found a willing and able assistant in Sharpe the
attorney, and they soon devised a plan worthy of their conjoined malice. At
the time when Sir Robert had come into possession of Percy-hall, after the
suit had been decided in his favour, he had given up all claim to the rents
which Mr. Percy had received during the years which he had held the estate,
and had accepted in lieu of them the improvements which Mr. Percy had made
on the estate, and a considerable quantity of family plate and a collection
of pictures. But now Sir Robert wrote to Mr. Percy without adverting to
this agreement, and demanding from him the amount of all the rents which
he had received, deducting only a certain sum on his own valuation for
improvements. The plate and pictures, which he had left at Percy-hall, Sir
Robert said he was willing to take in lieu of the debt; but an immense
balance against Mr. Percy remained. In technical phrase, we believe, he
warned Mr. Percy that Sharpe his attorney had directions to commence a suit
against him for the _mesne rents_. The amount of the claim was such as it
was absolutely impossible that Mr. Percy could pay, even by the sale of
every thing he possessed in the world. If this claim were established,
his family would be reduced to beggary, he must end his days in a prison,
or fly his country, and take refuge in some foreign land. To this last
extremity Sir Robert hoped to reduce him. In reply, however, to his
insolent letter, he was surprised, by receiving from Mr. Percy a calm and
short reply, simply saying that his son Alfred would take the proper steps
to bring the affair to trial, and that he must submit to the decision of
the law, whatever that might be. Sir Robert was mortified to the quick
by finding that he could not extort from his victim one concession or
complaint, nor one intemperate expression.

But however calm and dignified was Mr. Percy's conduct, it could not be
without the greatest anxiety that he awaited the event of the trial which
was to decide his future fate and that of his whole family.

The length of time which must elapse before the trial could come on was
dreadful. Suspense was the evil they found most difficult to endure.
Suspense may be easily borne by persons of an indolent character, who never
expect to rule their destiny by their own genius; but to those who feel
themselves possessed of energy and abilities to surmount obstacles and to
brave dangers, it is torture to remain passive--to feel that prudence,
virtue, genius avail them not--that while rapid ideas pass in their
imagination, time moves with an unaltered pace, and compels them to wait,
along with the herd of vulgar mortals, for knowledge of futurity.

CHAPTER XLI.

What has become all this time of the Falconer family?

Since the marriage of Miss Falconer with Sir Robert Percy, all intercourse
between the Falconers and our branch of the Percy family had ceased; but
one morning, when Alfred was alone, intently considering his father's
case, and the legal difficulties which threatened him, he was surprised
by a visit from Commissioner Falconer. The commissioner looked thin,
pale, and wretched. He began by condoling with Alfred on their mutual
family misfortunes. Alfred received this condolence with politeness, but
with a proud consciousness that, notwithstanding his father's present
difficulties, and the total loss of fortune with which he was threatened,
neither his father, nor any individual in his family, would change places
with any one of the Falconers; since nothing dishonourable could be imputed
to Mr. Percy, and since none of his misfortunes had been occasioned by any
imprudence of his own.

A deep sigh from the commissioner, at the moment these thoughts were
passing in Alfred's mind, excited his compassion, for he perceived that the
same reflections had occurred to him.

After taking an immoderate quantity of snuff, the commissioner went on, and
disclaimed, in strong terms, all knowledge of his son-in-law Sir Robert's
cruel conduct to his cousin. The commissioner said that Sir Robert Percy
had, since his marriage with Bell Falconer, behaved very ill, and had made
his wife show great ingratitude to her own family--that in Mrs. Falconer's
distress, when she and Georgiana were most anxious to retire from town for
a short time, and when Mrs. Falconer had naturally looked to the house of
her married daughter as a sure asylum, the doors of Percy-hall had been
actually shut against her; Sir Robert declaring, that he would not be
involved in the difficulties and disgrace of a family who had taken him in
to marry a girl without any fortune.

Alfred was perfectly convinced, both from the cordial hatred with which
the commissioner now spoke of his son-in-law, and from Mr. Falconer's
disposition, that he had nothing to do with the cruel measures which
Sir Robert had taken against his father. Commissioner Falconer was
not a malevolent, but a weak man--incapable of being a disinterested
friend--equally incapable of becoming a malicious enemy. The commissioner
now proceeded to his own affairs, and to the business of his visit. He
said that he had been disappointed in all his hopes from the Greenwich
party--that when _that sad business of Mrs. Falconer's came out_, they had
seized this as a pretence for _dropping_ him altogether--that when they
had, by Lord Oldborough's retreat from office, obtained every thing they
wanted, and had no more occasion for assistance or information, they had
shamefully forgotten, or disowned, all their former promises to Cunningham.
They had refused to accredit him at the court of Denmark, refused even to
defray the expenses of his journey thither, which, in the style he had
thought it necessary for an ambassador to travel in, had been considerable.
Upon the hopes held out, he had taken a splendid house in Copenhagen,
and had every day, for some weeks, been in expectation of the arrival of
his credentials. When it was publicly known that another ambassador was
appointed, Cunningham's creditors became clamorous; he contrived to escape
from Copenhagen in the night, and was proceeding _incog._ in his journey
homewards, when he was stopped at one of the small frontier towns, and was
there actually detained in prison for his debts.

The poor commissioner produced his son's letter, giving an account of his
detention, and stating that, unless the money he had raised in Copenhagen
was paid, there was no hope of his being liberated--he must perish in a
foreign jail.

We spare the reader the just reproaches which the unhappy father, at
this moment, uttered against the son's duplicity. It was his fate, he
said, to be ruined by those for whom he had been labouring and planning,
night and day, for so many years. "And now," concluded Mr. Falconer,
"here am I, reduced to sell almost the last acre of my paternal
estate--I shall literally have nothing left but Falconer-court, and my
annuity!--Nothing!--But it must be done, ill as he has used me, and
impossible as it is, ever, even at this crisis, to get the truth from
him--I must pay the money: he is in jail, and cannot be liberated without
this sum. I have here, you see, under the hand of the chief magistrate,
sufficient proof--I will not, however, trouble you, my dear sir, with
showing more of these letters--only it is a comfort to me to speak to one
who will listen with some sympathy--Ah! sir, when out of place!--out of
favour!--selling one's estate!--how people change!--But I am taking up your
time. Since these lands are to be sold, the sooner the better. Your father,
you know, is trustee to my marriage-settlements, and, I believe, his
consent, his signature, will be necessary--will it not?--I am no lawyer--I
really am not clear what _is_ necessary--and my solicitor, Mr. Sharpe, I
have dismissed: perhaps you will allow me to put the business into your
hands?"

Alfred undertook it, and kindly told the commissioner that if he would send
him his papers, he would, without putting him to any expense, look them
over carefully--have all the necessary releases drawn--and make his title
clear to any purchaser who should apply.

The commissioner was full of gratitude for this friendly offer, and
immediately begged that he might leave his title-deeds. Accordingly the
servant was desired to bring in the box which he had left in the carriage.
The commissioner then rose to take leave, but Alfred begged he would stay
till he had written a list of the deeds, as he made it a rule never to take
charge of any papers, without giving a receipt for them. The commissioner
thought this "a superfluous delicacy between friends and relatives;" but
Alfred observed that relations would, perhaps, oftener continue friends,
if in matters of business, they took care always to be as exact as if they
were strangers.

The commissioner looked at his watch--said he was in haste--he was going
to wait upon Lord Somebody, from whom, in spite of all his experience, he
expected something.

"You will find a list of the deeds, I have a notion," said he, "in the
box, Mr. Alfred Percy, and you need only sign it--that will be quite
sufficient."

"When I have compared the papers with the list, I will sign it," said
Alfred: "my clerk and I will do it as quickly as possible. Believe me, you
cannot be in greater haste than I am."

The commissioner, secretly cursing Alfred's accuracy, and muttering
something of the necessity for his own punctuality, was obliged to submit.
He sat down--the clerk was sent for--the box was opened. The list of the
papers was, as Alfred found, drawn out by Buckhurst Falconer; and the
commissioner now recollected the time. "Just when poor Buckhurst," said the
father, with a sigh, "was arguing with me against going into the church--at
that time. I remember, he was desperately in love with your sister
Caroline."

"Why, in truth," said Alfred, smiling, as he read over the scrawled list,
"this looks a little as if it were written by a man in love--here's another
reason for our comparing the papers and the list."

"Well, well, I took it all upon trust--I am no lawyer--I never looked at
them--never opened the box, and am very sorry to be obliged to do it now."

The essential care, either of papers or estate, the commissioner had
evermore neglected, while he had all his life been castle-building, or
pursuing some phantom of fortune at court. Whilst Alfred was comparing the
papers and the list, the commissioner went on talking of the marriage of
Caroline with Count Altenberg, asking when they expected them to return. It
was possible that Count Altenberg might be moved to make some remonstrance
in favour of Cunningham; and a word or two from him to the Duke of
Greenwich would do the business. The commissioner longed to hint this to
Alfred, but he was so intent upon these bundles of parchment, that till
every one of them was counted, it would be in vain to make that attempt: so
the commissioner impatiently stood by, while the clerk went on calling over
the papers, and Alfred, in equal strains, replying. "Thank Heaven!" said he
to himself, "they have got to the last bundle."

"Bundle eighteen," cried the clerk.

"Bundle eighteen," replied Alfred. "How many numbers does it contain?"

"Six," said the clerk.

"Six!--no, seven, if you please," said Alfred.

"But six in the list, sir."

"I will read them over," said Alfred. "No. 1. Deed of assignment to Filmer
Griffin, Esq. No. 2. Deed of mortgage to Margaret Simpson, widow. No. 3.
Deed of lease and release. No. 4. Lease for a year--"

"No. 4. no such thing--stop, sir--Deed!"

Alfred gave one look at the paper, and starting up, snatched it from the
hands of his clerk, with an exclamation of joy, signed the receipt for
the commissioner, put it into his hands, locked the box, and sat down to
write a letter, all with such rapidity that the commissioner was struck
with astonishment and curiosity. Notwithstanding all his impatience to be
punctual to his own engagement, he now stood fixed to the spot, and at
last began with "My dear Mr. Alfred Percy, may I ask what has happened?"

"My dear commissioner, I have found it--I have found it--the long-lost
deed, and I am writing to my father, to tell him. Excuse me--excuse me if I
am not able to explain farther at this moment."

The commissioner understood it all too quickly. He saw how it had happened
through Buckhurst's carelessness. At the time Buckhurst had been packing up
these papers, some of Mr. Percy's had been lying on the table--Buckhurst
had been charged not to mix them with his father's; but he was in love, and
did not know what he was doing.

The commissioner began three sentences, and left them all unfinished,
while Alfred did not hear one word of them: the first was an apology for
Buckhurst, the second a congratulation for his good cousin Percy, the third
was an exclamation that came from his heart. "Good Heavens! but what will
become of my daughter Bell and Sir Robert? I do not comprehend quite, my
dear sir."

Perceiving that he was not heard by Alfred, the commissioner took up his
hat and departed, determining that he would inquire farther from Sir
Robert's solicitor concerning the probable consequences of the recovery of
this deed.

Alfred had no sooner finished his joyful letter to his father than he wrote
to Sir Robert Percy, informing him of the recovery of the deed, and letting
him know that he was ready to show it to whomsoever Sir Robert would send
to his house to examine it. He made this offer to put an end at once to
all doubts. He trusted, he said, that when Sir Robert should be satisfied
of the existence and identity of the deed, he would stop his present
proceedings for the recovery of the _mesne rents_, and that he would,
without obliging his father to have farther recourse to law, restore to him
the Percy estate.

To this letter no answer was received for some time. At length Mr. Sharpe
called on Alfred, and begged to see the deed. He was permitted to examine
it in Alfred's presence. He noted down the date, names of the witnesses,
and some other particulars, of which, he observed, it was necessary he
should inform Sir Robert, before he could be satisfied as to the identity
of the conveyance. Sharpe was particularly close and guarded in his looks
and words during this interview; would neither admit nor deny that he was
satisfied, and went away leaving nothing certain, but that he would write
to Sir Robert. Alfred thought he saw that they meant to avoid giving an
answer, in order to keep possession some months longer, till another term.
He took all the necessary steps to bring the matter to trial immediately,
without waiting for any answer from Sir Robert. No letter came from him,
but Alfred received from his solicitor the following note:

"Sir,

"I am directed by Sir Robert Percy to acquaint you, in reply to yours of
the 20th instant, that conceiving his title to the Percy estate to be no
way affected by the instrument to which you allude therein, he cannot
withdraw his present suit for the _mesne rents_ that had been already
received, if you proceed in an ejectment for the recovery of the aforesaid
estate.

"I am, sir,

"Your humble servant,

"A. Sharpe.

"_Wednesday._"

Alfred was surprised and alarmed by this letter. It had never occurred to
him as possible, that Sir Robert and his counsel would attempt to stand
a new trial in the face of this recovered deed; this was beyond all he
could have conceived even from their effrontery and villany. He consulted
Mr. Friend, who, after considering Sharpe's letter, could not devise what
defence they intended to make, as the deed, upon most accurate examination,
appeared duly executed, according to the provision of the statute of
frauds. Upon the whole, Mr. Friend was of opinion that the letter was meant
merely to alarm the plaintiffs, and to bring them to offer or consent
to a compromise. In this opinion Alfred was confirmed the next day, by
an interview with Sharpe, accidental on Alfred's part, but designed and
prepared by the solicitor, who watched Alfred as he was coming out of the
courts, and dogged him till he parted from some gentlemen with whom he was
walking--then joining him, he said, in a voice which Mr. Allscrip might
have envied for its power of setting sense at defiance, "I am happy, Mr.
Alfred Percy, to chance to see you to-day; for, with a view to put an end
to litigation and difficulties, I had a few words to suggest--premising
that I do not act or speak now, in any wise, as or for Sir Robert Percy,
or with reference to his being my client, or as a solicitor in this cause,
be it understood, but merely and solely as one gentleman to another,
upon honour--and not bringing forward any idea to be taken advantage of
hereafter, as tending to any thing in the shape of an offer to compromise,
which, in a legal point of view, you know, sir, I could not be warranted to
hazard for my client, and of consequence, which I hereby declare, I do not
in any degree mean."

"Would you be so good, Mr. Sharpe, to state at once what you do mean? for I
confess I do not, in any degree, understand you."

"Why, then, sir, what I mean is, simply, and candidly, and frankly, this:
that if I could, without compromising the interest of my client, which, as
an honest man, I am bound not to do or appear to do, I should wish to put
an end to this litigation between relations; and though your father thinks
me his enemy, would convince him to the contrary, if he would allow me, and
could point out the means of shortening this difference between relations,
which has occasioned so much scandal; and moreover, could devise an
accommodation, which might be agreeable to both parties, and save you a
vast deal of trouble and vexation; possession," added he, laughing, "being
nine points of the law."

Mr. Sharpe paused, as if hoping that something would now be said by Alfred,
that might direct him whether to advance or recede; but Alfred only
observed, that probably the end Mr. Sharpe proposed to himself by speaking
was to make himself understood, and that this desirable end he had not yet
attained.

"Why, sir, in some cases, one cannot venture to make one's self understood
any way, but by inuendoes."

"Then, good morning to you, sir--you and I can never understand one
another."

"Pardon me, sir, unless you are in a hurry," cried Mr. Sharpe, catching
Alfred by the button, "which (when so large an estate, to which you might
eventually succeed, is in question) you are too much a man of business to
be--in one word, then, for I won't detain you another moment, and I throw
myself open, and trust to your honour--"

"You do me honour."

"Put a parallel case. You, plaintiff A----, I, defendant B----. I should,
if I were A----, but no way advising it, being B----, offer to divide the
whole property, the claim for the _mesne rents_ being wholly given up; and
that the offer would be accepted, I'd engage upon my honour, supposing
myself witnessing the transaction, only just as a gentleman."

"Impossible, sir," cried Alfred, with indignation. "Do you take me for a
fool? Do you think I would give up half my father's estate, knowing that he
has a right to the whole?"

"Pardon me, sir--I only suggested an A. B. case. But one word more, sir,"
cried Mr. Sharpe, holding Alfred, who was breaking from him, "for your
own--your father's interest: you see this thing quite in a wrong point
of view; when you talk of a few months' more or less delay of getting
possession, being all there is between us--depend upon it, if it goes to
trial you will never get possession."

"Then, sir, if you think so, you are betraying the interest of your client,
in advising me not to let it go to trial."

"Good God! sir: but that is between you and me only."

"Pardon me, sir, it is between you and your conscience."

"Oh! if that's all--my conscience is at ease, when I'm trying to prevent
the scandal of litigation between relations: therefore, just let me mention
to you for your private information, what I know Sir Robert would not wish
to come out before the trial."

"Don't tell it to me, sir--I will not hear it," cried Alfred, breaking from
him, and walking on very fast.

Faster still Sharpe pursued. "You'll remember, sir, at all events, that
what has been said is not to go further--you'll not forget."

"I shall never forget that I am a man of honour, sir," said Alfred.

Sharpe parted from him, muttering, "that if he lived to the day of trial,
he would repent this."

"And if I live till the day of judgment, I shall never repent it," thought
Alfred.

Now fully convinced that Sir Robert desired a compromise, and wanted only
to secure, while in possession, some portion of that property, which he
knew the law would ultimately force him to relinquish, Alfred persevered in
his course, relieved from the alarm into which he had at first been thrown,
when he learned that his opponents intended to make a defence. Alfred felt
assured that they would never let the matter come to trial; but time passed
on, and they still persisted. Many of his brother lawyers were not only
doubtful, but more inclined to despond than to encourage him as to the
event of the trial; several regretted that he had not accepted of Mr.
Sharpe's offered compromise. "Half the estate certain, and his father's
release from all difficulties, they thought too good offers to have been
rejected. He might, as Sharpe had prophesied, have to repent his rejection
of that proposal."

Others observed, that though Mr. Alfred Percy was certainly a young man of
great talents, and had been successful at the bar, still he was a young
lawyer; and it was a bold and hazardous, not to say rash thing, to take
upon himself the conduct of a suit against such opponents as Mr. Sharpe and
Sir Robert Percy, practised in law, hardened in iniquity, and now driven to
desperation.

Mr. Friend was the only man who stood steadily by Alfred, and never wavered
in his opinion. "Trust to truth and justice," said he; "you did right not
to compromise--be firm. If you fail, you will have this consolation--you
will have done all that man could do to deserve success."

The day of trial approached. Mr. Friend had hoped, till very late in the
business, that the object of their adversaries was only to intimidate, and
that they would never let it go to trial: now it was plain they would.
But on what grounds? Again and again Mr. Friend and Alfred perused and
reperused Sir John Percy's deed, and examined the opinions of counsel of
the first eminence. Both law and right appeared to be clearly on their
side; but it was not likely that their experienced opponents should persist
without having some strong resource.

A dread silence was preserved by Sir Robert Percy and by Mr. Solicitor
Sharpe. They must have some deep design: what it could be, remained to be
discovered even till the day of trial.

CHAPTER XLII.

The day of trial arrived--Mr. Percy came up to town, and brought Mrs. Percy
and Rosamond with him to his son Alfred's, that they might all be together,
and hear as soon as possible their fate.

The trial came on about three o'clock in the afternoon. The court was
uncommonly crowded. Mr. Percy, his son Erasmus, and all his friends, and
Sir Robert and his adherents, appeared on opposite sides of the galleries.

The excellent countenance and gentlemanlike demeanour of Mr. Percy were
contrasted with the dark, inauspicious physiognomy of Sir Robert, who
sat opposite to him, and who was never tranquil one second, but was
continually throwing notes to his counsel, beckoning or whispering to
his attorney--while convulsive twitches of face and head, snuff-taking,
and handkerchief spread frequently to conceal the expression of his
countenance, betrayed the malignant flurry of his spirits.

Alfred conducted his father's cause in the most judicious and temperate
manner. An attempt had been made by Sir Robert to prejudice the public
against Mr. Percy, by representing him as the descendant of a younger
brother, who was endeavouring to dispossess the heir of the elder branch of
the family of that estate, which belonged to him by right of inheritance.
Alfred's fast care was to put the court and the jury in full possession
of the facts. He stated that "His father, Lewis Percy, plaintiff in this
cause, and Robert Percy, Bart. defendant, both descended from Sir John
Percy, who was their grandfather. Sir John outlived both his sons, who
left him two grandsons, Robert was the son of his eldest, and Lewis of his
youngest son. Sir John had two estates, one of them paternal, which went
in the ordinary course of descent to the representative of the eldest son,
being the present Sir Robert Percy. Sir John's other estate, in Hampshire,
which came to him by his wife, he conveyed, a short time before his death,
to his youngest grandson, the present Lewis Percy, who had held undisturbed
possession of it for many years. But, in process of time, Sir Robert Percy
ruined himself by play, and having frequent intercourse with Sharpe, the
solicitor, upon some great emergency inquired whether it was not possible
to shake the title of his cousin Mr. Percy's estate. He suggested that the
conveyance might not be forthcoming; but Sir Robert assured him that both
his grandfather and the present Mr. Percy were men of business, and that
there was little likelihood either that the deeds should be lost, or that
there should be any flaw in the title. Afterwards a fire broke out at
Percy-hall, which consumed that wing of the house in which were Mr. Percy's
papers--the papers were all saved except this deed of conveyance. Mr.
Sharpe being accidentally apprized of the loss, conveyed the intelligence
to Sir Robert. He immediately commenced a suit against his cousin, and had
finally succeeded in obtaining a verdict in his own favour, and possession
of the Hampshire estate. At the time when Mr. Percy delivered up possession
and quitted Percy-hall, in consideration of the extensive improvements
which he had made, and in consideration of his giving up to Sir Robert
plate, furniture, wine, horses, and equipages, Sir Robert had promised to
forego whatever claim he might have upon Mr. Percy for the rents which he
had received during the time he had held the estate; but, afterwards, Sir
Robert repented of having made this agreement, broke his promise, and took
out a writ against his cousin for the _mesne rents_. They amounted to an
immense sum, which Mr. Percy was utterly unable to pay, and he could have
had no hope of avoiding ruin, had the claim been by law decided against
him. By fortunate circumstances, however, he had, while this cause was
pending, recovered that lost conveyance, which proved his right to the
Hampshire estate. Of this he had apprized Sir Robert, who had persisted,
nevertheless, in holding possession, and in his claim for the _mesne
rents_. The present action was brought by Mr. Percy in resistance of this
unjust claim, and for the recovery of his property."

Not one word of invective, of eloquence, of ornament, or of any attempt at
pathos, did our barrister mix with this statement. It was his object to put
the jury and the court clearly in possession of facts, which, unadorned, he
knew would appear stronger than if encumbered by any flowers of oratory.

Having produced the deed, conveying the Hampshire estate to his father,
Alfred called evidence to prove the signature of Sir John Percy, and the
handwriting of the witnesses. He farther proved that this conveyance had
been formerly seen among his father's papers at Percy-hall, showed it had
been recently recovered from Mr. Falconer's box of papers, and explained
how it had been put there by mistake, and he supported this fact by the
evidence of Commissioner Falconer, father-in-law to the defendant.--Alfred
rested his cause on these proofs, and waited, anxious to know what defence
the defendant was prepared to make.

To his astonishment and consternation, Sir Robert's counsel produced
another deed of Sir John Percy's, revoking the deed by which Sir John had
made over his Hampshire estate to his younger grandson, Mr. Percy; it
appearing by a clause in the original deed that a power for this purpose
had been therein reserved. This deed of revocation was handed to the judge
and to the jury, that it might be examined. The two deeds were carefully
compared. The nicest inspection could not discover any difference in
the signature or seal. When Mr. Friend examined them, he was in dismay.
The instrument appeared perfect. Whilst the jury were occupied in this
examination, Mr. Friend and Alfred had a moment to consult together.

"We are undone," whispered Mr. Friend, "if they establish this deed of
revocation--it sets us aside for ever."

Neither Mr. Friend nor Alfred had any doubt of its being a forgery, but
those, who had plunged thus desperately in guilt, would probably be
provided with perjury sufficient to support their iniquity.

"If we had been prepared!" said Mr. Friend: "but how could we be prepared
for such a stroke? Even now, if we had time, we could summon witnesses who
would discredit theirs, but--"

"Do not despair," said Alfred: "still we have a chance that their own
witnesses may cross each other, or contradict themselves. Falsehood, with
all its caution, is seldom consistent."

The trial proceeded. Alfred, in the midst of the fears and sighs of his
friends, and of the triumphant smiles and anticipating congratulations of
his enemies, continued to keep both his temper and his understanding cool.
His attention was fixed upon the evidence produced, regardless of the
various suggestions whispered or written to him by ignorant or learned
advisers.

William Clerke, the only surviving witness to the deed of revocation
produced by Sir Robert, was the person on whose evidence this cause
principally rested. He was now summoned to appear, and room was made for
him. He was upwards of eighty years of age: he came slowly into court, and
stood supporting himself upon his staff, his head covered with thin gray
hairs, his countenance placid and smiling, and his whole appearance so
respectable, so venerable, as to prepossess, immediately, the jury and the
court in his favour.

Alfred Percy could scarcely believe it possible, that such a man as this
could be the person suborned to support a forgery. After being sworn, he
was desired to sit down, which he did, bowing respectfully to the court.
Sir Robert Percy's counsel proceeded to examine him as to the points they
desired to establish.

"Your name, sir, is William Clerke, is it not?"

"My name is William Clerke," answered the old man, in a feeble voice.

"Did you ever see this paper before?" showing him the deed.

"I did--I was present when Sir John Percy signed it--he bid me witness it,
that is, write my name at the bottom, which I did, and then he said, 'Take
notice, William Clerke, this is a deed, revoking the deed by which I made
over my Hampshire estate to my youngest grandson, Lewis Percy.'"

The witness was going on, but the counsel interrupted.

"You saw Sir John Percy sign this deed--you are sure of that?"

"I am sure of that."

"Is this Sir John Percy's signature?"

"It is--the very same I saw him write; and here is my own name, that he bid
me put just there."

"You can swear that this is your handwriting?"

"I can--I do."

"Do you recollect what time Sir John Percy signed this deed?"

"Yes; about three or four days before his death."

"Very well, that is all we want of you, Mr. Clerke."

Alfred Percy desired that Clerke should be detained in court, that he
might cross-examine him. The defendants went on, produced their evidence,
examined all their witnesses, and established all they desired.

Then it came to Alfred's turn to cross-examine the witnesses that had
been produced by his adversary. When William Clerke re-appeared, Alfred
regarding him stedfastly, the old man's countenance changed a little; but
still he looked prepared to stand a cross-examination. In spite of all his
efforts, however, he trembled.

"Oh! you are trembling on the brink of the grave!" said Alfred, addressing
him in a low, solemn tone: "pause, and reflect, whilst you are allowed
a moment's time. A few years must be all you have to spend in this
world. A few moments may take you to another, to appear before a higher
tribunal--before that Judge, who knows our hearts, who sees into yours at
this instant."

The staff in the old man's hand shook violently.

Sir Robert Percy's counsel interrupted--said that the witness should not
be intimidated, and appealed to the court. The judge was silent, and Alfred
proceeded, "You know that you are upon your oath--these are possibly the
last words you may ever utter--look that they be true. You know that
men have been struck dead whilst uttering falsehoods. You are upon your
oath--did you see Sir John Percy sign this deed?"

The old man attempted in vain to articulate.

"Give him time to recollect," cried the counsel on the opposite side: "give
him leave to see the writing now he has his spectacles."

He looked at the writing twice--his head and hands shaking so that he could
not fix his spectacles. The question was repeated by the judge. The old man
grew pale as death. Sir Robert Percy, just opposite to him, cleared his
throat to catch the witness's attention, then darted at him such a look as
only he could give.

"Did I see Sir John Percy sign this deed?" repeated William Clerke: "yes, I
did."

"You hear, my lord, you hear," cried Sir Robert's counsel, "the witness
says he did--there is no occasion farther to intimidate this poor old
man. He is not used to speak before such an audience. There is no need of
eloquence--all we want is truth. The evidence is positive. My lord, with
your lordship's leave, I fancy we may dismiss him."

They were going to hurry him away, but Alfred Percy said that, with the
permission of the court, he must cross-examine that witness farther, as the
whole event of the trial depended upon the degree of credit that might be
given to his evidence.

By this time the old man had somewhat recovered himself; he saw that his
age and reverend appearance still prepossessed the jury in his favour,
and from their looks, and from the whispers near him, he learned that his
tremor and hesitation had not created any suspicion of guilt, but had been
attributed rather to the sensibility of virtue, and the weakness of age.
And, now that the momentary emotion which eloquence had produced on his
mind had subsided, he recollected the bribe that had been promised to him.
He was aware that he had already sworn what, if he contradicted, might
subject him to be prosecuted for perjury. He now stood obstinately resolved
to persevere in his iniquity. The first falsehoods pronounced and believed,
the next would be easy.

"Your name is William Clerke, and this," said Alfred (pointing to the
witness's signature), "is your handwriting?"

"Yes, I say it is."

"You _can_ write then?" (putting a pen into his hand) "be so good as to
write a few words in the presence of the court." He took the pen, but after
making some fruitless attempts, replied, "I am too old to write--I have not
been able to write my name these many years--Indeed! sir, indeed! you are
too hard upon one like me. God knows," said he, looking up to Heaven, some
thought with feeling, some suspected with hypocrisy--"God knows, sir, I
speak the truth, and nothing but the truth. Have you any more questions to
put to me? I am ready to tell all I know. What interest have I to conceal
any thing?" continued he, his voice gaining strength and confidence as he
went on repeating the lesson which he had been taught.

"It was long, a long while ago," he said, "since it had all happened; but
thank Heaven, his memory had been spared him, and he remembered all that
had passed, the same as if it was but yesterday. He recollected how Sir
John looked, where he sat, what he said when he signed this deed; and,
moreover, he had often before heard of a dislike Sir John had taken to his
younger grandson--ay, to that young gentleman's father," looking at Alfred;
"and I was very sorry to hear it--very sorry there should be any dispute
in the family, for I loved them all," said he, wiping his eyes--"ay, I
loved 'em all, and all alike, from the time they were in their cradles. I
remember too, once, Sir John said to me, 'William Clerke,' says he, 'you
are a faithful lad'--for I was a lad once--"

Alfred had judiciously allowed the witness to go on as far as he pleased
with his story, in the expectation that some exaggeration and contradiction
would appear; but the judge now interrupted the old man, observing that
this was nothing to the purpose--that he must not take up the time of
the court with idle tales, but that if he had any thing more to give in
evidence respecting the deed, he should relate it.

The judge was thought to be severe; and the old man, after glancing his
eye on the jury, bowed with an air of resignation, and an appearance of
difficulty, which excited their compassion.

"We may let him go now, my lord, may not we?" said Sir Robert Percy's
counsel.

"With the permission of his lordship, I will ask one other question," said
Alfred.

Now it should be observed, that after the first examination of this
witness, Alfred had heard him say to Mr. Sharpe, "They forgot to bring out
what I had to say about the seal." To which Sharpe had replied, "Enough
without it." Alfred had examined the seal, and had observed that there
was something underneath it--through a small hole in the parchment he saw
something between the parchment and the sealing-wax.

"You were present, I think you say, Mr. Clerke, not only when this deed was
signed, but when it was sealed?"

