HOME.
Many, many years have passed away since the time I am now about to speak of, and yet I cannot revert, even for a moment, to the period without a sad and depressing feeling at my heart. The wreck of fortune, the thwarting of ambition, the failure in enterprise, great though they be, are endurable evils. The never-dying hope that youth is blessed with will find its resting-place still within the breast, and the baffled and beaten will struggle on unconquered; but for the death of friends, for the loss of those in whom our dearest affections were centred, there is no solace,—the terrible “never” of the grave knows no remorse, and even memory, that in our saddest hours can bring bright images and smiling faces before us, calls up here only the departed shade of happiness, a passing look at that Eden of our joys from which we are separated forever. And the desolation of the heart is never perfect till it has felt the echoes of a last farewell on earth reverberating within it.
Oh, with what tortures of self-reproach we think of all former intercourse with him that is gone! How would we wish to live our lives once more, correcting each passage of unkindness or neglect! How deeply do we blame ourselves for occasions of benefit lost, and opportunities unprofited by; and how unceasingly, through after-life, the memory of the departed recurs to us! In all the ties which affection and kindred weave around us, one vacant spot is there, unseen and unknown by others, which no blandishments of love, no caresses of friendship can fill up; although the rank grass and the tall weeds of the churchyard may close around the humble tomb, the cemetery of the heart is holy and sacred, pure from all the troubled thoughts and daily cares of the busy world. To that hallowed spot do we retire as into our chamber, and when unrewarded efforts bring discomfiture and misery to our minds, when friends are false, and cherished hopes are blasted, we think on those who never ceased to love till they had ceased to live; and in the lonely solitude of our affliction we call upon those who hear not, and may never return.
Mine was a desolate hearth. I sat moodily down in the old oak parlor, my heart bowed down with grief. The noiseless steps, the mourning garments of the old servants; the unnatural silence of those walls within which from my infancy the sounds of merriment and mirth had been familiar; the large old-fashioned chair where he was wont to sit, now placed against the wall,—all spoke of the sad past. Yet, when some footsteps would draw near, and the door would open, I could not repress a thrill of hope that he was coming; more than once I rushed to the window and looked out; I could have sworn I heard his voice.
The old cob pony he used to ride was grazing peacefully before the door; poor Carlo, his favorite spaniel, lay stretched upon the terrace, turning ever and anon a look towards the window, and then, as if wearied of watching for him who came not, he would utter a long, low, wailing cry, and lie down again to sleep. The rich lawn, decked with field flowers of many a hue, stretched away towards the river, upon whose calm surface the white-sailed lugger scarce seemed to move; the sounds of a well-known Irish air came, softened by distance, as some poor fisherman sat mending his net upon the bank, and the laugh of children floated on the breeze. Yes, they were happy.
Two months had elapsed since my return home; how passed by me I know not; a lethargic stupor had settled upon me. Whole days long I sat at the window, looking listlessly at the tranquil river, and watching the white foam as, borne down from the rapids, it floated lazily along. The count had left me soon, being called up to Dublin by some business, and I was utterly alone. The different families about called frequently to ask after me, and would, doubtless, have done all in their power to alleviate my sorrow, and lighten the load of my affliction; but with a morbid fear, I avoided every one, and rarely left the house except at night-fall, and then only to stroll by some lonely and deserted path.
Life had lost its charm for me; my gratified ambition had ended in the blackest disappointment, and all for which I had labored and longed was only attained that I might feel it valueless.
Of my circumstances as to fortune I knew nothing, and cared not more; poverty and riches could matter little now; all my day dreams were dissipated now, and I only waited for Considine’s return to leave Ireland forever. I had made up my mind, if by any unexpected turn of fate the war should cease in the Peninsula, to exchange into an Indian regiment. The daily association with objects which recalled but one image to my brain, and that ever accompanied by remorse of conscience, gave me not a moment’s peace. My every thought of happiness was mixed up with scenes which now presented nothing but the evidences of blighted hope; to remain, then, where I was, would be to sink into the heartless misanthropist, and I resolved that with my sword I would carve out a soldier’s fortune and a soldier’s grave.
Considine came at last. I was sitting alone, at my usual post beside the window, when the chaise rattled up to the door; for an instant I started to my legs; a vague sense of something like hope shot through me, the whole might be a dream, andhe—The next moment I became cold and sick, a faintish giddiness obscured my sight, and though I felt his grasp as he took my hand, I saw him not. An indistinct impression still dwells upon my mind of his chiding me for my weakness in thus giving way; of his calling upon me to assert my position, and discharge the duties of him whose successor I now was. I heard him in silence; and when he concluded, faintly pledging myself to obey him, I hurried to my room, and throwing myself upon my bed burst into an agony of tears. Hitherto my pent up sorrow had wasted me day by day; but the rock was now smote, and in that gush of misery my heart found relief.
