In what words of polite circumlocution, or of cautious diplomacy, shall
we say, or hint, that the deceased ambassador’s papers were found in
shameful disorder. His excellency’s executor, Sir James Brooke, however,
was indefatigable in his researches. He and Lord Colambre spent two
whole days in looking over portfolios of letters and memorials, and
manifestoes, and bundles of paper of the most heterogeneous sorts; some
of them without any docket or direction to lead to a knowledge of their
contents; others written upon in such a manner as to give an erroneous
notion of their nature; so that it was necessary to untie every paper
separately. At last, when they had opened, as they thought, every paper,
and, wearied and in despair, were just on the point of giving up the
search, Lord Colambre spied a bundle of old newspapers at the bottom of
a trunk.
‘They are only old Vienna Gazettes; I looked at them,’ said Sir James.
Lord Colambre, upon this assurance, was going to throw them into the
trunk again; but observing that the bundle had not been untied, he
opened it, and within-side of the newspapers he found a rough copy of
the ambassador’s journal, and with it the packet, directed to Ralph
Reynolds sen., Esq., Old Court, Suffolk, per favour of his excellency,
Earl —, a note on the cover, signed O’Halloran, stating when received
by him, and the date of the day when delivered to the ambassador—seals
unbroken. Our hero was in such a transport of joy at the sight of this
packet, and his friend Sir James Brooke so full of his congratulations,
that they forgot to curse the ambassador’s carelessness, which had been
the cause of so much evil.
The next thing to be done was to deliver the packet to Ralph Reynolds,
Old Court, Suffolk. But when Lord Colambre arrived at Old Court,
Suffolk, he found all the gates locked, and no admittance to be had. At
last an old woman came out of the porter’s lodge, who said Mr. Reynolds
was not there, and she could not say where he was. After our hero had
opened her heart by the present of half a guinea, she explained, that
she ‘could not JUSTLY say where he was, because that he never let
anybody of his own people know where he was any day; he had several
different houses and places in different parts, and far-off counties,
and other shires, as she heard, and by times he was at one, and by times
at another.’ The names of two of the places, Toddrington and Little
Wrestham, she knew; but there were others to which she could give no
direction. He had houses in odd parts of London, too, that he let; and
sometimes, when the lodgers’ time was out, he would go, and be never
heard of for a month, maybe, in one of them. In short, there was no
telling or saying where he was or would be one day of the week, by where
he had been the last.’
When Lord Colambre expressed some surprise that an old gentleman, as he
conceived Mr. Ralph Reynolds to be, should change places so frequently,
the old woman answered, ‘That though her master was a deal on the wrong
side of seventy, and though, to look at him, you’d think he was glued to
his chair, and would fall to pieces if he should stir out of it, yet was
as alert, and thought no more of going about, than if he was as young
as the gentleman who was now speaking to her. It was old Mr. Reynolds’s
delight to come down and surprise his people at his different places,
and see that they were keeping all tight.’
‘What sort of a man is he;—Is he a miser?’ said Lord Colambre.
‘He is a miser, and he is not a miser,’ said the woman. ‘Now he’d
think as much of the waste of a penny as another man would of a hundred
pounds, and yet he would give a hundred pounds easier than another would
give a penny, when he’s in the humour. But his humour is very odd,
and there’s no knowing where to have him; he’s gross-grained, and more
POSITIVER-like than a mule; and his deafness made him worse in this,
because he never heard what nobody said, but would say on his own
way—he was very ODD but not CRACKED—no, he was as clear-headed, when
he took a thing the right way, as any man could be, and as clever, and
could talk as well as any member of Parliament,—and good-natured, and
kind-hearted, where he would take a fancy—but then, maybe, it would be
to a dog (he was remarkable fond of dogs), or a cat, or a rat even,
that he would take a fancy, and think more of ’em than he would of a
Christian. But, Poor gentleman, there’s great allowance,’ said she, ‘to
be made for him, that lost his son and heir—that would have been heir
to all, and a fine youth that he doted upon. But,’ continued the old
woman, in whose mind the transitions from GREAT to little, from serious
to trivial, were ludicrously abrupt, ‘that was no reason why the old
gentleman should scold me last time he was here, as he did, for as long
as ever he could stand over me, only because I killed a mouse who was
eating my cheese; and, before night, he beat a boy for stealing a piece
of that same cheese; and he would never, when down here, let me set a
mouse-trap.’
‘Well, my good woman,’ interrupted Lord Colambre, who was little
interested in this affair of the mouse-trap, and nowise curious to
learn more of Mr. Reynolds’s domestic economy, ‘I’ll not trouble you any
farther, if you can be so good as to tell me the road to Toddrington, or
to Little Wickham, I think you call it.’
Little Wickham!’ repeated the woman, laughing—’ Bless you, sir, where
do you come from?—It’s Little Wrestham; surely everybody knows, near
Lantry; and keep the PIKE till you come to the turn at Rotherford, and
then you strike off into the by-road to the left, and then again turn at
the ford to the right. But, if you are going to Toddrington, you don’t
go the road to market, which is at the first turn to the left, and the
cross-country road, where there’s no quarter, and Toddrington lies—but
for Wrestham, you take the road to market.’
