‘Gone! for ever gone from me!’ said Lord Colambre to himself, as the
carriage drove away. ‘Never shall I see her more—never WILL I see her
more, till she is married.’
Lord Colambre went to his own room, locked the door, and was relieved
in some degree by the sense of privacy; by the feeling that he could
now indulge his reflections undisturbed. He had consolation—he had
done what was honourable—he had transgressed no duty, abandoned no
principle—he had not injured the happiness of any human being—he had
not, to gratify himself, hazarded the peace of the woman he loved—he
had not sought to win her heart. Of her innocent, her warm, susceptible
heart, he might perhaps have robbed her—he knew it—but he had left it
untouched, he hoped entire, in her own power, to bless with it hereafter
some man worthy of her. In the hope that she might be happy, Lord
Colambre felt relief; and in the consciousness that he had made his
parents happy, he rejoiced. But, as soon as his mind turned that way
for consolation, came the bitter concomitant reflection, that his mother
must be disappointed in her hopes of his accompanying her home, and of
his living with her in Ireland; she would be miserable when she should
hear that he was going abroad into the army—and yet it must be so—and
he must write, and tell her so. ‘The sooner this difficulty is off my
mind, the sooner this painful letter is written, the better,’ thought
he. ‘It must be done—I will do it immediately.’
He snatched up his pen, and began a letter.
My dear mother—Miss Nugent—’
He was interrupted by a knock at his door.
‘A gentleman below, my lord,’ said a servant, ‘who wishes to see you.’
I cannot see any gentleman. Did you say I was at home?’
‘No, my lord; I said you was not at home; for I thought you would not
choose to be at home, and your own man was not in the way for me to
ask—so I denied you; but the gentleman would not be denied; he said
I must come and see if you was at home. So, as he spoke as if he was
a gentleman not used to be denied, I thought it might be somebody of
consequence, and I showed him into the front drawing-room. I think he
said he was sure you’d be at home for a friend from Ireland.’
‘A friend from Ireland! Why did not you tell me that sooner?’ said Lord
Colambre, rising, and running downstairs. ‘Sir James Brooke, I daresay.’
No, not Sir James Brooke; but one he was almost as glad to see—Count
O’Halloran!
‘My dear count! the greater pleasure for being unexpected.’
‘I came to London but yesterday,’ said the count; ‘but I could not be
here a day, without doing myself the honour of paying my respects to
Lord Colambre.’
‘You do me not only honour, but pleasure, my dear count. People when
they like one another, always find each other out, and contrive to meet
even in London.’
‘You are too polite to ask what brought such a superannuated militaire
as I am,’ said the count, ‘from his retirement into this gay world
again. A relation of mine, who is one of our Ministry, knew that I
had some maps, and plans, and charts, which might be serviceable in an
expedition they are planning. I might have trusted my charts across
the channel, without coming myself to convoy them, you will say. But
my relation fancied—young relations, you know, if they are good for
anything, are apt to overvalue the heads of old relations—fancied that
mine was worth bringing all the way from Halloran Castle to London, to
consult with TETE-A-TETE. So you know, when this was signified to me by
a letter from the secretary in office, PRIVATE, MOST CONFIDENTIAL, what
could I do, but do myself the honour to obey? For though honour’s voice
cannot provoke the silent dust, yet “flattery soothes the dull cold ear
of AGE.”—But enough, and too much of myself,’ said the count: ‘tell
me, my dear lord, something of yourself. I do not think England seems to
agree with you so well as Ireland; for, excuse me, in point of health,
you don’t look like the same man I saw some weeks ago.’
‘My mind has been ill at ease of late,’ said Lord Colambre.
‘Ay, there’s the thing! The body pays for the mind—but those who
have feeling minds, pain and pleasure altogether computed, have the
advantage; or at least they think so; for they would not change with
those who have them not, were they to gain by the bargain the most
robust body that the most selfish coxcomb, or the heaviest dunce extant,
ever boasted. For instance, would you now, my lord, at this moment
change altogether with Major Benson, or Captain Williamson, or even our
friend, ‘Eh, really now, “pon honour”—would you!—I’m glad to see you
smile.’