When I appeared the following morning, the count was struck with my altered looks; a settled sorrow could not conceal the changes which time and manhood had made upon me; and as from a kind of fear of showing how deeply I grieved, I endeavored to conceal it, by degrees I was enabled to converse calmly and dispassionately upon my fortunes.
“Poor Godfrey,” said he, “appointed me his sole executor a few days before it happened; he knew the time was drawing near, and strange enough, Charley, though he heard of your return to England, he would not let us write. The papers spoke of you as being at Carlton House almost daily; your name appeared at every great festival; and while his heart warmed at your brilliant success, he absolutely dreaded your coming home. ‘Poor fellow,’ he would say, ‘what a change for him, to leave the splendor and magnificence of his Prince’s board for our meagre fare and altered fortunes! And then,’ he added, ‘as for me—God forgive me!—I can go now; but how should I bear to part with him if he comes back to me.’ And now,” said the count, when he had concluded a detailed history of my dear uncle’s last illness,—“and now, Charley, what are your plans?”
Briefly, and in a few words, I stated to him my intentions. Without placing much stress upon the strongest of my reasons—my distaste to what had once been home—I avowed my wish to join my regiment at once.
He heard me with evident impatience, and as I finished, seized my arm in his strong grasp. “No, no, boy, none of this; your tone of assumed composure cannot impose on Bill Considine. You must not return to the Peninsula—at least not yet awhile; the disgust of life may be strong at twenty, but it’s not lasting; besides, Charley,” here his voice faltered slightly, “hiswishes you’ll not treat lightly. Read this.”
As he spoke, he took a blotted and ill-written letter from his breast-pocket, and handed it to me. It was in my poor uncle’s hand, and dated the very morning of his death. It ran thus:—
Dear Bill,—Charley must never part with the old house,come what will; I leave too many ties behind for a stranger’s heritage;he must live among my old friends, and watch, protectand comfort them. He has done enough for fame; let him nowdo something for affection. We have none of us been over goodto these poor people; one of the name must try and save ourcredit. God bless you both! It is, perhaps, the last time I shallutter it.G. O’M.
I read these few and, to me, affecting lines over and over, forgetful of all save of him who penned them; when Considine, who supposed that my silence was attributable to doubt and hesitation, called out:—
“Well, what now?”
“I remain,” said I, briefly.
He seized me in his arms with transport, as he said:—
“I knew it, boy, I knew it. They told me you were spoiled by flattery, and your head turned by fortune; they said that home and country would weigh lightly in the balance against fame and glory; but I said no, I knew you better. I told them indignantly that I had nursed you on my knee; that I watched you from infancy to boyhood, from boy to man; that he of whose stock you came had one feeling paramount to all, his love of his own fatherland, and that you would not disgrace him. Besides, Charley, there’s not an humble hearth for many a long mile around us, where, amidst the winter’s blast, tempered not excluded, by frail walls and poverty,—there’s not one such but where poor Godfrey’s name rises each night in prayer, and blessings are invoked on him by those who never felt them themselves.”
“I’ll not desert them.”
“I know you’ll not, boy, I know you’ll not. Now for the means.”
Here he entered into a long and complicated exposure of my dear uncle’s many difficulties, by which it appeared that, in order to leave the estate free of debt to me, he had for years past undergone severe privations. These, however,—such is the misfortune of an unguided effort,—had but ill succeeded, and there was scarcely a farm on the property without its mortgage. Upon the house and demesne a bond for three thousand pounds still remained; and to pay off this, Considine advised my selling a portion of the property.
“It’s old Blake lent the money; and only a week before your uncle died, he served a notice for repayment. I never told Godfrey; it was no use. It could only embitter his last few hours; and, besides, we had six months to think of it. The half of that time has now elapsed, however; we must see to this.”
“And did Blake really make this demand, knowing my poor uncle’s difficulties?”
“Why, I half think he did not; for Godfrey was too fine a fellow ever to acknowledge anything of the sort. He had twelve sheep killed for the poor in Scariff, at a time when not a servant of the house tasted meat for months; ay, and our own table, too, none of the most abundant, I assure you.”
What a picture was this, and how forcibly did it remind me of what I had witnessed in times past. Thus meditating, we returned to the house; and Considine, whose activity never slumbered, sat down to con over the rent-roll with old Maguire the steward.