It was some time before our hero could persuade the old woman to stick
to Little Wrestham, or to Toddrington, and not to mix the directions for
the different roads together—he took patience, for his impatience only
confused his director the more. In process of time, he made out, and
wrote down, the various turns that he was to follow, to reach Little
Wrestham; but no human power could get her from Little Wrestham to
Toddrington, though she knew the road perfectly well; but she had, for
the seventeen last years, been used to go ‘the other road,’ and all the
carriers went that way, and passed the door, and that was all she could
certify.
Little Wrestham, after turning to the left and right as often as his
directory required, our hero happily reached; but, unhappily, he found
no Mr. Reynolds there; only a steward, who gave nearly the same account
of his master as had been given by the old woman, and could not guess
even where the gentleman might now be. Toddrington was as likely as any
place—but he could not say.
‘Perseverance against fortune.’ To Toddrington our hero proceeded,
through cross-country roads—such roads!—very different from the Irish
roads. Waggon ruts, into which the carriage wheels sunk nearly to the
nave—and, from time to time, ‘sloughs of despond,’ through which it
seemed impossible to drag, walk, wade, or swim, and all the time with a
sulky postillion. ‘Oh, how unlike my Larry!’ thought Lord Colambre.
At length, in a very narrow lane, going up a hill, said to be two miles
of ascent, they overtook a heavy laden waggon, and they were obliged to
go step by step behind it, whilst, enjoying the gentleman’s impatience
much, and the postillion’s sulkiness more, the waggoner, in his
embroidered frock, walked in state, with his long sceptre in his hand.
The postillion muttered ‘curses not loud, but deep.’ Deep or loud,
no purpose would they have answered; the waggoner’s temper was proof
against curse in or out of the English language; and from their snail’s
pace neither DICKENS nor devil, nor any postillion in England, could
make him put his horses. Lord Colambre jumped out of the chaise, and,
walking beside him, began to talk to him; and spoke of his horses, their
bells, their trappings; the beauty and strength of the thill-horse—the
value of the whole team, which his lordship happening to guess right
within ten pounds, and showing, moreover, some skill about road-making
and waggon-wheels, and being fortunately of the waggoner’s own opinion
in the great question about conical and cylindrical rims, he was pleased
with the young chap of a gentleman; and, in spite of the chuffiness of
his appearance and churlishness of his speech, this waggoner’s bosom
‘being made of penetrating stuff,’ he determined to let the gentleman
pass. Accordingly, when half-way up the hill, and the head of the
fore-horse came near an open gate, the waggoner, without saying one word
or turning his head, touched the horse with his long whip—and the horse
turned in at the gate, and then came—
‘Dobbin!—Jeho!’ and strange calls and sounds, which all the other
horses of the team obeyed; and the waggon turned into the farmyard.
‘Now, master! while I turn, you may pass.’
The covering of the waggon caught in the hedge as the waggon turned
in; and as the sacking was drawn back, some of the packages were
disturbed—a cheese was just rolling off on the side next Lord Colambre;
he stopped it from falling; the direction caught his quick eye—’To
Ralph Reynolds, Esq.’—’TODDRINGTON’ scratched out; ‘Red Lion Square,
London,’ written in another hand below.
‘Now I have found him! And surely I know that hand!’ said Lord Colambre
to himself, looking more closely at the direction.
The original direction was certainly in a handwriting well known to him
it was Lady Dashfort’s.
‘That there cheese, that you’re looking at so cur’ously,’ said the
waggoner, has been a great traveller; for it came all the way down from
Lon’on, and now it’s going all the way up again back, on account of not
finding the gentleman at home; and the man that booked it told me as how
it came from foreign parts.’
Lord Colambre took down the direction, tossed the honest waggoner a
guinea, wished him good-night, passed, and went on. As soon as he could,
he turned into the London road—at the first town, got a place in the
mail—reached London—saw his father—went directly to his friend, Count
O’Halloran, who was delighted when he beheld the packet. Lord Colambre
was extremely eager to go immediately to old Reynolds, fatigued as
he was; for he had travelled night and day, and had scarcely allowed
himself, mind or body, one moment’s repose.
‘Heroes must sleep, and lovers too; or they soon will cease to be heroes
or lovers!’ said the count. ‘Rest, rest, perturbed spirit! this night;
and to-morrow morning we’ll finish the adventure in Red Lion Square, or
I will accompany you when and where you will; if necessary, to earth’s
remotest bounds.’
The next morning Lord Colambre went to breakfast with the count. The
count, who was not in love, was not up, for our hero was half an hour
earlier than the time appointed. The old servant Ulick, who had attended
his master to England, was very glad to see Lord Colambre again, and,
showing him into the breakfast parlour, could not help saying, in
defence of his master’s punctuality—
‘Your clocks, I suppose, my lord, are half an hour faster than ours; my
master will be ready to the moment.’
The count soon appeared—breakfast was soon over, and the carriage at
the door; for the count sympathised in his young friend’s impatience.