"I was, sir," cried Clerke, eager to bring out this part of the evidence,
as it had been prepared for him by Sir Robert; "I surely was; and I
remember it particularly, because of a little remarkable circumstance: Sir
John, God bless him!--I think I see him now--My lord, under this seal,"
continued the old man, addressing himself to the judge, and putting his
shrivelled finger upon the seal, "under this very seal Sir John put a
sixpence--and he called upon me to observe him doing it--for, my lord, it
is my opinion, he thought then of what might come to pass--he had a sort of
a foreboding of this day. And now, my lord, order them, if you please, to
break the seal--break it before them all,--and if there is not the sixpence
under it, why this deed is not Sir John's, and this is none of my writing,
and," cried he, lifting up his hands and eyes, "I am a liar, and perjured."

There was a profound silence. The seal was broken. The sixpence appeared.
It was handed in triumph, by Sir Robert Percy's counsel, to the jury and to
the judge. There seemed to be no longer a doubt remaining in the minds of
the jury--and a murmur of congratulation among the partisans of Sir Robert
seemed to anticipate the verdict.

"'Tis all over, I fear," whispered Friend to Alfred. "Alfred, you have done
all that could be done, but they have sworn through every thing--it is over
with us."

"Not yet," said Alfred. Every eye turned upon him, some from pity, some
from curiosity, to see how he bore his defeat. At length, when there was
silence, he begged to be permitted to look at the sixpence. The judge
ordered that it should be shown to him. He held it to the light to examine
the date of the coin; he discovered a faint impression of a head on the
sixpence, and, upon closer inspection, he made out the date, and showed
clearly that the date of the coin was later than the date of the deed: so
that there was an absolute impossibility that this sixpence could have been
put under the seal of the deed by Sir John.

The moment Alfred stated this fact, the counsel on the opposite side took
the sixpence, examined it, threw down his brief, and left the court. People
looked at each other in astonishment. The judge ordered that William Clerke
should he detained, that he might be prosecuted by the crown for perjury.

The old man fell back senseless. Mr. Sharpe and Sir Robert Percy pushed
their way together out of court, disclaimed by all who had till now
appeared as their friends. No farther evidence was offered, so that here
the trial closed. The judge gave a short, impressive charge to the jury,
who, without withdrawing, instantly gave their verdict in favour of the
plaintiff, Lewis Percy--a verdict that was received with loud acclamations,
which not even respect to the court could restrain.

Mr. Percy and Alfred hastily shook hands with their friends, and in the
midst of universal applause hurried away to carry the good news to Mrs.
Percy and Rosamond, who were at Alfred's house, waiting to hear the event
of the trial.

Neither Alfred nor Mr. Percy had occasion to speak--the moment Mrs. Percy
and Rosamond saw them they knew the event.

"Yes," said Mr. Percy, "our fortune is restored; and doubly happy we are,
in having regained it, in a great measure, by the presence of mind and
ability of my son."

His mother and sister embraced Alfred with tears of delight. For some
moments a spectator might have imagined that he beheld a family in deep
affliction. But soon through these tears appeared on the countenance of
each individual the radiance of joy, smiles of affection, tenderness,
gratitude, and every delightful benignant feeling of the human heart.

"Has any body sent to Mrs. Hungerford and to Lady Jane Granville?" said Mr.
Percy.

"Yes, yes, messengers were sent off the moment the verdict was given," said
Erasmus: "I took care of that."

"It is a pity," said Rosamond, "that Caroline is not here at this moment,
and Godfrey."

"It is best as it is," said Mrs. Percy: "we have that pleasure still in
store."

"And now, my beloved children," said Mr. Percy, "after having returned
thanks to Providence, let me here, in the midst of all of you to whom I owe
so large a share of my happiness, sit down quietly for a few minutes to
enjoy 'the sober certainty of waking bliss.'"

CHAPTER XLIII.

The day after the trial brought several happy letters to the Percys.
Rosamond called it the day of happy letters, and by that name it was ever
after recorded in the family. The first of these letters was from Godfrey,
as follows:

"Dear father, mother, brothers, and sisters all! I hope you are not under
any anxiety about me, for here I am, safe and sound, and in excellent
quarters, at the house of Mynheers Grinderweld, Groensveld, and
Slidderschild, Amsterdam, the Dutch merchants who were shipwrecked on
our coast years ago! If it had happened yesterday, the thing could not
be fresher in their memories. My dear Rosamond, when we laughed at their
strange names, square figures, and formal advice to us, if ever we should,
by the changes and chances of human events, be reduced to distress, we
little thought that I, a prisoner, should literally come to seek shelter at
their door. And most hospitably have I been received. National prejudices,
which I early acquired, I don't know how, against the Dutch, made me
fancy that a Dutchman could think only of himself, and would give nothing
for nothing: I can only say from experience, I have been as hospitably
treated in Amsterdam as ever I was in London. These honest merchants have
overwhelmed me with civilities and substantial services, and still they
seem to think they can never do enough for me. I wish I may ever see them
on English ground again. But we have no Percy-hall to receive them in
now; and as well as I remember the Hills, we could not conveniently stow
more than one at a time. Side by side, as they stood after breakfast, I
recollect, at Percy-hall, they would completely fill up the parlour at the
Hills.

"I may well be in high spirits to-day; for these good people have just been
telling me, that the measures they have been taking to get my exchange
effected, have so far succeeded, they have reason to believe that in a
week, or a fortnight at farthest, I shall be under weigh for England.

"In the mean time, you will wonder perhaps how I got here; for I perceive
that I have subjected myself to Rosamond's old reproach of never beginning
my story at the beginning. My father used to say, half the mistakes in
human affairs arise from our _taking for granted_; but I think I may take
it for granted, that either from the newspapers or from Gascoigne, who must
be in England by this time, you have learned that the transport I was on
board, with my division of the regiment, parted convoy in the storm of the
18th, in the night, and at daybreak fell in with two Dutchmen. Our brave
boys fought as Englishmen always do; but all that is over now, so it does
not signify prosing about it. Two to one was too much--we were captured. I
had not been five minutes on the Dutchman's deck, when I observed one of
the sailors eyeing me very attentively. Presently he came up and asked if
my name was not Percy, and if I did not recollect to have seen him before?
He put me in mind of the shipwreck, and told me he was one of the sailors
who were harboured in one of my father's outhouses whilst they were
repairing the wreck. I asked him what had become of the drunken carpenter,
and told him the disaster that ensued in consequence of that rascal's
carelessness. My sailor was excessively shocked at the account of the fire
at Percy-hall: he thumped his breast till I thought he would have broken
his breast-bone; and after relieving his mind by cursing and swearing in
high Dutch, low Dutch, and English, against the drunken carpenter, he
told me there was no use in saying any more, for that he had punished
himself.--He was found dead one morning behind a barrel, from which in the
night he had been drinking spirits surreptitiously through a straw. Pray
tell this to old John, who used always to prophesy that this fellow would
come to no good: assure him, however, at the same time, that all the Dutch
sailors do not deserve his maledictions. Tell him, I can answer for the
poor fellow who recognized me, and who, during the whole passage, never
failed to show me and my fellow-prisoners every little attention in his
power. When we got to Amsterdam, it was he reminded me of the Dutch
merchants, told me their names, which, without his assistance, I might have
perished before I could ever have recollected, and showed me the way to
their house, and never rested till he saw me well settled.

"You will expect from me some account of this place. You need not expect
any, for just as I had got to this line in my letter appeared one who has
put all the lions of Amsterdam fairly out of my head--Mr. Gresham! He
has been for some weeks in the country, and has just returned. The Dutch
merchants, not knowing of his being acquainted with my family, never
mentioned him to me, nor me to him: so our surprise at meeting was great.
What pleasure it is in a foreign country, and to a poor prisoner, to see
any one from dear England, and one who knows our own friends! I had never
seen Mr. Gresham myself, but you have all by your letters made me well
acquainted with him. I like him prodigiously, to use a lady's word (not
yours, Rosamond). Letters from Mr. Henry were waiting for him here; he has
just opened them, and the first news he tells me is, that Caroline is going
to be married! Is it possible? Count Altenberg! The last time I heard from
you, you mentioned nothing of all this. Some of your letters must have been
lost. Pray write again immediately, and do not take it for granted that I
shall be at home before a letter reaches me; but give me a full history of
every thing up to the present moment. Groensveld is sealing his letters
for London, and must have mine now or never. Adieu! Pray write fully: you
cannot he too minute for a poor prisoner.

"Yours affectionately,

"burning with curiosity,

"GODFREY PERCY."

A letter from Mr. Gresham to Mr. Henry farther informed them, that
Godfrey's exchange was actually effected, and that he had secured his
passage on board a vessel just ready to sail for England.

Next came letters from Count Altenberg. Briefly, in the laconic style of a
man pressed at once by sudden events and strong feelings, he related that
at the siege of the city of ---- by the French, early in the morning of
the day on which it was expected that the enemy would attempt to storm
the place, his prince, while inspecting the fortifications, was killed by
a cannon-ball, on the very spot where the Count had been standing but a
moment before. All public affairs were changed in his country by the death
of the prince. His successor, of a weak character, was willing to purchase
present ease, and to secure his low pleasures, at any price--ready to give
up the honour of his country, and submit to the conqueror--that he had been
secretly intriguing with the enemy, had been suspected, and this suspicion
was confirmed by his dastardly capitulation when the means of defence were
in his power and the spirit of his people eager for resistance.

With indignation, heightened by grief, contrast, and despairing patriotism,
Count Altenberg had remonstrated in vain--had refused, as minister, to
put his signature to the capitulation--had been solicited urgently to
concede--offers of wealth and dignities pressed upon him: these he rejected
with scorn. Released from all his public engagements by the death of the
prince, and by the retiring of the princess from court, Count Altenberg
refused to act as minister under his successor; and seeing that, under such
a successor to the government, no means of serving or saving the country
remained, he at once determined to quit it for ever: resolved to live in
a free country, already his own, half by birth and wholly by inclination,
where he had property sufficient to secure him independence, sufficient
for his own wishes, and for those of his beloved Caroline--a country where
he could enjoy better than on any other spot in the whole compass of the
civilized world, the blessings of real liberty and of domestic tranquillity
and happiness.

His decision made, it was promptly executed. He left to a friend the
transacting the sale of his German property, and Caroline concluded his
letter with

"MY DEAR FRIENDS,

"Passports are obtained, every thing ready. Early next week we set out for
England; by the first of next month we shall be at HOME."

Then came a letter from Lord Oldborough. Some time previously to the trial,
surprised at neither seeing Mr. Temple nor hearing of his marriage, his
lordship had written to inquire what delayed his promised return. Taking
it for granted that he was married, his lordship in the most polite manner
begged that he would prevail upon his bride to enliven the retirement of an
old statesman by her sprightly company. As the friend of her father he made
this request, with a confidence in her hereditary disposition to show him
kindness.

In reply to this letter, Mr. Temple told his friend and master what had
delayed his marriage, and why he had hitherto forborne to trouble him on
the subject. Lord Oldborough, astonished and indignant, uttered once and
but once contemptuous exclamations against the "inconceivable meanness
of Lord Skrimpshire," and the "infinitely small mind of his grace of
Greenwich;" then, without condescending to any communication with inferior
powers, his lordship applied directly to the highest authority. The
consequence was that a place double the value of that which had been
promised was given to Mr. Temple, and it was to announce his appointment to
it that occasioned the present letter from Lord Oldborough, enclosing one
from Mr. Secretary Cope, who "had it in command to assure his lordship
that the delay had arisen solely from the anxious desire of his majesty's
ministers to mark their respect for his lordship's recommendation, and
their sense of Mr. Temple's merit, by doing more than had been originally
proposed. An opportunity, for which they had impatiently waited, had now
put it into their power to evince the sincerity of their intentions in
a mode which they trusted would prove to the entire satisfaction of his
lordship."

The greatest care was taken both in substance and manner to gratify Lord
Oldborough, whose loss had been felt, and whose value had, upon comparison,
increased in estimation.

Rosamond was rewarded by seeing the happiness of the man she loved, and
hearing him declare that he owed it to her prudence.

"Rosamond's prudence!--Whoever expected to hear this?" Mr. Percy exclaimed.
"And yet the praise is just. So, henceforward, none need ever despair of
grafting prudence upon generosity of disposition and vivacity of temper."

Mr. Temple obtained from Rosamond a promise to be his, as soon as her
sister Caroline and her brother should arrive.

Lady Jane Granville, who felt the warmest interest in their prosperity,
was the first to whom they communicated all this joyful intelligence. Her
ladyship's horses had indeed reason to rue this day; for they did more work
this day than London horses ever accomplished before in the same number of
hours, not excepting even those of the merciless Mrs. John Prevost; for
Lady Jane found it necessary to drive about to her thousand acquaintance to
spread the news of the triumph and felicity of the Percy family.

In the midst of this tumult of joy, Mr. Percy wrote two letters: one was to
his faithful old steward, John Nelson, who deserved from his master this
mark of regard; the other was to Commissioner Falconer, to make him some
friendly offers of assistance in his own affairs, and to beg that, through
him, his daughter, the unhappy and deserted lady of Sir Robert Percy, might
be assured that neither Mr. Percy nor any of his family wished to put her
to inconvenience; and that far from being in haste to return to Percy-hall,
they particularly wished to wait in town for the arrival of Caroline and
Count Altenberg; and they therefore requested that she would not hasten her
removal, from any false idea of their impatience. We said the deserted lady
of Sir Robert Percy, for Sir Robert had fled from the country. On quitting
the court after the trial, he took all the ready money he had previously
collected from his tenants, and set out for the continent, leaving a note
for his wife, apprizing her "that she would never see him more, and that
she had better return to her father and mother, as he had no means left to
support her extravagance."

Commissioner Falconer was at this time at Falconer-court, where he had been
obliged to go to settle some business with his tenantry, previously to
the sale of his land for the redemption of Cunningham. The Commissioner's
answer to Mr. Percy's letter was as follows:

"I cannot tell you, my dear sir, how much I was touched by the kindness
of your letter and conduct--so different from what I have met with
from others. I will not cloud your happiness--in which, believe me, I
heartily rejoice--by the melancholy detail of all my own sorrows and
disappointments; but only answer briefly to your friendly inquiries
respecting my affairs.

"And first, for my unfortunate married daughter, who has been in this
terrible manner returned upon our hands. She thanks you for your
indulgence, on which she will not encroach. Before you receive this, she
will have left Percy-hall. She is going to live with a Miss Clapham,
a great heiress, who wants a fashionable companion and chaperon. Mrs.
Falconer became acquainted with her at Tunbridge, and has devised this plan
for Arabella. I fear Bell's disposition will not suit such a situation, but
she has no other resource.

"Mrs. Falconer and Georgiana have so _over-managed_ matters with respect
to Petcalf, that it has ended, as I long since feared it would, in his
breaking off. If Mrs. Falconer had taken my advice, Georgiana might now be
completely settled; instead of which she is fitting out for India. She is
going, to be sure, in good company; but in my opinion the expense (which,
Heaven knows, I can ill afford) will be thrown away like all the rest--for
Georgiana has been much worn by late hours, and though still young, has, I
fear, lost her bloom, and looks rather old for India.

"I am truly obliged to you, my dear sir, for your friendly offer with
respect to Falconer-court, and have in consequence stopped the sale of the
furniture. I shall rejoice to have such a good tenant as Mr. Temple. It is
indeed much more agreeable to me to let than to sell. The accommodation,
as you propose, will put it in my power to release Cunningham, which is my
most pressing difficulty.

"As you are the only person in the world now who takes an interest in
my affairs, or to whom I can safely unburden my mind, I must, though I
know complaint to be useless, relieve my heart by it for a moment. I can
safely say, that for the last ten years of my life I have never spent a
day _for myself_. I have been continually planning and toiling to advance
my family,--not an opportunity has been neglected; and yet from this
very family springs all my unhappiness. Even Mrs. Falconer blames me as
the cause of that _sad business_, which has disgraced us for ever, and
deprived us of all our friends--and has afforded an excuse for breaking
all promises. There are many, whom I will not name, but they are persons
now high in office, who have--I may venture to say it to you--used me
shamefully ill.

"Many an honest tradesman and manufacturer, to say nothing of men of
talents in the liberal professions, I have seen in the course of the last
forty years make their own fortunes, and large fortunes, while I have ended
worse than I began--have literally been working all my life for others, not
only without reward, but without thanks. If I were to begin life again, I
certainly should follow your principles, my dear sir, and depend more upon
myself and less upon others, than I have done--But now all is over. Let
me assure you, that in the midst of my own misfortunes, I rejoice in your
prosperity, and in the esteem and respect with which I hear you and yours
spoken of by all.

"Present my affectionate regards and congratulations to Mrs. Percy, and
to all your amiable and happy circle. Propriety and feeling for my poor
daughter, Lady Percy, must prevent my paying at present my personal
congratulations to you at Percy-hall; but I trust you will not the less
believe in the sincerity of my attachment.

"I am, my dear sir,

"Your obliged and faithful

"Friend and servant,

"T. FALCONER.

"P.S.--I have just learnt that the little place I mentioned to Mr. Alfred
Percy, when we last met, is not disposed of. Lord Oldborough's influence,
as Mr. Temple well knows, is still all-powerful; and your interest with his
lordship, you must be sensible, is greater than that of any other person
living, without exception. A word from you would do the business for me. It
is but a trifle, which I should once have been ashamed to ask: but it is
now a matter of necessity."

The event of the trial, and the restoration of the Percy family to their
property, were heard with transports of joy by the old tenantry. They had
not needed the effect of contrast, to make them love and feel the value of
their good landlord; but certainly Sir Robert Percy's tyranny, and all that
he had made them suffer for their obstinate fidelity to the _old branch_,
had heightened and fortified their attachment. It was now their turn to
glory in that honest obstinacy, and with the strong English sense of
justice, they triumphed in having the rightful owners restored to their
estate, and to the seat of their ancestors.

As the Percy family crossed the well-known bridge at the end of the
village, those bells, which had sounded so mournfully, which had been
muffled when they quitted their home, now rang out a merry triumphant
peal--and it was rung by the hands of the very same persons who had
formerly given that proof of attachment to him in his adversity.--Emotion
as strong now seized Mr. Percy's heart. At the same spot he jumped out of
the carriage, and by the same path along which he had hastened to stop the
bell-ringers, lest they should ruin themselves with Sir Robert, he now
hastened to see and thank these honest, courageous people. In passing
through the village, which had been freshly swept and garnished the people,
whom, he remembered to have seen in tears following the carriage at
their departure, were now crowding to their doors with faces bright with
smiles. Hats that had never stirred, and backs that had never bent for the
_usurper_, were now eager with low bows to mark their proud respect to
the true man. There were no noisy acclamations, for all were touched. The
voices of the young children, however, were heard, who, as their mothers
held them up in their arms, to see the landlord, of whom they had heard
so much, offered their little nosegays as the open carriage passed, and
repeated blessings on those, on whom from their cradles, they had heard
blessings bestowed by their parents.

The old steward stood ready at the park-gate to open it for his master. His
master and the ladies put their hands out of the carriage to shake hands
with him, but he could not stand it. He just touched his master's hand.
Tears streamed down his face, and turning away without being able to say
one word, he hid himself in the porter's lodge.

As they drove up to the house, they saw standing on the steps
waiting--and long had he been waiting there, for the first sound of the
carriage--Johnson, the butler, who had followed the family to the Hills,
and had served them in their fallen fortunes--Johnson was now himself.
Before the hall-door, wide open to receive them, he stood, with the
livery-servants in due order.

Mrs. Harte, the good old housekeeper, had been sent down to prepare for the
reception of the family, and a world of trouble she had had; but all was
now right and proper, and she was as active and alert as the youngest of
her maidens could have been, in conducting the ladies to their apartments,
in showing all the old places, and doing what she called the honours of
the _re-installation_. She could have wished to have vented a little of
her indignation, and to have told how some things had been left; but her
better taste and judgment, and her sense of what would be pleasing to her
master and mistress, repressed all recrimination. By the help of frequent
recurrence to her snuff-box, in difficulties great, together with much
rubbing of her hands, and some bridling of her head, she got through it,
without naming those, who should not be thought of, as she observed, on
this joyful day.

The happiness of the Percy family was completed by the return of Godfrey,
of Caroline, and Count Altenberg. Godfrey arrived just as his family were
settled at Percy-hall. After his long absence from his home and country,
he doubly enjoyed this scene of domestic prosperity. Beloved as Rosamond
was by rich and poor in the neighbourhood, and the general favourite of
her family, her approaching marriage spread new and universal joy. It is
impossible to give an idea of the congratulations, and of the bustle of
the various preparations, which were going on at this time at Percy-hall,
especially in the lower regions. Even Mrs. Harte's all-regulating genius
was insufficient for the exigencies of the times. Indeed, her head and
her heart were now at perpetual variance, continually counteracting and
contradicting each other. One moment delighted with the joy and affection
of the world below, she would come up to boast of it to her mistress and
her young ladies; the next moment she would scold all the people for being
out of their wits, and for not minding or knowing a single thing they were
doing, or ordered to do, "no more than the babes in the wood;" then proving
the next minute and acknowledging that she was "_really quite as bad as
themselves_. And no wonder, for the thoughts of Miss Rosamond's marriage
had turned her head entirely upside down--for she had been at Miss
Rosamond's christening, held her by proxy, and considered her always as her
particular own child, and well she might, for a better, except, perhaps,
Miss Caroline--I should say _the countess_--never breathed."

The making a _desert_ island for Miss Rosamond's wedding-dinner was
the object which had taken such forcible possession of Mrs. Harte's
imagination, that till it was accomplished it was in vain to hope that any
other could, in her eyes, appear in any kind of proportion. In the midst of
all the sentimental joy above stairs, and in the midst of all the important
business of settlements and lawyers, Mrs. Harte was pursuing the settled
purpose of her soul, constructing with infinite care, as directed by her
complete English Housekeeper, a _desert island for a wedding_, in a deep
china dish, with a mount in the middle, two figures upon the mount, with
crowns on their heads, a knot of rock-candy at their feet, and gravel-walks
of _shot comfits_, judiciously intersecting in every direction their
dominions.

CHAPTER XLIV.

As soon as it was possible, after his return to Percy-hall, Mr. Percy went
to pay his respects to Lord Oldborough. He found this great statesman happy
in retirement, without any affectation of happiness. There were proofs in
every thing about him that his mind had unbent itself agreeably; his powers
had expanded upon different objects, building, planting, improving the soil
and the people.

He had many tastes, which had long lain dormant, or rather which had
been held in subjugation by one tyrant passion. That passion vanquished,
the former tastes resumed their activity. The superior strength of his
character was shown in his never recurring to ambition. Its vigour was
displayed in the means by which he supplied himself, not only with variety
of occupation, but with variety of motive. Those, who best know the human
mind must be aware of the difficulty of supplying motive for one accustomed
to stimulus of so high a kind, as that to which Lord Oldborough had been
habituated. For one who had been at the head of the government of a great
nation, to make for himself objects in the stillness and privacy of a
country life, required no common talent and energy of soul. The difficulty
was increased to Lord Oldborough, for to him the vast resource of a taste
for literature was wanting.

The biographer of Sir Robert Walpole tells us, that though he had not
forgotten his classical attainments, he had little taste for literary
occupations. Sir Robert once expressed his regret on this subject to Mr.
Fox, in the library at Houghton. "I wish," he said, "I took as much delight
in reading as you do; it would be the means of alleviating many tedious
hours in my present retirement. But, to my misfortune, I derive no pleasure
from such pursuits."

Lord Oldborough felt, but never condescended to complain of that deficiency
of general literature, which was caused in him, partly by his not having
had time for the attainment, and partly by his having formed too low an
estimate of the influence and power of literature in the political world.
But he now took peculiar delight in recalling the classical studies in
which he had in his youth excelled; as Mr. Percy sympathized with him in
this taste, there was another point in which they coalesced. Mr. Percy
stayed with his old friend some days, for he was anxious to give him
this proof of attachment, and felt interested in seeing his character
develope itself in a new direction, displaying fresh life and strength,
and unexpected resource in circumstances, in which statesmen of the most
vigorous minds, and of the highest spirit, have been seen to "droop
and drowse," to sink into indolence, sensuality, or the horrors of
hypochondriacism and superstition.

Lord Oldborough, on his first retiring to Clermont-park, had informed Mr.
Percy that he should wish to see him as soon as he had arranged certain
papers. He now reminded his lordship of it, and Lord Oldborough put into
his hands a sketch, which he had been drawing out, of the principal
transactions in which he had been engaged during his political career, with
copies of his letters to the first public characters of the day in our own
and in foreign countries. Even by those who had felt no regard for the man,
the letters of such a minister would have been read with avidity; but Mr.
Percy perused them with a stronger interest than any which could be created
by mere political or philosophical curiosity. He read them with a pleasure
which a generous mind takes in admiring that which is good and great, with
the delight which a true friend feels in seeing proofs that justify all the
esteem he had previously felt. He saw in these original documents, in this
history of Lord Oldborough's political life, the most perfect consistency
and integrity, the most disinterested and enlightened patriotism. When Mr.
Percy returned the manuscript to his lordship, he spoke of the satisfaction
he must experience in looking back upon this record of a life spent in the
service of his country, and observed that he was not surprised that, with
such a solid source of self-approbation, such indefeasible claims to the
gratitude of his countrymen, and such well-earned fame, he should be, as he
appeared, happy in retirement.

"I am happy, and, I believe, principally from the cause you have
mentioned," said Lord Oldborough, who had a mind too great for the
affectation of humility. "So far I am happy."

"Yet," added he, after a considerable pause, "I have, I feel, a greater
capability of happiness, for which I have been prevented from making any
provision, partly by the course of life of which I made choice, and partly
by circumstances over which I had no control."

He paused again; and, turning the conversation, spoke of his sister, an
elderly lady, who had come to pass some time with him. They had lived
separate almost all their lives; she in Scotland with her husband, a
Scottish nobleman, who having died about the time when Lord Oldborough
had resigned his ministerial situation, she had accepted his lordship's
invitation to visit him in his retirement. The early attachment he had had
for this sister seemed to revive in his mind when they met; and, as if glad
to have some object for his affections, they were poured out upon her. Mr.
Percy observed a tenderness in his manner and voice when he spoke to her,
a thousand little attentions, which no one would have expected from the
apparently stern Lord Oldborough, a man who had been engrossed all his life
by politics.

On the morning of the last day which Mr. Percy meant to spend at
Clermont-park, his lordship, as they were sitting together in his study,
expressed more than common regret at the necessity for his friend's
departure, but said, "I have no right to detain you from your family."
Then, after a pause, he added, "Mr. Percy, you first gave me the idea that
a private life is the happiest."

"My lord, in most cases I believe it is; but I never meant to assert that a
public life spent in noble exertion, and with the consciousness of superior
talent and utility, is not more desirable than the life of any obscure
individual can possibly be, even though he possess the pleasure of domestic
ease and tranquillity. There are men of eminent abilities, capable of
extraordinary exertions, inspired by exalted patriotism. I believe,
notwithstanding the corruption of so many has weakened all faith in public
virtue, I believe in the existence of such men, men who devote themselves
to the service of their country: when the time for their relinquishing the
toils of public life arrives, honour and self-approbation follow them in
retirement."

"It is true, I am happy," repeated Lord Oldborough; "but to go on with what
I began to say to you yesterday--I feel that some addition might be made
to my happiness. The sense of having, to the best of my ability, done my
duty, is satisfactory. I do not require applause--I disdain adulation--I
have sustained my public life without sympathy--I could seldom meet
with it--where I could, I have enjoyed it--and could now enjoy
it--exquisitely--as you do, Mr. Percy--surrounded by a happy family.
Domestic life requires domestic pleasures--objects for the affections."

Mr. Percy felt the truth of this, and could answer only by suggesting the
idea of Mr. Temple, who was firmly and warmly attached to Lord Oldborough,
and for whom his lordship had a strong regard.

"Mr. Temple, and my daughter Rosamond, whom your lordship honoured with
so kind an invitation, propose, I know, paying their respects to you
next week. Though I am her father, I may venture to say that Rosamond's
sprightliness is so mixed with solid information and good sense, that her
society will become agreeable to your lordship."

"I shall rejoice to see Mrs. Temple here. As the daughter of one friend,
and the wife of another, she has a double claim to my regard. And (to say
nothing of hereditary genius or dispositions--in which you do not believe,
and I do), there can be no doubt that the society of a lady, educated as
your daughter has been, must suit my taste. The danger is, that her society
should become necessary to me. For Mr. Temple I already feel a degree of
affection, which I must repress, rather than indulge."

"Repress!--Why so, my lord? You esteem him--you believe in the sincerity of
his attachment?"

"I do."

"Then why with stoicism--pardon me, my dear lord--why repress affection?"

"Lest I should become dependent for my daily happiness on one, whose
happiness is independent of mine--in some degree incompatible with mine.
Even if his society were given to me, his heart must be at his home, and
with his family. You see I am no proud stoic, but a man who dares to look
at life--the decline of life, such as it is--as it must be. Different, Mr.
Percy, in your situation--and in mine."

The conversation was here interrupted by the arrival of a carriage.

Lord Oldborough looked out of the window as it passed--then smiled, and
observed how altered the times were, since Clermont-park used to be crowded
with visitors and carriages--now the arrival of one is an event.

The servant announced a foreign name, a Neapolitan abbe, who had come
over in the train of a new ambassador: he had just arrived in England, and
had letters from the Cardinal . . ., his uncle, which he was desired
to deliver into Lord Oldborough's own hand. The abbe was, it appeared,
personally a stranger to him, but there had been some ministerial
intercourse between his lordship and the cardinal. Lord Oldborough received
these political letters with an air of composure and indifference which
proved that he ceased to have an interest in the game.

"He supposed," he said, "that the abbe had been apprized that he was no
longer one of his majesty's ministers--that he had resigned his official
situation--had retired--and that he took no part whatever in public
affairs."

The abbe replied that he had been apprized that Lord Oldborough had retired
from the public office; but his uncle, he added, with a significant smile,
was aware that Lord Oldborough's influence was as great still as it had
ever been, and greater than that of any ostensible minister.

This Lord Oldborough disclaimed--coolly observing that his influence,
whatever it might be, could not be known even to himself, as it was never
exerted; and that, as he had determined nevermore to interfere in public
business, he could not be of the least political service to the cardinal.
The Duke of Greenwich was now the person to whom on such subjects all
applications should be addressed.

The abbe, however, repeated, that his instructions from the cardinal were
positive and peremptory, to deliver these letters into no hands but those
of Lord Oldborough--that in consequence of this strict injunction he had
come purposely to present them. He was instructed to request his lordship
would not put the letters into the hands of any secretary, but would have
the goodness to examine them himself, and give his counsel how to proceed,
and to whom they should, in case of his lordship's declining to interfere,
be addressed.

"Mr. Percy!" said Lord Oldborough, recalling Mr. Percy, who had risen to
quit the room, "you will not leave me--Whatever you may wish to say, M.
l'abbe, may be said before this gentleman--my friend."

His lordship then opened the packet, examined the letters--read and
re-directed some to the Duke of Greenwich, others to the king: the abbe,
all the time, descanting vehemently on Neapolitan politics--regretting
Lord Oldborough's resignation--adverting still to his lordship's powerful
influence--and pressing some point in negotiation, for which his uncle, the
cardinal, was most anxious.