When I joined the count in the evening, I found him surrounded by maps, rent-rolls, surveys, and leases. He had been poring over these various documents, to ascertain from which portion of the property we could best recruit our failing finances. To judge from the embarrassed look and manner with which he met me, the matter was one of no small difficulty. The encumbrances upon the estate had been incurred with an unsparing hand; and except where some irreclaimable tract of bog or mountain rendered a loan impracticable, each portion of the property had its share of debt.
“You can’t sell Killantry, for Basset has above six thousand pounds on it already. To be sure, there’s the Priest’s Meadows,—fine land and in good heart; but Malony was an old tenant of the family, and I cannot recommend your turning him over to a stranger. The widow M’Bride’s farm is perhaps the best, after all, and it would certainly bring the sum we want; still, poor Mary was your nurse, Charley, and it would break her heart to do it.”
Thus, wherever we turned, some obstacle presented itself, if not from moneyed causes, at least from those ties and associations which, in an attached and faithful tenantry, are sure to grow up between them and the owner of the soil.
Feeling how all-important these things were—endeavoring as I was to fulfil the will and work out the intentions of my uncle—I saw at once that to sell any portion of the property must separate me, to a certain extent, from those who long looked up to our house, and who, in the feudalism of the west, could ill withdraw their allegiance from their own chief to swear fealty to a stranger. The richer tenants were those whose industry and habits rendered them objects of worth and attachment; to the poorer ones, to whose improvidence and whose follies (if you will) their poverty was owing, I was bound by those ties which the ancient habit of my house had contracted for centuries. The bond of benefit conferred can be stronger than the debt of gratitude itself. What was I then to do? My income would certainly permit of my paying the interest upon my several mortgages, and still retaining wherewithal to live; the payment of Blake’s bond was my only difficulty, and small as it was, it was still a difficulty.
“I have it, Charley!” said Considine; “I’ve found out the way of doing it. Blake will have no objection, I’m sure, to take the widow’s farm in payment of his debt, giving you a power of redemption within five years. In that time, what with economy, some management, perhaps,” added he, smiling slightly,—“perhaps a wife with money may relieve all your embarrassments at once. Well, well, I know you are not thinking of that just now; but come, what say you to my plan?”
“I know not well what to say. It seems to be the best; but still I have my misgivings.”
“Of course you have, my boy; nor could I love you if you’d part with an old and faithful follower without them. But, after all, she is only a hostage to the enemy; we’ll win her back, Charley.”
“If you think so—”
“I do. I know it.”
“Well, then, be it so; only one thing I bargain,—she must herself consent to this change of masters. It will seem to her a harsh measure that the child she had nursed and fondled in her arms should live to disunite her from those her oldest attachments upon earth. We must take care, sir, that Blake cannot dispossess her; this would be too hard.”
“No, no; that we’ll guard against. And now, Charley, with prudence and caution, we’ll clear off every encumbrance, and O’Malley Castle shall yet be what it was in days of yore. Ay, boy, with the descendant of the old house for its master, and not that general—how do you call him?—that came down here to contest the county, who with his offer of thirty thousand pounds thought to uproot the oldest family of the west. Did I ever show you the letter we wrote him?”
“No, sir,” replied I, trembling with agitation as I spoke; “you merely alluded to it in one of yours.”
“Look here, lad!” said he, drawing it from the recesses of a black leather pocket-book. “I took a copy of it; read that.”
The document was dated, “O’Malley Castle, December 9th.” It ran thus:—
Sir,—I have this moment learned from my agent, that you, orsome one empowered by you for the purpose, made an offer of severalthousand pounds to buy up the different mortgages upon my property,with a subsequent intention of becoming its possessor. Now, sir, Ibeg to tell you, that if your ungentlemanlike and underhand plothad succeeded, you dared not darken with your shadow the door-sillof the house you purchased. Neither your gold nor your flattery—andI hear you are rich in both—could wipe out from the mindsand hearts of my poor tenantry the kindness of centuries. Be advised,then, sir; withdraw your offer; let a Galway gentleman settlehis own difficulties his own way; his troubles and cares are quitesufficient, without your adding to them. There can be but onemode in which your interference with him could be deemed acceptable:need I tell you, sir, who are a soldier, how that is? As Iknow your official duties are important, and as my nephew—whofeels with me perfectly in this business—is abroad, I can only saythat failing health and a broken frame shall not prevent my undertakinga journey to England, should my doing so meet your wisheson this occasion. I am, sir,Your obedient servant, GODFREY O’MALLEY.