‘I thank you for making me smile, for I assure you I want it. I wish—if
you would not think me encroaching upon your politeness and kindness in
honouring me with this visit—You see,’ continued he, opening the doors
of the back drawing-room, and pointing to large packages—’you see we
are all preparing for a march; my mother has left town half an hour
ago—my father engaged to dine abroad—only I at home—and, in this
state of confusion, could I even venture to ask Count O’Halloran to
stay and dine with me, without being able to offer him Irish ortolans or
Irish plums—in short, will you let me rob you of two or three hours
of your time? I am anxious to have your opinion on a subject of some
importance to me, and on one where you are peculiarly qualified to judge
and decide for me.’
‘My dear lord, frankly, I have nothing half so good or so agreeable to
do with my time; command my hours. I have already told you how much it
flatters me to be consulted by the most helpless clerk in office; how
much more about the private concerns of an enlightened young—friend,
will Lord Colambre permit me to say? I hope so; for though the length of
our acquaintance might not justify the word, yet regard and intimacy are
not always in proportion to the time people have known each other, but
to their mutual perception of certain attaching qualities, a certain
similarity and suitableness of character.’
The good count, seeing that Lord Colambre was in much distress of
mind, did all he could to soothe him by kindness; far from making any
difficulty about giving up a few hours of his time, he seemed to have
no other object in London, and no purpose in life, but to attend to our
hero. To put him at ease, and to give him time to recover and arrange
his thoughts, the count talked of indifferent subjects.
‘I think I heard you mention the name of Sir James Brooke.’
‘Yes, I expected to have seen him when the servant first mentioned a
friend from Ireland; because Sir James had told me that, as soon as he
could get leave of absence, he would come to England.’
‘He is come; is now at his estate is Huntingdonshire; doing, what do
you think? I will give you a leading hint; recollect the seal which
the little De Cresey put into your hands the day you dined at Oranmore.
Faithful to his motto, “Deeds not words,” he is this instant, I believe,
at deeds, title-deeds; making out marriage settlements, getting ready to
put his seal to the happy articles.’
‘Happy man! I give him joy,’ said Lord Colambre; ‘happy man! going to be
married to such a woman—daughter of such a mother.’
‘Daughter of such a mother! That is indeed a great addition and a great
security to his happiness,’ said the count. ‘Such a family to marry
into; good from generation to generation; illustrious by character
as well as by genealogy; “all the sons brave, and all the daughters
chaste.”‘—Lord Colambre with difficulty repressed his feelings.—’if I
could choose, I would rather that a woman I loved were of such a family
than that she had for her dower the mines of Peru.’
‘So would I,’ cried Lord Colambre.
‘I am glad to hear you say so, my lord, and with such energy; so few
young men of the present day look to what I call good connexion. In
marrying, a man does not, to be sure, marry his wife’s mother; and yet
a prudent man, when he begins to think of the daughter, would look sharp
at the mother; ay, and back to the grandmother too, and along the whole
female line of ancestry.’
‘True—most true—he ought he must.’
‘And I have a notion,’ said the count, smiling, ‘your lordship’s
practice has been conformable to your theory.’
‘I!—mine!’ said Lord Colambre, starling, and looking at the count with
surprise.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said the count; ‘I did not intend to surprise your
confidence. But you forget that I was present, and saw the impression
which was made on your mind by a mother’s want of a proper sense of
delicacy and propriety—Lady Dashfort.’
‘Oh, Lady Dashfort! she was quite out of my head.’
‘And Lady Isabel?—I hope she is quite out of your heart.’
‘She never was in it,’ said Lord Colambre.
‘Only laid siege to it,’ said the count. ‘Well, I am glad your heart did
not surrender at discretion, or rather without discretion. Then I may
tell you, without fear or preface, that the Lady Isabel, who “talks
of refinement, delicacy, sense,” is going to stoop at once, and
marry—Heathcock.’
Lord Colambre was not surprised, but concerned and disgusted, as he
always felt, even when he did not care for the individual, from hearing
anything which tended to lower the female sex in public estimation.
‘As to myself,’ said he, ‘I cannot say I have had an escape, for I don’t
think I ever was in much danger.’
‘It is difficult to measure danger when it is over—past danger, like
past pain, is soon forgotten,’ said the old general. ‘At all events, I
rejoice in your present safety.’
‘But is she really going to be married to Heathcock?’ said Lord
Colambre.
‘Positively; they all came over in the same packet with me, and they are
all in town now, buying jewels, and equipages, and horses. Heathcock,
you know, is as good as another man, A PEU PRES, for all those purposes;
his father is dead, and left him a large estate. QUE VOULEZ VOUS? as the
French valet said to me on the occasion. C’EST QUE MONSIEUR EST UN HOMME
DE BIEN: IL A DES BIENS, A CE QU’ON DIT.’
