The 27th of May, 1782, was the day on which Parliament was to assemble in Dublin, and under circumstances of more than ordinary interest. The great question of the independence of the Irish Legislature was then to be discussed and determined; and never was the national mind so profoundly excited as when that time drew near. They who have only known Ireland in a later period, when her political convulsions have degenerated into low sectarian disputes,—irregular irruptions, headed by men of inferior ability, and stimulated solely by personal considerations,—can scarcely form any idea of Dublin in the days of the Volunteers. It was not alone that the Court of the Viceroy was unusually splendid, or that the presence of the Parliament crowded the capital with all the country could boast of wealth, station, and influence, but that the pomp and parade of a powerful army added brilliancy and grandeur to a spectacle which, for the magnitude of the interests at stake, and the genius and capacity of those that controlled them, had not its superior in Europe.
The position of England at the moment was pregnant with anxiety; at war with two powerful nations, she had more than ever reason to conciliate the feelings and consult the wishes of Ireland. The modern theory of English necessity being Irish opportunity had not the same prevalence then as in our own day, but still it had some followers, not one of whom more profoundly believed the adage, or was more prepared to stake fortune on the issue, than our acquaintance, Anthony Fagan.
If the Grinder was not possessed of very sage and statesmanlike opinions on politics generally, he was, on Irish questions, fully as far advanced as the patriots of our own time; his creed of “Ireland for the Irish” comprising every article of his political belief, with this advantage over modern patriotism that he was immensely rich, and quite ready to employ his wealth in the furtherance of his conviction. He was no needy adventurer, seeking, as the price of a parliamentary display, the position to which mere professional attainments would never have raised him, but a hard-working, slow-thinking, determined man, stimulated by the ambition that is associated with great riches, and stung by the degradation of low birth and proscribed religion.
Such men are dangerous in proportion as they are single-minded. Fagan, with all his sincerity of purpose, failed in this respect, for he was passionate and resentful to an extent which made him often forget everything else but his desire of a personal reparation. This was his great fault, and, strange enough, too, he knew it. The working of that failing, and his iron efforts to control it, made up the whole character of the man.
The gross corruption which characterized a late period of Irish history was then comparatively unknown. It is very possible that had it been attempted, its success had been very inferior to that it was destined to obtain subsequently, for the whole tone of public feeling was higher and purer. Public men were both more independent in property, as well as principle, and no distinction of talent or capacity could have dispensed with the greater gifts of honesty and good faith. If there were not venality and low ambition, however, to work upon, there were other national traits no less open to the seductive arts of a crafty administration. There was a warm-hearted and generous confidence, and a gratitude that actually accepted a pledge, and acknowledged it for performance. These were weaknesses not likely to escape the shrewd perception of party, and to the utmost were they profited by. The great game of the government was to sow, if not dissension, at least distrust, in the ranks of the national party,—to chill the ardor of patriotism, and, wherever possible, to excite different views, and different roads to success, amongst the popular leaders of the time. There came a day when corruption only asked to see a man's rent-roll and the list of his mortgages, when his price could be estimated as easily as an actuary can calculate an annuity when given the age and the circumstances of the individual. Then, however, the investigation demanded nicer and more delicate treatment, for the question was the more subtle one of the mixed and often discordant motives of the human heart.
The Duke of Portland was well calculated to carry out a policy of this kind; but I am far from suspecting that he was himself fully aware of the drama in which he acted. He was a plain, straightforward man, of average good sense, but more than average firmness and determination. He came over to Ireland thoroughly impressed with the favorite English maxim that whatever Irishmen wish is assuredly bad for them, and thought, like the old physicians of the sixteenth century, that a patient's benefit was in the exact proportion to his repugnance for the remedy. I am not quite sure that this pleasant theory is not even yet the favorite one as regards Ireland, which, perhaps, after all, might be permitted the privilege so generally accorded to the incurable, to take a little medicine of her own prescribing. Be this as it may, I am convinced that the Duke of Portland was no hypocrite, but firmly believed in the efficacy of the system he advocated, and only made use of the blandishments and hospitalities of his station to facilitate connections which he trusted would at last be concurred in on the unerring grounds of reason and judgment. Whatever people may say or think to the contrary, hypocrisy—that is, a really well-sustained and long-maintained hypocrisy—is one of the rarest things to be met with, and might even be suspected never to exist at all, since the qualities and gifts necessary, or indeed indispensable, to its attainment are exactly of an order which bespeaks some of the first and greatest traits of human nature, and for that reason would make the game of dissimulation impossible; and I would be as slow to believe that a man could search the heart, study the passions, weigh the motives, and balance the impulses of his fellow-men, for mere purposes of trick or deception, as that a doctor would devote years of toil and labor in his art for the sole aim of poisoning and destroying his patients.
Few men out of the lists of party took so great an interest in the great struggle as Tony Fagan. With the success of the patriotic side his own ambitions were intimately involved. It was not the section of great wealth, and there was no saying to what eminence a man of his affluence might attain amongst them. He not only kept a registry of all the members, with their peculiar leanings and party connections annexed to it, but he carefully noted down any circumstance likely to influence the vote or sway the motives of the principal leaders of the people. His sources of information were considerable, and penetrated every class of society, from the high world of Dublin down to the lowest resorts of the rabble. The needy gentleman, hard pressed for resources, found his dealings with the Grinder wonderfully facilitated by any little communication of backstairs doings at the Castle, or the secrets of the chief secretary's office; while the humble ballad-singer of the streets, or the ragged newsman, were equally certain of a “tester,” could they only supply some passing incident that bore upon the relations of party.
If not one of the most brilliant, certainly one of the most assiduous of Fagan's emissaries was a certain Samuel Cotterell,—a man who held the high and responsible dignity of state trumpeter in the Irish Court. He was a large, fine-looking, though somewhat over-corpulent, personage, with a most imposing dignity of air, and a calm self-possession of manner that well became his functions. Perhaps this was natural to him; but some of it may well be attributed to his sense of the dignity of one who only appeared in public on the very greatest occasions, and was himself the herald of a splendid ceremonial.
From long association with the Viceregal Court, he had grown to believe himself a part, and by no means an insignificant part, of the Government, and spoke of himself as of one mysteriously but intimately mixed up in all the acts of the State. The pretentious absurdity, the overweening vanity of the man, which afforded so much amusement to others, gave no pleasure to Fagan,—they rather vexed and irritated him; but these were feelings that he cautiously concealed, for he well knew the touchy and irritable nature of the man, and that whatever little information could be derived from him was only come-at-able by indulging his vein of self-esteem.