As they were setting out, the count’s large Irish dog pushed out of the
house door to follow them and his master would have forbidden him, but
Lord Colambre begged that he might be permitted to accompany them;
for his lordship recollected the old woman’s having mentioned that Mr.
Reynolds was fond of dogs.
They arrived in Red Lion Square, found the house of Mr. Reynolds, and,
contrary to the count’s prognostics, found the old gentleman up, and
they saw him in his red night-cap at his parlour window. After some
minutes’ running backwards and forwards of a boy in the passage, and
two or three peeps taken over the blinds by the old gentleman, they were
admitted.
The boy could not master their names; so they were obliged reciprocally
to announce themselves—’Count O’Halloran and Lord Colambre.’ The names
seemed to make no impression on the old gentleman; but he deliberately
looked at the count and his lordship, as if studying WHAT rather
than WHO they were. In spite of the red night-cap, and a flowered
dressing-gown, Mr. Reynolds looked like a gentleman, an odd
gentleman—but still a gentleman.
As Count O’Halloran came into the room, and as his large dog attempted
to follow, the count’s voice expressed: ‘Say, shall I let him in, or
shut the door?’
‘Oh, let him in, by all means, sir, if you please! I am fond of dogs;
and a finer one I never saw; pray, gentlemen, be seated,’ said he—a
portion of the complacency inspired by the sight of the dog, diffusing
itself over his manner towards the master of so fine an animal, and
even extending to the master’s companion, though in an inferior degree.
Whilst Mr. Reynolds stroked the dog, the count told him that ‘the dog
was of a curious breed, now almost extinct—the Irish greyhound, of
which only one nobleman in Ireland, it is said, has now a few of the
species remaining in his possession—Now, lie down, Hannibal,’ said the
count. ‘Mr. Reynolds, we have taken the liberty, though strangers, of
waiting upon you—’
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ interrupted Mr. Reynolds; ‘but did I
understand you rightly, that a few of the same species are still to
be had from one nobleman in Ireland? pray, what is his name?’ said he,
taking out his pencil.
The count wrote the name for him, but observed, that ‘he had asserted
only that a few of these dogs remained in the possession of that
nobleman; he could not answer for it that they were TO BE HAD.’
‘Oh, I have ways and means,’ said old Reynolds; and, rapping his
snuff-box, and talking, as it was his custom, loud to himself, ‘Lady
Dashfort knows all those Irish lords; she shall get one for me—ay! ay!’
Count O’Halloran replied, as if the words had been addressed to him—
‘Lady Dashfort is in England.’
‘I know it, sir; she is in London,’ said Mr. Reynolds, hastily. ‘What do
you know of her?’
‘I know, sir, that she is not likely to return to Ireland, and that
I am; and so is my young friend here; and if the thing can be
accomplished, we will get it done for you.’
Lord Colambre joined in this promise, and added that, ‘if the dog
could be obtained, he would undertake to have him safely sent over to
England.’
‘Sir—gentlemen! I’m much obliged; that is, when you have done the
thing I shall be much obliged. But, maybe, you are only making me civil
speeches!’
‘Of that, sir,’ said the count, smiling with much temper, ‘your own
sagacity and knowledge of the world must enable you to judge.’
‘For my own part, I can only say,’ cried Lord Colambre, ‘that I am
not in the habit of being reproached with saying one thing and meaning
another.’
‘Hot! I see,’ said old Reynolds, nodding, as he looked at Lord Colambre.
‘Cool!’ added he, nodding at the count. ‘But a time for everything; I
was hot once—both answers good, for their ages.’
This speech Lord Colombre and the count tacitly agreed to consider as
another APART, which they were not to hear, or seem to hear. The count
began again on the business of their visit, as he saw that Lord Colambre
was boiling with impatience, and feared that he should BOIL OVER, and
spoil all. The count commenced with—
‘Mr. Reynolds, your name sounds to me like the name of a friend; for
I had once a friend of that name; I had once the pleasure (and a very
great pleasure it was to me) to be intimately acquainted abroad, on the
Continent, with a very amiable and gallant youth—your son!’
‘Take care, sir,’ said the old man, starting up from his chair,
and instantly sinking down again—’take care! Don’t mention him to
me—unless you would strike me dead on the spot!’
The convulsed motions of his fingers and face worked for some moments;
whilst the count and Lord Colambre, much shocked and alarmed, stood in
silence.
The convulsed motions ceased; and the old man unbuttoned his waistcoat,
as if to relieve some sense of expression; uncovered his gray hairs;
and, after leaning back to rest himself, with his eyes fixed, and
in reverie for a few moments, he sat upright again in his chair, and
exclaimed, as he looked round—
‘Son!—Did not somebody say that word? Who is so cruel to say that word
before me? Nobody has ever spoken of him to me—but once, since his
death! Do you know, sir,’ said he, fixing his eyes on Count O’Halloran,
and laying his cold hand on him, ‘do you know where he was buried, I ask
you, sir? do you remember how he died?’
‘Too well! too well!’ cried the count, so much affected as to be
scarcely able to pronounce the words; ‘he died in my arms; I buried him
myself!’
‘Impossible!’ cried Mr. Reynolds. ‘Why do you say so, sir?’ said
he, studying the count’s face with a sort of bewildered earnestness.