Lord Colambre could not help smiling. ‘How they got Heathcock to fall
in love is what puzzles me,’ said his lordship. ‘I should as soon have
thought of an oyster’s falling in love as that being!’
‘I own I should have sooner thought,’ replied the count, ‘Of his falling
in love with an oyster; and so would you, if you had seen him, as I did,
devouring oysters on shipboard.
‘Say, can the lovely HEROINE hope to vie With a fat turtle or a ven’son
pie?
But that is not our affair; let the Lady Isabel look to it.’
Dinner was announced; and no farther conversation of any consequence
passed between the count and Lord Colambre till the cloth was removed
and the servants had withdrawn. Then our hero opened on the subject
which was heavy at his heart.
‘My dear count—to go back to the BURIAL PLACE OF THE NUGENTS, where my
head was lost the first time I had the pleasure of seeing you—you know,
or, possibly,’ said he, smiling, ‘you do not know, that I have a cousin
of the name of Nugent?’
‘You told me,’ replied the count, ‘that you had near relations of that
name; but I do not recollect that you mentioned any one in particular.’
‘I never named Miss Nugent to you. No! it is not easy to me to talk of
her, and impossible to me to describe her. If you had come one half-hour
sooner this morning, you would have seen her: I know she is exactly
suited to your excellent taste. But it is not at first sight she pleases
most; she gains upon the affections, attaches the heart, and unfolds
upon the judgment. In temper, manners, and good sense, in every quality
a man can or should desire in a wife, I never saw her equal. Yet, there
is an obstacle, an invincible obstacle, the nature of which I cannot
explain to you, that forbids me to think of her as a wife. She lives
with my father and mother: they are returning to Ireland, I wished,
earnestly wished, on many accounts, to have accompanied them, chiefly on
my mother’s; but it cannot be. The first thing a man must do is to act
honourably; and, that he may do so, he must keep out of the way of a
temptation which he believes to be above his strength. I will never see
Miss Nugent again till she is married; I must either stay in England,
or go abroad. I have a mind to serve a campaign or two, if I could get
a commission in a regiment going to Spain; but I understand so many
are eager to go at this moment, that it is very difficult to get a
commission in such a regiment.’
‘It is difficult,’ said the count. ‘But,’ added he, after thinking for
a moment, ‘I have it! I can get the thing done for you, and directly.
Major Benson, in consequence of that affair, you know, about his
mistress, is forced to quit the regiment. When the lieutenant-colonel
came to quarters, and the rest of the officers heard the fact, they
would not keep company with Benson, and would not mess with him. I know
he wants to sell out; and that regiment is to be ordered immediately to
Spain. I will have the thing done for you, if you request it.’
‘First, give me your advice, Count O’Halloran; you are well acquainted
with the military profession, with military life. Would you advise me—I
won’t speak of myself, because we judge better by general views than by
particular cases—would you advise a young man at present to go into the
army?’
The count was silent for a few minutes, and then replied: ‘Since
you seriously ask my opinion, my lord, I must lay aside my own
prepossessions, and endeavour to speak with impartiality. To go into the
army in these days, my lord, is, in my sober opinion, the most absurd
and base, or the wisest and noblest thing a young man can do. To enter
into the army, with the hope of escaping from the application necessary
to acquire knowledge, letters, and science—I run no risk, my lord, in
saying this to you—to go into the army, with the hope of escaping from
knowledge, letters, science, and morality; to wear a red coat and an
epaulette; to be called captain; to figure at a ball; to lounge away
time in country sports, at country quarters, was never, even in times
of peace, creditable; but it is now absurd and base. Submitting to a
certain portion of ennui and contempt, this mode of life for an officer
was formerly practicable—but now cannot be submitted to without utter,
irremediable disgrace. Officers are now, in general, men of education
and information; want of knowledge, sense, manners, must consequently be
immediately detected, ridiculed, and despised in a military man. Of this
we have not long since seen lamentable examples in the raw officers who
have lately disgraced themselves in my neighbourhood in Ireland—that
Major Benson and Captain Williamson. But I will not advert to such
insignificant individuals, such are rare exceptions—I leave them out of
the question—I reason on general principles. The life of an officer is
not now a life of parade, of coxcombical, or of profligate idleness—but
of active service, of continual hardship and danger. All the
descriptions which we see in ancient history of a soldier’s
life—descriptions which, in times of peace, appeared like romance—are
now realised; military exploits fill every day’s newspapers, every day’s
conversation. A martial spirit is now essential to the liberty and
the existence of our own country. In the present state of things,
the military must be the most honourable profession, because the most
useful. Every movement of an army is followed, wherever it goes, by the
public hopes and fears. Every officer must now feel, besides this sense
of collective importance, a belief that his only dependence must be on
his own merit and thus his ambition, his enthusiasm, are raised; and
when once this noble ardour is kindled in the breast, it excites to
exertion, and supports under endurance. But I forget myself,’ said the
count, checking his enthusiasm; ‘I promised to speak soberly. If I have
said too much, your own good sense, my lord, will correct me, and your
good-nature will forgive the prolixity of an old man, touched upon his
favourite subject—the passion of his youth.’