It had been for years his custom to pay a visit to Fagan on the eve of any great solemnity, and he was snugly installed in the little bow-window on the evening of the 26th May, with a goodly array of glasses and a very formidable square decanter of whiskey on a table in front of him. Fagan, who never could trust to the indiscreet propensity of Polly to “quizz” his distinguished friend, had sent her to spend the day in the country with some acquaintances; Raper was deep in a difficult passage of Richter, in his own chamber; so that the Grinder was free to communicate with the great official unmolested and undisturbed.
Most men carry into private life some little trait or habit of their professional career. The lawyer is apt to be pert, interrogative, and dictatorial; the doctor generally distils the tiresomeness of the patient in his own conversation; the soldier is proverbially pipeclay; and so perhaps we may forgive our friend Cotterell if his voice, in speaking, seemed to emulate the proud notes of his favorite instrument, while his utterance came in short, broken, abrupt bursts,—faint, but faithful, imitations of his brazen performances in public. He was naturally not given to talking, so that it is more than probable the habit ofstaccatowas in itself a great relief to him.
I will not pretend to say that Fagan's patience was not sorely tried as well by the matter as the manner of his friend. His pursuit of politics was, indeed, under the greatest of difficulties; but he labored on, and, like some patient gold-seeker, was satisfied to wash the sand for hours, rewarded with even a few grains of the precious metal at the end of his toil.
“Help yourself, Sam. That's the poteen,—this, here, is Kinahan,” said the Grinder, who well knew that until the finish of the third tumbler, Mr. Cotterell's oracle gave no sound. “Help yourself, and remember you 'll have a fatiguing day to-morrow!”
“A great day,—say rather a great day for Ireland,” tolled out the trumpeter.
“That's to be seen,” replied Fagan, caustically. “I have witnessed a good many of those great days for Ireland, but I 'd be sorely puzzled to say what has come of them.”
“There are three great days for Ireland every year. There's the opening, one; the King's, two; St. Patrick's, three—”
“I know all that,” muttered Tony, discontentedly.
“St. Patrick's, three; and a collar day!” repeated Sam, solemnly.
“Collars, and curs to wear them,” growled out Tony, under his breath.
“Ay, a collar day!” and he raised his eyes with a half devotional expression at these imposing words.
“The Duke will open Parliament in person?” asked Fagan, as a kind of suggestive hint, which chanced to turn the talk.
“So we mean, sir,—we have always done so. Procession to form in the Upper Castle Yard at twelve; battle-axes in full dress; Ulster in his tabard!”
“Yes, yes; I have seen it over and over again,” sighed Fagan, wearily.
“Sounds of trumpet in the court—flourish!”
“Flourish, indeed!” sighed Tony; “it's the only thing does flourish in poor Ireland. Tell me, Sam, has the Court been brilliant lately?”
“We gave two dinners last week—plain dress—bags and swords!”
“And who were the company?”
“Loftus, Lodge, and Morris, Skeffington, Langrishe, and others—Boyle Roche, the Usher-in-waiting. On Friday, we had Rowley, Charlemont—”
“Lord Charlemont,—did he dine with the Viceroy on Friday last?”
“Yes, sir; and it was the first time we have asked him since the Mutiny Bill!”
“This is indeed strange, Sam; I scarcely thought he was on such terms with the Court!”
“We forgive and forget, sir,—we forgive and forget,” said Sam, waving his hand with dignity.
“There was young Carew also.”
“Walter Carew, the member for Wicklow?”
“The same—took in Lady Charlotte Carteret—sat next to her Grace, and spoken to frequently—French wife—much noticed!”
“Is he one of the new converts, then?” asked Fagan, slowly; “is he about to change the color of his coat?”
“A deep claret, with diamond buttons, jabot, and ruffles, Mechlin lace—”
“And the Duke, you say, spoke much with him?”
“Repeatedly.”
“They talked of politics?”
“We talked of everything.”
“And in terms of agreement too?”
“Not about artichokes. Carew likes them in oil,—we always prefer butter.”
“That is a most important difference of opinion,” said Tony, with a sneer.
“We thought nothing of it,” said the other, with an air of dignity; “for shortly after, we accepted an invitation to go down to Castle Carew for a week.”
“To spend a week at Castle Carew?”
“A half state visit.”
“With all the tagrag and bobtail of a Court,—the lazy drones of pageantry, the men of painted coats and patched characters, the women painted too, but beyond the art of patching for a reputation.”
“No, in half state,” replied Cotterell, calmly, and not either heeding or attending to this passionate outburst,—“two aides-de-camp; Mr. Barrold, private secretary; Sir George Gore; and about thirty servants.”
“Thirty thieves in state livery,—thirty bandits in silk stockings and powder!”
“We have made mutual concessions, and shall, I doubt not, be good friends,” continued Sam, only thinking of what he said himself. “Carew is to give our state policy a fair trial, and we are to taste the artichokes with oil. His Grace proposed the contract, and then proposed the visit.”
A deep groan of angry indignation was all that Tony could utter in reply. “And this same visit,” said he, at last, “when is it to take place?”
“Next week; for the present we have much on our hands. We open Parliament to-morrow; Wednesday, grand dinner to peers and peeresses; Thursday, the judges and law officers; Friday, debate on the address—small party of friends; Saturday we go to the play in state,—we like the play.”
“You do, do you?” said the Grinder, with a grin of malice, as some vindictive feeling worked within him.
“We have commanded 'The Road to Ruin,'” continued Cotterell.
“Out of compliment to your politics, I suppose!”
“Holman's Young Rapid always amused us!”
“Carew's performance of the character is better still,—it is real; it is palpable.” Then, suddenly carried beyond himself by a burst of passion, he cried: “Now, is it possible that your heavy browed Duke fancies a country can be ruled in this wise? Does he believe that a little flattery here, a little bribery there, some calumny to separate friends, some gossip to sow dissension amongst intimates, a promise of place, a title or a pension thrown to the hungry hounds that yelp, and bark, and fawn about a Court,—that this means government, or that these men are the nation?”
“You have overturned the sugar-bowl,” observed Cotterell.