‘Impossible! His body was sent over to me in a lead coffin; and I saw it
and I was asked—and I answered, “in the family vault.” But the shock is
over,’ said he; ‘and, gentlemen, if the business of your visit relates
to that subject, I trust I am now sufficiently composed to attend to
you. Indeed, I ought to be prepared; for I had reason, for years, to
expect the stroke; and yet, when it came, it seemed sudden!—it stunned
me—put an end to all my worldly prospects—left me childless, without
a single descendant or relation near enough to be dear to me! I am an
insulated being!’
‘No, sir, you are not an insulated being,’ said Lord Colambre ‘you have
a near relation, who will, who must be dear to you; who will make you
amends for all you have lost, all you have suffered—who will bring
peace and joy to your heart. You have a grand-daughter.’
‘No, sir; I have no grand-daughter,’ said old Reynolds, his face and
whole form becoming rigid with the expression of obstinacy. ‘Rather have
no descendant than be forced to acknowledge an illegitimate child.’
‘My lord, I entreat as a friend—I command you to be patient,’ said the
count, who saw Lord Colambre’s indignation suddenly rise.
‘So, then, this is the purpose of your visit,’ continued old Reynolds;
‘and you come from my enemies, from the St. Omars, and you are in a
league with them,’ continued old Reynolds; ‘and all this time it is of
my eldest son you have been talking.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied the count; ‘of Captain Reynolds, who fell in battle,
in the Austrian service, about nineteen years ago—a more gallant and
amiable youth never lived.’
Pleasure revived through the dull look of obstinacy in the father’s
eyes.
‘He was, as you say, sir, a gallant, an amiable youth, once and he
was my pride, and I loved him, too, once but did not you know I had
another?’
‘No, sir, we did not—we are, you may perceive, totally ignorant of your
family and of your affairs we have no connexion whatever or knowledge of
any of the St. Omars.’
‘I detest the sound of the name,’ cried Lord Colambre.
‘Oh, good! good!—Well! well! I beg your pardon, gentlemen, a thousand
times—I am a hasty, very hasty old man; but I have been harassed,
persecuted, hunted by wretches, who got a scent of my gold; often in
my rage I longed to throw my treasure-bags to my pursuers, and bid
them leave me to die in peace. You have feelings, I see, both of you,
gentlemen; excuse me, and bear with my temper.’
‘Bear with you! Much enforced, the best tempers will emit a hasty
spark,’ said the count, looking at Lord Colambre, who was now cool
again; and who, with a countenance full of compassion, sat with his eyes
fixed upon the poor—no, not the poor, but the unhappy old man.
‘Yes, I had another son,’ continued Mr. Reynolds, ‘and on him all my
affections concentrated when I lost my eldest, and for him I desired to
preserve the estate which his mother brought into my family. Since you
know nothing of my affairs, let me explain to you; that estate was so
settled, that it would have gone to the child, even the daughter of my
eldest son, if there had been a legitimate child. But I knew there
was no marriage, and I held out firm to my opinion. “If there was
a marriage,” said I, “show me the marriage certificate, and I will
acknowledge the marriage, and acknowledge the child;” but they could
not, and I knew they could not; and I kept the estate for my darling
boy,’ cried the old gentleman, with the exultation of successful
positiveness again appearing strong in his physiognomy; but suddenly
changing and relaxing, his countenance fell, and he added, ‘But now I
have no darling boy. What use all!—all must go to the heir-at-law, or
I must will it to a stranger—a lady of quality, who has just found
out she is my relation—God knows how—I’m no genealogist—and sends
me Irish cheese and Iceland moss, for my breakfast, and her
waiting-gentlewoman to namby-pamby me. Oh, I’m sick of it all—see
through it—wish I was blind—wish I had a hiding-place, where
flatterers could not find me—pursued, chased—must change my lodgings
again to-morrow—will, will—I beg your pardon, gentlemen, again; you
were going to tell me, sir, something more of my eldest son; and how I
was led away from the subject, I don’t know; but I meant only to have
assured you that his memory was dear to me, till I was so tormented
about that unfortunate affair of his pretended marriage, that at length
I hated to hear him named; but the heir-at-law, at last, will triumph
over me.’
‘No, my good sir, not if you triumph over yourself, and do justice,’
cried Lord Colambre; ‘if you listen to the truth, which my friend will
tell you, and if you will read and believe the confirmation of it, under
your son’s own hand, in this packet.’
‘His own hand indeed! His seal unbroken. But how—when where—why was it
kept so long, and how came it into your hands?’
Count O’Halloran told Mr. Reynolds that the packet had been given to him
by Captain Reynolds on his deathbed; related the dying acknowledgment
which Captain Reynolds had made of his marriage; and gave an account
of the delivery of the packet to the ambassador, who had promised to
transmit it faithfully. Lord Colambre told the manner in which it had
been mislaid, and at last recovered from among the deceased ambassador’s
papers. The father still gazed at the direction, and re-examined the
seals.