Among the letters, there was one which Lord Oldborough did not open: he
laid it on the table with the direction downwards, leaned his elbow upon
it, and sat as if calmly listening to the abbe; but Mr. Percy, knowing his
countenance, saw signs of extraordinary emotion, with difficulty repressed.

At length the gesticulating abbe finished, and waited his lordship's
instructions.

They were given in few words. The letters re-directed to the king and the
Duke of Greenwich were returned to him. He thanked his lordship with many
Italian superlatives--declined his lordship's invitation to stay till the
next day at Clermont-park--said he was pressed in point of time--that it
was indispensably necessary for him to be in London, to deliver these
papers, as soon as possible. His eye glanced on the unopened letter.

"Private, sir," said Lord Oldborough, in a stern voice, without moving his
elbow from the paper: "whatever answer it may require, I shall have the
honour to transmit to you--for the cardinal."

The abbe bowed low, left his address, and took leave. Lord Oldborough,
after attending him to the door, and seeing him depart, returned, took
out his watch, and said to Mr. Percy "Come to me, in my cabinet, in five
minutes."

Seeing his sister on the walk approaching his house, he added, "Let none
follow me."

When the five minutes were over, Mr. Percy went to Lord Oldborough's
cabinet--knocked--no answer--knocked again--louder--all was silent--he
entered--and saw Lord Oldborough seated, but in the attitude of one just
going to rise; he looked more like a statue than a living person: there was
a stiffness in his muscles, and over his face and hands a deathlike colour.
His eyes were fixed, and directed towards the door--but they never moved
when Mr. Percy entered, nor did Lord Oldborough stir at his approach. From
one hand, which hung over the arm of his chair, his spectacles had dropped;
his other hand grasped an open letter.

"My dear lord!" cried Mr. Percy.

He neither heard nor answered. Mr. Percy opened the window and let down the
blind. Then attempting to raise the hand which hung down, he perceived
it was fixed in all the rigidity of catalepsy. In hopes of recalling his
senses or his power of motion, Mr. Percy determined to try to draw the
letter from his grasp; the moment the letter was touched, Lord Oldborough
started--his eyes darting fiercely upon him.

"Who dares? Who are you, sir?" cried he.

"Your friend, Percy--my lord."

Lord Oldborough pointed to a chair--Mr. Percy sat down. His lordship
recovered gradually from the species of trance into which he had fallen.
The cataleptic rigidity of his figure relaxed--the colour of life
returned--the body regained its functions--the soul resumed at once her
powers. Without seeming sensible of any interruption or intermission of
feeling or thought, Lord Oldborough went on speaking to Mr. Percy.

"The letter which I now hold in my hand is from that Italian lady of
transcendent beauty, in whose company you once saw me when we first met at
Naples. She was of high rank--high endowments. I loved her; how well--I
need not--cannot say. We married secretly. I was induced--no matter how--to
suspect her fidelity--pass over these circumstances--I cannot speak or
think of them. We parted--I never saw her more. She retired to a convent,
and died shortly after: nor did I, till I received this letter, written on
her death-bed, know that she had given me a son. The proofs that I wronged
her are irresistible. Would that they had been given to me when I could
have repaired my injustice!--But her pride prevented their being sent till
the hour of her death."

On the first reading of her letter, Lord Oldborough had been so struck by
the idea of the injustice he had done the mother, that he seemed scarcely
to advert to the idea of his having a son. Absorbed in the past, he was at
first insensible both to the present and the future. Early associations,
long dormant, were suddenly wakened; he was carried back with irresistible
force to the days of his youth, and something of likeness in air and voice
to the Lord Oldborough he had formerly known appeared to Mr. Percy. As
the tumult of passionate recollections subsided, as this enthusiastic
reminiscence faded, and the memory of the past gave way to the sense of the
present, Lord Oldborough resumed his habitual look and manner. His thoughts
turned upon his son, that unknown being who belonged to him, who had claims
upon him, who might form a great addition to the happiness or misery of his
life. He took up the letter again, looked for the passage that related to
his son, and read it anxiously to himself, then to Mr. Percy--observing,
"that the directions were so vague, that it would be difficult to act upon
them."

"The boy was sent when three years old to England or Ireland, under the
care of an Irish priest, who delivered him to a merchant, recommended by
the Hamburg banker, &c."

"I shall have difficulty in tracing this--great danger of being mistaken
or deceived," said Lord Oldborough, pausing with a look of anxiety. "Would
to God that I had means of knowing with certainty _where_, and above all,
_what_, he is, or that I had never heard of his existence!"

"My lord, are there any more particulars?" inquired Mr. Percy, eagerly.

Lord Oldborough continued to read, "Four hundred pounds of your English
money have been remitted to him annually, by means of these Hamburg
bankers. To them we must apply in the first instance," said Lord
Oldborough, "and I will write this moment."

"I think, my lord, I can save you the trouble," said Mr. Percy: "I know the
man."

Lord Oldborough put down his pen, and looked at Mr. Percy with
astonishment.

"Yes, my lord, however extraordinary it may appear, I repeat it--I believe
I know your son; and if he be the man I imagine him to be, I congratulate
you--you have reason to rejoice."

"The facts, my dear sir," cried Lord Oldborough: "do not raise my hopes."

Mr. Percy repeated all that he had heard from Godfrey of Mr. Henry--related
every circumstance from the first commencement of them--the impertinence
and insult to which the mystery that hung over his birth had subjected
him in the regiment--the quarrels in the regiment--the goodness of Major
Gascoigne--the gratitude of Mr. Henry--the attachment between him and
Godfrey--his selling out of the regiment after Godfrey's ineffectual
journey to London--his wishing to go into a mercantile house--the letter
which Godfrey then wrote, begging his father to recommend Mr. Henry to Mr.
Gresham, disclosing to Mr. Percy, with Mr. Henry's permission, all that he
knew of his birth.

"I have that letter at home," said Mr. Percy: "your lordship shall see it.
I perfectly recollect the circumstances of Mr. Henry's having been brought
up in Ireland by a Dublin merchant, and having received constantly a
remittance in quarterly payments of four hundred pounds a year, from a
banker in Cork."

"Did he inquire why, or from whom?" said Lord Oldborough; "and does he know
his mother?"

"Certainly not: the answer to his first inquiries prevented all further
questions. He was told by the bankers that they had directions to stop
payment of the remittance if any questions were asked."

Lord Oldborough listened with profound attention as Mr. Percy went on with
the history of Mr. Henry, relating all the circumstances of his honourable
conduct with respect to Miss Panton--his disinterestedness, decision, and
energy of affection.

Lord Oldborough's emotion increased--he seemed to recognize some traits of
his own character.

"I _hope_ this youth is my son," said his lordship, in a low suppressed
voice.

"He deserves to be yours, my lord," said Mr. Percy.

"To have a son might be the greatest of evils--to have _such_ a son must be
the greatest of blessings," said his lordship. He was lost in thought for a
moment, then exclaimed, "I must see the letter--I must see the man."

"My lord, he is at my house."

Lord Oldborough started from his seat--"Let me see him instantly."

"To-morrow, my lord," said Mr. Percy, in a calm tone, for it was necessary
to calm his impetuosity--"to-morrow. Mr. Henry could not be brought here
to-night without alarming him, or without betraying to him the cause of our
anxiety."

"To-morrow, let it be--you are right, my dear friend. Let me see him
without his suspecting that I am any thing to him, or he to me--you will
let me have the letter to-night."

"Certainly, my lord."

Mr. Percy sympathized with his impatience, and gratified it with all the
celerity of a friend: the letter was sent that night to Lord Oldborough.
In questioning his sons more particularly concerning Mr. Henry, Mr.
Percy learnt from Erasmus a fresh and strong corroborating circumstance.
Dr. Percy had been lately attending Mr. Gresham's porter, O'Brien, the
Irishman; who had been so ill, that, imagining himself dying, he had sent
for a priest. Mr. Henry was standing by the poor fellow's bedside when the
priest arrived, who was so much struck by the sight of him, that for some
time his attention could scarcely be fixed on the sick man. The priest,
after he had performed his official duties, returned to Mr. Henry, begged
pardon for having looked at him with so much earnestness, but said that
Mr. Henry strongly reminded him of the features of an Italian lady who
had committed a child to his care many years ago. This led to farther
explanation, and upon comparing dates and circumstances, Mr. Henry was
convinced that this was the very priest who had carried him over to
Ireland--the priest recognized him to be the child of whom he had taken
charge; but farther, all was darkness. The priest knew nothing more--not
even the name of the lady from whom he had received the child. He knew only
that he had been handsomely rewarded by the Dublin merchant, to whom he had
delivered the boy--and he had heard that this merchant had since become
bankrupt, and had fled to America. This promise of a discovery, and sudden
stop to his hopes, had only mortified poor Mr. Henry, and had irritated
that curiosity which he had endeavoured to lull to repose.

Mr. Percy was careful, both for Mr. Henry's sake and for Lord Oldborough's,
not to excite hopes which might not ultimately be accomplished. He took
precautions to prevent him from suspecting any thing extraordinary in the
intended introduction to Lord Oldborough.

There had been some dispute between the present minister and some
London merchant, about the terms of a loan which had been made by Lord
Oldborough--Mr. Gresham's house had some concern in this transaction; and
it was now settled between Mr. Percy and Lord Oldborough, that his lordship
should write to desire to see Mr. Henry, who, as Mr. Gresham's partner,
could give every necessary information. Mr. Henry accordingly was summoned
to Clermont-park, and accompanied Mr. Percy, with his mind intent upon this
business.

Mr. Henry, in common with all who were capable of estimating a great public
character, had conceived high admiration for Lord Oldborough; he had seen
him only in public, and at a distance--and it was not without awe that he
now thought of being introduced to him, and of hearing and speaking to him
in private.

Lord Oldborough, meanwhile, who had been satisfied by the perusal of the
letter, and by Mr. Percy's information, waited for his arrival with extreme
impatience. He was walking up and down his room, and looking frequently at
his watch, which he believed more than once to have stopped. At length the
door opened.

"Mr. Percy, and Mr. Henry, my lord."

Lord Oldborough's eye darted upon Henry. Struck instantly with the
resemblance to the mother, Lord Oldborough rushed forward, and clasping him
in his arms, exclaimed, "My son!"

Tenderness, excessive tenderness, was in his look, voice, soul, as if he
wished to repair in a moment the injustice of years.

"Yes," said Lord Oldborough, "_now_ I am happy--_now_, I also, Mr. Percy,
may be proud of a son--I too shall know the pleasures of domestic life. Now
I am happy!" repeated he,

"And, pleased, resigned
To tender passions all his mighty mind."

_March 26th, 1813._

END OF PATRONAGE.

COMIC DRAMAS.

LOVE AND LAW

A DRAMA.

IN THREE ACTS.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

MEN.

MR. CARVER, of Bob's Fort . . _A Justice of the Peace in Ireland._
OLD MATTHEW McBRIDE . . . . _A rich Farmer._
PHILIP McBRIDE . . . . . _His Son._
RANDAL ROONEY . . . . . _Son of the Widow Catherine Rooney
--a Lover of Honor McBride._
MR. GERALD O'BLANEY . . . . _A Distiller._
PATRICK COXE . . . . . _Clerk to Gerald O'Blaney._

WOMEN.

MRS. CARVER . . . . . _Wife of Mr. Carver._
MISS BLOOMSBURY . . . . . _A fine London Waiting-maid
of Mrs. Carver's._
MRS. CATHERINE ROONEY,
_commonly called_
CATTY ROONEY . . . . _A Widow--Mother of Randal Rooney._
HONOR McBRIDE . . . . . . _Daughter of Matthew McBride, and
Sister of Philip McBride._

A Justice's Clerk--a Constable--Witnesses--and two Footmen.

LOVE AND LAW

ACT I.

SCENE I.

_A Cottage.--A Table--Breakfast._

_HONOR McBRIDE, alone._

_Honor._ Phil!--(_calls_)--Phil, dear! come out.

_Phil._--(_answers from within_) Wait till I draw on my boots!

_Honor._ Oh, I may give it up: he's full of his new boots--and singing,
see!

_Enter PHIL McBRIDE, dressed in the height of the Irish buck-farmer
fashion, singing,_

"Oh the boy of Ball'navogue!
Oh the dasher! oh the rogue!
He's the thing! and he's the pride
Of town and country, Phil McBride--
All the talk of shoe and brogue!
Oh the boy of Ball'navogue!"

There's a song to the praise and glory of your--of your brother, Honor! And
who made it, do you think, girl?

_Honor._ Miss Caroline Flaherty, no doubt. But, dear Phil, I've a favour to
ask of you.

_Phil._ And welcome! What? But first, see! isn't there an elegant pair of
boots, that fits a leg like wax?--There's what'll plase Car'line Flaherty,
I'll engage. But what ails you, Honor?--you look as if your own heart was
like to break. Are not you for the fair to-day?--and why not?

_Honor._ Oh! rasons. (_Aside_) Now I can't speak.

_Phil._ Speak on, for I'm dumb and all ear--speak up, dear--no fear of the
father's coming out, for he's leaving his _bird_ (i.e. beard) in the bason,
and that's a work of time with him.--Tell all to your own Phil.

_Honor._ Why then I won't go to the fair--because--better keep myself to
myself, out of the way of meeting them that mightn't be too plasing to my
father.

_Phil._ And might be too plasing to somebody else--Honor McBride.

_Honor._ Oh, Phil, dear! But only promise me, brother, dearest, if you
would this day meet any of the Rooneys--

_Phil._ That means Randal Rooney.

_Honor._ No, it was his mother Catty was in my head.

_Phil._ A bitterer scould never was!--nor a bigger lawyer in petticoats,
which is an abomination.

_Honor._ 'Tis not pritty, I grant; but her heart's good, if her temper
would give it fair play. But will you promise me, Phil, whatever she
says--you won't let her provoke you this day.

_Phil._ How in the name of wonder will I hinder her to give me provocation?
and when the spirit of the McBrides is up--

_Honor._ But don't lift a hand.

_Phil._ Against a woman?--no fear--not a finger against a woman.

_Honor._ But I say not against any Rooney, man or woman. Oh, Phil! dear,
don't let there be any fighting betwixt the McBride and Rooney factions.

_Phil._ And how could I hinder if I would? The boys will be having a row,
especially when they get the spirits--and all the better.

_Honor._ To be drinking! Oh! Phil, the mischief that drinking does!

_Phil._ Mischief! Quite and clane the contrary--when the shillelah's up,
the pike's down. 'Tis when there'd be no fights at fairs, and all sober,
then there's rason to dread mischief. No man, Honor, dare be letting the
whiskey into his head, was there any mischief in his heart.

_Honor._ Well, Phil, you've made it out now cliverly. So there's most
danger of mischief when men's sober--is that it?

_Phil._ Irishmen?--ay; for sobriety is not the nat'ral state of the
_craturs_; and what's not nat'ral is hypocritical, and a hypocrite is, and
was, and ever will be my contempt.

_Honor._ And mine too. But--

_Phil._ But here's my hand for you, Honor. They call me a beau and a buck,
a slasher and dasher, and flourishing Phil. All that I am, may be; but
there's one thing I am not, and will never be--and that's a bad brother to
you. So you have my honour, and here's my oath to the back of it. By all
the pride of man and all the consate of woman--where will you find a bigger
oath?--happen what will, this day, I'll not lift my hand against Randal
Rooney!

_Honor._ Oh, thanks! warm from the heart. But here's my father--and where's
breakfast?

_Phil._ Oh! I must be at him for a horse: you, Honor, mind and back me.

_Enter Old McBRIDE._

_Old McB._ Late I am this fair day all along with my beard, that was
thicker than a hedgehog's. Breakfast, where?

_Honor._ Here, father dear--all ready.

_Old McB._ There's a jewel! always supple o' foot. Phil, call to them to
bring out the horse bastes, while I swallow my breakfast--and a good one,
too.

_Phil._ Your horse is all ready standing, sir. But that's what I wanted to
ax you, father--will you be kind enough, sir, to shell out for me the price
of a _daacent_ horse, fit to mount a man like me?

_Old McB._ What ails the baste you have under you always?

_Phil._ Fit only for the hounds:--not to follow, but to feed 'em.

_Old McB._ Hounds! I don't want you, Phil, to be following the hounds
at-all-at-all.

_Honor._ But let alone the hounds. If you sell your bullocks well in the
fair to-day, father dear, I think you'll be so kind to spare Phil the price
of a horse.

_Old McB._ Stand out o' my way, Honor, with that wheedling voice o' your
own--I won't. Mind your own affairs--you're leaguing again me, and I'll
engage Randal Rooney's at the bottom of all--and the cement that sticks
you and Phil so close together. But mind, Madam Honor, if you give him the
meeting at the fair the day--

_Honor._ Dear father, I'm not going--I give up the fair o' purpose, for
fear I'd see him.

_Old McB._ (_kissing her_) Why then you're a piece of an angel!

_Honor._ And you'll give my brother the horse?

_Old McB._ I won't! when I've said I won't--I wont.

[_Buttons his coat, and exit._

_Phil._ Now there's a sample of a father for ye!

_Old McB._ (_returning_) And, Mistress Honor, may be you'd be staying at
home to--Where's Randal Rooney to be, pray, while I'd be from home?

_Honor._ Oh! father, would you suspect--

_Old McB._ (_catching her in his arms, and kissing her again and again_)
Then you're a true angel, every inch of you. But not a word more in favour
of the horse--sure the money for the bullocks shall go to your portion,
every farthing.

_Honor._ There's the thing! (_Holding her father_) I don't wish that.

_Phil._ (_stopping her mouth_) Say no more, Honor--I'm best pleased so.

_Old McB._ (_aside_) I'll give him the horse, but he sha'n't know it.
(_Aloud_) I won't. When I say I won't, did I ever?

[_Exit Old McBRIDE._

_Phil._ Never since the world _stud_--to do you justice, you are as
obstinate as a mule. Not all the bullocks he's carrying to the fair the
day, nor all the bullocks in Ballynavogue joined to 'em, in one team, would
draw that father o' mine one inch out of his way.

_Honor._ (_aside, with a deep sigh_) Oh, then what will I do about Randal
ever!

_Phil._ As close a fisted father as ever had the grip of a guinea! If the
guineas was all for you--wilcome, Honor! But that's not it. Pity of a lad
o' spirit like me to be cramped by such a hunx of a father.

_Honor._ Oh! don't be calling him names, Phil: stiff he is, more than
close--and any way, Phil dear, he's the father still--and ould, consider.

_Phil._ He is,--and I'm fond enough of him, too, would he only give me the
price of a horse. But no matter--spite of him I'll have my swing the day,
and it's I that will tear away with a good horse under me and a good whip
over him in a capital style, up and down the street of Ballynavogue, for
you, Miss Car'line Flaherty! I know who I'll go to, this minute--a man I'll
engage will lend me the loan of his bay gelding; and that's Counshillor
Gerald O'Blaney. [_Going, HONOR stops him._

_Honor._ Gerald O'Blaney! Oh, brother!--Mercy!--Don't! any thing rather
than that--

_Phil._ (_impatiently_) Why, then, Honor?

_Honor._ (_aside_) If I'd tell him, there'd be mischief. (_Aloud._) Only--I
wouldn't wish you under a compliment to one I've no opinion of.

_Phil._ Phoo! you've taken a prejudice. What is there again Counshillor
O'Blaney?

_Honor._ _Counshillor!_ First place, why do you call him _counshillor_? he
never was a raal counshillor sure--nor jantleman at all.

_Phil._ Oh! counshillor by courtesy--he was an attorney once--just as we
_doctor_ the apotecary.

_Honor._ But, Phil, was not there something of this man's being dismissed
the courts for too sharp practice?

_Phil._ But that was long ago, if it ever was. There's sacrets in all
families to be forgotten--bad to be raking the past. I never knew you so
sharp on a neighbour, Honor, before:--what ails ye?

_Honor._ (_sighing_) I can't tell ye. [_Still holding him._

_Phil._ Let me go, then!--Nonsense!--the boys of Ballynavogue will be
wondering, and Miss Car'line most.

[_Exit, singing,_

"Oh the boys of Ball'navogue."

_HONOR, alone._

_Honor._ Oh, Phil! I _could_ not tell it you; but did you but know how
_that_ Gerald O'Blaney insulted your shister with his vile proposhals,
you'd no more ask the loan of his horse!--and I in dread, whenever I'd be
left in the house alone, that that bad man would boult in upon me--and
Randal to find him! and Randal's like gunpowder when his heart's
touched!--and if Randal should come _by himself_, worse again! Honor, where
would be your resolution to forbid him your presence? Then there's but one
way to be right--I'll lave home entirely. Down, proud stomach! You must
go to service, Honor McBride. There's Mrs. Carver, kind-hearted lady, is
wanting a girl--she's English, and nice; may be I'd not be good enough; but
I can but try, and do my best; any thing to plase the father.

[_Exit HONOR._

SCENE II.

_O'BLANEY'S Counting-house._

_GERALD O'BLANEY alone at a desk covered with Papers._

_O'Bla._ Of all the employments in life, this eternal balancing of
accounts, see-saw, is the most sickening of all things, except it would be
the taking the inventory of your stock, when you're reduced to _invent_ the
stock itself;--then that's the most lowering to a man of all things! But
there's one comfort in this distillery business--come what will, a man has
always _proof spirits_.

_Enter PAT COXE._

_Pat._ The whole tribe of Connaught men come, craving to be _ped_ for the
oats, counsellor, due since last Serapht[1] fair.

[Footnote 1: Shrovetide.]

_O'Bla._ Can't be ped to-day, let 'em crave never so.--Tell 'em _Monday_;
and give 'em a glass of whiskey round, and that will send 'em off contint,
in a jerry.

_Pat._ I shall--I will--I see, sir. [_Exit PAT COXE._

_O'Bla._ Asy settled that!--but I hope many more duns for oats won't
be calling on me this day, for cash is not to be had:--here's bills
plenty--long bills, and short bills--but even the kites, which I can fly as
well as any man, won't raise the wind for me now.

_Re-enter PAT._

_Pat._ Tim McGudikren, sir, for his debt--and talks of the sub-sheriff, and
can't wait.

_O'Bla._ I don't ax him to wait; but he must take in payment, since he's in
such a hurry, this bill at thirty-one days, tell him.

_Pat._ I shall tell him so, plase your honour. [_Exit PAT._

_O'Bla._ They have all rendezvous'd to drive me mad this day; but the only
thing is to keep the head cool. What I'm dreading beyant all is, if that
ould Matthew McBride, who is as restless as a ferret when he has lodged
money with any one, should come this day to take out of my hands the two
hundred pounds I've got of his--Oh, then I might shut up! But stay, I'll
match him--and I'll match myself too: that daughter Honor of his is a
mighty pretty girl to look at, and since I can't get her any other way, why
not ax her in marriage? Her portion is to be--

_Re-enter PAT._

_Pat._ The protested note, sir--with the charge of the protest to the back
of it, from Mrs. Lorigan; and her compliments, and to know what will she
do?

_O'Bla._ What will _I_ do, fitter to ax. My kind compliments to Mrs.
Lorigan, and I'll call upon her in the course of the day, to settle it all.

_Pat._ I understand, sir. [_Exit PAT._

_O'Bla._ Honor McBride's portion will be five hundred pounds on the
nail--that would be no bad hit, and she a good, clever, likely girl. I'll
pop the question this day.

_Re-enter PAT._

_Pat._ Corkeran the cooper's bill, as long as my arm.

_O'Bla._ Oh! don't be bothering me any more. Have you no sinse? Can't you
get shut of Corkeran the cooper without me? Can't ye quarrel with the
items? Tear the bill down the middle, if necessary, and sind him away with
a flay (flea) in his ear, to make out a proper bill--which I can't see till
to-morrow, mind. I never pay any man on fair-day.

_Pat._ (_aside_) Nor on any other day. (_Aloud_) Corkeran's my cousin,
counsellor, and if convanient, I'd be glad you'd advance him a pound or two
on account.

_O'Bla._ 'Tis not convanient was he twenty times your cousin, Pat. I can't
be paying in bits, nor on account--all or none.

_Pat._ None, then, I may tell him, sir?

_O'Bla._ You may--you must; and don't come up for any of 'em any more. It's
hard if I can't have a minute to talk to myself.

_Pat._ And it's hard if I can't have a minute to eat my breakfast, too,
which I have not. [_Exit PAT._

_O'Bla._ Where was I?--I was popping the question to Honor McBride.
The only thing is, whether the girl herself wouldn't have an
objection:--there's that Randal Rooney is a great _bachelor_ of hers, and I
doubt she'd be apt to prefar him before me, even when I'd purpose marriage.
But the families of the Rooneys and McBrides is at vareance--then I must
keep 'em so. I'll keep Catty Rooney's spirit up, niver to consent to that
match. Oh! if them Rooneys and McBrides were by any chance to make it up,
I'd be undone: but against that catastrophe I've a preventative. Pat Coxe!
Pat Coxe! where are you, my young man?

_Enter PAT, wiping his mouth._

_Pat._ Just swallowing my breakfast.

_O'Bla._ Mighty long swallowing you are. Here--don't be two minutes, till
you're at Catty Rooney's, and let me see how cliverly you'll execute that
confidential embassy I trusted you with. Touch Catty up about her ould
ancient family, and all the Kings of Ireland she comes from. _Blarney_ her
cliverly, and work her to a foam against the McBrides.

_Pat._ Never fear, your honour. I'll tell her the story we agreed on, of
Honor McBride meeting of Randal Rooney behind the chapel.

_O'Bla._ That will do--don't forget the ring; for I mane to put another on
the girl's finger, if she's agreeable, and knows her own interest. But that
last's a private article. Not a word of that to Catty, you understand.

_Pat._ Oh! I understand--and I'll engage I'll compass Catty, tho' she's a
cunning shaver.

_O'Bla._ Cunning?--No; she's only hot tempered, and asy managed.

_Pat._ Whatever she is, I'll do my best to plase you. And I expict your
honour, counsellor, won't forget the promise you made me, to ask Mr. Carver
for that little place--that situation that would just shute me.

_O'Bla._ Never fear, never fear. Time enough to think of shuting you, when
you've done my business. [_Exit PAT._
That will work like harm, and ould Matthew, the father, I'll speak to,
myself, genteelly. He will be proud, I warrant, to match his daughter
with a gentleman like me. But what if he should smell a rat, and want to
be looking into my affairs? Oh! I must get it sartified properly to him
before all things, that I'm as safe as the bank; and I know who shall do
that for me--my worthy friend, that most consequential magistrate, Mr.
Carver of Bob's Fort, who loves to be advising and managing of all men,
women, and children, for their good. 'Tis he shall advise ould Matthew
for _my_ good. Now Carver thinks he lades the whole county, and ten mile
round--but who is it lades him, I want to know? Why, Gerald O'Blaney.--And
how? Why, by a spoonful of the universal panacea, _flattery_--in the vulgar
tongue, _flummery_. (_A knock at the door heard._) Who's rapping at the
street?--Carver of Bob's Fort himself, in all his glory this fair-day. See
then how he struts and swells. Did ever man, but a pacock, look so fond
of himself with less rason? But I must be caught deep in accounts, and
a balance of thousands to credit. (_Sits down to his desk, to account
books._) Seven thousand, three hundred, and two pence. (_Starting and
rising._) Do I see Mr. Carver of Bob's Fort?--Oh! the honour--

_Mr. Carv._ Don't stir, pray--I beg--I request--I insist. I am by no means
ceremonious, sir.

_O'Bla._ (_bustling and setting two chairs_) No, but I'd wish to show
respect proper to him I consider the first man in the county.

_Mr. Carv._ (_aside_) Man! gentleman, he might have said.

[_Mr. CARVER sits down and rests himself consequentially._

_O'Bla._ Now, Mr. Carver of Bob's Fort, you've been over fartiguing
yourself--

_Mr. Carv._ For the public good. I can't help it, really.

_O'Bla._ Oh! but, upon my word and honour, it's too much: there's rason in
all things. A man of Mr. Carver's fortin to be slaving! If you were a man
in business, like me, it would be another thing. I must slave at the desk
to keep all round. See, Mr. Carver, see!--ever since the day you advised me
to be as particular as yourself in keeping accounts to a farthing, I do, to
a fraction, even like state accounts, see!

_Mr. Carv._ And I trust you find your advantage in it, sir. Pray, how does
the distillery business go on?

_O'Bla._ Swimmingly! ever since that time, Mr. Carver, your interest at the
castle helped me at the dead lift, and got that fine took off. 'Tis to your
purtiction, encouragement, and advice entirely, I owe my present unexampled
prosperity, which you prophesied; and Mr. Carver's prophecies seldom, I may
say never, fail to be accomplished.

_Mr. Carv._ I own there is some truth in your observation. I confess I have
seldom been mistaken or deceived in my judgment of man, woman, or child.

_O'Bla._ Who can say so much?

_Mr. Carv._ For what reason, I don't pretend to say; but the fact
ostensibly is, that the few persons I direct with my advice are
unquestionably apt to prosper in this world.

_O'Bla._ Mighty apt! for which rason I would wish to trouble you for your
unprecedently good advice on another pint, if it, would not be too great a
liberty.

_Mr. Carv._ No liberty at all, my good Gerald--I am always ready to
advise--only to-day--certainly, the fair day of Ballynavogue, there are so
many calls upon me, both in a public and private capacity, so much business
of vital importance!

_O'Bla._ (_aside_) Vital importance!--that is his word on all occasions.
(_Aloud_) May be then, (oh! where was my head?) may be you would not have
breakfasted all this time? and we've the kittle down always in this house,
(_rising_) Pat!--Jack!--Mick!--Jenny! put the kittle down.

_Mr. Carv._ Sit down, sit still, my worthy fellow. Breakfasted at Bob's
Fort, as I always do.

_O'Bla._ But a bit of cake--a glass of wine, to refrish and replinish
nature.

_Mr. Carv._ Too early--spoil my dinner. But what was I going to say?

_O'Bla._ (_aside_) Burn me, if I know; and I pray all the saints you may
never recollect.

_Mr. Carv._ I recollect. How many times do you think I was stopped on
horseback coming up the street of Ballynavogue?--Five times by weights and
measures imperiously calling for reformation, sir. Thirteen times, upon my
veracity, by booths, apple-stalls, nuisances, vagabonds, and drunken women.
Pigs without end, sir--wanting ringing, and all squealing in my ears, while
I was settling sixteen disputes about tolls and customs. Add to this, my
regular battle every fair-day with the crane, which ought to be any where
but where it is; and my perputual discoveries of fraudulent kegs, and
stones in the butter! Now, sir, I only ask, can you wonder that I wipe my
forehead? (_wiping his forehead_).

_O'Bla._ In troth, Mr. Carver, I cannot! But these are the pains and
penalties of being such a man of consequence as you evidently are;--and I
that am now going to add to your troubles too by consulting you about my
little pint!

_Mr. Carv._ A point of law, I dare to say; for people somehow or other have
got such a prodigious opinion of my law. (_Takes snuff._)

_O'Bla._ (_aside_) No coming to the pint till he has finished his own
panygeric.