“Better than to upset the country,” said the other, with a contemptuous look at his stolid companion. “I tell you what it is, Cotterell,” added he, gravely, “these English had might and power on their side, and had they rested their strength on them, they might defy us, for we are the weaker party; but they have condescended to try other weapons, and would encounter us with subtlety, intrigue, and cabal. Now, mark my words: we may not live to see it, but the time will come when their scheme will recoil upon themselves; for we are their equals,—ay, more than their equals,—with such arms as these! Fools that they are, not to see that if they destroy the influence of the higher classes, the people will elect leaders from their own ranks; and, instead of having to fight Popery alone, the day is not distant when they 'll have to combat democracy too. Will not the tune be changed then?”
“It must always be 'God save the King,' sir, on birthdays,” said Cotterell, who was satisfied if he either caught or comprehended the last words of any discourse.
It is difficult to say whether the Grinder's temper could have much longer endured these assaults of stupidity, but for the sudden appearance of Raper, who, coming stealthily forward, whispered a few words in Fagan's ear.
“Did you say here?—here?” asked Fagan, eagerly.
“Yes, sir,” replied Raper; “below in the office.”
“But why there? Why not show him upstairs? No, no, you 're right,” added he, with a most explanatory glance towards his guest. “I must leave you for a few minutes, Cotterell. Take care of yourself till I come back;” and with this apology he arose, and followed Raper downstairs.
The visitor, who sat on one of the high office-stools, dressed in the first fashion of the day, slapped his boot impatiently with his cane, and did not even remove his hat as Fagan entered, contenting himself with a slight touch of the finger to its leaf for salutation.
“Sorry to disturb you, Fagan,” said he, half cavalierly; “but being in town late this evening, and knowing the value of even five minutes' personal intercourse, I have dropped in to say,—what I have so often said in the same place,—I want money.”
“Grieved to hear it, Mr. Carew,” was the grave, sententious reply.
“I don't believe you, Tony. When a man can lend, as you can, on his own terms, he 's never very sorry to hear of the occasion for his services.”
“Cash is scarce, sir.”
“So I have always found it, Tony; but, like everything else, one gets it by paying for. I 'm willing to do so, and now, what's the rate,—ten, fifteen, or are you Patriarch enough to need twenty per cent?”
“I'm not sure that I could oblige you, even on such terms, Mr. Carew. There is a long outstanding, unsettled account between us. There is a very considerable balance due to me. There are, in fact, dealings between us which call for a speedy arrangement.”
“And which are very unlikely to be favored with it, Tony. Now, I have n't a great deal of time to throw away, for I'm off to the country to-night, so that pray let us understand each other at once. I shall need, before Monday next, a sum of not less than eight thousand pounds. Hacket, my man of law, will show you such securities as I possess. Call on him, and take your choice of them. I desire that our negotiation should be strictly a matter between ourselves, because we live in gossiping times, and I don't care to amuse the town with my private affairs. Are you satisfied with this?”
“Eight thousand, in bills, of course, sir?”
“If you wish it!”
“At what dates?”
“The longer the better.”
“Shall we say in two sums of four thousand each,—six months and nine?”
“With all my heart. When can I touch the coin?”
“Now, sir; this moment if you desire it.”
“Write the check, then, Tony,” said he, hurriedly.
“There, sir, there are the bills for your signature,” said Fagan. “Will you have the goodness to give me a line to Hacket about the securities?”
“Of course,” said he; and he at once wrote the note required. “Now for another point, Tony: I am going to ask a favor of you. Are you in a gracious mood this evening?”
The appeal was sudden enough to be disconcerting, and so Fagan felt it, for he looked embarrassed and confused in no ordinary degree.
“Come, I see I shall not be refused,” said my father, who at once saw that the only course was the bold one. “It is this: we are expecting some friends to spend a few days with us at Castle Carew, a kind of house-warming to that new wing; we have done our best to gather around us whatever our good city boasts of agreeability and beauty, and with tolerable success. There is, I may say, but one wanting to make our triumph complete. With her presence I 'd wager a thousand guineas that no country mansion in Great Britain could contest the palm with us.”
Fagan grew deadly pale as he listened, then flushed deeply, and a second time a sickly hue crept over his features as, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said,—
“You mean my daughter, sir?”
“Of course I do, Tony. A man need n't read riddles to know who is the handsomest girl in Dublin. I hope you 'll not deny us the favor of her company. My wife will meet her at Bray; she'll come into town, if you prefer it, and take her up here.”
“Oh, no, sir; not here,” said Fagan, hurriedly, who, whatever plans he might be forming in his mind, quickly saw the inconvenience of such a step.
“It shall be as you please in every respect, Fagan. Now, on Tuesday morning—”
“Not so fast, sir,—not so fast,” said Fagan, calmly. “You have n't given me time for much reflection now; and the very little thought I have bestowed on the matter suggests grave doubts to me. Nobody knows better than Mr. Carew that a wide gulf separates our walk in life from his; that however contented with our lot in this world, it is a very humble one—”
“Egad! I like such humility. The man who can draw a check for ten thousand at sight, and yet never detect any remarkable alteration in his banker's book, ought to be proud of the philosophy that teaches him contentment. Tony, my worthy friend, don't try to mystify me. You know, and you 'd be a fool if you did n't know, that with your wealth and your daughter's beauty you have only to choose the station she will occupy. There is but one way you can possibly defeat her success, and that is by estranging her from the world, and withdrawing her from all intercourse with society. I can't believe that this is your intention; I can scarcely credit that it could be her wish. Let us, then, have the honor of introducing her to that rank, the very highest position in which she would grace and dignify. I ask it as a favor,—the very greatest you can bestow on us.”
“No, sir; it cannot be. It's impossible, utterly impossible.”
“I am really curious to know upon what grounds, for I confess they are a secret to me!”
“So they must remain, then, sir, if you cannot persuade me to open more of my heart than I am in the habit of doing with comparative strangers. I can be very grateful for the honor you intend me, Mr. Carew; but the best way to be so is, probably, not to accompany that feeling with any sense of personal humiliation!”
“You are certainly not bent on giving me any clew to your motives, Fagan.”
“I'm sorry for it, sir; but frankness to you might be great unfairness to myself.”
“More riddles, Tony, and I 'm far too dull to read them.”
“Well, then, sir, perhaps you'd understand me when I say that Anthony Fagan, low and humble as he is, has no mind to expose his daughter to the sneers and scoffs of a rank she has no pretension to mix with; that, miser as he is, he would n't bring a blush of shame to her cheek for all the wealth of India! and that, rather than sit at home here and brood over every insult that would be offered to the usurer's daughter by those beggarly spendthrifts that are at liberty by his bounty, he 'd earn his name of the Grinder by crushing them to the dust!”