“This letter,” continued Considine, “I enclosed in an envelope, with the following few lines of my own:”—
“Count Considine presents his compliments to Lieutenant-GeneralDashwood; and feeling that as the friend of Mr. Godfrey O’Malley,the mild course pursued by that gentleman may possibly be attributedto his suggestion, he begs to assure General Dashwood that the reversewas the case, and that he strenuously counselled the proprietyof laying a horsewhip upon the general’s shoulders, as a preliminarystep in the transaction.“Count Considine’s address is No. 16 Kildare Street.”
“Great God!” said I, “is this possible?”
“Well may you say so, my boy: for—would you believe it?—after all that, he writes a long blundering apology, protesting I know not what about motives of former friendship, and terminating with a civil hint that we have done with him forever. And of my paragraph he takes no notice; and thus ends the whole affair.”
“And with it my last hope also!” muttered I to myself.
That Sir George Dashwood’s intentions had been misconstrued and mistaken I knew perfectly well; that nothing but the accumulated evils of poverty and sickness could have induced my poor uncle to write such a letter I was well aware; but now the mischief was accomplished, the evil was done, and nothing remained but to bear with patience and submission, and to endeavor to forget what thus became irremediable.
“Sir George Dashwood made no allusion to me, sir, in his reply?” inquired I, catching at anything like a hope.
“Your name never occurs in his letter. But you look pale, boy; all these discussions come too early upon you; besides, you stay too much at home, and take no exercise.”
So saying, Considine bustled off towards the stables to look after some young horses that had just been taken up; and I walked out alone to ponder over what I had heard, and meditate on my plans for the future.
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.
As I wandered on, the irritation of my spirit gradually subsided. It was, to be sure, distressing to think over the light in which my uncle’s letter had placed me before Sir George Dashwood, had even my reputation only with him been at stake; but with my attachment to his daughter, it was almost maddening. And yet there was nothing to be done; to disavow my participation would be to throw discredit upon my uncle. Thus were my hopes blighted; and thus, at that season when life was opening upon me, did I feel careless and indifferent to everything. Had my military career still remained to me, that at least would have suggested scenes sufficient to distract me from the past; but now my days must be spent where every spot teemed with memories of bygone happiness and joys never to come back again.
My mind was, however, made up; and without speaking a word to Considine, I turned homeward, and sat down at my writing-table. In a few brief lines I informed my army agent of my intention of leaving the service, and desired that he would sell out for me at once. Fearing lest my resolution might not be proof against the advice and solicitation of my friends, I cautioned him against giving my address, or any clew by which letters might reach me.
This done, I addressed a short note to Mr. Blake, requesting to know the name of his solicitor, in whose hands the bond was placed, and announcing my intention of immediate repayment.
Trifling as these details were in themselves, I cannot help recording how completely they changed the whole current of my thoughts. A new train of interests began to spring up within me; and where so lately the clang of the battle, the ardor of the march, the careless ease of the bivouac, had engrossed every feeling, now more humble and homely thoughts succeeded; and as my personal ambition had lost its stimulant, I turned with pleasure to those of whose fate and fortunes I was in some sort the guardian. There may be many a land where the verdure blooms more in fragrance and in richness, where the clime breathes softer, and a brighter sky lights up the landscape; but there is none—I have travelled through many a one—where more touching and heart-bound associations are blended with the features of the soil than in Ireland, and cold must be the spirit, and barren the affections of him who can dwell amidst its mountains and its valleys, its tranquil lakes, its wooded fens, without feeling their humanizing influence upon him. Thus gradually new impressions and new duties succeeded; and ere four months elapsed, the quiet monotony of my daily life healed up the wounds of my suffering, and in the calm current of my present existence, a sense of content, if not of happiness, crept gently over me, and I ceased to long for the clash of arms and the loud blast of the trumpet.
Unlike all my former habits, I completely abandoned the sports of the field. He who had participated in them with me was no longer there; and the very sight of the tackle itself suggested sad and depressing thoughts.
My horses I took but little pleasure in. To gratify the good and kind people about, I would walk through the stables, and make some passing remark, as if to show some interest; but I felt it not. No; it was only by the total change of all the ordinary channels of my ideas that I could bear up; and now my days were passed in the fields, either listlessly strolling along, or in watching the laborers as they worked. Of my neighbors I saw nothing; returning their cards, when they called upon me, was the extent of our intercourse; and I had no desire for any further. As Considine had left me to visit some friends in the south, I was quite alone, and for the first time in my life, felt how soothing can be such solitude. In each happy face, in every grateful look around me, I felt that I was fulfilling my uncle’s last behest; and the sense of duty, so strong when it falls upon the heart accompanied by the sense of power, made my days pass rapidly away.
It was towards the close of autumn, when I one morning received a letter from London, informing me that my troop had been sold, and the purchase money—above four thousand pounds—lodged to my credit at my banker’s.