Lord Colambre, of course, assured the count that he was not tired.
Indeed, the enthusiasm with which this old officer spoke of his
profession, and the high point of view in which he placed it, increased
our hero’s desire to serve a campaign abroad. Good sense, politeness,
and experience of the world preserved Count O’Halloran from that foible
with which old officers are commonly reproached, of talking continually
of their own military exploits. Though retired from the world, he had
contrived, by reading the best books, and corresponding with persons of
good information, to keep up with the current of modern affairs; and he
seldom spoke of those in which he had been formerly engaged. He rather
too studiously avoided speaking of himself; and this fear of egotism
diminished the peculiar interest he might have inspired: it disappointed
curiosity, and deprived those with whom he conversed of many
entertaining and instructive anecdotes. However, he sometimes made
exceptions to his general rule in favour of persons who peculiarly
pleased him, and Lord Colambre was of this number.
He this evening, for the first time, spoke to his lordship of the years
he had spent in the Austrian service; told him anecdotes of the emperor;
spoke of many distinguished public characters whom he had known abroad;
of those officers who had been his friends and companions. Among others
he mentioned, with particular regard, a young English officer who had
been at the same time with him in the Austrian service, a gentleman of
the name of Reynolds. The name struck Lord Colambre; it was the name of
the officer who had been the cause of the disgrace of Miss St. Omar—of
Miss Nugent’s mother. ‘But there are so many Reynoldses.’
He eagerly asked the age—the character of this officer.
‘He was a gallant youth,’ said the count, ‘but too adventurous—too
rash. He fell, after distinguishing himself in a glorious manner, in
his twentieth year—died in my arms.’ ‘Married or unmarried?’ cried Lord
Colambre.
‘Married—he had been privately married, less than a year before his
death, to a very young English lady, who had been educated at a convent
in Vienna. He was heir to a considerable property, I believe, and the
young lady had little fortune; and the affair was kept secret from
the fear of offending his friends, or for some other reason—I do not
recollect the particulars.’
‘Did he acknowledge his marriage?’ said Lord Colambre.
‘Never till he was dying—then he confided his secret to me.’
‘Do you recollect the name of the young lady he married?’ ‘Yes—Miss St.
Omar.’
‘St. Omar!’ repeated Lord Colambre, with an expression of lively joy
in his countenance. ‘But are you certain, my dear count, that she was
really married, legally married, to Mr. Reynolds? Her marriage has been
denied by all his friends and relations—hers have never been able to
establish it—her daughter is—My dear count, were you present at the
marriage?’
‘No,’ said the count, ‘I was not present at the marriage; I never
saw the lady, nor do I know anything of the affair, except that Mr.
Reynolds, when he was dying, assured me that he was privately married to
a Miss St. Omar, who was then boarding at a convent in Vienna. The young
man expressed great regret at leaving her totally unprovided for; but
said that he trusted his father would acknowledge her, and that her
friends would be reconciled to her. He was not of age, he said, to make
a will; but I think he told me that his child, who at that time was
not born, would, even if it should be a girl, inherit a considerable
property. With this, I cannot, however, charge my memory positively; but
he put a packet into my hands which, he told me, contained a certificate
of his marriage, and, I think he said, a letter to his father; this
he requested that I would transmit to England by some safe hand.