The vehemence of his utterance had gone on increasing as he spoke, till at the end the last words were given with almost a scream of passion.
“I must say, Fagan,” replied my father, calmly, “that you form a very humble, I trust a very unfair, estimate of the habits of my house, not to say of my own feelings. However, we'll not dispute the matter. Good evening to you.”
“Good evening, sir; I 'm sorry I was so warm; I hope I have said nothing that could offend you.”
“Not when you did n't mean offence, believe me, Fagan. I repeat my hope that the friends and acquaintances with whom I live are not the underbred and ill-mannered class you think them; beyond that I have nothing to say. Good evening.”
Probably no amount of discussion and argument on the subject could so palpably have convinced Fagan of the vast superiority of a man of good manners over one of inferior breeding as did the calm and gentleman-like quietude of my father's bearing, in contradistinction to his own passionate outbreak.
“One moment, sir,—one moment,” cried he, laying his hand on my father's arm; “you really believe that one humbly born as Polly, the daughter of a man in my condition, would be received amongst the high and titled of Dublin without a scornful allusion to whence she came,—without a sneer at her rank in life?”
“If I thought anything else, Fagan, Ï should be dishonored in making this request of you.”
“She shall go, sir,—she shall go,” cried Fagan.
“Thanks for the confidence, Fagan; I know you 'd rather trust me with half your fortune without a scratch of my pen in return.”
Fagan turned away his head; but a motion of his hand across his eyes showed how he felt the speech.
To obviate the awkwardness of the moment, my father entered upon the details of the journey, for which it was arranged that Fagan was to send his daughter to Bray, where a carriage from Castle Carew would be in waiting to convey her the remainder of the way. These points being settled, my father once again thanked him for his compliance, and departed.
I should be only mystifying my reader most unjustifiably should I affect any secrecy as to my father's reasons for this singular invitation; for although the gossipry of the day could adduce innumerable plots and plans which were to spring out of it, I sincerely believe his sole motive was the pleasure that he and my mother were sure to feel in doing a piece of graceful and generous politeness. MacNaghten's account of Polly had strongly excited their curiosity, not to speak of a more worthy feeling, in her behalf; and knowing that Fagan's immense wealth would one day or other be hers, they felt it was but fair that she should see, and be seen, by that world of which she was yet to be a distinguished ornament. Beyond this, I implicitly believe they had no motive nor plan. Of course, I do not pretend to say that even amongst his own very guests, the men who travelled down to enjoy his hospitality, his conduct did not come in for its share of criticism. Many an artful device was attributed to this seeming stroke of policy, not one of which, however, did not more redound to my father's craft than to his character for honorable dealing. But what would become of “bad tongues” in this world if there were not generous natures to calumniate and vilify? Of a verity, scandal prefers a high mark and an unblemished reputation for its assaults, far better than a damaged fame and a tattered character; it seems more heroic to shy a pebble through a pane of plate-glass than to pitch a stone through a cracked casement!
Among the members of the Viceregal suite who were to accompany his Grace on a visit was a certain Barry Rutledge, a gentleman usher, whose character and doings were well known in the times I speak of. When a very young man, Rutledge had been stripped of his entire patrimony on the turf, and was thrown for support upon the kindness of those who had known him in better days. Whether it was that time had developed or adversity had sharpened his wits, it is certain that he showed himself to be a far shrewder and more intelligent being than the world had heretofore deemed him. If he was not gifted with any very great insight into politics, for which he was free to own he had no taste, he was well versed in human nature, at least in all its least favorable aspects, and thoroughly understood how to detect and profit by the weaknesses of those with whom he came in contact.
His racing experiences had given him all the training and teaching which he possessed, and to his own fancied analogy between the turf and the great race of life did he owe all the shrewd inspirations that guided him.
His favorite theory was, that however well a horse may gallop, there is always, if one but knew it, some kind of ground that would throw him “out of stride;” and so of men: he calculated that every one is accompanied by some circumstance or other which forms his stumbling-block through life; and however it may escape notice, that to its existence will be referrable innumerable turnings and windings, whose seeming contradictions excite surprise and astonishment.
To learn all these secret defects, to store his mind with every incident of family and fortune of the chief actors of the time, was the mechanism by which he worked, and certainly in such inquisitorial pursuits it would have been hard to find his equal. By keenly watching the lines of action men pursued, he had taught himself to trace back to their motives, and by the exercise of these faculties he had at last attained to a skill in reading character that seemed little short of marvellous.
Nature had been most favorable in fitting him for his career, for his features were of that cast which bespeaks a soft, easy temperament, careless and unsuspecting. His large blue eyes and curly golden hair gave him, even at thirty, a boyish look, and both in voice and manner was he singularly youthful, while his laugh was like the joyous outburst of a happy schoolboy.
None could have ever suspected that such a figure as this, arrayed in the trappings of a courtly usher, could have inclosed within it a whole network of secret intrigue and plot. My mother had the misfortune to make a still more fatal blunder; for, seeing him in what she pardonably enough believed to be a livery, she took him to be a menial, and actually despatched him to her carriage to fetch her fan! The incident got abroad, and Rutledge, of course, was well laughed at; but he seemed to enjoy the mirth so thoroughly, and told the story so well himself, that it could never be imagined he felt the slightest annoyance on the subject. By all accounts, however, the great weakness of his character was the belief that he was decidedly noble-looking and highbred; that place him where you would, costume him how you might, surround him with all that might disparage pretension, yet that such was the innate gentlemanhood of his nature, the least critical of observers would not fail to acknowledge him. To say that he concealed this weakness most completely, that he shrouded it in the very depth of his heart, is only to repeat what I have already mentioned as to his character; for he was watchful over every trifle that should betray a knowledge of his nature, and sensitively alive to the terrors of ridicule. From that hour forward he became my mother's enemy,—not, as many others might, by decrying her pretensions to beauty, or by any depreciatory remarks on her dress or manner, but in a far deeper sense, and with more malignant determination.
To learn who she was, of what family, what were her connections, their rank, name, and station, were his first objects; and although the difficulties of the inquiry were considerable, his sources of knowledge were sufficient to overcome them. He got to hear something at least of her history, and to trace back her mysterious journey to an ancient château belonging to the Crown of France. Beyond this, in all livelihood, he could not go; but even here were materials enough for his subtlety to make use of.