As Mr. Blake had merely answered my former note by a civil message that the matter in question was by no means pressing, I lost not a moment, when this news reached me, to despatch Mike to Gurt-na-Morra with a few lines, expressing my anxious desire to finish the transaction, and begging of Mr. Blake to appoint a day for the purpose.
To this application Mr. Blake’s reply was, that he would do himself the honor of waiting upon me the following day, when the arrangements I desired could be agreed upon. Now this was exactly what I wished, if possible, to avoid. Of all my neighbors, he was the one I predetermined to have no intercourse with; I had not forgotten my last evening at his house, nor had I forgiven his conduct to my uncle. However, there was nothing for it but submission; the interview need not be a long, and it should be a last one. Thus resolving, I waited in patience for the morrow.
I was seated at my breakfast the next morning, conning between whiles the columns of the last paper, and feeding my spaniel, who sat upon a large chair beside me, when the door opened, and the servant announced, “Mr. Blake;” and the instant after that gentleman bustled in holding out both his hands with all evidences of most friendly warmth, and calling out,—
“Charley O’Malley, my lad! I’m delighted to see you at last!”
Now, although the distance from the door to the table at which I sat was not many paces, yet it was quite sufficient to chill down all my respectable relative’s ardor before he approached: his rapid pace became gradually a shuffle, a slide, and finally a dead stop; his extended arms were reduced to one hand, barely advanced beyond his waistcoat; his voice, losing the easy confidence of its former tone, got husky and dry, and broke into a cough; and all these changes were indebted to the mere fact of my reception of him consisting in a cold and distant bow, as I told the servant to place a chair and leave the room.
Without any preliminary whatever, I opened the subject of our negotiation, expressed my regret that it should have waited so long, and my desire to complete it.
Whether it was that the firm and resolute tone I assumed had its effect at once, or that disappointed at the mode in which I received his advances he wished to conclude our interview as soon as need be, I know not; but he speedily withdrew from a capacious pocket a document in parchment, which, having spread at large upon the table, and having leisurely put on his spectacles, he began to hum over its contents to himself in an undertone.
“Yes, sir, here it is,” said he. “‘Deed of conveyance between Godfrey O’Malley, of O’Malley Castle, Esq., on the one part’—perhaps you’d like your solicitor to examine it,—‘and Blake, of Gurt’—because there is no hurry, Captain O’Malley—‘on the other.’ In fact, after all, it is a mere matter of form between relatives,” said he, as I declined the intervention of a lawyer. “I’m not in want of the money—‘all the lands and tenements adjoining, in trust, for the payment of the said three thousand’—thank God, Captain, the sum is a trifle that does not inconvenience me! The boys are provided for; and the girls—the pickpockets, as I call them, ha, ha, ha!—not ill off neither;—‘with rights of turbary on the said premises’—who are most anxious to have the pleasure of seeing you. Indeed, I could scarcely keep Jane from coming over to-day. ‘Sure he’s my cousin,’ says she; ‘and what harm would it be if I went to see him?’ Wild, good-natured girls, Captain! And your old friend Matthew—you haven’t forgot Matthew?—has been keeping three coveys of partridge for you this fortnight. ‘Charley,’ says he,—they call you Charley still, Captain,—‘shall have them, and no one else.’ And poor Mary—she was a child when you were here—Mary is working a sash for you. But I’m forgetting—I know you have so much business on your hands—”
“Pray, Mr. Blake, be seated. I know nothing of any more importance than the matter before us. If you will permit me to give you a check for this money. The papers, I’m sure, are perfectly correct.”
“If I only thought it did not inconvenience you—”
“Nothing of the kind, I assure you. Shall I say at sight, or in ten days hence?”
“Whenever you please, Captain. But it’s sorry I am to come troubling you about such things, when I know you are thinking of other matters. And, as I said before, the money does not signify to me; the times, thank God, are good, and I’ve never been very improvident.”
“I think you’ll find that correct.”
“Oh, to be sure it is! Well, well; I’m going away without saying half what I intended.”
“Pray do not hurry yourself. I have not asked have you breakfasted, for I remember Galway habits too well for that. But if I might offer you a glass of sherry and water after your ride?”
“Will you think me a beast if I say yes, Captain? Time was when I didn’t care for a canter of ten or fifteen miles in the morning no more than yourself; and that’s no small boast; God forgive me, but I never see that clover-field where you pounded the Englishman, without swearing there never was a leap made before or since. Is this Mickey, Captain? Faith, and it’s a fine, brown, hearty-looking chap you’re grown, Mickey. That’s mighty pleasant sherry, but where would there be good wine if it wasn’t here? Oh, I remember now what it was I wanted. Peter,—my son Peter, a slip of a boy, he’s only sixteen,—well, d’you see, he’s downright deranged about the army: he used to see your name in the papers every day, and that terrible business at—what’s the name of the place?—where you rode on the chap’s back up the breach.”