‘My son’s handwriting—my son’s seals! But where is the certificate of
the marriage?’ repeated he; ‘if it is withinside of this packet, I have
done great IN—but I am convinced it never was a marriage. ‘Yet I
wish now it could be proved—only, in that case, I have for years done
great—’
‘Won’t you open the packet, sir?’ said Lord Colambre. Mr. Reynolds
looked up at him with a look that said, ‘I don’t clearly know what
interest you have in all this.’ But, unable to speak, and his hands
trembling so that he could scarcely break the seals, he tore off the
cover, laid the papers before him, sat down, and took breath. Lord
Colambre, however impatient, had now too much humanity to hurry the
old gentleman; he only ran for the spectacles, which he espied on the
chimney-piece, rubbed them bright, and held them ready. Mr. Reynolds
stretched his hand out for them, put them on, and the first paper he
opened was the certificate of the marriage; he read it aloud, and,
putting it down, said—
‘Now I acknowledge the marriage. I always said, if there is a marriage
there must be a certificate. And you see now there is a certificate I
acknowledge the marriage.’
‘And now,’ cried Lord Colambre, ‘I am happy, positively happy.
Acknowledge your grand-daughter, sir—acknowledge Miss Nugent.’
‘Acknowledge who, sir?’
‘Acknowledge Miss Reynolds—your grand-daughter; I ask no more—do what
you will with your fortune.’
‘Oh, now I understand—I begin to understand this young gentleman is
in love—but where is my grand-daughter?—how shall I know she is my
grand-daughter? I have not heard of her since she was an infant—I
forgot her existence—I have done her great injustice.’
‘She knows nothing of it, sir,’ said Lord Colambre, who now entered into
a full explanation of Miss Nugent’s history, and of her connexion with
his family, and of his own attachment to her; concluding the whole by
assuring Mr. Reynolds that his grand-daughter had every virtue under
heaven. ‘And as to your fortune, sir, I know that she will, as I do,
say—’
‘No matter what she will say,’ interrupted old Reynolds; ‘where is she?
When I see her, I shall hear what she says. Tell me where she is let me
see her. I long to see whether there is any likeness to her poor father.
Where is she? Let me see her immediately.’
‘She is one hundred and sixty miles off, sir, at Buxton.’
‘Well, my lord, and what is a hundred and sixty miles? I suppose you
think I can’t stir from my chair, but you are mistaken. I think
nothing of a journey of a hundred and sixty miles—I’m ready to set off
to-morrow—this instant.’
Lord Colambre said, that he was sure Miss Reynolds would obey her
grandfather’s slightest summons, as it was her duty to do, and would be
with him as soon as possible, if this would be more agreeable to him. ‘I
will write to her instantly,’ said his lordship, ‘if you will commission
me.’
‘No, my lord, I do not commission—I will go—I think nothing, I say, of
a journey of a hundred and sixty miles—I’ll go—and set out to-morrow
morning.’
Lord Colambre and the count, perfectly satisfied with the result of
their visit, now thought it best to leave old Reynolds at liberty to
rest himself, after so many strong and varied feelings. They paid their
parting compliments, settled the time for the next day’s journey, and
were just going to quit the room when Lord Colambre heard in the passage
a well-known voice the voice of Mrs. Petito.
‘Oh no, my compliments, and my Lady Dashfort’s best compliments, and I
will call again.’
‘No, no,’ cried old Reynolds, pulling his bell; ‘I’ll have no calling
again—I’ll be hanged if I do! Let her in now, and I’ll see her—Jack!
let in that woman now or never.’
‘The lady’s gone, sir, out of the street door.’
‘After her, then—now or never, tell her.’
‘Sir, she was in a hackney coach.’
Old Reynolds jumped up, and went to the window himself, and, seeing the
hackney coachman just turning beckoned at the window, and Mrs. Petito
was set down again, and ushered in by Jack, who announced her as—
‘The lady, sir.’ The only lady he had seen in that house.
‘My dear Mr. Reynolds, I’m so obliged to you for letting me in,’ cried
Mrs. Petito, adjusting her shawl in the passage, and speaking in a voice
and manner well mimicked after her betters. ‘You are so very good and
kind, and I am so much obliged to you.’
‘You are not obliged to me, and I am neither good nor kind,’ said old
Reynolds.
‘You strange man,’ said Mrs. Petito, advancing graceful in shawl
drapery; but she stopped short. ‘My Lord Colambre and Count O’Halloran,
as I hope to be saved!’
‘I did not know Mrs. Petito was an acquaintance of yours, gentlemen,’
said Mr. Reynolds, smiling shrewdly.