_Mr. Carv._ And I own I cannot absolutely turn my back on people. Yet as
to _poor_ people, I always settle them by telling them, it is my principle
that law is too expensive for the poor: I tell them, the poor have nothing
to do with the laws.

_O'Bla._ Except the penal.

_Mr. Carv._ True, the civil is for us, men of property; and no man should
think of going to law, without he's qualified. There should be licenses.

_O'Bla._ No doubt. Pinalties there are in plinty; still those who can
afford should indulge. In Ireland it would as ill become a gentleman to be
any way shy of a law-shute, as of a duel.

_Mr. Carv._ Yet law is expensive, sir, even to me.

_O'Bla._ But 'tis the best economy in the end; for when once you have cast
or non-shuted your man in the courts, 'tis as good as winged him in the
field. And suppose you don't get sixpence costs, and lose your cool hundred
by it, still it's a great advantage; for you are let alone to enjoy your
own in pace and quiet ever after, which you could not do in this county
without it. But the love of the law has carried me away from my business:
the pint I wanted to consult you about is not a pint of law; 'tis another
matter.

_Mr. Carv._ (_looking at his watch_) I must be at Bob's Fort, to seal my
despatches for the castle. And there's another thing I say of myself.

_O'Bla._ (_aside_) Remorseless agotist!

_Mr. Carv._ I don't know how the people all have got such an idea of my
connexions at the castle, and my influence with his Excellency, that I am
worried with eternal applications: they expect I can make them all gaugers
or attorney-generals, I believe. How do they know I write to the castle?

_O'Bla._ Oh! the post-office tells asy by the big sales (seals) to your
despatches--(_aside_)--which, I'll engage, is all the castle ever, rades of
them, though Carver has his Excellency always in his mouth, God help him!

_Mr. Carv._ Well, you wanted to consult me, Gerald?

_O'Bla._ And you'll give me your advice, which will be conclusive, law, and
every thing to me. You know the McBrides--would they be safe?

_Mr. Carv._ Very safe, substantial people.

_O'Bla._ Then here's the thing, Mr. Carver: as you recommend them, and as
they are friends of yours--I will confess to you that, though it might
not in pint of interest be a very prudent match, I am thinking that Honor
McBride is such a prudent girl, and Mrs. Carver has taken her by the hand,
so I'd wish to follow Mrs. Carver's example for life, in taking Honor by
the hand for better for worse.

_Mr. Carv._ In my humble opinion you cannot do better; and I can tell you a
secret--Honor will have no contemptible fortune in that rank of life.

_O'Bla._ Oh, fortune's always contemptible in marriage.

_Mr. Carv._ Fortune! sir?

_O'Bla._ (_aside_) Overshot. (_Aloud_) In comparison with the patronage and
protection or countenance she'd have from you and your family, sir.

_Mr. Carv._ That you may depend upon, my good Gerald, as far as we can go;
but you know we are nothing.

_O'Bla._ Oh, I know you're every thing--every thing on earth--particularly
with ould McBride; and you know how to speak so well and iloquent, and I'm
so tongue-tied and bashful on such an occasion.

_Mr. Carv._ Well, well, I'll speak for you.

_O'Bla._ A thousand thanks down to the ground.

_Mr. Carv._ (_patting him on the back as he rises_) My _poor_ Gerald.

_O'Bla._ Then I am _poor_ Gerald in point of wit, I know; but you are too
good a friend to be calling me _poor_ to ould McBride--you can say what I
can't say.

_Mr. Carv._ Certainly, certainly; and you may depend on me. I shall speak
my decided opinion; and I fancy McBride has sense enough to be ruled by me.

_O'Bla._ I am sure he has--only there's a Randal Rooney, a wild young man,
in the case. I'd be sorry the girl was thrown I away upon Randal.

_Mr. Carv._ She has too much sense: the father will settle that, and I'll
settle the father. [_Mr. CARVER going._

_O'Bla._ (_following, aside_) And who has settled you?

_Mr. Carv._ Don't stir--don't stir--men of business must be nailed to a
spot--and I'm not ceremonious. [_Exit Mr. CARVER._

_O'Bla._ Pinned him by all that's cliver! [_Exit O'BLANEY._

SCENE III.

_Mrs. CARVER'S Dressing-room._

_Mrs. CARVER sitting at work.--BLOOMSBURY standing._

_Bloom._ Certainly, ma'am, what I always said was, that for the commonalty,
there's no getting out of an Irish cabin a girl fit to be about a lady
such as you, Mrs. Carver, in the shape of a waiting-maid or waiting-maid's
assistant, on account they smell so of smoke, which is very distressing;
but this Honor McBride seems a bettermost sort of girl, ma'am; if you can
make up your mind to her _vice_.

_Mrs. Carv._ Vice?

_Bloom._ That is, vicious pronounciations in regard to their Irish brogues.

_Mrs. Carv._ Is that all?--I am quite accustomed to _the accent_.

_Bloom._ Then, ma'am, I declare now, I've been forced to stuff my _hears_
with cotton wool hever since I comed to Ireland. But this here Honor
McBride has a mighty pretty _vice_, if you don't take exceptions to a
little nationality; nor she if not so smoke-dried: she's really a nice,
tidy-looking like girl considering. I've taken tea with the family often,
and they live quite snug for Hirish. I'll assure you, ma'am, quite
bettermost people for Hibernians, as you always said, ma'am.

_Mrs. Carv._ I have a regard for old Matthew, though he is something of a
miser, I fear.

_Bloom._ So, ma'am, shall I call the girl up, that we may see and talk to
her? I think, ma'am, you'll find she will do; and I reckon to keep her
under my own eye and advice from morning till night: for when I seed the
girl so willing to larn, I quite took a fancy to her, I own--as it were.

_Mrs. Carv._ Well, Bloomsbury, let me see this Honor McBride.

_Bloom._ (_calling_) One of you there! please call up Honor McBride.

_Mrs. Carv._ She has been waiting a great while, I fear; I don't like to
keep people waiting.

_Bloom._ (_watching for HONOR as she speaks_) Dear heart, ma'am, in
this here country, people does love waiting for waiting's sake, that's
sure--they got nothing else to do. Here, Honor--walk in, Honor,--rub your
shoes always.

_Enter HONOR, timidly._

_Mrs. Carv._ (_in an encouraging voice_) Come in, my good girl.

_Bloom._ Oh! child, the door: the peoples never shut a door in, Ireland!
Did not I warn you?--says I, "Come when you're called--do as you're
bid--shut the door after you, and you'll never be chid." Now what did I
tell you, child?

_Honor._ To shut the door after me when I'd come into a room.

_Bloom._ _When I'd come_--now that's not dic'snary English.

_Mrs. Carv._ Good Bloomsbury, let that pass for the present--come a little
nearer to me, my good girl.

_Honor._ Yes, ma'am.

_Bloom._ Take care of that china pyramint with your cloak--walk on to Mrs.
Carver--no need to be afraid--I'll stand your friend.

_Mrs. Carv._ I should have thought, Honor McBride, you were in too
comfortable a way at home, to think of going into service.

_Honor._ (_sighs_) No better father, nor brother, _nor_ (than) I have,
ma'am, I thank your ladyship; but some things come across.

_Mrs. Carv._ (_aside_) Oh! it is a blushing case, I see: I must talk to her
alone, by-and-by. (_Aloud_) I don't mean, my good girl, to pry into your
family affairs.

_Honor._ Oh! ma'am, you're too good. (_Aside_) The kind-hearted Lady, how I
love her already! (_She wipes the tears from her eyes._)

_Bloom._ Take care of the bow-pot at your elbow, child; for if you break
the necks of them moss roses--

_Honor._ I ax their pardon.

_Mrs. Carv._ Better take the flower-pot out of her way, Bloomsbury.

_Bloom._ (_moving the flower-pot_) There, now: but, Honor, keep your eyes
on my lady, never turn your head, and keep your hands always afore you, as
I show you. Ma'am, she'll larn manners in time--Lon'on was not built in a
day. It i'n't to be expected of she!

_Mrs. Carv._ It is not to be expected indeed that she should learn every
thing at once; so one thing at a time, good Bloomsbury, and one person at a
time. Leave Honor to me for the present.

_Bloom._ Certainly, ma'am; I beg pardon--I was only saying--

_Mrs. Carv._ Since it is, it seems, necessary, my good girl, that you
should leave home, I am glad that you are not too proud to go into service.

_Honor._ Oh! into _your_ service, ma'am,--I'd be too proud if you'd be kind
enough to accept me.

_Mrs. Carv._ Then as to wages, what do you expect?

_Honor._ Any thing at all you please, ma'am.

_Bloom._ (_pressing down her shoulder_) And where's your curtsy? We shall
bring these Irish knees into training by and by, I hopes.

_Honor._ I'm awk'ard and strange, ma'am--I never was from home afore.

_Mrs. Carv._ Poor girl--we shall agree very well, I hope.

_Honor._ Oh yes, any thing at all, ma'am; I'm not greedy--nor needy,
thanks above! but it's what I'd wish to be under your protection if it was
plasing, and I'll do my very best, madam. (_Curtsies._)

_Mrs. Carv._ Nobody can expect more, and I hope and trust you'll find mine
an easy place--Bloomsbury, you will tell her, what will be required of her.
(_Mrs. Carver looks at her watch._) At twelve o'clock I shall be returned
from my walk, and then, Honor, you will come into my cabinet here; I want
to say a few words to you. [_Exeunt omnes._

SCENE IV.

_The High Road--A Cottage in view--Turf-stack, Hay-rick, &c._

_Catty Rooney alone, walking backwards and forwards._

_Catty._ 'Tis but a stone's throw to Ballynavogue. But I don't like to
be going into the fair on foot, when I been always used to go in upon my
pillion behind my husband when living, and my son Randal, after his death.
Wait, who comes here?--'Tis Gerald O'Blaney's, the distiller's, young man,
Pat Coxe: now we'll larn all--and whether O'Blaney can lend me the loan of
a horse or no. A good morrow to you, kindly, Mr. Pat Coxe.

_Enter PAT COXE._

_Pat._ And you the same, Mrs. Rooney, tinfold. Mr. O'Blaney has his
_sarvices_ to you, ma'am: no, not his _sarvices_, but his compliments, that
was the word--his kind compliments, that was the very word.

_Catty._ The counshillor's always very kind to me, and genteel.

_Pat._ And was up till past two in the morning, last night, madam, he bid
me say, looking over them papers you left with him for your shuit, ma'am,
with the McBrides, about the bit of Ballynascraw bog; and if you call
upon the counshillor in the course of the morning, he'll find, or make,
a minute, for a consultation, he says. But mane time, to take no step to
compromise, or make it up, _for your life_, ma'am.

_Catty._ No fear, I'll not give up at law, or any way, to a McBride, while
I've a drop of blood in my veins--and it's good thick Irish blood runs in
these veins.

_Pat._ No doubt, ma'am--from the kings of Ireland, as all the world knows,
Mrs. Rooney.

_Catty._ And the McBrides have no blood at-all-at-all.

_Pat._ Not a drop, ma'am--so they can't stand before you.

_Catty._ They _ought_ not, any way!--What are they? Cromwellians at the
best. Mac Brides! Scotch!--not Irish native, at-all-at-all. People of
yesterday, graziers--which tho' they've made the money, can't buy the
blood. My anshestors sat on a throne, when the McBrides had only their
_hunkers_[1] to sit upon; and if I walk now when they ride, they can't look
down upon me--for every body knows who I am--and what they are.

[Footnote 1: Their _hunkers_, i.e. their hams.]

_Pat._ To be sure, ma'am, they do--the whole country talks of nothing else,
but the shame when you'd be walking and they riding.

_Catty._ Then could the counshillor lend me the horse?

_Pat._ With all the pleasure in life, ma'am, only every horse he has in
the world is out o' messages, and drawing turf and one thing or another
to-day--and he is very sorry, ma'am.

_Catty._ So am I, then--I'm unlucky the day. But I won't be saying so, for
fear of spreading ill luck on my faction. Pray now what kind of a fair is
it?--Would there be any good signs of a fight, Mr. Pat Coxe?

_Pat._ None in life as yet, ma'am--only just buying and selling. The
horse-bastes, and horned-cattle, and pigs squeaking, has it all to
themselves. But it's early times yet--it won't be long so.

_Catty._ No McBrides, no Ballynavogue boys gathering yet?

_Pat._ None to signify of the McBrides, ma'am, at all.

_Catty._ Then it's plain them McBrides dare not be showing their faces, or
even their backs, in Ballynavogue. But sure all our Ballynascraw boys, the
Roonies, are in it as usual, I hope?

_Pat._ Oh, ma'am, there is plinty of Roonies. I marked Big Briny of Cloon,
and Ulick of Eliogarty, and little Charley of Killaspugbrone.

_Catty._ All _good_ men[1]--no better. Praise be where due.

[Footnote 1: men who fight well.]

_Pat._ And scarce a McBride I noticed. But the father and son--ould
Matthew, and flourishing Phil, was in it, with a new pair of boots and the
silver-hilted whip.

_Catty._ The spalpeen! turned into a buckeen, that would be a
squireen,--but can't.

_Pat._ No, for the father pinches him.

_Catty._ That's well--and that ould Matthew is as obstinate a neger as ever
famished his stomach. What's he doing in Ballynavogue the day?

_Pat._ Standing he is there, in the fair-green with his score of fat
bullocks, that he has got to sell.

_Catty._ Fat bullocks! Them, I reckon, will go towards Honor McBride's
portion, and a great fortin she'll be for a poor man--but I covet none of
it for me or mine.

_Pat._ I'm sure of that, ma'am,--you would not demane yourself to the
likes.

_Catty._ Mark me, Pat Coxe, now--with all them fat bullocks at her back,
and with all them fresh roses in her cheeks--and I don't say but she's a
likely girl, if she wa'n't a McBride; but with all that, and if she was the
best spinner in the three counties--and I don't say but she's good, if she
wa'n't a McBride;--but was she the best of the best, and the fairest of the
fairest, and had she to boot the two stockings full of gould, Honor McBride
shall never be brought home, a daughter-in-law to me! My pride's up.

_Pat._ (_aside_) And I'm instructed to keep it up.--(_Aloud_) True for ye,
ma'am, and I wish that all had as much proper pride, as ought to be having
it.

_Catty._ There's maning in your eye, Pat--give it tongue.

_Pat._ If you did not hear it, I suppose there's no truth in it.

_Catty._ What?--which?

_Pat._ That your son Randal, Mrs. Rooney, is not of your way of thinking
about Honor McBride, may be's.

_Catty._ Tut! No matter what way of thinking he is--a young slip of a boy
like him does not know what he'll think to-morrow. He's a good son to me;
and in regard to a wife, one girl will do him as well as another, if he has
any sinse--and I'll find him a girl that will plase him, I'll engage.

_Pat._ May be so, ma'am--no fear: only boys do like to be plasing
themselves, by times--and I noticed something.

_Catty._ What did you notice?--till me, Pat, dear, quick.

_Pat._ No--'tis bad to be meddling and remarking to get myself ill-will; so
I'll keep myself to myself: for Randal's ready enough with his hand as you
with the tongue--no offence, Mrs. Rooney, ma'am.

_Catty._ Niver fear--only till me the truth, Pat, dear.

_Pat._ Why, then, to the best of my opinion, I seen Honor McBride just now
giving Randal Rooney the meeting behind the chapel; and I seen him putting
a ring on her finger.

_Catty._ (_clasping her hands_) Oh, murder!--Oh! the unnat'ral monsters
that love makes of these young men; and the traitor, to use me so, when he
promised he'd never make a stolen match unknown'st to me.

_Pat._ Oh, ma'am, I don't say--I wouldn't swear--it's a match yet.

_Catty._ Then I'll run down and stop it--and catch 'em.

_Pat._ You haven't your jock on, ma'am--(_she turns towards the
house_)--and it's no use--for you won't catch 'em: I seen them after,
turning the back way into Nick Flaherty's.

_Catty._ Nick Flaherty's, the publican's? oh, the sinners! And this is the
saint that Honor McBride would be passing herself upon us for? And all the
edication she got at Mrs. Carver's Sunday school! Oh, this comes of being
better than one's neighbours! A fine thing to tell Mrs. Carver, the English
lady, that's so nice, and so partial to Miss Honor McBride! Oh, I'll expose
her!

_Pat._ Oh! sure, Mrs. Rooney, you promised you'd not tell, (_Standing so as
to stop CATTY._)

_Catty._ Is it who told me? No--I won't mintion a sintence of your name.
But let me by--I won't be put off now I've got the scent. I'll hunt 'em
out, and drag her to shame, if they're above ground, or my name's not Catty
Rooney! Mick! Mick! little Mick! (_calling at the cottage door_) bring my
blue _jock_ up the road after me to Ballynavogue. Don't let me count three
till you're after me, or I'll bleed ye! (_Exit CATTY, shaking her closed
hand, and repeating_) I'll expose Honor McBride--I'll expose Honor! I will,
by the blessing!

_Pat._ (_alone_) Now, if Randal Rooney would hear, he'd make a jelly of me,
and how I'd trimble; or the brother, if he comed across me, and knewed.
But they'll niver know. Oh, Catty won't say a sintence of my name, was she
carded! No, Catty's a scould, but has a conscience. Then I like conscience
in them I have to dale with sartainly. [_Exit._

SCENE V.

_Mrs. CARVER'S Dressing-room, HONOR McBRIDE and MISS BLOOMSBURY
discovered._

_Honor._ How _will_ I know, Miss Bloomsbury, when it will be twelve
o'clock?

_Bloom._ You'll hear the clock strike: but I suspect you'se don't
understand the clock yet--well, you'll hear the workmen's bell.

_Honor._ I know, ma'am, oh, I know, true--only I was flurried, so I forgot.

_Bloom._ Flurried! but never be flurried. Now mind and keep your head upon
your shoulders, while I tell you all your duty--you'll just ready this here
room, your lady's dressing-room; not a partical of dust let me never find,
petticlarly behind the vindor shuts.

_Honor._ Vindor shuts!--where, ma'am?

_Bloom._ The _shuts_ of the _vindors_--did you never hear of a vindor,
child?

_Honor._ Never, ma'am.

_Bloom._ (_pointing to a window_) Don't tell me! why, your head is
a wool-gathering! Now, mind me, pray--see here, always you put that
there,--and this here, and that upon that,--and this upon this, and this
under that,--and that under this--you can remember that much, child, I
supposes?

_Honor._ I'll do my endeavour, ma'am, to remember all.

_Bloom._ But mind, now, my good girl, you takes _petticlar_ care of this
here pyramint of japanned china--and _very_ petticlar care of that there
great joss--and the _very most petticularest_ care of this here right
reverend Mandolin. (_Pointing to, and touching a Mandarin, so as to make it
shake. HONOR starts back._)

_Bloom._ It i'n't alive. Silly child, to start at a Mandolin shaking his
head and beard at you. But, oh! mercy, if there i'n't enough to make him
shake his head. Stand there!--stand here!--now don't you see?

_Honor._ _Which_, ma'am?

_Bloom._ "_Which, ma'am!_" you're no _witch_, indeed, if you don't see a
cobweb as long as my arm. Run, run, child, for the pope's head.

_Honor._ Pope's head, ma'am?

_Bloom._ Ay, the pope's head, which you'll find under the stairs. Well,
a'n't you gone? what do you stand there like a stuck pig, for?--Never see a
pope's head?--never 'ear of a pope's head?

_Honor._ I've heard of one, ma'am--with the priest; but we are protestants.

_Bloom._ Protestants! what's that to do? I do protest, I believe that
little head of yours is someway got wrong on your shoulders to-day. [_The
clock strikes_--HONOR, _who is close to it, starts._

_Bloom._ Start again!--why, you're all starts and fits. Never start, child!
so ignoramus like! 'tis only the clock in your ear,--twelve o'clock,
hark!--The bell will ring now in a hurry. Then you goes in there to my
lady--stay, you'll never be able, I dare for to say, for to open the door
without me; for I opine you are not much usen'd to brass locks in Hirish
cabins--can't be expected. See here, then! You turns the lock in your hand
this'n ways--the lock, mind now; not the key nor the bolt for your life,
child, else you'd bolt your lady in, and there'd be my lady in Lob's pound,
and there'd be a pretty kettle, of fish!--So you keep, if you can, all I
said to you in your head, if possible--and you goes in there--and I goes
out here.

[_Exit BLOOMSBURY._

_Honor._ (curtsying) Thank ye, ma'am. Then all this time I'm sensible
I've been behaving and looking little better than like a fool, or an
_innocent._--But I hope I won't be so bad when the lady shall speak to me.
(_The bell rings._) Oh, the bell summons me in here.--(_Speaks with her
hand on the lock of the door_) The lock's asy enough--I hope I'll take
courage--(_sighs_)--Asier to spake before one nor two, any way--and asier
tin times to the mistress than the maid. [_Exit HONOR._

ACT II.

SCENE I.

_GERALD O'BLANEY'S Counting-house._

_O'BLANEY alone._

_O'Bla._ Then I wonder that ould Matthew McBride is not here yet. But is
not this Pat Coxe coming up yonder? Ay. Well, Pat, what success with Catty?

_Enter PAT COXE, panting._

Take breath, man alive--What of Catty?

_Pat._ Catty! Oh, murder! No time to be talking of Catty now! Sure the
shupervizor's come to town.

_O'Bla._ Blood!--and the malt that has not paid duty in the cellar! Run,
for your life, to the back-yard, give a whistle to call all the boys that's
ricking o' the turf, away with 'em to the cellar, out with every sack of
malt that's in it, through the back-yard, throw all into the middle of the
turf-stack, and in the wink of an eye build up the rick over all, snoog
(snug).

_Pat._ I'll engage we'll have it done in a crack. [_Exit PAT._

_O'Bla._ (_calling after him_) Pat! Pat Coxe! man!

_Re-enter PAT._

_O'Bla._ Would there be any fear of any o' the boys _informin_?

_Pat._ Sooner cut their ears off! [_Exit PAT._

_Enter Old McBRIDE, at the opposite side._

_Old McB._ (_speaking in a slow, drawling brogue_) Would Mr. Gerald
O'Blaney, the counsellor, be within?

_O'Bla._ (_quick brogue_) Oh, my best friend, Matthew McBride, is it you,
dear? Then here's Gerald O'Blaney, always at your sarvice. But shake hands;
for of all men in Ireland, you are the man I was aching to lay my eyes on.
And in the fair did ye happen to meet Carver of Bob's Fort?

_Old McB._ (_speaking very slowly_) Ay. did I--and he was a-talking to me,
and I was a-talking to him--and he's a very good gentleman, Mr. Carver of
Bob's Fort--so he is--and a gentleman that knows how things should be; and
he has been giving of me, Mr. O'Blaney, a great account of you, and how
you're thriving in the world--and so as that.

_O'Bla._ Nobody should know that better than Mr. Carver of Bob's Fort--he
knows all my affairs. He is an undeniable honest gentleman, for whom I
profess the highest regard.

_Old McB._ Why then he has a great opinion of you too, counsellor--for
he has been advising of, and telling of me, O'Blaney, of your proposhal,
sir--and very sinsible I am of the honour done by you to our family,
sir--and condescension to the likes of us--though, to be sure, Honor
McBride, though she is my daughter, is a match for any man.

_O'Bla._ Is a match for a prince--a Prince Ragent even. So no more about
condescension, my good Matthew, for love livels all distinctions.

_Old McB._ That's very pretty of you to say so, sir; and I'll repeat it to
Honor.

_O'Bla._ Cupid is the great liveller, after all, and the only democrat
Daity on earth I'd bow to--for I know you are no democrat, Mr. McBride, but
quite and clane the contrary way.

_Old McB._ Quite and clane and stiff, I thank my God; and I'm glad, in
spite of the vowel before your name, Mr. O'Blaney, to hear you are of the
same kidney.

_O'Bla._ I'm happy to find myself agreeable to you, sir.

_Old McB._ But, however agreeable to me, as I won't deny, it might be, sir,
to see my girl made into a gentlewoman by marriage, I must observe to you--

_O'Bla._ And I'll keep her a jaunting car to ride about the country; and in
another year, as my fortune's rising, my wife should rise with it into a
coach of her own.

_Old McB._ Oh! if I'd live to see my child, my Honor, in a coach of her
own! I'd be too happy--oh, I'd die contint!

_O'Bla._ (_aside_) No fear!--(_Aloud_) And why should not she ride in her
own coach, Mistress Counsellor O'Blaney, and look out of the windows down
upon the _Roonies_, that have the insolence to look up to her?

_Old McB._ Ah! you know _that_, then. That's all that's against us, sir, in
this match.

_O'Bla._ But if _you_ are against Randal, no fear.

_Old McB._ I am against him--that is, against his family, and all his seed,
breed, and generation. But I would not break my daughter's heart if I could
help it.

_O'Bla._ Wheugh!--hearts don't break in these days, like china.

_Old McB._ This is my answer, Mr. O'Blaney, sir: you have my lave, but you
must have hers too.

_O'Bla._ I would not fear to gain that in due time, if you would stand my
friend in forbidding her the sight of Randal.

_Old McB._ I will with pleasure, that--for tho' I won't force her to marry
to plase me, I'll forbid her to marry to displase me; and when I've said
it, whatever it is, I'll be obeyed. (_Strikes his stick on the ground._)

_O'Bla._ That is all I ax.

_Old McB._ But now what settlement, counshillor, will you make on my girl?

_O'Bla._ A. hundred a year--I wish to be liberal--Mr. Carver will see to
that--he knows all my affairs, as I suppose he was telling you.

_Old McB._ He was--I'm satisfied, and I'm at a word myself always. You
heard me name my girl's portion, sir?

_O'Bla._ I can't say--I didn't mind--'twas no object to me in life.

_Old McB._ (_in a very low, mysterious tone, and slow brogue_) Then five
hundred guineas is some object to most men.

_O'Bla._ Certainly, sir; but not such an object as your daughter to me:
since we are got upon business, however, best settle all that out of the
way, as you say at once. Of the five hundred, I have two in my hands
already, which you can make over to me with a stroke of a pen. (_Rising
quickly, and getting pen, ink, and books._)

_Old McB._ (_speaking very slowly_) Stay a hit--no hurry--in life. In
business--'tis always most haste, worse speed.

_O'Bla._ Take your own time, my good Matthew--I'll be as slow as you
plase--only love's quick.

_Old McB._ Slow and sure--love and all--fast bind, fast find--three and
two, what does that make?

_O'Bla._ It used to make five before I was in love.

_Old McB._ And will the same after you're married and dead. What am I
thinking of? A score of bullocks I had in the fair--half a score sold in my
pocket, and owing half--that's John Dolan, twelve pound tin--and Charley
Duffy nine guineas and thirteen tin pinnies and a five-penny bit: stay,
then, put that to the hundred guineas in the stocking at home.

_O'Bla._ (_aside_) How he makes my mouth water: (_Aloud_) May be, Matthew,
I could, that am used to it, save you the trouble of counting?

_Old McB._ No trouble in life to me ever to count my money--only I'll
trouble you, sir, if you please, to lock that door; bad to be chinking and
spreading money with doors open, for walls has ears and eyes.

_O'Bla._ True for you. (_Rising, and going to lock the doors._)

[_Old McBRIDE with great difficulty, and very slowly, draws out of his
pocket his bag of money--looking first at one door, and then at the other,
and going to try whether they are locked, before he unties his bag._]

_Old McB._ (_spreads and counts his money and notes_) See me now, I
wrote on some scrap somewhere 59_l._ in notes--then hard cash, twinty
pounds--rolled up silver and gould, which is scarce--but of a hundred
pounds there's wanting fourteen pounds odd, I think, or something that
way; for Phil and I had our breakfast out of a one pound note of Finlay's,
and I put the change somewhere--besides a riband for Honor, which make a
deficiency of fourteen pounds seven shillings and two pence--that's what's
deficient--count it which way you will.

_O'Bla._ (_going to sweep the money off the table_) Oh! never mind the
deficiency--I'll take it for a hundred plump.

_Old McB._ (_stopping him_) Plump me no plumps--I'll have it exact, or not
at all--I'll not part it, so let me see it again.

_O'Bla._ (_aside with a deep sigh, almost a groan_) Oh! when I had had it
in my fist--almost: but 'tis as hard to get money out of this man as blood
out of a turnip; and I'll be lost to-night without it.

_Old McB._ 'Tis not exact--and I'm exact: I'll put it all up again--(_he
puts it deliberately into the bag again, thrusting the bag into his
pocket_)--I'll make it up at home my own way, and send it in to you by
Phil in an hour's time; for I could not sleep sound with so much in my
house--bad people about--safer with you in town. Mr. Carver says, you are
as good as the Bank of Ireland--there's no going beyond that. (_Buttoning
up his pockets._) So you may unlock the doors and let me out now--I'll send
Phil with all to you, and you'll give him a bit of a receipt or a token,
that would do.

_O'Bla._ I shall give a receipt by all means--all regular: short accounts
make long friends. (_Unlocks the door._)

_Old McB._ True, sir, and I'll come in and see about the settlements in the
morning, if Honor is agreeable.

_O'Bla._ I shall make it my business to wait upon the young lady myself on
the wings of love; and I trust I'll not find any remains of Randal Rooney
in her head.

_Old McB._ Not if I can help it, depend on that. (_They shake hands._)

_O'Bla._ Then, fare ye well, father-in-law--that's meat and drink to me:
would not ye take a glass of wine then?

_Old McB._ Not a drop--not a drop at all--with money about me: I must be in
a hurry home.

_O'Bla._ That's true--so best: recommind me kindly to Miss Honor, and say a
great dale about my impatience--and I'll be expicting Phil, and won't shut
up till he comes the night.

_Old McB._ No, don't; for he'll be with you before night-fall. [_Exit
McBRIDE._

_O'Bla._ (_calling_) Dan! open the door, there: Dan! Joe! open the door
smart for Mr. McBride! (O'BLANEY _rubbing his hands._) Now I think I may
pronounce myself made for life--success to my parts!--and here's Pat too!
Well, Pat Coxe, what news of the thing in hand?

_Enter PAT COXE._

_Pat._ Out of hand clane! that job's nately done. The turf-rick, sir, 's
built up cliver, with the malt snug in the middle of its stomach--so were
the shupervishor a conjuror even, barring he'd dale with the ould one, he'd
never suspict a sentence of it.

_O'Bla._ Not he--he's no conjuror: many's the dozen tricks I played him
afore now.

_Pat._ But, counshillor, there's the big veshel in the little passage--I
got a hint from a friend, that the shuper got information of the spirits in
that from some villain.

_O'Bla._ And do you think I don't know a trick for that, too?

_Pat._ No doubt: still, counshillor, I'm in dread of my life that that
great big veshel won't be implied in a hurry.

_O'Bla._ Won't it? but you'll see it will, though; and what's more, them
spirits will turn into water for the shupervisor.

_Pat._ Water! how?

_O'Bla._ Asy--the ould tan-pit that's at the back of the distillery.

_Pat._ I know--what of it?

_O'Bla._ A sacret pipe I've got fixed to the big veshel, and the pipe goes
under the wall for me into the tan-pit, and a sucker I have in the big
veshel, which I pull open by a string in a crack, and lets all off all
clane into the tan-pit.

_Pat._ That's capital!--but the water?