The Viceregal visit to Castle Carew had been all planned by him. He had persuaded the Duke that the time was come when, by a little timely flattering, the whole landed gentry of Ireland were in his hands. The conciliating tone of the speech which opened Parliament, the affectedly generous confidence of England in all the acts of the Irish Legislature, had already succeeded to a miracle. Grattan himself moved the address in terms of unbounded reliance on the good faith of Government. Flood followed in the same strain, and others, of lesser note, were ashamed to utter a sentiment of distrust, in the presence of such splendid instances of confiding generosity. My father, although not a leading orator of the House, was, from connection and fortune, possessed of much influence, and well worth the trouble of gaining over, and, as Rutledge said, “It was pleasant to have to deal with a man who wanted neither place, money, nor the peerage, but whose alliance could be ratified at his own table, and pledged in his own Burgundy.”
Every one knows what happens in the East when a great sovereign makes a present of an elephant to some inferior chief. The morale of a Viceregal visit is pretty much in the same category. It is an honor that cannot be declined, and it is generally sure to ruin the entertainer. Of course I do not talk of the present times nor of late years. Lord-Lieutenants have grown to be less stately; the hosts have become less splendid. But in the days I speak of here, there were great names and great fortunes in the land. The influence of the country neither flowed from Roman rescripts nor priestly denunciations. The Lions of Judah and the Doves of Elphin were as yet unknown to our political zoology; and, with all their faults and shortcomings, we had at least a national gentry party, high-spirited, hospitable, and generous, and whose misfortunes were probably owing to the fact that they gave a too implicit faith to the adaptiveness of English laws to a people who have not, in their habits, natures, or feelings, the slightest analogy to Englishmen! and that, when at length they began to perceive the error, it was already too late to repair it.
The Viceroy's arrival at Castle Carew was fixed for a Tuesday, and on Monday evening Mr. Barry Rutledge drove up to the door just as my father and mother, with Dan Mac-Naghten, were issuing forth for a walk. He had brought with him a list of those for whom accommodation should be provided, and the number considerably exceeded all expectation. Nor was this the only disconcerting event, for my father now learned, for the first time, that he should have taken his Grace's pleasure with regard to each of the other guests he had invited to meet him,—a piece of etiquette he had never so much as thought of. “Of course it's not much matter,” said Rutledge, laughing easily; “your acquaintances are all known to his Grace.”
“I'm not so sure of that,” interposed my father, quickly; for he suddenly remembered that Polly Fagan was not likely to have been presented at Court, nor was she one to expect to escape notice.
“He never thinks of politics in private life; he has not the smallest objection to meet every shade of politician.”
“I 'm quite sure of that,” said my father, musing, but by no means satisfied with the prospect before him.
“Tell Rutledge whom you expect,” broke in Dan, “and he'll be able to guide you, should there be any difficulty about them.”
“Ma foi!” broke in my mother, half impatiently, in her imperfect language. “If dey are of la bonne société, what will you have more?”
“Of course,” assented Rutledge. “The names we are all familiar with,—the good houses of the country.” Carelessly as he spoke, he contrived to dart a quick glance towards my mother; but, to his astonishment, she showed no sign of discomfort or uneasiness.
“Egad! I think it somewhat hard that a man's company should not be of his own choosing!” said MacNaghten, half angrily. “Do you think his Grace would order the dinner away if there happened to be a dish at table he didn't like?”
“Not exactly, if he were not compelled to eat of it,” said Rutledge, good-humoredly; “but I 'm sure, all this time, that we 're only amusing ourselves fighting shadows. Just tell me who are coming, and I 'll be able to give you a hint if any of them should be personally displeasing to his Grace.”
“You remember them all, Dan,” said my father; “try and repeat the names.”
“Shall we keep the lump of sugar for the last,” said Dan, “as they do with children when they give them medicine? or shall we begin with your own friends, Rut-ledge? for we've got Archdall, and Billy Burton, and Freke, and Barty Hoare, and some others of the same stamp,—fellows that I call very bad company, but that I'm well aware you Castle folk expect to see everywhere you go!”
“But you've done things admirably,” cried Rutledge. “These are exactly the men for us. Have you Townsend?”
“Ay, and his flapper, Tisdall; for without Joe he never remembers what story to tell next. And then there's Jack Preston! Egad! you 'll fancy yourselves on the Treasury benches.”
“Well, now for the Opposition,” said Rutledge, gayly.
“To begin: Grattan can't come,—a sick child, the measles, or something or other wrong in the nursery, which he thinks of more consequence than 'all your houses;' Ponsonby won't come,—he votes you all very dull company; Hugh O'Donnell is of the same mind, and adds that he 'd rather see Tom Thumb, in Fishamble Street, than all your court tomfooleries twice over. But then we've old Bob Ffrench,—Bitter Bob; Joe Curtis—”
“Not the same Curtis that refused his Grace leave to shoot over his bog at Bally vane?”
“The very man, and just as likely to send another refusal if the request be repeated.”
“I didn't know of this, Dan,” interposed my father. “This is really awkward.”
“Perhaps it was a little untoward,” replied MacNaghten, “but there was no help for it. Joe asked himself; and when I wrote to say that the Duke was coming, he replied that he 'd certainly not fail to be here, for he did n't think there was another house in the kingdom likely to harbor them both at the same time.”
“He was right there,” said Rutledge, gravely.
“He generally is right,” replied MacNaghten, with a dry nod. “Stephen Blake, too, isn't unlikely to come over, particularly if he finds out that we 've little room to spare, and that he 'll put us all to inconvenience.”
“Oh, we'll have room enough for every one,” cried my father.
“I do hope, at least, none will go away for want of—how you say, place?” said my mother.
“That's exactly the right word for it,” cried MacNaghten, slyly. “'Tis looking for places the half of them are. I've said nothing of the ladies, Rutledge; for of course your courtly habits see no party distinctions amongst the fair sex. We'll astonish your English notions, I fancy, with such a display of Irish beauty as you 've no idea of.”
“That we can appreciate without the slightest disparagement on the score of politics.”
“Need you tell him of Polly?” whispered my father in Dan's ear.
“No; it's just as well not.” “I'd tell him, Dan; the thing is done, and cannot be undone,” continued he, in the same undertone.
“As you please.”
“We mean to show you such a girl, Rutledge, as probably not St. James's itself could match. When I tell you she 'll have not very far from half a million sterling, I think it's not too much to say that your English Court has n't such a prize in the wheel.”
“It 's Westrop's daughter you mean?”
“Not a bit of it, man. Dorothy won't have fifty thousand. I doubt greatly if she 'll have thirty; and as to look, style, and figure, she's not to compare with the girl I mean.”
“The Lady Lucy Lighton? and she is very beautiful, I confess.”