Count O’Halloran was too polite to deny his acquaintance with a lady
who challenged it by thus naming him; but he had not the slightest
recollection of her, though it seems he had met her on the stairs when
he visited Lady Dashfort at Killpatrickstown. Lord Colambre was ‘indeed
UNDENIABLY AN OLD AQUAINTANCE:’ and as soon as she had recovered from
her first natural start and vulgar exclamation, she with very easy
familiarity hoped ‘My Lady Clonbrony, and my lord, and Miss Nugent, and
all her friends in the family, were well;’ and said, ‘she did not
know whether she was to congratulate his lordship or not upon Miss
Broadhurst, my Lady Berryl’s marriage, but she should soon have to hope
for his lordship’s congratulations for another marriage in HER present
family—lady Isabel to Colonel Heathcock, who has come in for a large
portion, and they are buying the wedding clothes—sights of clothes—and
the di’monds, this day; and Lady Dashfort and my Lady Isabel sent me
especially, sir, to you, Mr. Reynolds, and to tell you, sir, before
anybody else; and to hope the cheese COME safe up again at last; and
to ask whether the Iceland moss agrees with your chocolate, and is
palatable; it’s the most DILUENT thing upon the universal earth, and the
most TONIC and fashionable—the DUTCHES of Torcaster takes it always for
breakfast, and Lady St. James’ too is quite a convert, and I hear the
Duke of V—takes it too.’
‘And the devil may take it too, for anything that I care,’ said old
Reynolds.
‘Oh, my dear, dear sir! you are so refractory a patient.’
‘I am no patient at all, ma’am, and have no patience either; I am as
well as you are, or my Lady Dashfort either, and hope, God willing, long
to continue so.’
Mrs. Petito smiled aside at Lord Colambre, to mark her perception of the
man’s strangeness. Then, in a cajoling voice, addressing herself to the
old gentleman—
‘Long, long, I hope, to continue so, if Heaven grants my daily and
nightly prayers, and my Lady Dashfort’s also. So, Mr. Reynolds, if the
ladies’ prayers are of any avail, you ought to be purely, and I suppose
ladies’ prayers have the precedency in efficacy. But it was not of
prayers and deathbed affairs I came commissioned to treat—not of
burials, which Heaven above forbid, but of weddings my diplomacy was to
speak; and to premise my Lady Dashfort would have come herself in her
carriage, but is hurried out of her senses, and my Lady Isabel could not
in proper modesty; so they sent me as their DOUBLE to hope you, my
dear Mr. Reynolds, who is one of the family relations, will honour the
wedding with your presence.’
‘It would be no honour, and they know that as well as I do,’ said the
intractable Mr. Reynolds. ‘It will be no advantage, either; but that
they do not know as well as I do. Mrs. Petito, to save you and your lady
all trouble about me in future, please to let my Lady Dashfort know
that I have just received and read the certificate of my son Captain
Reynolds’s marriage with Miss St. Omar. I have acknowledged the
marriage. Better late than never; and to-morrow morning, God willing,
shall set out with this young nobleman for Buxton, where I hope to see,
and intend publicly to acknowledge, my grand-daughter—provided she will
acknowledge me.’
‘CRIMINI!’ exclaimed Mrs. Petito, ‘what new turns are here! Well, sir, I
shall tell my lady of the METAMORPHOSES that have taken place, though by
what magic (as I have not the honour to deal in the black art) I can’t
guess. But, since it seems annoying and inopportune, I shall take my
FINALE, and shall thus have a verbal P.P.C.—as you are leaving town,
it seems, for Buxton so early in the morning. My Lord Colambre, if I
see rightly into a millstone, as I hope and believe I do on the present
occasion, I have to congratulate your lordship (haven’t I?) upon
something like a succession, or a windfall, in this DENEWMENT. And I beg
you’ll make my humble respects acceptable to the ci-devant Miss Grace
Nugent that was; and I won’t DERROGATE her by any other name in the
interregnum, as I am persuaded it will only be a temporary name, scarce
worth assuming, except for the honour of the public adoption; and that
will, I’m confident, be soon exchanged for a viscount’s title, or I have
no sagacity nor sympathy. I hope I don’t (pray don’t let me) put you to
the blush, my lord.’
Lord Colambre would not have let her, if he could have helped it.
‘Count O’Halloran, your most obedient! I had the honour of meeting
you at Killpatrickstown,’ said Mrs. Petito, backing to the door, and
twitching her shawl. She stumbled, nearly fell down, over the large
dog—caught by the door, and recovered herself. Hannibal rose and shook
his ears. ‘Poor fellow! you are of my acquaintance too.’ She would have
stroked his head; but Hannibal walked off indignant, and so did she.
Thus ended certain hopes; for Mrs. Petito had conceived that her
DIPLOMACY might be turned to account; that in her character of an
ambassadress, as Lady Dashfort’s double, by the aid of Iceland moss in
chocolate, flattery properly administered; that, by bearing with all her
DEAR Mr. Reynolds’s ODDNESSES and ROUGHNESES, she might in time—that is
to say, before he made a new will become his dear Mrs. Petito; or (for
stranger things have happened and do happen every day) his dear Mrs.
Reynolds! Mrs. Petito, however, was good at a retreat; and she flattered
herself that at least nothing of this underplot had appeared; and at all
events she secured by her services in this embassy, the long-looked-for
object of her ambition, Lady Dashfort’s scarlet velvet gown—’not yet a
thread the worse for the wear!’ One cordial look at this comforted her
for the loss of her expected OCTOGENAIRE; and she proceeded to discomfit
her lady, by repeating the message with which strange old Mr. Reynolds
had charged her. So ended all Lady Dashfort’s hopes of his fortune.