_O'Bla._ From the pump, another pipe--and the girl's pumping asy, for she's
to wash to-morrow, and knows nothing about it; and so the big veshel she
fills with water, wondering what ails the water that it don't come--and I
set one boy and another to help her--and the pump's bewitched, and that's
all:--so that's settled.

_Pat._ And cliverly. Oh! counshillor, we are a match for the shuper any day
or night.

_O'Bla._ For him and all his tribe, _coursing_ officers and all. I'd desire
no better sport than to hear the whole pack in full cry after me, and I
doubling, and doubling, and safe at my form at last. With you, Pat, my
precious, to drag the herring over the ground previous to the hunt, to
distract the scent, and defy the nose of the dogs.

_Pat._ Then I am proud to sarve you, counshillor.

_O'Bla._ I know you are, and a very honest boy. And what did you do for me,
with Catty Rooney?

_Pat._ The best.--Oh! it's I _blarny'd_ Catty to the skies, and then
egged her on, and aggravated her against the McBrides, till I left her as
mad as e'er a one in Bedlam--up to any thing! And full tilt she's off to
Flaherty's, the publican, in her blue jock--where she'll not be long afore
she kicks up a quarrel, I'll engage; for she's sarching the house for Honor
McBride, who is _not_ in it--and giving bad language, I warrant, to all the
McBride faction, who _is_ in it, drinking. Oh! trust Catty's tongue for
breeding a riot! In half an hour, I'll warrant, you'll have as fine a fight
in town as ever ye seen or _hard_.

_O'Bla._ That's iligantly done, Pat. But I hope Randal Rooney is in it?

_Pat._ In the thick of it he is, or will be. So I hope your honour did not
forgit to spake to Mr. Carver about that little place for me?

_O'Bla._ Forgit!--Do I forgit my own name, do you think? Sooner forgit that
_then_ my promises.

_Pat._ Oh! I beg your honour's pardon--I would not doubt your word; and to
make matters sure, and to make Catty cockahoop, I tould her, and swore to
her, there was not a McBride in the town but two, and there's twinty, more
or less.

_O'Bla._ And when she sees them twinty, more or less, what will she
think?--Why would you say that?--she might find you out in a lie next
minute, Mr. Overdo. 'Tis dangerous for a young man to be telling more lies
than is absolutely requisite. The _lie superfluous_ brings many an honest
man, and, what's more, many a cliver fellow, into a scrape--and that's your
great fau't, Pat.

_Pat._ Which, sir?

_O'Bla._ _That_, sir. I don't see you often now take a glass too much. But,
Pat, I hear you often still are too apt to indulge in a lie too much.

_Pat._ Lie! Is it I?--Whin upon my conscience, I niver to my knowledge
tould a lie in my life, since I was born, excipt it would be just to skreen
a man, which is charity, sure,--or to skreen myself, which is self-defence,
sure--and that's lawful; or to oblige your honour, by particular desire,
and _that_ can't be helped, I suppose.

_O'Bla._ I am not saying again all that--only (_laying his hand on_ PAT'S
_shoulder as he is going out_) against another time, all I'm warning you,
young man, is, you're too apt to think there never can be lying enough. Now
too much of a good thing is good for nothing. [_Exit O'BLANEY._

_PAT, alone._

_Pat._ There's what you may call the divil rebuking sin--and now we talk of
the like, as I've heard my _mudther_ say, that he had need of a long spoon
that ates wid the divil--so I'll look to that in time. But whose voice is
that I hear coming up stairs? I don't believe but it's Mr. Carver--only
what should bring him back agin, I wonder now? Here he is, all out of
breath, coming.

_Enter Mr. CARVER._

_Mr. Carv._ Pray, young man, did you happen to see--(_panting for breath_)
Bless me, I've ridden so fast back from Bob's Fort!

_Pat._ My master, sir, Mr. O'Blaney, is it? Will I run?

_Mr. Carv._ No, no--stand still till I have breath.--What I want is a copy
of a letter I dropped some where or other--here I think it must have been,
when I took out my handkerchief--a copy of a letter to his Excellency--of
great consequence. (_Mr. CARVER sits down and takes breath._)

_Pat._ (_searching about with officious haste_) If it's above ground, I'll
find it. What's this?--an old bill: that is not it. Would it be this,
crumpled up?--"To His Excellency the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland."

_Mr. Carv._ (_snatching_) No farther, for your life!

_Pat._ Well then I was lucky I found it, and proud.

_Mr. Carv._ And well you may be, young man; for I can assure you, on this
letter the fate of Ireland may depend. (_Smoothing the letter on his
knee._)

_Pat._ I wouldn't doubt it--when it's a letter of your honour's--I know
your honour's a great man at the castle. And plase your honour, I take this
opportunity of tanking your honour for the encouragement I got about that
little clerk's place--and here's a copy of my hand-writing I'd wish to show
your honour, to see I'm capable--and a scholard.

_Mr. Carv._ Hand-writing! Bless me, young man, I have no time to look at
your hand-writing, sir. With the affairs of the nation on my shoulders--can
you possibly think?--is the boy mad?--that I've time to revise every poor
scholar's copy-book?

_Pat._ I humbly beg your honour's pardon, but it was only becaase I'd wish
to show I was not quite so unworthy to be under (whin you've time) your
honour's protection, as promised.

_Mr. Carv._ My protection?--you are not under my protection, sir:--promised
clerk's place?--I do not conceive what you are aiming at, sir.

_Pat._ The little clerk's place, plase your honour--that my master,
Counshillor O'Blaney, tould me he spoke about to your honour, and was
recommending me for to your honour.

_Mr. Carv._ Never--never heard one syllable about it, till this moment.

_Pat._ Oh! murder:--but I expict your honour's goodness will--

_Mr. Carv._ To make your mind easy, I promised to appoint a young man to
that place, a week ago, by Counsellor O'Blaney's special recommendation. So
there must be some mistake.

[_Exit Mr. CARVER._]

_PAT, alone._

_Pat._ Mistake? ay, mistake on purpose. So he never spoke! so he lied!--my
master that was praching me! And oh, the dirty lie he tould me! Now I
can't put up with that, when I was almost perjuring myself for him at
the time. Oh, if I don't fit him for this! And he got the place given
to another!--then I'll git him as well sarved, and out of this place
too--seen-if-I-don't! He is cunning enough, but I'm cuter nor he--I have
him in my power, so I have! and I'll give the shupervizor a scent of the
malt in the turf-stack--and a hint of the spirits in the tan-pit--and it's
I that will like to stand by innocent, and see how shrunk O'Blaney's double
face will look forenent the shupervizor, when all's found out, and not a
word left to say, but to pay--ruined hand and foot! Then that shall be, and
before nightfall. Oh! one good turn desarves another--in revenge, prompt
payment while you live!

[_Exit._]

SCENE II.

_McBRIDE'S Cottage._

_MATTHEW McBRIDE and HONOR. (MATTHEW with a little table before him, at
dinner._)

_Old McB._ (_pushing his plate from him_) I'll take no more--I'm done. [_He
sighs._]

_Honor._ Then you made but a poor dinner, father, after being at the fair,
and up early, and all!--Take this bit from my hands, father dear.

_Old McB._ (_turning away sullenly_) I'll take nothing from you, Honor, but
what I got already enough--and too much of--and that's ungratitude.

_Honor._ Ungratitude, father! then you don't see my heart.

_Old McB._ I lave that to whoever has it, Honor: 'tis enough for me, I see
what you do--and that's what I go by.

_Honor._ Oh, me! and what did I do to displase you, father? (_He is
obstinately silent; after waiting in vain for an answer, she continues_)
I that was thinking to make all happy, (_aside_) but myself, (_aloud_) by
settling to keep out of the way of--all that could vex you--and to go to
sarvice, to Mrs. Carver's. I thought that would plase you, father.

_Old McB._ Is it to lave me, Honor? Is it _that_ you thought would plase
me, Honor?--To lave your father alone in his ould age, after all the
slaving he got and was willing to undergo, whilst ever he had strength,
early and late, to make a little portion for you, Honor,--you, that I
reckoned upon for the prop and pride of my ould age--and you expect you'd
plase me by laving me.

_Honor._ Hear me just if, pray then, father.

_Old McB._ (_shaking her off as she tries to caress him_) Go, then; go
where you will, and demane yourself going into sarvice, rather than stay
with me--go.

_Honor._ No, I'll not go. I'll stay then with you, father dear,--say that
will plase you.

_Old McB._ (_going on without listening to her_) And all for the love of
this Randal Rooney! Ay, you may well put your two hands before your face;
if you'd any touch of natural affection at all, _that_ young man would have
been the last of all others you'd ever have thought of loving or liking any
way.

_Honor._ Oh! if I could help it!

_Old McB._ There it is. This is the way the poor fathers is always to be
trated. They to give all, daughter and all, and get nothing at all, not
their choice even of the man, the villain that's to rob 'em of all--without
thanks even; and of all the plinty of bachelors there are in the parish for
the girl that has money, that daughter will go and pick and choose out the
very man the father mislikes beyond all others, and then it's "_Oh! if I
could help it_!"--Asy talking!

_Honor._ But, dear father, wasn't it more than talk, what I did?--Oh, won't
you listen to me?

_Old McB_ I'll not hear ye; for if you'd a grain o spirit in your mane
composition, Honor, you would take your father's part, and not be putting
yourself under Catty's feet--the bad-tongued woman, that hates you, Honor,
like poison.

_Honor._ If she does hate me, it's all through love of her own--

_Old McB._ Son--ay--that she thinks too good for you--for _you_, Honor;
you, the Lily of Lismore--that might command the pride of the country. Oh!
Honor dear, don't be lessening yourself; but be a proud girl, as you ought,
and my own Honor.

_Honor._ Oh, when you speak so kind!

_Old McB._ And I beg your pardon, if I said a cross word; for I know you'll
never think of him more, and no need to lave home at all for his sake. It
would be a shame in the country, and what would Mrs. Carver herself think?

_Honor._ She thinks well of it, then.

_Old McB._ Then whatever she thinks, she sha'n't have my child from me!
tho' she's a very good lady, and a very kind lady, too. But see now,
Honor--have done with love, for it's all foolishness; and when you come to
be as ould as I am, you'll think so too. The shadows goes all one way, till
the middle of the day, and when that is past, then all the t'other way; and
so it is with love, in life--stay till the sun is going down with you.

_Honor._ Then it would be too late to be thinking of love.

_Old McB._ And too airly now, and there's no good time, for it's all folly.
I'll ax you, will love set the potatoes?--will love make the rent?--or
will love give you a jaunting car?--as to my knowledge, another of your
bachelors would.

_Honor._ Oh, don't name him, father.

_Old McB._ Why not--when it's his name that would make a lady of you, and
there'd be a rise in life, and an honour to your family?

_Honor._ Recollect it was he that would have dishonoured my family, in me,
if he could.

_Old McB._ But he repints now; and what can a man do but repint, and offer
to make honourable restitution, and thinking of marrying, as now, Honor
dear;--is not that a condescension of he, who's a sort of a jantleman?

_Honor._ A sort, indeed--a bad sort.

_Old McB._ Why, not jantleman _born_, to be sure.

_Honor._ Nor _bred._

_Old McB._ Well, there's many that way, neither born nor bred, but that
does very well in the world; and think what it would be to live in the big
shingled house, in Ballynavogue, with him!

_Honor._ I'd rather live here with you, father.

_Old McB._ Then I thank you kindly, daughter, for that, but so would not _I
for_ you,--and then the jaunting-car, or a coach, in time, if he could! He
has made the proposhal for you in form this day.

_Honor._ And what answer from you, father?

_Old McB._ Don't be looking so pale,--I tould him he had my consint, if
he could get yours. And, oh! before you speak, Honor dear, think what it
would be up and down in Ballynavogue, and every other place in the county,
assizes days and all, to be Mistress Gerald O'Blaney!

_Honor._ I couldn't but think very ill of it, father; thinking ill, as I
do, of him. Father dear, say no more, don't be breaking my heart--I'll
never have that man; but I'll stay happy with you.

_Old McB._ Why, then, I'll be contint with that same; and who wouldn't?--If
it's what you'd rather stay, and _can_ stay contint, Honor dear, I'm only
too happy. (_Embracing her--then pausing._) But for Randal--

_Honor._ In what can you fau't him, only his being a Rooney?

_Old McB._ That's all--but that's enough. I'd sooner see you in your
coffin--sooner be at your wake to-night, than your wedding with a Rooney!
'Twould kill me. Come, promise me--I'd trust your word--and 'twould make me
asy for life, and I'd die asy, if you'd promise never to have him.

_Honor._ Never till you would consent--that's all I can promise.

_Old McB._ Well, that same is a great ase to my heart.

_Honor._ And to give a little ase to mine, father, perhaps you could
promise--

_Old McB._ What?--I'll promise nothing at all--I'll promise nothing at
all--I'll promise nothing I couldn't perform.

_Honor._ But this you could perform asy, dear father: just hear your own
Honor.

_Old McB._ (_aside_) That voice would wheedle the bird off the bush--and
when she'd prefar me to the jaunting-car, can I but listen to her?
(_Aloud_) Well, what?--if it's any thing at all in rason.

_Honor._ It is in rason entirely. It's only, that if Catty Rooney's--

_Old McB._ (_stopping his ears_) Don't name her.

_Honor._ But she might be brought to rason, father; and if she should be
brought to give up that claim to the bit o' bog of yours, and when all
differs betwix' the families be made up, then you would consent.

_Old McB._ When Catty Rooney's brought to rason! Oh! go shoe the goslings,
dear,--ay, you'll get my consint then. There's my hand: I promise you, I'll
never be called on to perform that, Honor, jewel.

_Honor._ (_kissing his hand_) Then that's all I'd ask--nor will I say one
word more, but thank you, father.

_Old McB._ (_putting on his coat_) She's a good cratur--sorrow better!
sister or daughter. Oh! I won't forget that she prefarred me to the
jaunting-car. Phil shall carry him a civil refusal. I'll send off the
money, the three hundred, by your brother, this minute--that will be some
comfort to poor O'Blaney.

[_Exit McBRIDE._

_Honor._ Is not he a kind father, then, after all?--That promise he gave me
about Catty, even such as it is, has ased my heart wonderfully. Oh! it will
all come right, and they'll all be rasonable in time, even Catty Rooney,
I've great hope; and little hope's enough, even for love to live upon. But,
hark! there's my brother Phil coming. (_A noise heard in the back-house._)
'Tis only the cow in the bier. (_A knock heard at the door._) No, 'tis a
Christian; no cow ever knocked so soft. Stay till I open--Who's in it?

_Randal._ (_from within_) Your own Randal--open quick.

_Honor._ Oh! Randal, is it you? I can't open the door.

[_She holds the door--he pushes it half open._

_Randal._ Honor, that I love more than life, let me in, till I speak one
word to you, before you're set against me for ever.

_Honor._ No danger of that--but I can't let you in, Randal.

_Randal._ Great danger! Honor, and you must. See you I will, if I die for
it!

[_He advances, and she retires behind the door, holding it against him._

_Honor._ Then I won't see you this month again, if you do. My hand's weak,
but my heart's strong, Randal.

_Randal._ Then my heart's as weak as a child's this minute. Never
fear--don't hold against me, Honor; I'll stand where I am, since you don't
trust me, nor love me--and best so, may be: I only wanted to say three
words to you.

_Honor._ I can't hear you now, Randal.

_Randal._ Then you'll never hear me more. Good bye to you, Honor.

[_He pulls the door to, angrily._

_Honor._ And it's a wonder as it was you didn't meet my father as you came,
or my brother.

_Randal._ (_pushing the door a little open again_) Your brother!--Oh,
Honor! that's what's breaking my heart--(_he sighs_)--that's what I wanted
to say to you; and listen to me. No fear of your father, he's gone down the
road: I saw him as I come the short cut, but he didn't see me.

_Honor._ What of my brother?--say, and go.

_Randal._ Ay, go--for ever, you'll bid me, when I've said.

_Honor._ What! oh, speak, or I'll drop.--(_She no longer holds the door,
but leans against a table.--RANDAL advances, and looks in._)

_Randal._ Don't be frightened, then, dearest--it's nothing in life but a
fight at a fair. He's but little hurted.

_Honor._ Hurted!--and by who? by you, is it?--Then all's over.--(_RANDAL
comes quite in--HONOR, putting her hand before her eyes._)--You may come or
go, for I'll never love you more.

_Randal._ I expicted as much!--But she'll faint!

_Honor._ I won't faint: leave me, Mr. Randal.

_Randal._ Take this water from me, (_holding a cup_) it's all I ask.

_Honor._ No need. (_She sits down_) But what's this?--(_Seeing his hand
bound up._)

_Randal._ A cut only.

_Honor._ Bleeding--stop it. (_Turning from him coldly._)

_Randal._ Then by this blood--no, not by this worthless blood of mine--but
by that dearest blood that fled from your cheeks, and this minute is coming
back, Honor, I swear--(_kneeling to her._)

_Honor._ Say what you will, or swear, I don't hear or heed you. And my
father will come and find you there--and I don't care.

_Randal._ I know you don't--and I don't care myself what happens me. But as
to Phil, it's only a cut in the head he got, that signifies nothing--if he
was not your brother.

_Honor._ Once lifted your hand against him--all's over.

_Randal._ Honor, I did not lift my hand against _him_; but I was in the
quarrel with his faction.

_Honor._ And this your promise to me not to be in any quarrel! No, if
my father consented to-morrow, I'd nivir have you now. (_Rises, and is
going--he holds her._)

_Randal._ Then you're wrong, Honor: you've heard all against me--now hear
what's for me.

_Honor._ I'll hear no more--let me go.

_Randal._ Go, then; (_he lets her go, and turns away himself_) and I'm
going before Mr. Carver, who _will_ hear me, and the truth will appear--and
tho' not from you, Honor, I'll have justice.

[_Exit RANDAL._

_Honor._ Justice! Oh, worse and worse! to make all public; and if once we
go to law, there's an end of love--_for ever._

[_Exit HONOR._

SCENE III.

_O'BLANEY'S House._

_O'BLANEY and CATTY ROONEY._

_Catty._ And didn't ye hear it, counshillor? the uproar in the town and the
riot?--oh! you'd think the world was throwing out at windows. See my jock,
all tattered! Didn't ye hear!

_O'Bla._ How could I hear, backwards, as you see, from the street, and
given up to my business?

_Catty._ Business! oh! here is a fine business--the McBrides have driven
all before them, and chased the Roonies out of Ballynavogue. (_In a tone of
deep despair._) Oh! Catty Rooney! that ever you'd live to see this day!

_O'Bla._ Then take this glass (_offering a glass of whiskey_) to comfort
your heart, my good Mrs. Rooney.

_Catty._ No, thank you, counshillor, it's past that even! ogh! ogh!--oh!
wirrastrew!--oh! wirrastrew, ogh!--(_After wringing her hands, and yielding
to a burst of sorrow and wailing, she stands up firmly._) Now I've ased my
heart, I'll do. I've spirit enough left in me yet, you'll see; and I'll
tell you what I came to you for, counshillor.

_O'Bla._ Tell me first, is Randal Rooney in it, and is he hurt?

_Catty._ He was in it: he's not hurt, more shame for him! But, howsomever,
he bet one boy handsomely; that's my only comfort. Our faction's all going
full drive to swear examinations, and get justice.

_O'Bla._ Very proper--very proper: swear examinations--that's the course,
and only satisfaction in these cases to get justice.

_Catty._ Justice!--revenge sure! Oh! revenge is sweet, and I'll have it.
Counshillor dear, I never went before Mr. Carver--you know him, sir--what
sort is he?

_O'Bla._ A mighty good sort of gentleman--only mighty tiresome.

_Catty._ Ay, that's what I hard--that he is mighty fond of talking to
people for their good. Now that's what I dread, for I can't stand being
talked to for my good.

_O'Bla._ 'Tis little use, I confess. We Irish is wonderful soon tired of
goodness, if there's no spice of fun along with it; and poor Carver's soft,
and between you and I, he's a little bothered, but, Mrs. Rooney, you won't
repate?

_Catty._ Repate!--I! I'm neither watch nor repater--I scorn both; and
between you and I, since you say so, counshillor, that's my chiefest
objection to Carver, whom I wouldn't know from Adam, except by reputation.
But it's the report of the country, that he has common informers in his pay
and favour; now that's mane, and I don't like it.

_O'Bla._ Nor I, Mrs. Rooney. I had experience of informers in the
distillery line once. The worst varmin that is ever encouraged in any house
or country. The very mintion of them makes me creep all over still.

_Catty._ Then 'tis Carver, they say, that has the oil of Rhodium for them;
for they follow and fawn on him, like rats on the rat catcher--of all sorts
and sizes, he has 'em. They say, he sets them over and after one another;
and has _lations_ of them that he lets out on the craturs' cabins, to larn
how many grains of salt every man takes with his little _prates_, and bring
information if a straw would be stirring.

_O'Bla._ Ay, and if it would, then, it's Carver that would quake like the
aspin leaf--I know that. It's no malice at all in him; only just he's a
mighty great poltroon.

_Catty._ Is that all? Then I'd pity and laugh at him, and I go to him
preferably to any other magistrate.

_O'Bla._ You may, Mrs. Rooney--for it's in terror of his life he lives,
continually draming day and night, and croaking of carders and thrashers,
and oak boys, and white boys, and peep-o'-day boys, and united boys, and
riband-men, and men and boys of all sorts that have, and that have not,
been up and down the country since the rebellion.

_Catty._ The poor cratur! But in case he'd prove refractory, and would not
take my examinations, can't I persecute my shute again the McBrides for the
bit of the bog of Ballynascraw, counshillor?--Can't I _harash_ 'em at law?

_O'Bla._ You can, ma'am, harash them properly. I've looked over your
papers, and I'm happy to tell you, you may go on at law as soon and as long
as you plase.

_Catty._ (_speaking very rapidly_) Bless you for that word, counshillor;
and by the first light to-morrow, I'll drive all the grazing cattle, every
four-footed _baast_ off the land, and pound 'em in Ballynavogue; and if
they replevy, why I'll distrain again, if it be forty times, I will go.
I'll go on distraining, and I'll advertise, and I'll cant, and I'll sell
the distress at the end of the eight days. And if they dare for to go for
to put a plough in that bit of reclaimed bog, I'll come down upon 'em with
an injunction, and I would not value the expinse of bringing down a record
a pin's pint; and if that went again me, I'd remove it to the courts above
and wilcome; and after that, I'd go into equity, and if the chancillor
would not be my friend, I'd take it over to the House of Lords in London,
so I would as soon as look at 'em; for I'd wear my feet to the knees for
justice--so I would.

_O'Bla._ That you would! You're an iligant lawyer, Mrs. Rooney; but have
you the sinews of war?

_Catty._ Is it money, dear?--I have, and while ever I've one shilling to
throw down to ould Matthew McBride's guinea, I'll go on; and every guinea
he parts will twinge his vitals: so I'll keep on while ever I've a
fiv'-penny bit to rub on another--for my spirit is up.

_O'Bla._ Ay, ay, so you say. Catty, my dear, your back's asy up, but it's
asy down again.

_Catty._ Not when I've been trod on as now, counshillor: it's then I'd turn
and fly at a body, gentle or simple, like mad.

_O'Bla._ Well done, Catty (_patting her on the back_). There's my own pet
mad cat--and there's a legal venom in her claws, that every scratch they'll
give shall fester so no plaister in law can heal it.

_Catty._ Oh, counshillor, now, if you wouldn't be flattering a wake woman.

_O'Bla._ Wake woman!--not a bit of woman's wakeness in ye. Oh, my
cat-o'-cats! let any man throw her from him, which way he will, she's on
her legs and at him again, tooth and claw.

_Catty._ With nine lives, renewable for ever.

[_Exit CATTY._

_O'Bla._ (_alone_) There's a demon in woman's form set to work for me! Oh,
this works well--and no fear that the Roonies and McBrides should ever
come to an understanding to cut me out. Young Mr. Randal Rooney, my humble
compliments to you, and I hope you'll become the willow which you'll soon
have to wear for Miss Honor McBride's pretty sake. But I wonder the brother
a'n't come up yet with the rist of her fortune. (Calls behind the scenes.)
Mick! Jack! Jenny! Where's Pat?--Then why don't you know? run down a piece
of the road towards Ballynascraw, see would you see any body coming, and
bring me word would you see Phil McBride--you know, flourishing Phil.--Now
I'm prepared every way for the shupervishor, only I wish to have something
genteel in my fist for him, and a show of cash flying about--nothing like
it, to dazzle the eyes.

[_Exit O'BLANEY._

ACT III.

SCENE I.

_An Apartment in Mr. CARVER'S House. Mr. CARVER seated: a table, pens, ink,
paper, and law-books. A cleric, pen in hand.--On the right-hand side of Mr.
CARVER stands Mrs. CATTY ROONEY.--RANDAL ROONEY beside her, leaning against
a pillar, his arms folded.--Behind Mrs. ROONEY, three men--one remarkably
tall, one remarkably little.--On the left-hand of Mr. CARVER stand Old
MATTHEW McBRIDE, leaning on his stick; beside him, PHILIP McBRIDE, with his
silver-hilted whip in his hand.--A Constable at some distance behind Mr.
CARVER'S chair.--Mr. CARVER looking over and placing his books, and seeming
to speak to his clerk._

_Catty._ (_aside to her son_) See I'll take it asy, and be very shivel and
sweet wid him, till I'll see which side he'll lane, and how it will go
with us Roonies--(_Mr. CARVER rising, leans forward with both his hands
on the table, as if going to speak, looks round, and clears his throat
loudly._)--Will I spake now, plase your honour?

_Old McB._ Dacency, when you see his honour preparing his throat.

[_Mr. CARVER clears his throat again._

_Catty._ (_curtsying between each sentence_) Then I ixpect his honour will
do me justice. I got a great character of his honour. I'd sooner come
before your honour than any jantleman in all Ireland. I'm sure your honour
will stand my _frind_.

_Clerk._ Silence!

_Mr. Carv._ Misguided people of Ballynavogue and Ballynascraw--

[_At the instant Mr. CARVER pronounces the word "Ballynavogue," CATTY
curtsies, and all the ROONIES, behind her, bow, and answer--_

Here, plase your honour.

[_And when Mr. CARVER says_ "Ballynascraw," _all the McBRIDES bow, and
reply--_

Here, plase your honour.

_Mr. Carv._ (_speaking with pomposity, but embarrassment, and clearing his
throat frequently_) When I consider and look round me, gentlemen, and when
I look round me and consider, how long a period of time I have had the
honour to bear his majesty's commission of the peace for this county--

_Catty._ (_curtsying_) Your honour's a good warrant, no doubt.

_Mr. Carv._ Hem!--hem!--also being a residentiary gentleman at Bob's
Fort--hem!--hem!--hem!--(_Coughs, and blows his nose._)

_Catty._ (_aside to her son_) Choking the cratur is with the words he can't
get out. (_Aloud_) Will I spake now, plase your honour?

_Clerk._ Silence! silence!

_Mr. Carv._ And when I consider all the ineffectual attempts I have made
by eloquence and otherwise, to moralize and civilize you gentlemen, and to
eradicate all your heterogeneous or rebellious passions--

_Catty._ Not a rebel, good or bad, among us, plase your honour.

_Clerk._ Silence!

_Mr. Carv._ I say, my good people of Ballynavogue and Ballynascraw, I stand
here really in unspeakable concern and astonishment, to notice at this
fair-time in my barony, these symptoms of a riot, gentlemen, and features
of a tumult.

_Catty._ True, your honour, see--scarce a symptom of a fature lift in the
face here of little Charley of Killaspugbrone, with the b'ating he got from
them McBrides, who bred the riot, entirely under Flourishing Phil, plase
your honour.

_Mr. Carv._ (_turning to PHIL McBRIDE._) Mr. Philip McBride, son of old
Matthew, quite a substantial man,--I am really concerned, Philip, to see
you, whom I looked upon as a sort of, I had almost said, _gentleman_--

_Catty._ _Gentleman!_ what sort? Is it because of the new topped boots, or
by virtue of the silver-topped whip, and the bit of a red rag tied about
the throat?--Then a gentleman's asy made, now-a-days.

_Young McB._ It seems 'tis not so asy any way, now-a-days, to make a
_gentlewoman_, Mrs. Rooney.

_Catty._ (_springing forward angrily_) And is it me you mane, young man?

_Randal._ Oh! mother, dear, don't be aggravating.

_Mr. Carv._ Clerk, why don't you maintain silence?

_Catty._ (_pressing before her son_) Stand back, then, Randal Rooney--don't
you hear _silence_?--don't be brawling before his honour. Go back wid
yourself to your pillar, or post, and fould your arms, and stand like a
fool that's in love, as you are.--I beg your honour's pardon, but he's
my son, and I can't help it.--But about our examinations, plase your
honour, we're all come to swear--here's myself, and little Charley of
Killaspugbrone, and big Briny of Cloon, and Ulick of Eliogarty--all ready
to swear.

_Mr. Carv._ But have these gentlemen no tongues of their own, madam?

_Catty._ No, plase your honour, little Charley has no English tongue; he
has none but the native Irish.

_Mr. Carv._ Clerk, make out their examinations, with a translation; and
interpret for Killaspugbrone.

_Catty._ Plase your honour, I being the lady, expicted I'd get lave to
swear first.

_Mr. Carv._ And what would you swear, madam, if you got leave, pray?--be
careful, now.

_Catty._ I'll tell you how it was out o' the face, plase your honour. The
whole Rooney faction--

_Mr. Carv._ _Faction!_--No such word in my presence, madam.

_Catty._ Oh, but I'm ready to swear to it, plase your honour, in or out of
the presence:--the whole Rooney faction--every Rooney, big or little, that
was in it, was bet, and banished the town and fair of Ballynavogue, for no
rason in life, by them McBrides there, them scum o' the earth.

_Mr. Carv._ Gently, gently, my good lady; no such thing in my presence, as
scum o' the earth.

_Catty._ Well, Scotchmen, if your honour prefars. But before a Scotchman,
myself would prefar the poorest spalpeen--barring it be Phil, the
buckeen--I ax pardon (_curtsying_), if a buckeen's the more honourable.

_Mr. Carv._ Irrelevant in toto, madam; for buckeens and spalpeens are
manners or species of men unknown to or not cognizable by the eye of the
law; against them, therefore, you cannot swear: but if you have any thing
against Philip McBride--

_Catty._ Oh, I have plinty, and will swear, plase your honour, that he put
me in bodily fear, and tore my jock, my blue jock, to tatters. Oh, by the
vartue of this book (_snatching up a book_), and all the books that ever
were shut or opened, I'll swear to the damage of five pounds, be the same
more or less.

_Mr. Carv._ My good lady, _more or less_ will never do.

_Catty._ Forty shillings, any way, I'll swear to; and that's a felony, your
honour, I hope?

_Mr. Carv._ Take time, and consult your conscience conscientiously, my good
lady, while I swear these other men--

[_She examines the coat, holding it up to view--Mr. CARVER beckons to the
Rooney party._

_Mr. Carv._ Beaten men! come forward.

_Big Briny._ Not _beaten_, plase your honour, only _bet_.

_Ulick of Eliogarty._ Only black eyes, plase your honour.

_Mr. Carv._ You, Mr. Charley or Charles Rooney, of Killaspugbrone; you have
read these examinations, and are you scrupulously ready to swear?