“Lucy Lighton! Why, what are you thinking of? Where would she get the fortune I am speaking of? But you'd never guess the name; you never saw her,—perhaps never so much as heard of her. She is a Miss Fagan.”
“Polly—Polly Fagan, the Grinder's daughter?”
“So, then, you have heard of her?” said Dan, not a little disconcerted by this burst of intelligence.
“Heard of her! Nay, more, I've seen and spoken with her. I once made a descent on the old father, in the hope of doing something with him; and being accidentally, I believe it was, shown upstairs, I made Miss Polly's acquaintance, but with just as little profit.”
“You'll have more time to improve the intimacy here, Rutledge,” said my father, laughingly, “if MacNaghten be not a rival 'near the throne.'”
“I'll not interfere with you, Barry,” cried MacNaghten, carelessly.
Rutledge gave one of his usual unmeaning laughs, and said, “After all, if we except Ffrench and Curtis, there's nothing to be afraid of; and I suppose there will be no difficulty in keeping them at a safe distance.”
“Bob Ffrench cares much more for Carew's Burgundy than for his grand acquaintances,” interposed MacNaghten; “and as for Curtis, he only comes out of curiosity. Once satisfied that all will go on in the routine fashion of every other country visit, he'll jog home again, sorely discontented with himself for the trouble he has taken to come here.”
“I need scarcely tell you,” said Rutledge, taking my father's arm, and leading him to one side,—“I need scarcely tell you that we 'd better avoid all discussion about politics and party. You yourself are very unlikely to commit any error in tact, but of course you cannot answer for others. Would it not, then, be as well to give some kind of hint?”
“Faith,” broke in my father, hastily, “I will never attempt to curb the liberty of speech of any one who does me the honor to be my guest; and I am sure I have not a friend in the world who would tamely submit to such dictation.”
“Perhaps you are right. Indeed, I'm sure you are,” broke in Rutledge, and hastened his step till he joined the others.
From an early hour on the following morning, the company began to pour in to Castle Carew, then style and retinue being as varied as may well be imagined,—some arriving in all the pomp and splendor of handsomely appointed equipage; some dashing up with splashed and panting posters; and others jogging lazily along the avenue in some old “conveniency” of a past age, drawn by animals far more habituated to the plough than the phaeton. Amongst those first was conspicuous the singular old noddy, as it was called, in which Ffrench and Curtis travelled; the driver being perilously elevated some dozen feet above the earth, and perched on a bar which it required almost a rope-dancer's dexterity to occupy. This primitive conveyance, as it trundled along before the windows, drew many to gaze and jest upon its curious appearance,—a degree of notice which seemed to have very opposite effects on the two individuals exposed to it; for while Ffrench nodded, kissed hands, and smiled good-humoredly to his friends, Curtis sat back with his arms folded, and his hat slouched over his eyes, as if endeavoring to escape recognition.
“Confound the rascal!” muttered he between his teeth. “Could n't he have managed to creep round by some back way? His blasted jingling old rat-trap has called the whole household to look at us!—and, may I never, if he has n't broken something! What's the matter,—what are you getting down for?”
“'T is the mare's got the reins under her tail, yer honer!” said the driver, as he descended some half-dozen feet to enable him to get near enough to rectify the entanglement The process was made more difficult by the complicated machinery of springs, straps, bars, and bolts which supported the box, and in the midst of which the poor fellow sat as in a cage. He was, however, proceeding in a very business-like way to tug at the tail with one hand, and pull out the reins with the other, when, suddenly, far behind, there came the tearing tramp of horses advancing at speed, the cracking of the postilions' whips adding to the clamor. The horses of the noddy, feeling no restraint from the reins, and terrified by the uproar, kicked up their heels at once, and bolted away, shooting the driver out of his den into a flowerpot. Away dashed the affrighted beasts, the crazy old conveyance rattling and shaking behind them with a deafening uproar. Immediately beyond the hall-door, the avenue took a sweep round a copse, and by a gentle descent wound its course towards the stables, a considerable expanse of ornamental water bordering the-road on the other side. Down the slope they now rushed madly; and, unable from their speed to accomplish the turn in safety, they made a sudden “jib” at the water's edge, which upset the noddy, pitching its two occupants over head and heels into the lake. By good fortune it was not more than four or five feet deep in this part, so that they came off with no other injury than a thorough drenching, and the ridicule which met them in the laughter of some fifty spectators. As for Ffrench, he had to sit down on the bank and laugh till the very tears came; the efforts of Curtis to rid himself of tangled dead weed and straggling aquatic plants having driven that choleric subject almost out of his wits.
“This may be an excellent joke,—I've no doubt it is, since you seem to think so; but, by Heaven, sir, I 'll try if I cannot make some one responsible for it! Yes, gentlemen,” added he, shaking his fist at the crowded windows, “it's not all over yet; we'll see who laughs last!”
“Faith, we're well off, to escape with a little fright, and some frog-spawn,” said Bob; “it might have been worse!”
“It shall be worse, sir, far worse, depend upon it!” said the other.
By this time my father had come up to the spot, and endeavored, as well as the absurdity of the scene would permit him, to condole with the angry sufferer. It was not, however, without the greatest difficulty that Curtis could be prevailed upon to enter the house. The very idea of being a laughing-stock was madness to him; and it was only on the strict assurance that no allusion to the event would be tolerated by my father that he at last gave in and accompanied him.
Insignificant as was this incident in itself, it was the origin of very grave consequences. Curtis was one of those men who are unforgiving to anything like ridicule; and the sense of injury, added to the poignant suffering of a ruined estate and a fallen condition, by no means improved a temper irascible beyond everything. He entered the house swearing every species of vengeance on the innocent cause of his misadventure.
“Time was, sir, when a lord-lieutenant drove to a gentleman's door in a style becoming his dignity, and not heralded by half-a-dozen rascals, whip-cracking and caracolling like the clowns in a circus!”
Such was his angry commentary as he pushed past my father and hastened to his room. Long after, he sat brooding and mourning over his calamity. It was forgotten in the drawing-room, where Polly had now arrived, dividing attention and interest with the Viceroy himself. Indeed, while his Grace was surrounded with courtly and grave figures, discussing the news of the day and the passing topics, Polly was the centre of a far more animated group, whose laughter and raillery rung through the apartment.