Since the death of his youngest son, she had been indefatigable in her
attentions, and sanguine in her hopes; the disappointment affected both
her interest and her pride, as an INTRIGANTE. It was necessary, however,
to keep her feelings to herself; for if Heathcock should hear anything
of the matter before the articles were signed, he might ‘be off!’—so
she put him and Lady Isabel into her coach directly—drove to Gray’s, to
make sure at all events of the jewels.
In the meantime Count O’Halloran and Lord Colambre, delighted with the
result of their visit, took leave of Mr. Reynolds, after having arranged
the journey, and appointed the hour for setting off the next day.
Lord Colambre proposed to call upon Mr. Reynolds in the evening, and
introduce his father, Lord Clonbrony; but Mr. Reynolds said—
‘No, no! I’m not ceremonious. I have given you proofs enough of that, I
think, in the short time we’ve been already acquainted. Time enough
to introduce your father to me when we are in a carriage, going our
journey; then we can talk, and get acquainted; but merely to come
this evening in a hurry, and say, “Lord Clonbrony, Mr. Reynolds;—Mr.
Reynolds, Lord Clonbrony,” and then bob our two heads at one another,
and scrape one foot back, and away!—where’s the use of that nonsense
at my time of life, or at any time of life? No, no! we have enough to do
without that, I daresay.—Good morning to you, Count O’Halloran! I thank
you heartily. From the first moment I saw you, I liked you; lucky too
that you brought your dog with you! ‘Twas Hannibal made me first let you
in; I saw him over the top of the blind.—Hannibal, my good fellow! I’m
more obliged to you than you can guess.’
‘So are we all,’ said Lord Colambre.
Hannibal was well patted, and then they parted. In returning home they
met Sir James Brooke.
‘I told you,’ said Sir James, ‘I should be in London almost as soon as
you. Have you found old Reynolds!’
‘Just come from him.’
‘How does your business prosper! I hope as well as mine.’
A history of all that had passed up to the present moment was given, and
hearty congratulations received.
‘Where are you going now, Sir James?—cannot you come with us?’ said
Lord Colambre and the count.
‘Impossible,’ replied Sir James;—’but, perhaps, you can come with
me—I’m going to Gray’s, to give some old family diamonds, either to be
new set or exchanged. Count O’Halloran, I know you are a judge of these
things; pray, come and give me your opinion.’
‘Better consult your bride elect!’ said the count.
‘No; she knows little of the matter—and cares less,’ replied Sir James.
‘Not so this bride elect, or I mistake her much,’ said the count, as
they passed by the window and saw Lady Isabel, who, with Lady Dashfort,
had been holding consultation deep with the jeweller; and Heathcock,
playing PERSONNAGE MUET.
Lady Dashfort, who had always, as old Reynolds expressed it, ‘her
head upon her shoulders’—presence of mind where her interests were
concerned—ran to the door before the count and Lord Colambre could
enter, giving a hand to each—as if they had all parted the best friends
in the world.
‘How do? how do?—Give you joy! give me joy! and all that. But mind! not
a word,’ said she, laying her finger upon her lips—’not a word before
Heathcock of old Reynolds, or of the best part of the old fool,—his
fortune!’
The gentlemen bowed, in sign of submission to her ladyship’s commands;
and comprehended that she feared Heathcock might be OFF, if the best
part of his bride (her fortune, or her EXPECTATIONS) were lowered in
value or in prospect.
‘How low is she reduced,’ whispered Lord Colambre, ‘when such a husband
is thought a prize—and to be secured by a manoeuvre!’ He sighed.
‘Spare that generous sigh!’ said Sir James Brooke; ‘it is wasted.’
Lady Isabel, as they approached, turned from a mirror, at which she
was trying on a diamond crescent. Her face clouded at sight of Count
O’Halloran and Lord Colambre, and grew dark as hatred when she saw Sir
James Brooke. She walked away to the farther end of the shop, and asked
one of the shopmen the price of a diamond necklace which lay upon the
counter.
The man said, ‘He really did not know; it belonged to Lady Oranmore; it
had just been new set for one of her ladyship’s daughters, who is going
to be married to Sir James Brooke—one of the gentlemen, my lady, who
are just come in.’
Then, calling to his master, he asked him the price of the necklace; he
named the value, which was considerable.
‘I really thought Lady Oranmore and her daughters were vastly too
philosophical to think of diamonds,’ said Lady Isabel to her mother,
with a sort of sentimental sneer in her voice and countenance. ‘But it
is some comfort to me to find, in these pattern-women, philosophy and
love do not so wholly engross the heart, that they “feel every vanity in
fondness lost.”‘
‘‘Twould be difficult, in some cases,’ thought many present.
‘‘Pon honour, di’monds are cursed expensive things, I know!’ said
Heathcock. ‘But, be that as it may,’ whispered he to the lady, though
loud enough to be heard by others, ‘I’ve laid a damned round wager, that
no woman’s diamonds married this winter, under a countess, in Lon’on,
shall eclipse Lady Isabel Heathcock’s!—and Mr. Gray here’s to be
judge.’