Immediately after his death, I went to the English ambassador, who
was then leaving Vienna, and delivered the packet into his hands; he
promised to have it safely delivered. I was obliged to go the next day,
with the troops, to a distant part of the country. When I returned, I
inquired at the convent what had become of Miss St. Omar—I should say
Mrs. Reynolds; and I was told that she had removed from the convent to
private lodgings in the town, some time previous to the birth of her
child. The abbess seemed much scandalised by the whole transaction; and
I remember I relieved her mind by assuring her that there had been
a regular marriage. For poor young Reynolds’s sake, I made farther
inquiries about the widow, intending, of course, to act as a friend, if
she was in any difficulty or distress. But I found, on inquiry at
her lodgings, that her brother had come from England for her, and had
carried her and her infant away. The active scenes,’ continued the
count, ‘in which I was immediately afterwards engaged, drove the whole
affair from my mind. Now that your questions have recalled them, I feel
certain of the facts I have mentioned; and I am ready to establish them
by my testimony.’
Lord Colambre thanked him with an eagerness that showed how much he was
interested in the event. It was clear, he said, either that the packet
left with the ambassador had not been delivered, or that the father of
Mr. Reynolds had suppressed the certificate of the marriage, as it had
never been acknowledged by him or by any of the family. Lord Colambre
now frankly told the count why he was so anxious about this affair; and
Count O’Halloran, with all the warmth of youth, and with all the ardent
generosity characteristic of his country, entered into his feelings,
declaring that he would never rest till he had established the truth.
‘Unfortunately,’ said the count, ‘the ambassador who took the packet in
charge is dead. I am afraid we shall have difficulty.’
‘But he must have had some secretary,’ said Lord Colambre; ‘who was his
secretary?—we can apply to him.’
‘His secretary is now CHARGE D’AFFAIRES in Vienna—we cannot get at
him.’
‘Into whose hands have that ambassador’s papers fallen—who is his
executor?’ said Lord Colambre.
‘His executor!—now you have it,’ cried the count. ‘His executor is the
very man who will do your business—your friend Sir James Brooke is the
executor. All papers, of course, are in his hands; or he can have access
to any that are in the hands of the family. The family seat is within
a few miles of Sir James Brooke’s, in Huntingdonshire, where, as I told
you before, he now is.’
‘I’ll go to him immediately—set out in the mail this night. Just in
time!’ cried Lord Colambre, pulling out his watch with one hand, and
ringing the bell with the other.
‘Run and take a place for me in the mail for Huntingdon. Go directly,’
said Lord Colambre to the servant.
‘And take two places, if you please, sir,’ said the count. ‘My lord, I
will accompany you.’
But this Lord Colambre would not permit, as it would be unnecessary to
fatigue the good old general; and a letter from him to Sir James Brooke
would do all that the count could effect by his presence; the search
for the papers would be made by Sir James, and if the packet could be
recovered, or if any memorandum or mode of ascertaining that it had
actually been delivered to old Reynolds could be discovered, Lord
Colambre said he would then call upon the count for his assistance, and
trouble him to identify the packet; or to go with him to Mr. Reynolds to
make farther inquiries; and to certify, at all events, the young man’s
dying acknowledgment of his marriage and of his child.
The place in the mail, just in time, was taken. Lord Colambre sent a
servant in search of his father, with a note explaining the necessity of
his sudden departure. All the business which remained to be done in town
he knew Lord Clonbrony could accomplish without his assistance. Then he
wrote a few lines to his mother, on the very sheet of paper on which, a
few hours before, he had sorrowfully and slowly begun—
MY DEAR MOTHER MISS NUGENT. He now joyfully and rapidly went on—MY DEAR
MOTHER AND MISS NUGENT, I hope to be with you on Wednesday se’nnight;
but if unforeseen circumstances should delay me, I will certainly write
to you again.—Dear mother, believe me, your obliged and grateful son,
COLAMBRE.
The count, in the meantime, wrote a letter for him to Sir James Brooke,
describing the packet which he had given to the ambassador, and relating
all the circumstances that could lead to its recovery. Lord Colambre,
almost before the wax was hard, seized possession of the letter; the
count seeming almost as eager to hurry him off as he was to set out. He
thanked the count with few words, but with strong feeling. Joy and love
returned in full tide upon our hero’s soul; all the military ideas,
which but an hour before filled his imagination, were put to flight:
Spain vanished, and green Ireland reappeared.
Just as they shook hands at parting, the good old general, with a smile,
said to him, ‘I believe I had better not stir in the matter of Benson’s
commission till I hear more from you. My harangue, in favour of the
military profession, will, I fancy, prove like most other harangues, EN
PURE PERTE.’
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