My mother was charmed with her, not only because she possessed considerable personal charms, but, being of her own age, and speaking French with ease and fluency, it was a great happiness to her to unbend once again in all the freedom of her own delightful language. It was to no purpose that my father whispered to her the names and titles of various guests to whom peculiar honor was due; it was in vain that he led her to the seat beside some tiresome old lady, all dulness and diamonds; by some magical attraction she would find herself leaning over Polly's chair, and listening to her, as she talked, in admiring ecstasy. It was unquestionably true that although most of the company were selected less for personal qualities than their political influence, there were many most agreeable persons in the number. My mother, however, was already fascinated, and she required more self-restraint than she usually imposed upon herself to forego a pleasure which she saw no reason for relinquishing.
My father exerted himself to the uttermost. Few men, I believe, performed the host more gracefully; but nothing more fatally mars the ease and destroys the charm of that character than anything like over-effort at success. His attentions were too marked and too hurried; he had exaggerated to himself the difficulties of his situation, and he increased them tenfold by his own terrors.
The Duke was one of those plain, quiet, well-bred persons so frequently met with in the upper classes of England, and whose strongest characteristic is, probably, the excessive simplicity of their manners, and the total absence of everything bordering on pretension. This very quietude, however, is frequently misinterpreted, and, in Ireland especially, often taken for the very excess of pride and haughtiness. Such did it seem on the present occasion; for now that the restraint of a great position was removed, and that he suffered himself to unbend from the cumbrous requirements of a state existence, the ease of his deportment was suspected to be indifference, and the absence of all effort was deemed a contemptuous disregard for the company.
The moment, too, was not happily chosen to bring men of extreme and opposite opinions into contact. They met with coldness and distrust; they were even suspectful of the motives which had led to their meeting,—in fact, a party whose elements were less suited to each other rarely assembled in an Irish country-house; and by ill luck the weather took one of those wintry turns which are not unfrequent in our so-called summers, and set in to rain with that determined perseverance so common to a July in Ireland.
Nearly all the resources by which the company were to have been amused were of an outdoor kind, and depended greatly on weather. The shooting, the driving, the picnicing, the visits to remarkable scenes in the neighborhood, which Dan MacNaghten had “programmed” with such care and zeal, must now be abandoned, and supplied by occupation beneath the roof.
Oh, good reader, has it ever been your lot to have your house filled with a large and incongruous party, weatherbound and “bored”? To see them stealing stealthily about corridors, and peeping into rooms, as if fearful of chancing on something more tiresome than themselves? To watch their silent contemplation of the weather-glass, or their mournful gaze at the lowering and leaden sky? To hear the lazy, drowsy tone of the talk, broken by many a half-suppressed yawn? To know and to feel that they regard themselves as your prisoners, and you as their jailer?—that your very butler is in their eyes but an upper turnkey? Have you witnessed the utter failure of all efforts to amuse them?—have you overheard the criticism that pronounced your piano out of tune, your billiard-table out of level, your claret out of condition? Have you caught mysterious whisperings of conspiracies to get away? and heard the word “post-horses” uttered with an accent of joyful enthusiasm? Have you watched the growing antipathies of those that, in your secret plannings, you had destined to become sworn friends? Have you grieved over the disappointment which your peculiar favorites have been doomed to experience? Have you silently contemplated all the wrong combinations and unhappy conjunctures that have grown up, when you expected but unanimity and good feeling? Have you known all these things? and have you passed through the terrible ordeal of endeavoring to amuse the dissatisfied, to reconcile the incompatible, and to occupy the indolent? Without some such melancholy experience, you can scarcely imagine all that my poor father had to suffer.
Never was there such discontent as that household exhibited. The Viceregal party saw few of the non-adherents, and perceived that they made no converts amongst the enemy. The Liberals were annoyed at the restraint imposed on them by the presence of the Government people; the ladies were outraged at the distinguished notice conferred by their hostess on one who was not their equal in social position, and whom they saw for the first time admitted into the “set.” In fact, instead of a large party met together to please and be pleased, the society was broken up into small coteries and knots, all busily criticising and condemning their neighbors, and only interrupting their censures by grievous complaints of the ill-fortune that had induced them to come there.
It was now the third morning of the Duke's visit, and the weather showed no symptoms of improvement. The dark sky was relieved towards the horizon by that line of treacherous light which to all accustomed to an Irish climate is the signal for continued rain. The most intrepid votary of outdoor amusements had given up the cause in despair, and, as though dreading to augment the common burden of dulness by meeting most of the guests, preferred keeping their rooms, and confining to themselves the gloom that oppressed them.
The small drawing-room that adjoined my mother's dressing-room was the only exception to this almost prison discipline; and there she now sat with Polly, MacNaghten, Rutledge, and one or two more, the privileged visitors of that favored spot,—my mother at her embroidery-frame, that pleasant, mock occupation which serves so admirably as an aid to talking or to listening, which every Frenchwoman knows so well how to employ as a conversational fly-wheel. They assuredly gave no evidence in their tone of that depression which the gloomy weather had thrown over the other guests. Laughter and merriment abounded; and a group more amusing and amused it would have been difficult to imagine. Rutledge, perhaps, turned his eyes towards the door occasionally, with the air of one in expectation of something or somebody; but none noticed this anxiety, nor, indeed, was he one to permit his thoughts to sway his outward actions.
“The poor Duke,” cried MacNaghten, “he can bear it no longer. See, there he goes, in defiance of rain and wind, to take his walk in the shrubbery!”
“And mon pauvre mari—go with him,” said my mother, in a tone of lamentation that made all the hearers burst out a-laughing. “Ah, I know why you Irish are all so domestic,” added she,—“c'est le climat!”
“Will you allow us nothing to the credit of our fidelity,—to our attachments, madame?” said Rutledge, who, while he continued to talk, never took his eyes off the two figures, who now walked side by side in the shrubbery.
“It is a capricious kind of thing, after all, is your Irish fidelity,” said Polly. “Your love is generally but another form of self-esteem; you marry a woman because you can be proud of her beauty, her wit, her manners, and her accomplishments, and you are faithful because you never get tired in the indulgence of your own vanity.”
“How kind of you is it, then, to let us never want for the occasion of indulging it,” said Rutledge, half slyly.
“I don't quite agree with you, Miss Polly,” said Mac-Naghten, after a pause, in which he seemed to be reflecting over her words; “I think most men—Irishmen, I mean—marry to please themselves. They may make mistakes, of course,—I don't pretend to say that they always choose well; but it is right to bear in mind that they are not free agents, and cannot have whom they please to wife.”