_Catty._ He is, and _will_, plase your honour; only he's the boy that has
got no English tongue.

_Mr. Carv._ I wish _you_ had none, madam, ha! ha! ha! (_The two McBRIDES
laugh--the ROONIES look grave._) You, Ulick Rooney, of Eliogarty, _are
these_ your examinations?

_Catty._ He can't write, nor rade writing from his cradle, plase your
honour; but can make his mark equal to another, sir. It has been read to
him any way, sir, plase your honour.

_Mr. Carv._ And you, sir, who style yourself big Briny of Cloon--you think
yourself a great man, I suppose?

_Catty._ It's what many does that has got less rason, plase your honour.

_Mr. Carv._ Understand, my honest friend, that there is a vast difference
between looking big and being great.

_Big Briny._ I see--I know, your honour.

_Mr. Carv._ Now, gentlemen, all of you, before I hand you the book to swear
these examinations, there is one thing of which I must warn and apprize
you--that I am most remarkably clear-sighted; consequently there can be no
_thumb kissing_ with me, gentlemen.

_Big Briny._ We'll not ax it, plase your honour.

_Catty._ No Rooney, living or dead, was ever guilty or taxed with the like!
(_Aside to her son_) Oh, they'll swear iligant! We'll flog the world, and
have it all our own way! Oh, I knew we'd get justice--or I'd know why.

_Clerk._ Here's the book, sir, to swear complainants.

[_Mr. CARVER comes forward._

_Mr. Carv._ Wait--wait; I must hear both sides.

_Catty._ Both sides! Oh, plase your honour--only bother you.

_Mr. Carv._ Madam, it is my duty to have ears for all men.--Mr. Philip, now
for your defence.

_Catty._ He has none in nature, plase your honour.

_Mr. Carv._ Madam, you have had my ear long enough--be silent, at your
peril.

_Catty._ Ogh--ogh!--silent!

[_She groans piteously._

_Mr. Carv._ Sir, your defence, without any preamble or pre-ambulation.

_Phil._ I've no defence to make, plase your honour, but that I'm innocent.

_Mr. Carv._ (_shaking his head_) The worst defence in law, my good friend,
unless you've witnesses.

_Phil._ All present that time in the fair was too busy fighting for
themselves to witness for me that I was not; except I'd call upon one that
would clear me entirely, which is that there young man on the opposite
side.

_Catty._ Oh, the impudent fellow! Is it my son?

_Old McB._ Is it Randal Rooney? Why, Phil, are you turned _innocent_?

_Phil._ I am not, father, at all. But with your lave, I call on Randal
Rooney, for he is an undeniable honourable man--I refer all to his
evidence.

_Randal._ Thank you, Phil. I'll witness the truth, on whatever side.

_Catty rushes in between them, exclaiming, in a tremendous tone,_

If you do, Catty Rooney's curse be upon--

_Randal stops her mouth, and struggles to hold his mother back._

Oh, mother, you couldn't curse!--

[_All the ROONIES get about her and exclaim_,

Oh, Catty, your son you couldn't curse!

_Mr. Carv._ Silence, and let _me_ be heard. Leave this lady to me; I know
how to manage these feminine vixens. Mrs. Catherine Rooney, listen to
me--you are a reasonable woman.

_Catty._ I am not, nor don't pretend to it, plase your honour.

_Mr. Carv._ But you can hear reason, madam, I presume, from the voice of
authority.

_Catty._ No, plase your honour--I'm deaf, stone deaf.

_Mr. Carv._ No trifling with me, madam; give me leave to advise you a
little for your good.

_Catty._ Plase your honour, it's of no use--from a child up I never could
stand to be advised for my good. See, I'd get hot and hotter, plase your
honour, till I'd bounce! I'd fly! I'd burst! and myself does not know what
mischief I mightn't do.

_Mr. Carv._ Constable! take charge of this cursing and cursed woman, who
has not respect for man or magistrate. Away with her out of my presence!--I
commit her for a contempt.

_Randal_ (_eagerly_) Oh! plase your honour, I beg your honour's pardon for
her--my mother--entirely. When she is in her rason, she has the greatest
respect for the whole bench, and your honour above all. Oh! your honour,
be plasing this once! Excuse her, and I'll go bail for her she won't say
another word till she'd get the nod from your honour.

_Mr. Carv._ On that condition, and on that condition only, I am willing to
pass over the past. Fall back, constable.

_Catty._ (_aside_) Why then, Gerald O'Blaney mislet me. This Carver is a
_fauterer_ of the Scotch. Bad luck to every bone in his body! (_As CATTY
says this her son draws her back, and tries to pacify her._)

_Mr. Carv._ Is she muttering, constable?

_Randal._ Not a word, plase your honour, only just telling herself to be
quiet. Oh, mother, dearest, I'll kneel to plase you.

_Catty._ Kneel! oh, to an ould woman like me--no standing that! So here, on
my hunkers I am, for your sake, Randal, and not a word, good or bad! Can
woman do more? (_She sits with her fingers on her lips._)

_Mr. Carv._ Now for your defence, Philip: be short, for mercy's sake!
(_pulling out his watch._)

_Phil._ Not to be detaining your honour too long--I was in Ballynavogue
this forenoon, and was just--that is, Miss Car'line Flaherty was just--

_Mr. Carv._ Miss Caroline Flaherty! What in nature can she have to do with
the business?

_Phil._ Only axing me, sir, she was, to play the flageolets, which was the
rason I was sitting at Flaherty's.

_Mr. Carv._ Address yourself to the court, young man.

_Phil._ Sitting at Flaherty's--in the parlour, with the door open, and all
the McBrides which was _in it_ was in the outer room taking a toombler o'
punch I trated 'em to--but not drinking--not a man _out o' the way_--when
in comes that gentlewoman. (_Pointing to Mrs. ROONEY.--RANDAL groans._)
Never fear, Randal, I'll tell it as soft as I can.

_Old McB._ Soft, why? Mighty soft cratur ever since he was born, plase your
honour, though he's my son.

_Mr. Carv._ (_putting his fingers on his lips_) Friend Matthew, no
reflections in a court of justice ever. Go on, Philip.

_Phil._ So some one having tould Mrs. Rooney lies, as I'm confident,
sir--for she come in quite _mad_, and abused my sister Honor; accusing her,
before all, of being sitting and giving her company to Randal Rooney at
Flaherty's, drinking, and something about a ring, and a meeting behind the
chapel, which I couldn't understand;--but it fired me, and I stepped--but
I recollected I'd promised Honor not to let her provoke me to lift a hand
good or bad--so I stepped across very civil, and I said to her, says I,
Ma'am, it's all lies--some one has been belying Honor McBride to you, Mrs.
Rooney.

[_CATTY sighs and groans, striking the back of one hand reiteratedly into
the palm of the other--rises--beats the devil's tattoo as she stands--then
claps her hands again._

_Mr. Carv._ That woman has certainly more ways of making a noise, without
speaking, than any woman upon earth. Proceed, Philip.

_Phil._ Depind on it, it's all lies, Mrs. Rooney, says I, ma'am. No, but
_you_ lie, flourishing Phil, says she. With that every McBride to a man,
rises from the table, catching up chairs and stools and toomblers and jugs
to revenge Honor and me. Not for your life, boys, don't _let-drive_ ne'er a
one of yees, says I--she's a woman, and a widow woman, and only a _scould_
from her birth: so they held their hands; but she giving tongue bitter,
'twas hard for flesh and blood to stand it. Now, for the love of heaven
and me, sit down all, and be _quite_ as lambs, and finish your poonch
like gentlemen, sir, says I: so saying, I _tuk_ Mrs. Rooney up in my arms
tenderly, as I would a bould child--she screeching and screeching like
mad:--whereupon her jock caught on the chair, pocket-hole or something, and
give one rent from head to _fut_--and that was the tattering of the jock.
So we got her to the door, and there she spying her son by ill-luck in the
street, directly stretches out her' arms, and kicking my shins, plase your
honour, till I could not hold her, "Murder! Randal Rooney," cries she, "and
will you see your own mother murdered?"

_Randal._ Them were the very words, I acknowledge, she used, which put me
past my rason, no doubt.

_Phil._ Then Randal Rooney, being past his rason, turns to all them Roonies
that were _in no condition._

_Mr. Carv._ That were, what we in English would call _drunk_, I presume?

_Randal._ Something very near it, plase your honour.

_Phil._ Sitting on the bench outside the door they were, when Randal came
up. "Up, Roonies, and at 'em!" cried he; and up, to be sure, they flew,
shillelahs and all, like lightning, daling blows on all of us McBrides: but
I never lifted a hand; and Randal, I'll do him justice, avoided to lift a
hand against me.

_Randal._ And while I live I'll never forget _that_ hour, nor _this_ hour,
Phil, and all your generous construction.

_Catty._ (_aside_) Why then it almost softens me; but I won't be made a
fool on.

_Mr. Carv._ (_who has been re-considering the examinations_) It appears to
me that you, Mr. Philip McBride, did, as the law allows, only _lay hands
softly_ upon complainant, Catherine Rooney; and the Rooneys, as it appears,
struck, and did strike, the first blow.

_Randal._ I can't deny, plase your honour, we did.

_Mr. Carv._ (_tearing the examinations_) Then, gentlemen--you
Roonies--_beaten men_, I cannot possibly take your examinations.

[_When the examinations are torn, the McBRIDES all bow and thank his
honour._

_Mr. Carv._ Beaten men! depart in peace.

_The ROONIES sigh and groan, and after turning their hats several times,
bow, walk a few steps away, return, and seem loath to depart. CATTY springs
forward, holding up her hands joined in a supplicating attitude to Mr.
CARVER._

_Randal._ If your honour would be plasing to let her spake now, or she'd
burst, may be.

_Mr. Carv._ Speak now, woman, and ever after hold your tongue.

_Catty._ Then I am rasonable now, plase your honour; for I'll put it to the
test--see, I'll withdraw my examinations entirely, and I'll recant--and
I'll go farther, I'll own I'm wrong--(though I know I'm right)--and I'll
beg your pardon, McBrides, if--(but I know I'll not have to beg your pardon
either)--but I say I _will_ beg your pardon, McBrides, _if_, mind _if_, you
will accept my test, and it fails me.

_Mr. Carv._ Very fair, Mrs. Rooney.

_Old McB._ What is it she's saying?

_Phil._ What test, Mrs. Rooney?

_Randal._ Dear mother, name your test.

_Catty._ Let Honor McBride be summoned, and if she can prove she took no
ring, and was not behind the chapel with Randal, nor drinking at Flaherty's
with him, the time she was, I give up all.

_Randal._ Agreed, with all the pleasure in life, mother. Oh, may I run for
her?

_Old McB._ Not a fut, you sir--go, Phil dear.

_Phil._ That I will, like a lapwing, father.

_Mr. Carv._ Where to, sir--where so precipitate?

_Phil._ Only to fetch my sister.

_Mr. Carv._ Your sister, sir?--then you need not go far: your sister, Honor
McBride, is, I have reason to believe, in this house.

_Catty._ So. Under whose protection, I wonder?

_Mr. Carv._ Under the protection of Mrs. Carver, madam, into whose service
she was desirous to engage herself; and whose advice--

_Clerk._ Shall I, if you please, sir, call Honor in?

_Mr. Carv._ If you please.

[_A silence.--CATTY stands biting her thumb.--Old McBRIDE leans his chin
upon Us hands on his stick, and never stirs, even his eyes.--Young McBRIDE
looks out eagerly to the side at which HONOR is expected to enter--RANDAL
looking over his shoulder, exclaims--_

There she comes!--Innocence in all her looks.

_Catty._ Oh! that we shall see soon. No making a fool of me.

_Old McB._ My daughter's step--I should know it. (_Aside_) How my old heart
bates!

[_Mr. CARVER takes a chair out of the way._

_Catty._ Walk in--walk on, Miss Honor. Oh, to be sure, Miss Honor will have
justice.

_Enter HONOR McBRIDE, walking very timidly._

And no need to be ashamed, Miss Honor, until you're found out.

_Mr. Carv._ Silence!

_Old McB._ Thank your honour.

[_Mr. CARVER whispers to his clerk, and directs him while the following
speeches go on._

_Catty._ That's a very pretty curtsy, Miss Honor--walk on, pray--all the
gentlemen's admiring you--my son Randal beyant all.

_Randal._ Mother, I won't bear--

_Catty._ Can't you find a sate for her, any of yees? Here's a stool--give
it her, Randal. (_HONOR sits down._) And I hope it won't prove the stool
of repentance, Miss or Madam. Oh, bounce your forehead, Randal--truth must
out; you've put it to the test, sir.

_Randal._ I desire no other for her or myself.

[_The father and brother take each a hand of HONOR--support and soothe
her._

_Catty._ I'd pity you, Honor, myself, only I know you a McBride--and know
you're desaving me, and all present.

_Mr. Carv._ Call that other witness I allude to, clerk, into our presence
without delay.

_Clerk._ I shall, sir. [_Exit clerk._

_Catty._ We'll see--we'll see all soon--and the truth will come out, and
shame the _dibbil_ and the McBrides!

_Randal._ (_looking out_) The man I bet, as I'm a sinner!

_Catty._ What?--Which?--Where?--True for ye!--I was wondering I did not see
the man you bet appear again ye: and this is he, with the head bound up in
the garter, coming--miserable cratur he looks--who would he be?

_Randal._ You'll see all soon, mother.

_Enter PAT COXE, his head bound up._

_Mr. Carv._ Come on--walk on boldly, friend.

_Catty._ Pat Coxe! saints above!

_Mr. Carv._ Take courage, you are under my protection here--no one will
dare to touch you.

_Randal_ (_with infinite contempt_) Touch ye! Not I, ye dirty dog!

_Mr. Carv._ No, sir, you have done enough that way already, it appears.

_Honor._ Randal! what, has Randal done this?

_Mr. Carv._ Now observe--this Mr. Patrick Coxe, aforesaid, has taken refuge
with me; for he is, it seems, afraid to appear before his master, Mr.
O'Blaney, this night, after having been beaten: though, as he assures me,
he has been beaten without any provocation whatsoever, by you, Mr. Randal
Rooney--answer, sir, to this matter.

_Randal._ I don't deny it, sir--I bet him, 'tis true.

_Pat._ To a jelly--without marcy--he did, plase your honour, sir.

_Randal._ Sir, plase your honour, I got rason to suspect this man to be the
author of all them lies that was tould backwards and forwards to my mother,
about me and Miss Honor McBride, which made my mother mad, and driv' her
to raise the riot, plase your honour. I charged Pat with the lies, and he
shirked, and could give me no satisfaction, but kept swearing he was no
liar, and bid me keep my distance, for he'd a pocket pistol about him. "I
don't care what you have about you--you have not the truth about ye, nor
in ye," says I; "ye are a liar, Pat Coxe," says I: so he cocked the pistol
at me, saying, _that_ would prove me a coward--with that I wrenched the
pistol from him, and _bet_ him in a big passion. I own to that, plase your
honour--there I own I was wrong (_turning to HONOR_), to demane myself
lifting my hand any way.

_Mr. Carv._ But it is not yet proved that this man has told any lies.

_Randal._ If he has tould no lies, I wronged him. Speak, mother--(_COXE
gets behind CATTY, and twitches her gown_), was it he who was the informer,
or not?

_Catty._ Nay, Pat Coxe, if you lied, I'll not screen you; but if you tould
the truth, stand out like a man, and stand to it, and I'll stand by you,
against my own son even, Randal, if he was the author of the report. In
plain words, then, he, Pat Coxe, tould me, that she, Honor McBride, gave
you, Randal Rooney, the meeting behind the chapel, and you gave her the
ring--and then she went with you to drink at Flaherty's.

_Honor._ (_starting up_) Oh! who _could_ say the like of me?

_Catty._ There he stands--now, Pat, you must stand or fall--will you swear
to what you said? (_Old McBRIDE and PHIL approach PAT._)

_Mr. Carv._ This is not the point before me; but, however, I waive that
objection.

_Randal._ Oh! mother, don't put him to his oath, lest he'd perjure himself.

_Pat._ I'll swear: do you think I'd be making a liar of myself?

_Honor._ Father--Phil dear--hear me one word!

_Randal._ Hear her--oh! hear her--go to her.

_Honor._ (_in a low voice_) Would you ask at what time it was he pretends I
was taking the ring and all that?

_Old McB._ Plase your honour, would you ask the rascal what time?

_Mr. Carv._ Don't call him rascal, sir--no _rascals_ in my presence. What
time did you see Honor McBride behind the chapel, Pat Coxe?

_Pat._ As the clock struck twelve--I mind--by the same token the workmen's
bell rang as usual! that same time, just as I seen Mr. Randal there putting
the ring on her finger, and I said, "_There's the bell ringing for a
wedding_," says I.

_Mr. Carv._ To whom did you say that, sir?

_Pat._ To myself, plase your honour--I'll tell you the truth.

_Honor._ Truth! That time the clock struck twelve and the bell rang, I was
happily here in this house, sir.

_Honor._ If I might take the liberty to call one could do me justice.

_Mr. Carv._ No liberty in justice--speak out.

_Honor._ If I might trouble Mrs. Carver herself?

_Mr. Carv._ Mrs. Carver will think it no trouble (_rising with dignity_) to
do justice, for she has been the wife to one of his majesty's justices of
the peace for many years.

[_Sends a servant for Mrs. CARVER._

_Mr. Carv._ Mrs. Carver, my dear, I must summon you to appear in open
court, at the suit or prayer of Honor McBride.

_Enter Mrs. CARVER, who is followed by Miss BLOOMSBURY, on tiptoe._

_Mrs. Carv._ Willingly.

_Mr. Carv._ The case lies in a nutshell, my dear: there is a man who swears
that Honor McBride was behind the chapel, with Randal Rooney putting a ring
on her finger, when the clock struck twelve, and our workmen's bell rang
this morning. Honor avers she was at Bob's Fort with you: now as she could
not be, like a bird, in two places at once--was she with you?

_Mrs. Carv._ Honor McBride was with me when the workmen's bell rang,
and when the clock struck twelve, this day--she stayed with me till two
o'clock.

[_All the ROONIES, except CATTY, exclaim--_

Oh, no going beyond the lady's word!

_Mrs. Carv._ And I think it but justice to add, that Honor McBride has this
day given me such proofs of her being a good girl, a good daughter, and a
good sister, that she has secured my good opinion and good wishes for life.

_Mr. Carv._ And mine in consequence.

_Bloom._ And mine of course. [_HONOR curtsies._

[_Old McBRIDE bows very low to Mr. CARVER, and again to Mrs. CARVER. PHIL
bows to Mr. and Mrs. CARVER, and to Miss BLOOMSBURY._

_Old McB._ Where are you now, Catty?--and you, Pat, ye unfortinate liar?

_Pat._ (_falling on his knees_) On me knees I am. Oh, I am an unfortinate
liar, and I beg your honour's pardon this once.

_Mr. Carv._ A most abandoned liar, I pronounce you.

_Pat._ Oh! I hope your honour won't abandon me, for I didn't know Miss
Honor was under her ladyship, Mrs. Carver's favour and purtection, or I'd
sooner ha' cut my tongue out clane--and I expict your honour won't turn
your hack on me quite, for this is the first lies I ever was found out
in since my creation; and how could I help, when it was by my master's
particular desire?

_Mr. Carv._ Your master! honest Gerald O'Blaney!

_Catty._ O'Blaney!--save us! (_Lifting up her hands and eyes._)

_Mr. Carv._ Take care, Pat Coxe.

_Pat._ Mr. O'Blaney, ma'am--plase your honour--all truth now--the
counshillor, that same and no other, as I've breath in my body--for why
should I tell a lie now, when I've no place in my eye, and not a ha'porth
to get by it? I'll confess all. It was by my master's orders that I should
set you, Mrs. Rooney, and your pride up, ma'am, again' making up with them
McBrides. I'll tell the truth now, plase your honour--that was the cause of
the lies I mentioned about the ring and chapel--I'll tell more, if you'll
bind Mr. Randal to keep the pace.

_Randal._ I?--ye dirty dog!--Didn't I tell ye already, I'd not dirty my
fingers with the likes of you?

_Pat._ All Mr. Gerald O'Blaney's aim was to ruin Mr. Randal Rooney, and set
him by the ears with that gentleman, Mr. Philip McBride, the brother, and
they to come to blows and outrage, and then be in disgrace committed by his
honour.

_Randal._ (_turning to_ HONOR McBRIDE) Honor, you saved all--your brother
and I never lifted our hands against one another, thanks be to Heaven and
you, dearest!

_Catty._ And was there no truth in the story of the chapel and the ring?

_Pat._ Not a word of truth, but lies, Mrs. Rooney, dear ma'am, of the
master's putting into my mouth out of his own head.

[_CATTY ROONEY walks firmly and deliberately across the room to HONOR
McBRIDE._

_Catty._ Honor McBride, I was wrong; and here, publicly, as I traduced you,
I ax your pardon before his honour, and your father, and your brother, and
before Randal, and before my faction and his.

[_Both ROONIES and McBRIDES all, excepting Old McBRIDE, clap their hands,
and huzza._

_Mr. Carv._ I ought to reprove this acclamation--but this once I let it
pass.

_Phil._ Father, you said nothing--what do you say, sir?

_Old McB._ (_never moving_) I say nothing at all. I never doubted Honor,
and knew the truth must appear--that's all I say.

_Honor._ Oh! father dear--more you will say (_shaking his stick gently_).
Look up at me, and remember the promise you gave me, when Catty should be
rasonable--and is not she rasonable now?

_Old McB._ I did not hear a word from her about the bog of Ballynascraw.

_Catty._ Is it the pitiful bit?--No more about it! Make crame cheeses of
it--what care I? 'Twas only for pride I stood out--not _that_ I'm thinking
of now!

_Old McB._ Well, then, miracles will never cease! here's one in your
favour, Honor; so take her, Randal, fortune and all--a wife of five
hundred.

_Randal._ (_kneeling_) Oh! happiest of men I am this minute.

_Catty._ I the same, if she had not a pinny in the world.

_Mr. Carv._ _Happiest of men!_--Don't kneel or go in to ecstasies now, I
beg, till I know the _rationale_ of this. Was not I consulted?--did not I
give my opinion and advice in favour of another?

_Old McB._ You was--you did, plase your honour, and I beg your honour's
pardon, and Mr. Counsellor O'Blaney's.

_Mr. Carv._ And did not you give your consent?--I must think him a very
ill-used person.

_Old McB._ I gave my consint only in case he could win hers, plase your
honour, and he could _not_--and I could not break my own daughter's heart,
and I beg your honour's pardon.

_Mr. Carv._ I don't know how that may be, sir, but I gave my approbation
to the match; and I really am not accustomed to have my advice or opinion
neglected or controverted. Yet, on the other hand--

_Enter a Footman with a note, which he gives to Mr. CARVER._

_Old McB._ (_aside to PHIL_) Say something for me, Phil, can't ye?--I
hav'n't a word.

_Mr. Carv._ (_rising with a quicker motion than usual_) Bless me! bless
me!--here is a revolution! and a counter revolution!--Here's news will make
you all in as great astonishment as I own I am.

_Old McB._ What is it?

_Randal._ I'm made for life--I don't care what comes.

_Honor._ Nor I: so it is not to touch you, I'm happy.

_Catty._ Oh! your honour, spake quick, _this time_--I beg pardon!

_Mr. Carv._ Then I have to confess that _for once_ I have been deceived
and mistaken in my judgment of a man; and what is more, of a man's
_circumstances_ completely--O'Blaney.

_Old McB._ What of his _circumstances_, oh! sir, in the name of mercy?

_Mr. Carv._ Bankrupt, at this instant all under seizure to the supervisor.
Mr. Gerald O'Blaney has fled the country.

_Old McB._ Then, Honor, you are without a penny; for all her fortune,
500_l._, was in his hands.

_Randal._ Then I'm as happy to have her without a penny--happier I am to
prove my love pure.

_Catty._ God bless you for my own son! That's our way of thinking, Mr.
McBride--you see it was not for the fortune.

_Honor._ Oh! Phil, didn't I tell you her heart was right?

_Catty._ We will work hard--cheer up, McBrides. Now the Roonies and
McBrides has joined, you'll see we'll defy the world and O'Blaney, the
_chate_ of _chates_.

_Honor._ Randal's own mother!

_Catty._ Ay, now, we are all one family--now pull together. Don't be cast
down, Phil dear. I'll never call you _flourishing Phil_ again, so don't be
standing on pride. Suppose your shister has not a pinny, she's better than
the best, and I'll love her and fold her to my ould warm heart, and the
daughter of my heart she is now.

_Honor._ Oh, mother!--for you are my mother now--and happy I am to have a
mother in you.

_Mr. Carv._ I protest it makes me almost--almost--blow my nose.

_Catty._ Why, then, you're a good cratur. But who tould you I was a vixen,
dear--plase your honour?

_Mr. Carv._ Your friend that is gone.

_Catty._ O'Blaney?

_Randal._ Frind! He never was frind to none--least of all to hisself.

_Catty._ Oh! the double-distilled villain!--he tould your honour I was a
vixen, and fond of law. Now would you believe what I'm going to till you?
he tould me of his honour--

_Mr. Carv._ Of me, his patron?

_Catty._ Of you, his patron, sir. He tould me your honour--which is a
slander, as we all here can witness, can't we? by his honour's contempt of
Pat Coxe--yet O'Blaney said you was as fond and proud of having informers
about you as a rat-catcher is of rats.

_Mr. Carv._ Mistress Catherine Rooney, and all you good people,--there is
a great deal of difference between obtaining information and encouraging
common informers.

_Catty._ There is, I'm sinsible. (_Aside to her son_) Then he's a good
magistrate--except a little pompous, mighty good. (_Aloud to Mr. CARVER_)
Then I beg your honour's pardon for my bad behaviour, and bad language
and all. 'Twas O'Blaney's fau't--but he's down, and don't trample on the
fallen.

_Old McB._ Don't defind O'Blaney! Oh! the villain, to rob me of all my hard
arnings. Mrs. Catty, I thank you as much as a heavy heart can, for you're
ginerous; and you, Randal, for your--

_Randal._ Is it for loving her, when I can't help it?--who could?

_Old McB._ (_sighing deeply_) But still it goes against the father's heart
to see his child, his pride, go pinnyless out of his house.

_Phil._ Then, sir, father dear, I have to tell you she is not
pennyless.--But I would not tell you before, that Randal, and Catty too,
might show themselves what they are. Honor is not pennyless: the three
hundred you gave me to lodge with O'Blaney is safe here. (_Opening his
pocket-book._)--When I was going to him with it as you ordered, by great
luck, I was stopped by this very quarrel and riot in Ballynavogue:--he was
the original cause of kicking up the riot, and was summoned before your
honour,--and here's the money.

_Old McB._ Oh, she's not pinnyless! Well, I never saw money with so much
pleasure, in all my long days, nor could I think I'd ever live to give it
away with half so much satisfaction as this minute. I here give it, Honor,
to Randal Rooney and you:--and bless ye, child, with the man of _your_
choice, who is _mine_ now.

_Mrs. Carv._ (_aside to Mr. CARVER_) My dear, I wish to invite all these
good people to a wedding dinner; but really I am afraid I shall blunder in
saying their names--will you prompt me?

_Mr. Carv._ (_aside to Mrs. CARVER_) Why really I am not used to be a
prompter; however, I will condescend to prompt _you_, Mrs. Carver. (_He
prompts, while she speaks._)

_Mrs. Carv._ Mr. Big Briny of Cloon, Mr. Ulick of Eliogarty, Mr. Charley of
Killaspugbrone, and you, Mrs. Catty Rooney, and you, Mr. McBride, senior,
and you, Mr. Philip McBride, no longer _flourishing Phil_; since you are
now all reconciled, let me have the pleasure of giving you a reconciliation
dinner, at the wedding of Honor McBride, who is an honour to her family,
and Randal Rooney, who so well deserves her love.

_The McBRIDES and ROONIES join in the cry of_ Long life and great luck to
your ladyship, that was always good!

_Mr. Carv._ And you comprehend that I beg that the wedding may be
celebrated at Bob's Fort.

_All join in crying_, Long may your honour's honour reign over us in glory
at Bob's Fort!

_Catty._ (_cracking her fingers_) A fig for the bog of Ballynascraw!--Now
'tis all Love and no Law!

THE ROSE, THISTLE,

AND

SHAMROCK.

A DRAMA.

IN THREE ACTS.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

MEN.

SIR WILLIAM HAMDEN . . . _An Elderly English Gentleman._

CHRISTY GALLAGHER . . . . _Landlord of an Irish village inn._

MR. ANDREW HOPE . . . . . _A Drum-major in a Scotch regiment._

OWEN LARKEN . . . . . . . _The Son of the Widow Larken
--a Boy of about fifteen._

GILBERT . . . . . . . . . _An English Servant of Sir William Hamden._

WOMEN.

MISS O'HARA . . . . . . . _A young Heiress--Niece of Sir William Hamden._

MISS FLORINDA GALLAGHER . _Daughter of Christy Gallagher._

THE WIDOW LARKEN . . . . _Mother of Owen and of Mabel._

MABEL LARKEN . . . . . . _Daughter of the Widow Larken._

BIDDY DOYLE . . . . . . . _Maid of the Inn._

Band of a Regiment.

SCENE.--_The Village of Bannow, in Ireland._

THE ROSE,

&c.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

_A Dressing-Room in Bannow-Castle, in Ireland._

_Enter Sir WILLIAM HAMDEN, in his morning-gown._

_Sir W._ Every thing precisely in order, even in Ireland!--laid, I do
believe, at the very same angle at which they used to be placed on
my own dressing-table, at Hamden-place, in Kent. Exact Gilbert! most
punctual of valet de chambres!--and a young fellow, as he is, too! It is
admirable!--Ay, though he looks as if he were made of wood, and moves like
an automaton, he has a warm heart, and a true English spirit--true-born
English every inch of him. I remember him, when first I saw him ten years
ago at his father's, Farmer Ashfield's, at the harvest-home; there was
Gilbert in all his glory, seated on the top of a hay-rick, singing,

"Then sing in praise of men of Kent,
So loyal, brave, and free;
Of Britain's race, if one surpass,
A man of Kent is he!"

How he brought himself to quit the men of Kent to come to Ireland with me
is wonderful. However, now he is here, I hope he is tolerably happy: I must
ask the question in direct terms; for Gilbert would never speak till spoken
to, let him feel what he might.

_Sir W._ (_calls_) Gilbert!--Gilbert!

_Enter GILBERT._

_Gilb._ Here, sir.

_Sir W._ Gilbert, now you have been in Ireland some weeks, I hope you are
not unhappy.

_Gilb._ No, sir, thank you, sir.

_Sir W._ But are you happy, man?

_Gilb._ Yes, sir, thank you, sir.

[_GILBERT retires, and seems busy arranging his master's clothes: Sir
WILLIAM continues dressing._

_Sir W._ (_aside_) _Yes, sir, thank you, sir._ As dry as a chip--sparing
of his words, as if they were his last. And the fellow can talk if he
would--has humour, too, if one could get it out; and eloquence, could I but
touch the right string, the heartstring. I'll try again. (_Aloud_) Gilbert!