Lady Isabel paid for this promise one of her sweetest smiles; with one
of those smiles which she had formerly bestowed upon Lord Colambre,
and which he had once fancied expressed so much sensibility—such
discriminative and delicate application. Our hero felt so much contempt,
that he never wasted another sigh of pity for her degradation. Lady
Dashfort came up to him as he was standing alone; and, whilst the count
and Sir James were settling about the diamonds—
‘My Lord Colambre,’ said she, in a low voice, ‘I know your thoughts, and
I could moralise as well as you, if I did not prefer laughing—you are
right enough; and so am I, and so is Isabel; we are all right. For look
here: women have not always the liberty of choice, and therefore they
can’t be expected to have always the power of refusal.’
The mother, satisfied with her convenient optimism, got into her
carriage with her daughter, her daughter’s diamonds, and her precious
son-in-law, her daughter’s companion for life.
‘The more I see,’ said Count O’Halloran to Lord Colambre, as they left
the shop, ‘the more I find reason to congratulate you upon your escape,
my dear lord.’
‘I owe it not to my own wit or wisdom,’ said Lord Colambre; ‘but much
to love, and much to friendship,’ added he, turning to Sir James Brooke;
‘here was the friend who early warned me against the siren’s voice; who,
before I knew Lady Isabel, told me what I have since found to be true,
that,
‘That is dreadfully severe, Sir James,’ said Count O’Halloran; ‘but I am
afraid it is just.’
‘I am sure it is just, or I would not have said it,’ replied Sir James
Brooke. ‘For the foibles of the sex, I hope, I have as much indulgence
as any man, and for the errors of passion as much pity; but I cannot
repress the indignation, the abhorrence I feel against women, cold and
vain, who use their wit and their charms only to make others miserable.’
Lord Colambre recollected at this moment Lady Isabel’s look and voice,
when she declared that ‘she would let her little finger be cut off to
purchase the pleasure of inflicting on Lady de Cresey, for one hour, the
torture of jealousy.’
‘Perhaps,’ continued Sir James Brooke, ‘now that I am going to marry
into an Irish family, I may feel, with peculiar energy, disapprobation
of this mother and daughter on another account; but you, Lord Colambre,
will do me the justice to recollect that, before I had any personal
interest in the country, I expressed, as a general friend to Ireland,
antipathy to those who return the hospitality they received from
a warm-hearted people, by publicly setting the example of elegant
sentimental hypocrisy, or daring disregard of decorum, by privately
endeavouring to destroy the domestic peace of families, on which,
at last, public as well as private virtue and happiness depend. I do
rejoice, my dear Lord Colambre, to hear you say that I had any share in
saving you from the siren; and now, I will never speak of these ladies
more. I am sorry you cannot stay in town to see—but why should I be
sorry—we shall meet again, I trust, and I shall introduce you; and you,
I hope, will introduce me to a very different charmer. Farewell!—you
have my warm good wishes wherever you go.’
Sir James turned off quickly to the street in which Lady Oranmore lived,
and Lord Colambre had not time to tell him that he knew and admired his
intended bride. Count O’Halloran promised to do this for him. ‘And now,’
said the good count, ‘I am to take leave of you; and I assure you I do
it with so much reluctance that nothing less than positive engagements
to stay in town would prevent me from setting off with you to-morrow;
but I shall be soon, very soon, at liberty to return to Ireland; and
Clonbrony Castle, if you will give me leave, I will see before I see
Halloran Castle.’
Lord Colambre joyfully thanked his friend for this promise.
‘Nay, it is to indulge myself. I long to see you happy—long to behold
the choice of such a heart as yours. Pray do not steal a march upon
me—let me know in time. I will leave everything—even the siege of—for
your wedding. But I trust I shall be in time.’
‘Assuredly you will, my dear count; if ever that wedding—’
‘IF,’ repeated the count.
‘IF,’ repeated Lord Colambre. ‘Obstacles which, when we last parted,
appeared to me invincible, prevented my having ever even attempted to
make an impression on the heart of the woman I love; and if you knew
her, count, as well as I do, you would know that her love could “not
unsought be won.”‘
‘Of that I cannot doubt, or she would not be your choice; but when her
love is sought, we have every reason to hope,’ said the count, smiling,
‘that it may, because it ought to be won by tried honour and affection.
I only require to be left in hope.’
‘Well, I leave you hope,’ said Lord Colambre; ‘Miss Nugent—Miss
Reynolds, I should say, has been in the habit of considering a union
with me as impossible; my mother early instilled this idea into her
mind. Miss Nugent thought that duty forbad her to think of me; she told
me so: I have seen it in all her conduct and manners. The barriers
of habit, the ideas of duty, cannot, ought not, to be thrown down or
suddenly changed in a well-regulated female mind. And you, I am sure,
know enough of the best female hearts, to be aware that time—’
‘Well, well, let this dear good charmer take her own time, provided
there’s none given to affectation, or prudery, or coquetry; and from
all these, of course, she must be free; and of course I must be content.
ADIEU AU REVOIR.’
Nguồn: Wikisource English — The Absentee/Chapter XVI. Văn bản được nhập và định dạng lại; CC BY-SA 4.0, có thể áp dụng điều khoản bổ sung của tác phẩm.