“Ciudad Rodrigo, perhaps,” said I, scarcely able to repress a laugh.
“Well, sir, since that he’ll hear of nothing but going into the army; ay, and into the dragoons too. Now, Captain, isn’t it mighty expensive in the dragoons?”
“Why, no, not particularly so,—at least in the regiment I served with.”
“I promised him I’d ask you; the boy’s mad, that’s the fact. I wish, Captain, you’d just reason with him a little; he’ll mind what you say, there’s no fear of that. And you see, though I’d like to do what’s fair, I’m not going to cut off the girls for the sake of the boys; with the blessing of Providence, they’ll never be able to reproach me for that. What I say is this: treatmewell, and I’ll treat you the same. Marry the man my choice would pick out for you, and it’s not a matter of a thousand or two I’ll care for. There was Bodkin—you remember him?” said he, with a grin; “he proposed for Mary, but since the quarrel with you, she could never bear the sight of him, and Alley wouldn’t come down to dinner if he was in the house. Mary’s greatly altered; I wish you heard her sing ‘I’d mourn the hopes that leave me.’ Queer girl she is; she was little more than a child when you were here, and she remembers you just as if it was yesterday.”
While Mr. Blake ran on at this rate, now dilating upon my own manifold virtues and accomplishments, now expatiating upon the more congenial theme,—the fascinations of his fair daughters, and the various merits of his sons,—I could not help feeling how changed our relative position was since our last meeting; the tone of cool and vulgar patronage he then assumed towards the unformed country lad was now converted into an air of fawning and deferential submission, still more distasteful.
Young as I was, however, I had already seen a good deal of the world; my soldiering had at least taught me something of men, and I had far less difficulty in deciphering the intentions and objects of my worthy relative, than I should have had in the enigmatical mazes of the parchment bond of which he was the bearer. After all, to how very narrow an extent in life are we fashioned by our own estimate of ourselves! My changed condition affected me but little until I saw how it affected others; that the position I occupied should seem better now that life had lost the great stimulus of ambition, was somewhat strange; and that flattery should pay its homage to the mourning coat which it would have refused to my soldier’s garb, somewhat surprised me. Still my bettered fortunes shone only brightly by reflected light; for in my own heart I was sad, spiritless, and oppressed.
Feeling somewhat ashamed at the coldness with which I treated a man so much my elder, I gradually assumed towards Mr. Blake a manner less reserved. He quickly availed himself of the change, and launched out into an eloquentexposéof my advantages and capabilities; the only immediate effect of which was to convince me that my property and my prospects must have been very accurately conned over and considered by that worthy gentleman before he could speak of the one or the other with such perfect knowledge.
“When you get rid of these little encumbrances, your rent-roll will be close on four thousand a year. There’s Bassett, sure, by only reducing his interest from ten to five per cent, will give you a clear eight hundred per annum; let him refuse, and I’ll advance the money. And, besides, look at Freney’s farm; there’s two hundred acres let for one third of the value, and you must look to these tilings; for, you see, Captain, we’ll want you to go into Parliament; you can’t help coming forward at the next election, and by the great gun of Athlone, we’ll return you.”
Here Mr. Blake swallowed a full bumper of sherry, and getting up a little false enthusiasm for the moment, grasped me by both hands and shook me violently; this done, like a skilful general, who, having fired the last shot of his artillery, takes care to secure his retreat, he retired towards the door, where his hat and coat were lying.
“I’ve a hundred apologies to make for encroaching upon your time; but, upon my soul, Captain, you are so agreeable, and the hours have passed away so pleasantly—May I never, if it is not one o’clock!—but you must forgive me.”
My sense of justice, which showed me that the agreeability had all been on Mr. Blake’s side, prevented me from acknowledging this compliment as it deserved; so I merely bowed stiffly, without speaking. By this time he had succeeded in putting on his great-coat, but still, by some mischance or other, the moment of his leaving-taking was deferred; one time he buttoned it awry, and had to undo it all again; then, when it was properly adjusted, he discovered that his pocket-handkerchief was not available, being left in the inner coat-pocket; to this succeeded a doubt as to the safety of the check, which instituted another search, and it was full ten minutes before he was completely caparisoned and ready for the road.
“Good-by, Captain, good-by!” said he warmly, yet warily, not knowing at what precise temperature the metal of my heart was fusible. At a mild heat I had been evidently unsinged, and the white glow of his flattery seemed only to harden me. The interview was now over, and as I thought sufficient had been done to convince my friend that the terms of distant acquaintance were to be the limits of our future intercourse, I assumed a little show of friendliness, and shook his hand warmly.