_Gilb._ Yes, sir. (_Comes forward respectfully._)

_Sir W._ Pray what regiment was it that was passing yesterday through the
village of Bannow?

_Gilb._ I do not know, indeed, sir.

_Sir W._ That is to say, you saw they were Highlanders, and that was enough
for you--you are not fond of the Scotch, Gilbert?

_Gilb._ No, sir, I can't say as I be.

_Sir W._ But, Gilbert, for my sake you must conquer this prejudice. I have
many Scotch friends whom I shall go to visit one of these days--excellent
friends they are!

_Gilb._ Are they, sir? If so be you found them so, I will do my best, I'm
sure.

_Sir W._ Then pray go down to the inn here, and inquire if any of the
Scotch officers are there.

_Gilb._ I will, sir. I heard say the officers went off this morning.

_Sir W._ Then you need not go to inquire for them.

_Gilb._ No, sir. Only as I heard say, the drum-major and band is to stay a
few days in Bannow, on account of their wanting to enlist a new bugle-boy.
I was a thinking, if so be, sir, you thought well of it, on account you
like these Scotch, I'd better to step down, and see how the men be as to
being comfortable.

_Sir W._ That's right, do. Pray, have they tolerable accommodations at the
inn in this village?

_Gilb._ (_smiling_) I can't say much for that, sir.

_Sir W._ (_aside_) Now I shall set him going. (_Aloud_) What, the inn here
is not like one of our English inns on the Bath road?

_Gilb._ (_suppressing a laugh_) Bath road! Bless you, sir, it's no
more like an inn on the Bath road, nor on any road, cross or by-road
whatsomdever, as ever I seed in England. No more like--no more like than
nothing at all, sir!

_Sir W._ What sort of a place is it, then?

_Gilb._ Why, sir, I'd be ashamed almost to tell you. Why, sir, I never seed
such a place to call an inn, in all my born days afore. First and foremost,
sir, there's the pig is in and out of the kitchen all day long, and next
the calf has what they call the run of the kitchen; so what with them brute
beasts, and the poultry that has no coop, and is always under one's feet,
or over one's head, the kitchen is no place for a Christian, even to eat
his bread and cheese in.

_Sir W._ Well, so much for the kitchen. But the parlour--they have a
parlour, I suppose?

_Gilb._ Yes, sir, they have a parlour as they may call it, if they think
proper, sir. But then again, an honest English farmer would be _afeard on_
his life to stay in it, on account of the ceiling just a coming down a' top
of his head. And if he should go up stairs, sir, why that's as bad again,
and worse; for the half of them there stairs is rotten, and ever so many
pulled down and burnt.

_Sir W._ Burnt!--the stairs?

_Gilb._ Burnt, sir, as sure as I'm standing here!--burnt, sir, for fuel
one _scarce year_, as they says, sir. Moreover, when a man does get up
the stairs, sir, why he is as bad off again, and worse; for the floor of
the place they calls the bedchamber, shakes at every step, as if it was a
coming down with one; and the walls has all cracks, from top to toe--and
there's rat-holes, or holes o' some sort or t'other, all in the floor: so
that if a man don't pick his steps curiously, his leg must go down through
the ceiling below. And moreover, there's holes over head through the roof,
sir; so that if it rains, it can't but pour on the bed. They tell me, they
used for to shift the bed from one place to another, to find, as they say,
the dry corner; but now the floor is grown so crazy, they dare not stir the
bed for their lives.

_Sir W._ Worse and worse!

_Gilb._ And moreover, they have it now in the worst place in the whole
room, sir. Close at the head of the bed, there is a window with every pane
broke, and some out entirely, and the women's petticoats and the men's hats
just stuck in to _stop all for the night_, as they say, sir.

[_GILBERT tries to stifle his laughter._

_Sir W._ Laugh out, honest Gilbert. In spite of your gravity and your
civility, laugh. There is no harm, but sometimes a great deal of good done
by laughing, especially in Ireland. Laughing has mended, or caused to be
mended, many things that never would have been mended otherwise.

_Gilb._ (_recovering his gravity_) That's true, I dare to say, sir.

_Sir W._ Now, Gilbert, if you were to keep an inn, it would be a very
different sort of inn from what you have been describing--would not it?

_Gilb._ I hope so, sir.

_Sir W._ I remember when we were talking of establishing you in England,
that your father told me you would like to set up an inn.

_Gilb._ (_his face brightening_) For sartin, sir, 'tis the thing in the
whole world I should like the best, and be the proudest on, if so be it was
in my power, and if so be, sir, you could spare me. (_Holding his master's
coat for him to put on._)

_Sir W._ _Could._ spare you, Gilbert!--I _will_ spare you, whether I can
conveniently or not. If I had an opportunity of establishing advantageously
a man who has served me faithfully for ten years, do you think I would not
put myself to a little inconvenience to do it?--Gilbert, you do not know
Sir William Hamden.

_Gilb._ Thank you, sir, but I do--and I should be main sorry to leave
you, that's sartin, if it was even to be landlord of the best inn in all
England--I know I should.

_Sir W._ I believe it.--But, stay--let us understand one another--I am not
talking of England, and perhaps you are not thinking of Ireland.

_Gilb._ Yes, sir, but I am.

_Sir W._ You are! I am heartily glad to hear it, for then I can serve you
directly. This young heiress, my niece, to whom this town belongs, has a
new inn ready built.

_Gilb._ I know, sir.

_Sir W._ Then, Gilbert, write a proposal for this inn, if you wish for it,
and I will speak to my niece.

_Gilb._ (_bowing_) I thank you, sir--only I hope I shall not stand in any
honest man's light. As to a dishonest man, I can't say I value standing in
his light, being that he has no right to have any, as I can see.

_Sir W._ So, Gilbert, you will settle in Ireland at last? I am heartily
glad to see you have overcome your prejudices against this country. How has
this been brought about?

_Gilb._ Why, sir, the thing was, I didn't know nothing about it, and there
was a many lies told backwards and forwards of Ireland, by a many that
ought to have known better.

_Sir W._ And now that you have seen with your own eyes, you are happily
convinced that in Ireland the men are not all savages.

_Gilb._ No, sir, no ways savage, except in the article of some of them
going bare-footed; but the men is good men, most of them.

_Sir W._ And the women? You find that they have not wings on their
shoulders.

_Gilb._ No, sir. (_Smiling_) And I'm glad they have not got wings, else
they might fly away from us, which I'd be sorry for--some of them.

[_After making this speech, GILBERT steps back, and brushes his master's
hat diligently._

_Sir W._ (_aside_) Ha! is that the case? Now I understand it all. 'Tis
fair, that Cupid, who blinds so many, should open the eyes of some of his
votaries. (_Aloud._) When you set up as landlord in your new inn, Gilbert,
(_Gilbert comes forward_) you will want a landlady, shall not you?

_Gilb._ (_falls back, and answers_) I shall, sir, I suppose.

_Sir W._ Miss--what's her name? the daughter of the landlord of the present
inn. Miss--what's her name?

_Gilb._ (_answers without coming forward_) Miss Gallagher, sir.

_Sir W._ Miss Gallagher?--A very ugly name!--I think it would be charity to
change it, Gilbert.

_Gilb._ (_bashfully_) It would, no doubt, sir.

_Sir W._ She is a very pretty girl.

_Gilb._ She is, sir, no doubt.

[_Cleaning the brush with his hand, bows, and is retiring._

_Sir W._ Gilbert, stay, (_GILBERT returns._) I say, Gilbert, I took
particular notice of this Miss Gallagher, as she was speaking to you last
Sunday. I thought she seemed to smile upon you, Gilbert.

_Gilb._ (_very bashfully_) I can't say, indeed, sir.

_Sir W._ I don't mean, my good Gilbert, to press you to say any thing that
you don't choose to say. It was not from idle curiosity that I asked any
questions, but from a sincere desire to serve you in whatever way you like
best, Gilbert.

_Gilb._ Oh, dear master! I can't speak, you are so good to me, and always
was--too good!--so I say nothing. Only I'm not ungrateful--I know I'm not
ungrateful, that I am not! And as to the rest, there's not a thought I
have, you'd condescend for to know, but you should know it as soon as my
mother--that's to say, as soon as ever I knowed it myself. But, sir, the
thing is this, since you're so good to let me speak to you, sir--

_Sir W._ Speak on, pray, my good fellow.

_Gilb._ Then, sir, the thing is this. There's one girl, they say, has set
her thoughts upon me: now I don't like she, because why? I loves another;
but I should not choose to say so, on account of its not being over and
above civil, and on account of my not knowing yet for sartin whether or not
the girl I loves loves me, being I never yet could bring myself to ask her
the question. I'd rather not mention her name neither, till I be more at
a sartinty. But since you be so kind, sir, if you be so good to give me
till this evening, sir, as I have now, with the hopes of the new inn, an
independency to offer her, I will take courage, and I shall have her answer
soon, sir--and I will let you know with many thanks, sir, whether--whether
my heart's broke or not.

[_Exit GILBERT hastily._

_Sir W._ (_alone_) Good, affectionate creature! But who would have thought
that out of that piece of wood a lover could be made? This is Cupid's
delight!

[_Exit Sir WILLIAM._

SCENE II.

_Parlour of the Inn at Bannow._

_Miss FLORINDA GALLAGHER, sola._

_Various articles of dress on the floor--a looking-glass propped up on a
chest--Miss GALLAGHER is kneeling before the glass, dressing her long hair,
which hangs over her shoulders._

_Miss G._ I don't know what's come to this glass, that it is not flattering
at all _the_ day. The spots and cracks in it is making me look so full
of freckles and crow's feet--and my hair, too, that's such a figure, as
straight and as stiff and as stubborn as a presbyterian. See! it won't curl
for me: so it is in the papillotes it must be; and that's most genteel.

[_Sound of a drum at a distance--Miss GALLAGHER starts up and listens._

_Miss G._ Hark till I hear! Is not that a drum I hear? Ay, I had always a
quick ear for the drum from my cradle. And there's the whole band--but it's
only at the turn of the avenue. It's on parade they are. So I'll be dressed
and dacent before they are here, I'll engage. And it's my plaid scarf I'll
throw over all, iligant for the Highlanders, and I don't doubt but the
drum-major will be conquist to it at my feet afore night--and what will Mr.
Gilbert say to that? And what matter what he says?--I'm not bound to him,
especially as he never popped me the question, being so preposterously
bashful, as them Englishmen have the misfortune to be. But that's not
my fault any way. And if I happen to find a more shutable match, while
he's turning the words in his mouth, who's to blame me?--My father,
suppose!--And what matter?--Have not I two hundred pounds of my own, down
on the nail, if the worst come to the worst, and why need I be a slave to
any man, father or other?--But he'll kill himself soon with the whiskey,
poor man, at the rate he's going. Two glasses now for his _mornings_, and
his _mornings_ are going on all day. There he is, roaring. (_Mr. GALLAGHER
heard singing._) You can't come in here, sir.

[_She bolts the door._

_Enter CHRISTY GALLAGHER, kicking the door open._

_Christy._ Can't I, dear? what will hinder me?--Give me the _kay_ of the
spirits, if you plase.

_Miss G._ Oh, sir! see how you are walking through all my things.

_Christy._ And they on the floor!--where else should I walk, but on the
floor, pray, Miss Gallagher?--Is it, like a fly, on the ceiling you'd have
me be, walking with my head upside down, to plase you?

_Miss G._ Indeed, sir, whatever way you're walking, it's with your head
upside down, as any body may notice, and that don't plase me at all--isn't
it a shame, in a morning?

_Christy._ Phoo! don't be talking of shame, you that knows nothing about
it. But lend me the kay of the spirits, Florry.

_Miss G._ Sir, my name's Florinda--and I've not the kay of the spirits at
all, nor any such vulgar thing.

_Christy._ Vulgar! is it the kay?

_Miss G._ Yes, sir, it's very vulgar to be keeping of kays.

_Christy._ That's lucky, for I've lost all mine now. Every single kay I
have in the wide world now I lost, barring this kay of the spirits, and
that must be gone after the rest too I b'lieve, since you know nothing of
it, unless it be in this here chist.

[_CHRISTY goes to the chest._

_Miss G._ Oh, mercy, sir!--Take care of the looking-glass, which is broke
already. Oh, then, father, 'tis not in the chist, 'pon my word and honour
now, if you'll b'lieve: so don't be rummaging of all my things.

[_CHRISTY persists in opening the chest._

_Christy._ It don't signify, Florry; I've granted myself a gineral
sarch-warrant; dear, for the kay; and, by the blessing, I'll go clane to
the bottom o' this chist. (_Miss GALLAGHER writhes in agony._) Why, what
makes you stand twisting there like an eel or an ape, child?--What, in the
name of the ould one, is it you're afeard on?--Was the chist full now of
love-letter scrawls from the grand signior or the pope himself, you could
not be more tinder of them.

_Miss G._ Tinder, sir!--to be sure, when it's my best bonnet I'm thinking
on, which you are mashing entirely.

_Christy._ Never fear, dear! I won't mash an atom of the bonnet, provided
always, you'll mash these apples for me, jewel. (_He takes apples out of
the chest._) And wasn't I lucky to find them in it? Oh, I knew I'd not
sarch this chist for nothing. See how they'll make an iligant apple-pie
for Mr. Gilbert now, who loves an iligant apple-pie above all things--your
iligant self always excipted, dear.

[_Miss GALLAGHER makes a slight curtsy, but motions the apples from her._

_Miss G._ Give the apples then to the girl, sir, and she'll make you the
pie, for I suppose she knows how.

_Christy._ And don't you, then, Florry?

_Miss G._ And how should I, sir?--You didn't send me to the dancing-school
of Ferrinafad to larn me to make apple-pies, I conclude.

_Christy._ Troth, Florry, 'twas not I sint you there, sorrow foot but your
mother; only she's in her grave, and it's bad to be talking ill of the dead
any way. But be that how it will, Mr. Gilbert must get the apple-pie, for
rasons of my own that need not be mintioned. So, Biddy! Biddy, girl! Biddy
Doyle!

_Enter BIDDY, running, with a ladle in her hand._

_Christy._ Drop whatever you have in your hand, and come here, and be
hanged to you! And had you no ears to your head, Biddy?

_Biddy._ Sure I have, sir--ears enough. Only they are bothering me so
without, that pig and the dog fighting, that I could not hear ye calling
at-all-at-all. What is it?--For I'm skimming the pot, and can't lave it.

[_Miss GALLAGHER goes on dressing_

_Christy._ It's only these apples, see!--You'll make me an apple-pie,
Biddy, smart.

_Biddy._ Save us, sir!--And how will I ever get time, when I've the hash to
make for them Scotch yet? Nor can I tell, for the life of me, what it was
I did with the onions and scallions neither, barring by great luck they'd
be in and under the press here--(_running to look under the press_)--which
they are, praised be God! in the far corner.

[_BIDDY stretches her arm under the press._

_Christy._ There's a nice girl, and a 'cute cliver girl, worth a dozen of
your Ferrinafads.

[_BIDDY throws the onions out from under the press, while he speaks._

_Miss G._ Then she's as idle a girl as treads the earth, in or out of
shoe-leather, for there's my bed that she has not made yet, and the stairs
with a month's dust always; and never ready by any chance to do a pin's
worth for one, when one's dressing.

[_A drum heard; the sound seems to be approaching near._

_Christy._ Blood! the last rowl of the drum, and I not got the kay of the
spirits.

_Miss G._ Oh, saints above! what's gone with my plaid scarf?--and my hair
_behind_, see!

[_Miss GALLAGHER twists up her hair behind.--BIDDY gathers up the onions
into her apron, and exit hastily.--CHRISTY runs about the room in a
distracted manner, looking under and over every thing, repeating_--The kay!
the kay! the kay!

_Christy._ For the whiskey must be had for them Scotch, and the bottled
beer too for them English; and how will I get all or any without the kay?
Bones, and distraction!

_Miss G._ And my plain hanke'cher that must be had, and where will I find
it, in the name of all the damons, in this chaos you've made me out of the
chist, father? And how will I git all in again, before the drum-major's in
it?

_Christy._ (_sweeping up a heap of things in his arms, and throwing them
into the chest_) Very asy, sure! this ways.

_Miss G._ (_darting forward_) There's the plaid hanke'cher.--(_She draws
it out from the heap under her father's arm, and smooths it on her knee._)
But, oh! father, how you are making hay of my things!

_Christy._ Then I wish I could make hay of them, for hay is much wanting
for the horses that's in it.

_Miss G._ (_putting on her plaid scarf_) Weary on these pins! that I can't
stick any way at all, my hands all trimble so.--Biddy! Biddy! Biddy! Biddy,
can't ye?--(_Re-enter BIDDY, looking bewildered._) Just pin me behind,
girl--smart.

_Christy._ Biddy is it?--Biddy, girl, come over and help me tramp down this
hay.

[_CHRISTY jumps into the chest._

_Miss G._ Oh, Biddy, run and stop him, for the love of God! with his
brogues and big feet.

_Biddy._ Oh, marcy! that's too bad, sir; get out o' that if you plase,
or Miss Florry will go mad, sure! and the major that's coming up the
street--Oh, sir, if you plase, in the name of mercy!

_Christy._ (_jumping out_) Why, then, sittle it all yourself, Biddy, and
success to you; but you'll no more get all in again afore Christmas, to the
best of my opinion, no more, see! than you'd get bottled porter, froth and
all, into the bottle again, once it was out.

_Miss G._ Such comparisons!--(_tossing back her head._)

_Christy._ And caparisons!--(_pointing to the finery on the floor._) But
in the middle of it all, lend me the poker, which will answer for the
master-kay, sure!--that poker that is houlding up the window--can't ye,
Biddy?

[_BIDDY runs and pulls the poker hastily from under the sash, which
suddenly falls, and every pane of glass falls out and breaks._

_Christy._ Murder! and no glazier!

_Miss G._ Then Biddy, of all girls, alive or dead, you're the awk'ardest,
vulgarest, unluckiest to touch any thing at all!

_Biddy._ (_picking up the glass_) I can't think what's come to the glass,
that makes it break so asy the day! Sure I done it a hundred times the
same, and it never broke wid me afore.

_Christy._ Well! stick up a petticoat, or something of the kind, and any
way lend me hould of the poker; for, in lieu of a kay, that's the only
frind in need.

[_Exit CHRISTY with the poker._

_Miss G._ There, Biddy, that will do--any how.--Just shut down the lid,
can't ye? and find me my other shoe. Biddy--then, lave that,--come out o'
that, do girl, and see the bed!--run there, turn it up just any way;--and
Biddy, run here,--stick me this tortise comb in the back of my head--oh!
(_screams and starts away from BIDDY._) You ran it fairly into my brain,
you did! you're the grossest! heavy handiest!--fit only to wait on Sheelah
na Ghirah, or the like.--(_Turns away from BIDDY with an air of utter
contempt._) But I'll go and resave the major properly.--(_Turns back as she
is going, and says to BIDDY_) Biddy, settle all here, can't ye?--Turn up
the bed, and sweep the glass and dust in the dust corner, for it's here
I'm bringing him to dinner,--so settle up all in a minute, do you mind me,
Biddy! for your life!

[_Exit Miss GALLAGHER._

_BIDDY, alone_--(_speaking while she puts the things in the room in
order._)

_Settle up all in a minute!_--asy said!--and _for my life_ too!--Why, then,
there's not a greater slave than myself in all Connaught, or the three
kingdoms--from the time I get up in the morning, and that's afore the
flight of night, till I get to my bed again at night, and that's never
afore one in the morning! But I wouldn't value all one pin's pint, if it
was kind and civil she was to me. But after I strive, and strive to the
utmost, and beyand--(_sighs deeply_) and when I found the innions, and took
the apple-pie off her hands, and settled her behind, and all to the best of
my poor ability for her, after, to go and call me Sheelah na Ghirah! though
I don't rightly know who that Sheelah na Ghirah was from Adam--but still
it's the bad language I get, goes to my heart. Oh, if it had but plased
Heaven to have cast me my lot in the sarvice of a raal jantleman or lady
instead of the likes of these! Now, I'd rather be a dog in his honour's
or her honour's house than lie under the tongue, of Miss Gallagher, as I
do--to say nothing of ould Christy.

_Miss GALLAGHER'S voice heard, calling,_

Biddy! Biddy Doyle! Biddy, can't ye?

_Biddy._ Here, miss, in the room, readying it, I am.

_CHRISTY GALLAGHER'S voice heard calling,_

Biddy!--Biddy Doyle!--Biddy, girl! What's come o' that girl, that always
out o' the way idling, when wanted?--Plague take her!

_Biddy._ Saints above! hear him now!--But I scorn to answer.

_Screaming louder in mingled voices, CHRISTY'S and Miss GALLAGHER'S,_

Biddy! Biddy Doyle!--Biddy, girl!

_Christy._ (_putting in his head_) Biddy! sorrow take ye! are ye in
it?--And you are, and we cracking our vitals calling you. What is it you're
dallying here for? Stir! stir! dinner!

[_He draws back his head, and exit._

_BIDDY, alone._

Coming then!--Sure it's making up the room I am with all speed, and the bed
not made after all!--(_Throws up the press-bed._)--But to live in this here
house, girl or boy, one had need have the lives of nine cats and the legs
of forty.

[_Exit._

SCENE III.

_The Kitchen of the Inn._

_Miss FLORINDA GALLAGHER and CHRISTY GALLAGHER._

_Boys and Men belonging to the Band, in the back Scene._

_Christy._ (_to the band_) The girl's coming as fast as possible to get
yees your dinners, jantlemen, and sorrow better dinner than she'll give
you: you'll get all instantly--(_To Miss GALLAGHER_) And am not I telling
you, Florry, that the drum-major did not come in yet at all, but went out
through the town, to see and get a billet and bed for the sick man they've
got.

_Enter BIDDY, stops and listens._

_Miss G._ I wonder the major didn't have the manners to step in, and spake
to the lady first--was he an Irishman, he would.

_Biddy._ Then it's my wonder he wouldn't step in to take his dinner
first--was he an Englishman, he would. But it's lucky for me and for him he
didn't, becaase he couldn't, for it won't be ready this three-quarters of
an hour--only the Scotch broth, which boiled over.

[_BIDDY retires, and goes on cooking.--CHRISTY fills out a glass of spirits
to each of the band._

_Miss G._ Since the major's not in it, I'll not be staying here--for here's
only riff-raff triangle and gridiron boys, and a black-a-moor, and that I
never could stand; so I'll back into the room. Show the major up, do you
mind, father, as soon as ever he'd come.

_Christy._ Jantlemen all! here's the king's health, and confusion worse
confounded to his enemies, for yees; or if ye like it better, here's the
plaid tartan and fillibeg for yees, and that's a comprehensive toast--will
give ye an appetite for your dinners.

[_They drink in silence._

_Miss G._ Did ye hear me, father?

_Christy._ Ay, ay.--Off with ye!

[_Exit Miss GALLAGHER, tossing back her head.--CHRISTY pours out a glass of
whiskey for himself, and with appropriate graces of the elbow and little
finger, swallows it, making faces of delight._

_Christy._ Biddy! Biddy, girl, ye!--See the pig putting in his nose--keep
him out--can't ye?

_Biddy._ Hurrush! hurrush! (_Shaking her apron._) Then that pig's as
sinsible as any Christian, for he'd run away the minute he'd see me.

_Christy._ That's manners o' the pig.--Put down a power more turf,
Biddy:--see the jantlemen's gathering round the fire, and has a right to
be _could_ in their knees this St. Patrick's day in the morning--for it's
March, that comes in like a lion.

[_The band during this speech appear to be speaking to BIDDY.--She comes
forward to CHRISTY._

_Christy._ What is it they are whispering and conjuring, Biddy?

_Biddy._ 'Twas only axing me, they were, could they all get beds the night
in it.

_Christy._ Beds! ay can yees, and for a dozen more--only the room above is
tinder in the joists, and I would not choose to put more on the floor than
two beds, and one shake-down, which will answer for five; for it's a folly
to talk,--I'll tell you the truth, and not a word of lie. Wouldn't it be
idle to put more of yees in the room than it could hold, and to have the
floor be coming through the parlour ceiling, and so spoil two good rooms
for one night's bad rest, jantlemen?--Well, Biddy, what is it they're
saying?

_Biddy._ They say they don't understand--can they have beds or not?

_Christy._ Why, body and bones! No, then, since nothing else will they
comprehend,--_no_,--only five, say,--five can sleep in it.

[_The band divide into two parties,--Five remain, and the others walk off
in silence._

_Biddy._ And it's into the room you'd best walk up, had not yees, five
jantlemen, that sleep?

[_The five walk into the parlour--CHRISTY preparing to follow, carrying
whiskey bottle and, jug--turns back, and says to BIDDY,_

Is it dumb they are all? or _innocents_?

_Biddy._ Not at all innocents, no more than myself nor yourself. Nor dumb
neither, only that the Scotch tongue can't spake English as we do.

_Christy._ Oh! if that's all, after dinner the whiskey punch will make 'em
spake, I'll engage.

[_Exit CHRISTY._

_Biddy._ 'Tis I that am glad they've taken themselves away, for there's no
cooking with all the men in the fire.

_Enter Mr. ANDREW HOPE, Drum-major._

_Mr. H._ A gude day to you, my gude lassy.

_Biddy._ The same to you, sir, and kindly. I beg your pardon for not
knowing--would it be the drum-major, sir?

_Mr. H._ No offence, my gude lass; I am Andrew Hope, and drum-major. I met
some of my men in the street coming down, and they told me they could not
have beds here.

_Biddy._ No, sir, plase your honour, only five that's in the room yonder:
if you'd be plased to walk up, and you'll get your dinner immediately, your
honour, as fast as can be dished, your honour.

_Mr. H._ No hurry, my gude lass. But I would willingly see the beds for my
poor fellows, that has had a sair march.

_Biddy._ Why then, if your honour would take a fool's advice, you'd not be
looking at them beds, to be spoiling your dinner--since, good or bad, all
the looking at 'em in the wide world won't mend 'em one feather, sure.

_Mr. H._ My gude girl, that's true. Still I'd like ever to face the worst.

_Biddy._ Then it's up that ladder you'll go.

_Mr. H._ No stairs?

_Biddy._ Oh, there are stairs--but they are burnt and coming down, and
you'll find the ladder safest and best; only mind the little holes in the
floor, if you plase, your honour.

[_Mr. HOPE ascends the ladder while she speaks, and goes into the
bedchamber above._

_BIDDY, sola._

Well, I'm ashamed of my life, when a stranger and foreigner's reviewing our
house, though I'm only the girl in it, and no ways answerable. It frets me
for my country forenent them Scotch and English. (_Mr. HOPE descends the
ladder._) Then I'm sorry it's not better for your honour's self, and men.
But there's a new inn to be opened the 25th, in this town; and if you
return this way, I hope things will be more agreeable and proper. But
you'll have no bad dinner, your honour, any way;--there's Scotch broth, and
Scotch hash, and fried eggs and bacon, and a turkey, and a boiled leg of
mutton and turnips, and _pratees_ the best, and well boiled; and I hope,
your honour, that's enough for a soldier's dinner, that's not nice.

_Mr. H._ Enough for a soldier's dinner! ay, gude truth, my lass; and more
than enough for Andrew Hope, who is no ways nice. But, tell me, have you no
one to help you here, to dress all this?

_Biddy._ Sorrow one, to do a hand's turn for me but myself, plase your
honour; for the daughter of the house is too fine to put her hand to any
thing in life: but she's in the room there within, beyond, if you would
like to see her--a fine lady she is!

_Mr. H._ A fine lady, is she? Weel, fine or coarse, I shall like to see
her,--and weel I may and must, for I had a brother once I luved as my life;
and four years back that brother fell sick here, on his road to the north,
and was kindly tended here at the inn at Bannow; and he charged me, puir
lad, on his death-bed, if ever fate should quarter me in Bannow, to inquire
for his gude friends at the inn, and to return them his thanks; and so I'm
fain to do, and will not sleep till I've done so.--But tell me first, my
kind lassy,--for I see you are a kind lassy,--tell me, has not this house
had a change of fortune, and fallen to decay of late? for the inn at Bannow
was pictured to me as a bra' neat place.

_Biddy._ Ah! that was, may-be, the time the Larkens had it?

_Mr. H._ The Larkens!--that was the very name: it warms my heart to hear
the sound of it.

_Biddy._ Ay, and quite another sort of an inn this was, I hear talk,
in their time,--and quite another guess sort, the Larkens from these
Gallaghers.

_Mr. H._ And what has become of the Larkens, I pray?

_Biddy._ They are still living up yonder, by the bush of Bannow, in a snug
little place of a cabin--that is, the Widow Kelly.

_Mr. H._ Kelly!--but I am looking for Larken.

_Biddy._ Oh, Larken! that's Kelly: 'tis all one--she was a Kelly before she
was married, and in this country we stick to the maiden's name throughout.

_Mr. H._ The same in our country--often.

_Biddy._ Indeed! and her daughter's name is Mabel, after the Kellys; for
you might have noticed, if it ever happened your honour to hear it, an ould
song of Mabel Kelly--_Planxty_ Kelly. Then the present Mabel is as sweet a
cratur as ever the ould Mabel Kelly was--but I must mind the pratees. (_She
goes to lift a pot off the fire._)

_Mr. H._ Hold! my gude girl, let me do that for you; mine is a strong
haund.

_Biddy._ I thank your honour,--it's too much trouble entirely for a
jantleman like you; but it's always the best jantleman has the _laste_
pride.--Then them Kellys is a good race, ould and young, and I love 'em,
root and branch. Besides Mabel the daughter, there's Owen the son, and as
good a son he is--no better! He got an edication in the beginning, till
the troubles came across his family, and the boy, the child, for it's bare
fifteen he is this minute, give up all his hopes and prospects, the cratur!
to come home and slave for his mother.

_Mr. H._ Ah, that's weel--that's weel! I luve the lad that makes a gude
son.--And is the father _deed_?

_Biddy._ Ay, dead and deceased he is, long since, and was buried just upon
that time that ould Sir Cormac, father of the young heiress that is now at
the castle above, the former landlord that was over us, died, see!--Then
there was new times and new _takes_, and the widow was turned out of the
inn, and these Gallaghers got it, and all wint wrong and to rack; for Mrs.
Gallagher, that was, drank herself into her grave unknownst, for it was by
herself in private she took it; and Christy Gallagher, the present man, is
doing the same, only publicly, and running through all, and the house is
tumbling over our ears: but he hopes to get the new inn; and if he does,
why, he'll be lucky--and that's all I know, for the dinner is done now, and
I'm going in with it--and won't your honour walk up to the room now?

_Mr. H._ (_going to the ladder_) Up here?

_Biddy._ Oh, it's not _up_ at all, your honour, sure! but down
here--through this ways.

_Mr. H._ One word more, my gude lassy. As soon as we shall have all dined,
and you shall have ta'en your ane dinner, I shall beg of you, if you be not
then too much tired, to show me the way to that bush of Bannow, whereat
this Widow Larken's cottage is.

_Biddy._ With all the pleasure in life, if I had not a fut to stand upon.

[_Exit Mr. HOPE.--BIDDY follows with a dish smoking hot._

_Biddy._ And I hope you'll find it an iligant Scotch hash, and there's
innions plinty--sure the best I had I'd give you; for I'm confident now
he's the true thing--and tho' he is Scotch, he desarves to be Irish, every
inch of him.