“Good-by, Mr. Blake; pray present my respectful compliments to your friends. Allow me to ring for your horse; you are not going to have a shower, I hope.”
“No, no, Captain, only a passing cloud,” said he, warming up perceptibly under the influence of my advances, “nothing more. Why, what is it I’m forgetting now! Oh, I have it! May be I’m too bold; but sure an old friend and relation may take a liberty sometimes. It was just a little request of Mrs. Blake, as I was leaving the house.” He stopped here as if to take soundings, and perceiving no change in my countenance, continued: “It was just to beg, that, in a kind and friendly way, you’d come over and eat your dinner with us on Sunday; nobody but the family, not a soul—Mrs. Blake and the girls; a boiled leg of mutton; Matthew; a fresh trout, if we can catch one! Plain and homely, but a hearty welcome, and a bottle of old claret, may be, too—ah! ah! ah!”
Before the cadence of Mr. Blake’s laugh had died away, I politely but resolutely declined the proffered invitation, and by way of setting the question at rest forever, gave him to understand that, from impaired health and other causes, I had resolved upon strictly confining myself to the limits of my own house and grounds, at least for the present.
Mr. Blake then saluted me for the last time, and left the room. As he mounted his hackney, I could not help overhearing an abortive effort he made to draw Mike into something like conversation; but it proved an utter failure, and it was evident he deemed the man as incorrigible as the master.
“A very fine young man the captain is—remarkable!—and it’s proud I am to have him for a nephew!”
So saying, he cantered down the avenue, while Mickey, as he looked after him, muttered between his teeth, “And faix, it’s prouder you’d be av he was your son-in-law!”
Mike’s soliloquy seemed to show me, in a new light, the meaning of my relative’s manner. It was for the first time in my life that such a thought had occurred to me, and it was not without a sense of shame that I now admitted it.
If there be something which elevates and exalts us in our esteem, tinging our hearts with heroism and our souls with pride, in the love and attachment of some fair and beautiful girl, there is something equally humiliating in being the object of cold and speculative calculation to a match-making family: your character studied; your pursuits watched; your tastes conned over; your very temperament inquired into; surrounded by snares; environed by practised attentions; one eye fixed upon the registered testament of your relative, the other riveted upon your own caprices; and then those thousand little cares and kindnesses which come so pleasurably upon the heart when the offspring of true affection, perverted as they are by base views and sordid interest, are so many shocks to the feeling and understanding. Like the Eastern sirocco, which seems to breathe of freshness and of health, and yet bears but pestilence and death upon its breezes,—so these calculated and well-considered traits of affection only render callous and harden the heart which had responded warmly, openly, and abundantly to the true outpourings of affection. At how many a previously happy hearth has the seed of this fatal passion planted its discord! How many a fair and lovely girl, with beauty and attractions sufficient to win all that her heart could wish of fondness and devotion, has, by this pernicious passion, become a cold, heartless, worldly coquette, weighing men’s characters by the adventitious circumstances of their birth and fortune, and scrutinizing the eligibility of a match with the practised acumen with which a notary investigates the solvency of a creditor. How do the traits of beauty, gesture, voice, and manner become converted into the common-place and distasteful trickery of the world! The very hospitality of the house becomes suspect, their friendship is but fictitious; those rare and goodly gifts of fondness and sisterly affection which grow up in happier circumstances, are here but rivalry, envy, and ill-conceived hatred. The very accomplishments which cultivate and adorn life, that light but graceful frieze which girds the temple of homely happiness, are here but the meditated and well-considered occasions of display. All the bright features of womanhood, all the freshness of youth, and all its fascinations are but like those richly-colored and beautiful fruits, seductive to the eye and fair to look upon, but which within contain nothing but a core of rottenness and decay.
No, no; unblessed by all which makes a hearth a home, I may travel on my weary way through life; but such a one as this I will not make the partner of my sorrows and my joys, come what will of it!
A SURPRISE.