[_Exit BIDDY DOYLE._

ACT II.

SCENE I.

_An Irish Cabin.--The Kitchen._

_Widow LARKEN. On one side of her, MABEL at needle-work; on the other side,
OWEN her son enters, bringing in a spinning-wheel, which he places before
his mother._

_Owen._ There, mother, is your wheel mended for you.

_Mabel._ Oh, as good as new, Owen has made it for you.

_Widow._ Well, whatever troubles come upon me in this world, have not I a
right to be thankful, that has such good childer left me?--Still it grieves
me, and goes to the quick of my heart, Mabel, dear, that your brother here
should be slaving for me, a boy that is qualified for better.

_Owen._ And what better can I be than working for my mother--man or boy?

_Mabel._ And if he thinks it no slavery, what slavery is it, mother?

_Owen._ Mother, to-day is the day to propose for the new inn--I saw several
with the schoolmaster, who was as busy as a bee, penning proposals for
them, according as they dictated, and framing letters and petitions for Sir
William Hamden and Miss O'Hara. Will you go up to the castle and speak,
mother?

_Widow._ No, no--I can't speak, Owen.

_Owen._ Here's the pen and ink-horn, and I'll sit me down, if you'd sooner
write than speak.

_Widow._ See, Owen, to settle your mind, I would not wish to get that inn.

_Owen._ Not wish to get it! The new inn, mother--but if you had gone over
it, as I have. 'Tis the very thing for you. Neat and compact as a nutshell;
not one of them grand inns, too great or the place, that never answers no
more than the hat that's too big for the head, and that always blows off.

_Widow._ No, dear, not the thing for me, now a widow, and your sister
Mabel--tho' 'tis not for me to say--such a likely, fine girl. I'd not be
happy to have her in a public-house--so many of all sorts that would be in
it, and drinking, may be, at fairs and funerals, and no man of the house,
nor master, nor father for her.

_Owen._ Sure, mother, I'm next to a father for her. Amn't I a brother? and
no brother ever loved a sister better, or was more jealous of respect for
her; and if you'd be pleasing, I could be man and master enough.

_Widow._ (_laughing_) You, ye dear slip of a boy!

_Owen._ (_proudly, and raising his head high_) Slip of a boy as I am, then,
and little as you think of me--

_Widow._ Oh! I think a great deal of you! only I can't think you big nor
old, Owen, can I?

_Owen._ No--nor any need to be big or old, to keep people of all sorts in
respect, mother.

_Widow._ Then he looked like his father--did not he, Mabel?

_Mabel._ He did--God bless him!

_Owen._ Now hear me, mother, for I'm going to speak sense. You need not
listen, Mabel.

_Mabel._ But it's what I like to listen to sense, especially yours, Owen.

_Owen._ Then I can't help it.--You must hear, even if you blush for it.

_Mabel._ Why would I blush?

_Owen._ Because you won't be able to help it, when I say Mr. Gilbert.--See!

_Mabel._ Oh, dear Owen! that's not fair. (_She falls back a little._)

_Owen._ Well, mother, it's with you I'm reasoning. If he was your
son-in-law--

_Widow._ Hush! that he'll never be. Now, Owen, I'll grow angry if you put
nonsense in the girl's head.

_Owen._ But if it's in the man's head, it's not a bit nonsense.

_Mabel._ Owen, you might well say I shouldn't listen to you.

[_Exit MABEL._

_Widow._ There now, you've drove your sister off.

_Owen._ Well, Gilbert will bring her on again, may be.

_Widow._ May be--but that _may be_ of yours might lead us all wrong.

[_She lays her hand on OWEN'S arm, and speaks in a serious tone._

_Widow._ Now, dear, don't be saying one word more to her, lest it should
end in a disappointment.

_Owen._ Still it is my notion, 'tis Mabel he loves.

_Widow._ Oh! what should you know, dear, o' the matter?

_Owen._ Only having eyes and ears like another.

_Widow._ Then what hinders him to speak?

_Owen._ It's bashfulness only, mother. Don't you know what that is?

_Widow._ I do, dear. It's a woman should know that best. And it is not
Mabel, nor a daughter of mine, nor a sister of yours, Owen, should be more
forward to understand than the man is to speak--was the man a prince.

_Owen._ Mother, you are right; but I'm not wrong neither. And since I'm to
say no more, I'm gone, mother.

[_Exit OWEN._

_Widow._ (_alone_) Now who could blame that boy, whatever he does or says?
It's all heart he is, and wouldn't hurt a fly, except from want of thought.
But, stay now, I'm thinking of them soldiers that is in town. (_Sighs_)
Then I didn't sleep since ever they come; but whenever I'd be sinking to
rest, starting, and fancying I heard the drum for Owen to go. (_A deep
groaning sigh._) Och! and then the apparition of Owen in regimentals was
afore me!

_Enter OWEN, dancing and singing,_

"Success to my brains, and success to my tongue!
Success to myself, that never was wrong!"

_Widow._ What is it? What ails the boy? Are ye mad, Owen?

_Owen._ (_capering, and snapping his fingers_) Ay, mad! mad with joy I am.
And it's joy I give you, and joy you'll give me, mother darling. The
new inn's yours, and no other's, and Gilbert is your own too, and no
other's--but Mabel's for life. And is not there joy enough for you, mother?

_Widow._ Joy!--Oh, too much! (_She sinks on a seat._)

_Owen._ I've been too sudden for her!

_Widow._ No, dear--not a bit, only just give me time--to feel it. And is it
true? And am I in no dream now? And where's Mabel, dear?

_Owen._ Gone to the well, and Gilbert with her. We met her, and he turned
off with her, and I come on to tell you, mother dear.

_Widow._ Make me clear and certain; for I'm slow and weak, dear. Who told
you all this good? and is it true?--And my child Mabel _mavourneen_!--Oh,
tell me again it's true.

_Owen._ True as life. But your lips is pale still, and you all in a
tremble. So lean on me, mother dear, and come out into God's open air, till
I see your spirit come back--and here's your bonnet, and we'll meet Mabel
and Gilbert, and we'll all go up to the castle to give thanks to the lady.

_Widow._ (_looking up to heaven_) Thanks! Oh, hav'n't I great reason to be
thankful, if ever widow had!

[_Exeunt, WIDOW leaning on OWEN._

SCENE II.

_An Apartment in Bannote Castle._

_Footmen bringing in Baskets of Flowers._

_Miss O'HARA and Sir WILLIAM HAMDEN._

_Clara._ Now, my dear uncle, I want to consult you.

_Sir W._ And welcome, my child. But if it is about flowers, you could not
consult a worse person, for I scarcely know a rose from a ----. What is
this you have here--a thistle?

_Clara._ Yes, sir; and that is the very thing I want your opinion about.

_Sir W._ Well, my dear, all I know about thistles, I think, is, that asses
love thistles--will that do?

_Clara._ Oh, no, sir--pray be serious, for I am in the greatest hurry to
settle how it is all to be. You know it is St. Patrick's day.

_Sir W._ Yes, and here is plenty of shamrock, I see.

_Clara._ Yes, here is the shamrock--the rose, the ever blowing rose--and
the thistle. And as we are to have Scotch, English, and Irish at our little
fete champetre this evening, don't you think it would be pretty to have the
tents hung with the rose, thistle, and shamrock joined?

_Sir W._ Very pretty, my dear: and I am glad there are to be tents,
otherwise a fete champetre in the month of March would give me the
rheumatism even to think of.

_Clara._ Oh, my dear sir, not at all. You will be snug and warm in the
green-house.

_Sir W._ Well, Clara, dispose of me as you please--I am entirely at your
service for the rest of my days.

_Clara._ Thank you, sir--you are the best of uncles, guardians, and
friends.

[_Miss O'HARA goes back and appears to be giving directions to the
servants._

_Sir W._ Uncle, nature made me--guardian, your father made me--friend, you
made me yourself, Clara. (_Sir WILLIAM comes forward, and speaks as if in
a reverie._) And ever more my friendship for her shall continue, though
my guardianship is over. I am glad I conquered my indolence, and came
to Ireland with her; for a cool English head will be wanting to guide
that warm Irish heart.--And here I stand counsel for prudence against
generosity!

_Clara._ (_advancing to him playfully_) A silver penny for your thoughts,
uncle.

_Sir W._ Shall I never teach you economy?--such extravagance! to give a
penny, and a silver penny, for what you may have for nothing.

_Clara._ Nothing can come of nothing--speak again.

_Sir W._ I was thinking of you, my--_ward_ no longer.

_Clara._ Ward always, pray, sir. Whatever I may be in the eye of the law, I
am not arrived at years of discretion yet, in my own opinion, nor in yours,
I suspect. So I pray you, uncle, let me still have the advantage of your
counsel and guidance.

_Sir W._ You ask for my advice, Clara. Now let me see whether you will take
it.

_Clara._ I am all attention.

_Sir W._ You know you must allow me a little prosing. You are an heiress,
Clara--a rich heiress--an Irish heiress. You desire to do good, don't you?

_Clara._ (_with eagerness_) With all my heart!--With all my soul!

_Sir W._ That is not enough, Clara. You must not only desire to do good,
you must know how to do it.

_Clara._ Since you, uncle, know that so well, you will teach it to me.

_Sir W._ Dear, flattering girl--but you shall not flatter me out of the
piece of advice I have ready for you. Promise me two things.

_Clara._ And first, for your first.

_Sir W._ _Finish whatever you begin._--Good beginnings, it is said, make
good endings, but great beginnings often make little endings, or, in this
country, no endings at all. _Finis coronat opta_--and that crown is wanting
wherever I turn my eyes. Of the hundred magnificent things your munificent
father began--

_Clara._ (_interrupting_) Oh, sir, spare my father!--I promise you that _I_
will finish whatever I begin. What's your next command?

_Sir W._ Promise me that you will never make a promise to a tenant, nor any
agreement about business, but in writing--and empower me to say that you
will never keep any verbal promise about business--then, none such will
ever be claimed.

_Clara._ I promise you--Stay!--this is a promise about business: I must
give it to you in writing.

[_Miss O'HARA sits down to a writing-table, and writes._

_Sir W._ (_looking out of the window_) I hope I have been early enough in
giving this my second piece of advice, worth a hundred sequins--for I see
the yard is crowded with gray-coated suitors, and the table here is already
covered with letters and petitions.

_Clara._ Yes, uncle, but I have not read half of them yet.

[_Presents the written promise to Sir WILLIAM._

_Sir W._ Thank you, my dear; and you will be thankful to me for this when I
am dead and gone.

_Clara._ And whilst you are alive and here, if you please, uncle. Now, sir,
since you are so kind to say that your time is at my disposal, will you
have the goodness to come with me to these gray-coated suitors, and let us
give answers to these poor petitioners, who, "as in duty bound, will ever
pray."

[_Takes up a bundle of papers._

_Sir W._ (_taking a letter from his pocket_) First, my dear niece, I must
add to the number. I have a little business. A petition to present from a
_protege_ of mine.

_Clara._ A protege of yours!--Then it is granted, whatever it be.

_Sir W._ (_smiling_) Recollect your promise, Clara.

_Clara._ Oh, true--it must be in writing.

[_She goes hastily to the writing-table, and takes up a pen._

_Sir W._ Read before you write, my dear--I insist upon it.

_Clara._ Oh, sir, when it is a request of yours, how can I
grant it soon enough? But it shall be done in the way you like
best--slowly--deliberately--(_opening the letter_)--in minuet time. And
I will look before I leap--and I'll read before I write. (_She reads the
signature._) Gilbert! Honest Gilbert, how glad I shall be to do any thing
for you, independently of your master! (_Reads on, suddenly lets the letter
drop, and clasps her hands._) Sir--Uncle, my dear uncle, how unfortunate I
am! Why did, not you ask me an hour ago?--Within this hour I have promised
the new inn to another person.

_Sir W._ Indeed!--that is unfortunate. My poor Gilbert will be sadly
disappointed.

_Clara._ How vexed I am! But I never should have thought of Gilbert for the
inn: I fancied he disliked Ireland so much that he would never have settled
here.

_Sir W._ So thought I till this morning. But love, my dear--love is lord of
all. Poor Gilbert!

_Clara._ Poor Gilbert!--I am so sorry I did not know this sooner. Of all
people, I should for my own part have preferred Gilbert for the inn, he
would have kept it so well.

_Sir W._ He would so. (_Sighs._)

_Clara._ I do so blame myself--I have been so precipitate, so foolish, so
wrong--without consulting you even.

_Sir W._ Nay, my dear, I have been as wrong, as foolish, as precipitate
as you; for before I consulted you, I told Gilbert that I could almost
_promise_ that he should have the inn in consequence of my recommendation.
And upon the strength of that _almost_ he is gone a courting. My dear, we
are both a couple of fools; but I am an old--you are a young one. There is
a wide difference--let that comfort you.

_Clara._ Oh, sir, nothing comforts me, I am so provoked with myself; and
you will be so provoked with me, when I tell you how silly I have been.

_Sir W._ Pray tell me.

_Clara._ Would you believe that I have literally given it for a song? A man
sent me this morning a copy of verses to the heiress of Bannow. The verses
struck my fancy--I suppose because they flattered me; and with the verses
came a petition setting forth claims, and a tenant's right, and fair
promises, and a proposal for the new inn; and at the bottom of the paper I
rashly wrote these words--"_The poet's petition is granted._"

_Sir W._ A promise in writing, too!--My dear Clara, I cannot flatter
you--this certainly is not a wise transaction. So, to reward a poet, you
made him an innkeeper. Well, I have known wiser heads, to reward a poet,
make him an exciseman.

_Clara._ But, sir, I am not quite so silly as they were, for I did not
_make_ the poet an innkeeper--he is one already.

_Sir W._ An innkeeper already!--Whom do you mean?

_Clara._ A man with a strange name--or a name that will sound strange to
your English ears--Christy Gallagher.

_Sir W._ A rogue and a drunken dog, I understand: but he is a poet, and
knows how to flatter the heiress of Bannow.

_Clara._ (_striking her forehead_) Silly, silly Clara!

_Sir W._ (_changing his tone from irony to kindness_) Come, my dear Clara,
I will not torment you any more. You deserve to have done a great deal
of mischief by your precipitation; but I believe this time you have done
little or none, at least none that is irremediable; and you have made
Gilbert happy, I hope and believe, though without intending it.

_Clara._ My dear uncle--you set my heart at ease--but explain.

_Sir W._ Then, my dear, I shrewdly suspect that the daughter of this
Christy _What-do-you-call-him_ is the lady of Gilbert's thoughts.

_Clara._ I see it all in an instant. That's delightful! We can pension off
the drunken old father, and Gilbert and the daughter will keep the inn.
Gilbert is in the green-house, preparing the coloured lamps--let us go and
speak to him this minute, and settle it all.

_Sir W._ Speak to him of his loves? Oh, my dear, you'd kill him on the
spot! He is so bashful, he'd blush to death.

_Clara._ Well, sir, do you go alone, and I will keep far, far aloof.

[_Exeunt at opposite sides._

SCENE III.

_Parlour of the Inn._

_CHRISTY and Miss GALLAGHER._

_Christy._ (_to Miss GALLAGHER, slapping her on her back_) Hould up your
head, child; there's money bid for you.

_Miss G._ Lord, father, what a thump on the back to salute one with. Well,
sir, and if money is bid for me, no wonder: I suppose, it's because I have
money.

_Christy._ That's all the rason--you've hit it, Florry. It's money that
love always looks for now. So you may be proud to larn the news I have for
you, which will fix Mr. Gilbert, your bachelor, for life, I'll engage--and
make him speak out, you'll see, afore night-fall. We have the new inn,
dear!--I've got the promise here under her own hand-writing.

_Miss G._ Indeed!--Well, I'm sure I shall be glad to get out of this hole,
which is not fit for a rat or a Christian to live in--and I'll have my
music and my piano in the back parlour, genteel.

_Christy._ Oh! Ferrinafad, are you there? It's your husband must go to that
expinse, my precious, if he chooses, _twingling_ and _tweedling_, instead
of the puddings and apple pies--that you'll settle betwix yees; and in the
honeymoon, no doubt, you've cunning enough to compass that, and more.

_Miss G._ To be sure, sir, and before I come to the honeymoon, I promise
you; for I won't become part or parcel of any man that ever wore a head,
except he's music in his soul enough to allow me my piano in the back
parlour.

_Christy._ Asy! asy! Ferrinafad--don't be talking about the piano-forte,
till you are married. Don't be showing the halter too soon to the shy
horse--it's with the sieve of oats you'll catch him; and his head once in
the sieve, you have the halter on him clane. Pray, after all, tell me,
Florry, the truth--did Mr. Gilbert ever ax you?

_Miss G._ La, sir, what a coarse question. His eyes have said as much a
million of times.

_Christy._ That's good--but not in law, dear. For, see, you could not
_shue_ a man in the four courts for a breach of promise made only with the
eyes, jewel. It must be with the tongue afore witness, mind, or under the
hand, sale, or mark--look to that.

_Miss G._ But, dear sir, Mr. Gilbert is so tongue-tied with that English
bashfulness.

_Christy._ Then Irish impudence must cut the string of that tongue, Florry.
Lave that to me, unless you'd rather yourself.

_Miss G._ Lord, sir--what a rout about one man, when, if I please, I might
have a dozen lovers.

_Christy._ Be the same more or less. But one rich bachelor's worth a dozen
poor, that is, for the article of a husband.

_Miss G._ And I dare say the drum-major is rich enough, sir--for all
Scotchmen, they say, is fond of money and _a_conomie; and I'd rather after
all be the lady of a military man. (_Sings._)

"I'll live no more at home,
But I'll follow with the drum,
And I'll be the captain's lady, oh!"

_Christy._ Florry! Florry! mind you would not fall between two stools, and
nobody to pity you.

_Enter BIDDY._

_Miss G._ Well, what is it?

_Biddy._ The bed. I was seeing was the room empty, that I might make it;
for it's only turned up it is, when I was called off to send in dinner.
So I believe I'd best make it now, for the room will be wanting for the
tea-drinking, and what not.

_Miss G._ Ay, make the bed do, sure it's asy, and no more about it;--you've
talked enough about it to make twinty beds, one harder nor the other,--if
talk would do. (_BIDDY goes to make the bed._) And I'm sure there's not a
girl in the parish does less in the day, for all the talk you keep. Now
I'll just tell all you didn't do, that you ought this day, Biddy.

[_While Miss GALLAGHER is speaking to BIDDY, Mr. GALLAGHER opens a press,
pours out, and swallows a dram._

_Christy._ Oh, that would be too long telling, Florry, and that'll keep
cool. Lave her now, and you may take your scould out another time. I want
to spake to you. What's this I wanted to say? My memory's confusing itself.
Oh, this was it--I didn't till you how I got this promise of the inn: I did
it nately--I got it for a song.

_Miss G._ You're joking,--and I believe, sir, you're not over and above
sober. There's a terrible strong smell of the whiskey.

_Christy._ No, the whiskey's not strong, dear, at-all-at-all!--You may
keep smelling what way you plase, but I'm as sober as a judge, still,--and,
drunk or sober, always knows and knewed on which side my bread was
buttered:--got it for a song, I tell you--a bit of a complimentary,
adulatory scroll, that the young lady fancied--and she, slap-dash, Lord
love her, and keep her always so! writes at the bottom, _granted the poet's
petition_.

_Miss G._ And where on earth, then, did you get that song?

_Christy._ Where but in my brains should I get it? I could do that much any
way, I suppose, though it was not my luck to be edicated at Ferrinafad.

[_Miss GALLAGHER looks back, and sees BIDDY behind her.--Miss GALLAGHER
gives her a box on the ear._

_Miss G._ Manners! that's to teach ye.

_Biddy._ Manners!--Where would I larn them--when I was only waiting the
right time to ax you what I'd do for a clane pillow-case?

_Miss G._ Why, turn that you have inside out, and no more about it.

_Christy._ And turn yourself out of this, if you plase. (_He turns BIDDY
out by the shoulders._) Let me hear you singing _Baltiorum_ in the kitchen,
for security that you're not hearing my sacrets. There, she's singing it
now, and we're snug;--tell me when she stops, and I'll stop myself.

_Miss G._ Then there's the girl has ceased singing. There's somebody's come
in, into the kitchen; may be it's the drum-major. I'll go and see.

[_Exit Miss GALLAGHER._

_CHRISTY, solus._

There she's off now! And I must after her, else she'll spoil her market,
and my own. But look ye, now--if I shouldn't find her agreeable to marry
this Mr. Gilbert, the man I've laid out for her, why here's a good stick
that will bring her to rason in the last resort; for there's no other way
of rasoning with Ferrinafad.

[_Exit CHRISTY._

SCENE IV.

_The Garden of the Widow LARKEN'S Cottage._

_OWEN and MABEL._

_Owen._ How does my mother bear the disappointment, Mabel about the inn?

_Mabel._ Then to outward appearance she did not take it so much to heart
as I expected she would. But I'm sure she frets inwardly--because she had
been in such hopes, and in such spirits, and so proud to think how well her
children would all be settled.

_Owen._ Oh, how sorry I am I told her in that hurry the good news I heard,
and all to disappoint her afterwards, and break her heart with it!

_Mabel._ No, she has too good a heart to break for the likes. She'll hold
up again after the first disappointment--she'll struggle on for our sakes,
Owen.

_Owen._ She will: but Mabel dearest, what do you think of Gilbert?

_Mabel._ (_turning away_) I strive not to think of him at all.

_Owen._ But sure I was not wrong there--he told me as much as that he loved
you.

_Mabel._ Then he never told me that much.

_Owen._ No! What, not when he walked with you to the well?

_Mabel._ No. What made you think he did?

_Owen._ Why, the words he said about you when he met me, was--where's your
sister Mabel? Gone to the well, Gilbert, says I. And do you think a man
that has a question to ask her might make bold to step after her? says he.
Such a man as you--why not? says I. Then he stood still, and twirled a rose
he held in his hand, and he said nothing, and I no more, till he stooped
down, and from the grass where we stood pulled a sprig of clover. Is not
this what _you_ call shamrock? says he. It is, says I. Then he puts the
shamrock along with the rose--How would _that_ do? says he.

_Mabel._ Did he say that, Owen?

_Owen._ Yes, or how would they look together? or, would they do together?
or some words that way; I can't be particular to the word--you know, he
speaks different from us; but that surely was the sense; and I minded too,
he blushed up to the roots, and I pitied him, and answered--

_Mabel._ Oh, what did you answer?

_Owen._ I answered and said, I thought they'd do very well together; and
that it was good when the Irish shamrock and the English rose was united.

_Mabel._ (_hiding her face with her hands_) Oh, Owen, that was too plain.

_Owen._ Plain! Not at all--it was not. It's only your tenderness makes you
feel it too plain--for, listen to me, Mabel. (_Taking her hand from her
face._) Sure, if it had any meaning particular, it's as strong for Miss
Gallagher as for any body else.

_Mabel._ That's true:--and may be it was that way he took it,--and may be
it was her he was thinking of--

_Owen._ When he asked me for you? But I'll not mislead you--I'll
say nothing; for it was a shame he did not speak out, after all the
encouragement he got from me.

_Mabel._ Then did he get encouragement from you?

_Owen._ That is--(_smiling_)--taking it the other way, he might understand
it so, if he had any conscience. Come now, Mabel, when he went to the well,
what did he say to you? for I am sure he said something.

_Mabel._ Then he said nothing--but just put the rose and shamrock into my
hand.

_Owen._ Oh! did he?--And what did you say?

_Mabel._ I said nothing.--What could I say?

_Omen._ I wish I'd been with you, Mabel.

_Mabel._ I'm glad you were not, Owen.

_Owen._ Well, what did he say next?

_Mabel._ I tell you he said nothing, but cleared his throat and hemmed, as
he does often.

_Owen._ What, all the way to the well and back, nothing but hem, and clear
his throat?

_Mabel._ Nothing in life.

_Owen._ Why, then, the man's a fool or a rogue.

_Mabel._ Oh, don't say that, any way. But there's my mother coming in from
the field. How weak she walks! I must go in to bear her company spinning.

_Owen._ And I'll be in by the time I've settled all here.

[_Exit MABEL._

_OWEN, solus._

Oh! I know how keenly Mabel feels all, tho' she speaks so mild. Then I'm
cut to the heart by this behaviour of Gilbert's:--sure he could not be so
cruel to be jesting with her!--he's an Englishman, and may be he thinks no
harm to jilt an Irishwoman. But I'll show him--but then if he never asked
her the question, how can we say any thing?--Oh! the thing is, he's a snug
man, and money's at the bottom of all,--and since Christy's to have the new
inn, and Miss Gallagher has the money!--Well, it's all over, and I don't
know what will become of me.

_Enter Mr. ANDREW HOPE._

_Mr. H._ My gude lad, may your name be Larken?

_Owen._ It is, sir--Owen Larken, at your service--the son of the widow
Larken.

_Mrs. H._ Then I have to thank your family for their goodness to my puir
brother, years ago. And for yourself, your friend, Mr. Christy Gallagher,
has been telling me you can play the bugle?

_Owen._ I can, sir.

_Mr. H._ And we want a bugle, and the _pay's_ fifteen guineas; and I'd
sooner give it to you than three others that has applied, if you'll list.

_Owen._ Fifteen guineas! Oh! if I could send that money home to my mother!
but I must ask her consint. Sir, she lives convanient, just in this cabin
here--would you be pleased to step in with me, and I'll ask her consint.

_Mr. H._ That's right,--lead on, my douce lad--you ken the way.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE V.

_Kitchen of the Widow LAKKEN'S Cottage._

_A Door is seen open, into an inner Room._

_MABEL, alone, (Sitting near the door of the inner room, spinning and
singing_[1].)

[Footnote 1: This song is set to music by Mr. Webbe.]

Sleep, mother, sleep! in slumber blest,
It joys my heart to see thee rest.
Unfelt in sleep thy load of sorrow;
Breathe free and thoughtless of to-morrow;
And long, and light, thy slumbers last,
In happy dreams forget the past.
Sleep, mother, sleep! thy slumber's blest;
It joys my heart to see thee rest.

Many's the night she wak'd for me,
To nurse my helpless infancy:
While cradled on her patient arm,
She hush'd me with a mother's charm.
Sleep, mother, sleep! thy slumber's blest;
It joys my heart to see thee rest.

And be it mine to soothe thy age,
With tender care thy grief assuage,
This hope is left to poorest poor,
And richest child can do no more.
Sleep, mother, sleep! thy slumber's blest;
It joys my heart to see thee rest.

_While MABEL is singing the second stanza, OWEN and ANDREW HOPE enter. Mr.
HOPE stops short, and listens: he makes a sign to OWEN to stand still, and
not to interrupt MABEL--while OWEN approaches her on tiptoe._

_Mr. H._ (_aside_) She taks my fancy back to dear Scotland, to my ain hame,
and my ain mither, and my ain Kate.

_Owen._ So Mabel! I thought you never sung for strangers?

[_MABEL turns and sees Mr. HOPE--She rises and curtsies._

_Mr. H._ (_advancing softly_) I fear to disturb the mother, whose slumbers
are so blest, and I'd fain hear that lullaby again. If the voice stop, the
mother may miss it, and wake.

_Mabel._ (_looking into the room in which her mother sleeps, then closing
the door gently_) No, sir,--she'll not miss my voice now, I thank you--she
is quite sound asleep.

_Owen._ This is Mr. Andrew Hope, Mabel--you might remember one of his name,
a Serjeant Hope.

_Mabel._ Ah! I mind--he that was sick with us, some time back.

_Mr. H._ Ay, my brother that's dead, and that your gude mither was so
tender of, when sick, charged me to thank you all, and so from my soul I
do.

_Mabel._ 'Twas little my poor mother could do, nor any of us for him, even
then, though we could do more then than we could now, and I'm glad he
chanced to be with us in our better days.

_Mr. H._ And I'm sorry you ever fell upon worse days, for you deserve the
best; and will have such again, I trust. All I can say is this--that gif
your brother here gangs with me, he shall find a brother's care through
life fra' me.

_Owen._ I wouldn't doubt you; and that you know, Mabel, would be a great
point, to have a friend secure in the regiment, if I thought of going.

_Mabel._ _If!_--Oh! what are you thinking of, Owen? What is it you're
talking of going? (_Turning towards the door of her mother's room
suddenly._) Take care, but she'd wake and hear you, and she'd never sleep
easy again.

_Owen._ And do you think so?

_Mabel._ Do I think so? Am not I sure of it? and you too, Owen, if you'd
take time to think and feel.

_Owen._ Why there's no doubt but it's hard, when the mother has reared the
son, for him to quit her as soon as he can go alone; but it is what I was
thinking: it is only the militia, you know, and I'd not be going out of the
three kingdoms ever at all; and I could be sending money home to my mother,
like Johnny Reel did to his.

_Mabel._ Money is it? Then there's no money you could send her--not the
full of Lough Erne itself, in golden guineas, could make her amends for the
loss of yourself, Owen, and you know that.

_Mr. H._ And I am not the man that would entice you to list, or gang with
me, in contradiction to your duty at home, or your interest abroad: so
(_turning to_ MABEL) do not look on me as the tempter to evil, nor with
distrust, as you do, kind sister as you are, and like my own Kate; but hear
me coolly, and without prejudice, for it is his gude I wish.

_Mabel._ I am listening then, and I ask your pardon if I looked a doubt.

_Mr. H._ The gude mother must wish, above all things here below, the weal
and _advancement_ and the honour of her bairns; and she would not let the
son be tied to her apron-strings, for any use or profit to herself, but
ever wish him to do the best in life for his sel'. Is not this truth, gude
friends--plain truth?

_Mabel._ It is then--I own that: truth and sense too.

_Owen._ Now see there, Mabel.

_Mr. H._ And better for him to do something abroad than digging at home;
and in the army he might get on,--and here's the bugle-boy's pay.

_Mabel._ Is it a bugle-boy you are thinking of making him?

_Mr. H._ That's the only thing I could make him. I wish I could offer
better.

_Mabel._ Then, I thank you, sir, and I wouldn't doubt ye--and it would be
very well for a common boy that could only dig; but my brother's no common
boy, sir.

_Owen._ Oh, Mabel!

_Mabel._ Hush, Owen! for it's the truth I'm telling, and if to your face I
can't help it. You may hide the face, but I won't hide the truth.

_Mr. H._ Then speak on, my warm-hearted lassy, speak on.

_Mabel._ Then, sir, he got an edication while ever my poor father lived,
and no better scholar, they said, for the teaching he got:--but all was
given over when the father died, and the troubles came, and Owen, as he
ought, give himself up intirely for my mother, to help her, a widow. But
it's not digging and slaving he is to be always:--it's with the head, as my
father used to say, he'll make more than the hands; and we hope to get a
clerk's place for him sometime, or there will be a schoolmaster wanting in
this town, and that will be what he would be fit for; and not--but it's not
civil, before you, a soldier, sir, to say the rest.

_Mr. H._ Fear not, you will not give offence.

_Mabel._ And not to be spending his breath blowing through a horn all his
days, for the sake of wearing a fine red coat. I beg your pardon again,
sir, if I say too much--but it's to save my brother and my mother.

_Mr. H._ I like you the better for all you've said for both.

_Owen._ And I'm off entirel