From the hour of Mr. Blake’s departure, my life was no longer molested. My declaration, which had evidently, under his auspices, been made the subject of conversation through the country, was at least so far successful, as it permitted me to spend my time in the way I liked best, and without the necessity of maintaining the show of intercourse, when in reality I kept up none, with the neighborhood. While thus, therefore, my life passed on equably and tranquilly, many mouths glided over, and I found myself already a year at home, without it appearing more than a few weeks. Nothing seems so short in retrospect as monotony; the number, the variety, the interest of the events which occupy us, making our hours pass glibly and flowingly, will still suggest to the mind the impressions of a longer period than when the daily routine of our occupations assumes a character of continued uniformity. It seems to be theamendemade by hours of weariness and tedium, that, in looking back upon them, they appear to have passed rapidly over. Not that my life, at the period I speak of, was devoid of interest; on the contrary, devoting myself with zeal and earnestness to the new duties of my station, I made myself thoroughly acquainted with the condition of my property, the interest of my tenantry, their prospects, their hopes, their objects. Investigating them as only he can who is the owner of the soil, I endeavored to remedy the ancient vices of the land,—the habits of careless, reckless waste, of indifference for the morrow; and by instilling a feature of prudent foresight into that boundless confidence in the future upon which every Irishman of every rank lives and trusts, I succeeded at last in so far ameliorating their situation, that a walk through my property, instead of presenting—as it at first did—a crowd of eager and anxious supplicants, entreating for abatements in rent, succor for their sick, and sometimes even food itself, showed me now a happy and industrious people, confident in themselves, and firmly relying on their own resources.
Another spring was now opening, and a feeling of calm and tranquil happiness, the result of my successful management of my estate, made my days pass pleasantly along. I was sitting at a late breakfast in my little library; the open window afforded a far and wide prospect of the country, blooming in all the promise of the season, while the drops of the passing shower still lingered upon the grass, and were sparkling like jewels under the bright sunshine. Masses of white and billowy cloud moved swiftly through the air, coloring the broad river with many a shadow as they passed. The birds sang merrily, the trees shook their leaves in concert, and there was that sense of movement in everything on earth and sky which gives to spring its character of lightness and exhilaration. The youth of the year, like the youth of our own existence, is beautiful in the restless activity which marks it. The tender flower that seems to open as we look; the grass that springs before our eyes,—all speak of promise. The changing phases of the sky, like the smiles and tears of infancy, excite without weariness, and while they engage our sympathies, they fatigue not our compassion.
Partly lost in thought as I looked upon the fair and varied scene before me, now turning to the pages of the book upon the breakfast-table, the hours of the morning passed quickly over, and it was already beyond noon. I was startled from my revery by sounds which I could scarcely trust my ears to believe real. I listened again, and thought I could detect them distinctly. It seemed as though some one were rapidly running over the keys of a pianoforte, essaying with the voice to follow the notes, and sometimes striking two or three bold and successive chords; then a merry laugh would follow, and drown all other sounds. “What can it be?” thought I. “There is, to be sure, a pianoforte in the large drawing-room; but then, who would venture upon such a liberty as this? Besides, who is capable of it? There, it can be no inexperienced performer gave that shake; my worthy housekeeper never accomplished that!” So saying, I jumped from the breakfast-table, and set off in the direction of the sound. A small drawing-room and the billiard-room lay between me and the large drawing-room; and as I traversed them, the music grew gradually louder. Conjecturing that, whoever it might be, the performance would cease on my entrance, I listened for a few moments before opening the door. Nothing could be more singular, nothing more strange, than the effect of those unaccustomed sounds in that silent and deserted place. The character of the music, too, contributed not a little to this; rapidly passing from grave to gay, from the melting softness of some plaintive air to the reckless hurry and confusion of an Irish jig, the player seemed, as it were, to run wild through all the floating fancies of his memory; now breaking suddenly off in the saddest cadence of a song, the notes would change into some quaint, old-fashioned crone, in which the singer seemed so much at home, and gave the queer drollery of the words that expression of archness so eminently the character of certain Irish airs. “But what the deuce is this?” said I, as, rattling over the keys with a flowing but brilliant finger, she,—for it was unquestionably a woman,—with a clear and sweet voice, broken by laughter, began to sing the words of Mr. Bodkin’s song, “The Man for Galway.” When she had finished the last verse, her hand strayed, as it were, carelessly across the instrument, while she herself gave way to a free burst of merriment; and then, suddenly resuming the air, she chanted forth the following words, with a spirit and effect I can convey no idea of:—
“To live at home,And never roam;To pass his days in sighing;To wear sad looks,Read stupid books,And look half dead or dying;Not show his face,Nor join the chase,But dwell a hermit always:Oh, Charley, dear!To me ‘tis clear,You’re not the man for Galway!”
“You’re not the man for Galway!” repeated she once more, while she closed the piano with a loud bang.
“And why not, my dear, why not the man for Galway?” said I, as, bursting open the door, I sprang into the room.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?—at last! So I’ve unearthed you, have I?”
With these words she burst into an immoderate fit of laughter; leaving me, who intended to be the party giving the surprise, amazed, confused, and speechless, in the middle of the floor.