“It is better with us,” broke in my mother. “You marry one you have never seen before; you have nothing of how you call 'exultation,' point des idées romantiques; you are delighted with all the little 'soins' and attentions of your husband, who has, at least, one inestimable merit,—he is never familiar.”
“How charming!” said Rutledge, with mock seriousness.
“Is it not?” continued she, not detecting the covert irony of his tone; “it is your intimité,—how you call it?”
“Intimacy.”
“Oui,” said she, smiling, but not trusting herself to repeat the word. “C'est cela,—that destroys your happiness.”
“Egad! I 'd as soon be a bachelor,” broke in MacNaghten, “if I only were to look at my wife with an opera-glass across the theatre, or be permitted to kiss her kid glove on her birthday.”
“What he say,—why you laugh?” cried my mother, who could not follow the rapidity of his utterance.
“Mr. MacNaghten prefers homeliness to refinement,” said Polly.
“Oui, you are right, my dear,” added my mother; “it is more refined. And then, instead of all that 'tracasserie' you have about your house, and your servants, and the thousand little 'inconvenance de ménage,' you have one whom you consult on your toilette, your equipage, your 'coiffure,'—in fact, in all affairs of good taste. Voilà Walter, par exemple: he never dérange me for a moment,—I hope I never ennuyé him.”
“Quite right,—perfectly right,” said Polly, with a well-assumed gravity.
“By Jove, that's only single harness work, after all,” said MacNaghten; “I'd rather risk a kick, now and then, and have another beside me to tug at this same burden of daily life.”
“I no understand you, you speak so fast. How droll you are, you Irish! See there, the Lord Duke and my husband, how they shake hands as if they did not meet before, and they walk together for the last half-hour.”
“A most cordial embrace, indeed,” said Polly, fixing her eyes on Rutledge, who seemed far from being at ease under the inspection, while MacNaghten, giving one hasty glance through the window, snatched up his hat and left the room. He passed rapidly down the stairs, crossed the hall, and was just leaving the house when my father met him.
“The very man I wanted, Dan,” cried he; “come to my room with me for a few minutes.”
As they entered the room, my father turned the key in the door, and said,—
“We must not be interrupted, for I want to have a little talk with you. I have just parted with the Duke—”
“I know it,” broke in Dan, “I saw you shake hands; and it was that made me hurry downstairs to meet you.”
My father flushed up suddenly, and it was not till after a few seconds he was collected enough to continue.
“The fact is, Dan,” said he, “this gathering of the clans has been a most unlucky business, after all. There's no telling how it might have turned out, with favorable weather and good sport; but caged up together, the menagerie has done nothing but growl and show their teeth; and, egad! very little was wanting to have set them all by the ears in open conflict.”
MacNaghten shrugged his shoulders, without speaking.
“It's an experiment I 'll assuredly never try again,” continued my father; “for whether it is that I have forgotten Irishmen, or that they are not what they used to be, but all has gone wrong.”
“Your own fault, Watty. You were far too anxious about it going right; and whenever a man wants to usurp destiny, he invariably books himself for a 'break down.' You tried, besides, what no tact nor skill could manage. You wanted grand people to be grand, and witty people to be witty, and handsome people to look beautiful. Now, the very essence of a party like this is, to let everybody try and fancy themselves something that they are not, or at least that they are not usually. Your great folk ought to have been suffered to put off the greatness, and only be esteemed for their excessive agreeability. Your smart men ought not to have been called on for pleasantry, but only thought very high-bred and well-mannered, or, what is better still, well-born. And your beauties should have been permitted to astonish us all by a simplicity that despised paint, patches, and powder, and captivate us all, as a kind of domestic shepherdesses.”
“It's too serious for jesting about, Dan; for I doubt if I have not offended some of the oldest friends I had in the world.”
“I hope not,” said MacNaghten, more seriously.
“I am sadly afraid it is so, though,” said my father. “You know the Fosbrokes are gone?”
“Gone? When? I never heard of it!”
“They 're gone. They left this about an hour ago. I must say it was very absurd of them. They ought to have made allowances for difference of country, habits, education; her very ignorance of the language should have been taken as an excuse. The Tisdalls I am less surprised at.”
“Are they gone too?”
“Yes! and without a leave-taking,—except so far as a very dry note, dated five o'clock in the morning, may be taken for such, telling of sudden intelligence just received, immediate necessity, and so forth. But after Harvey Hepton, I ought to be astonished at nothing.”
“What of Harvey?” cried Dan, impatiently.
“Why, he came into my room while I was dressing, and before I had time to ask the reason, he said,—
“'Watty, you and I have been friends since our schooldays, and it would tell very badly for either, or both of us, if we quarrelled; and that no such ill-luck may befall us, I have come to say good-bye.'
“'Good-bye! but on what account?' exclaimed I.
“'Faith, I 'd rather you 'd guess my reason than ask me for it, Watty. You well know how, in our bachelor days, I used to think this house half my own. I came and went as often without an invitation as with one; and as to supposing that I was not welcome, it would as soon have occurred to me to doubt of my identity. Now, however, we are both married. Matters are totally changed; nor does it follow, however we might wish it so, that our wives will like each other as well as you and I do.'
“'I see, Harvey,' said I, interrupting him, 'Mrs. Hepton is offended at my wife's want of attention to her guests; but will not so amiable and clever a person as Mrs. Hepton make allowances for inexperience, a new country, a strange language, her very youth,—she is not eighteen?'
“'I'm sure my wife took no ill-natured view of the case. I 'm certain that if she alone were concerned,—that is, I mean, if she herself were the only sufferer—'
“'So, then, it seems there is a copartnery in this misfortune,' broke I in, half angrily, for I was vexed to hear an old friend talk like some frumpy, antiquated dowager.
“'That's exactly the case, Watty,' said he, calmly. 'Your friends will go their way, sadly enough, perhaps, but not censoriously; but others will not be so delicately minded, and there will be plenty rude enough to say, Who and what is she that treats us all in this fashion?'
“Yes, Dan,” cried my father, with a flushed brow and an eye flashing with passion, “he said those words to me, standing where you stand this instant! I know nothing more afterwards. I believe he said something about old friendship and school-days, but I heard it imperfectly, and I was relieved when he was gone, and that I could throw myself down into that chair, and thank God that I had not insulted an old friend under my own roof. It would actually seem as if some evil influence were over the place. The best-tempered have become cross; the good-natured have grown uncharitable; and even the shrewd fellows that at least know life and manners have actually exhibited themselves as totally deficient in the commonest elements of judgment. Just think of Rutledge,—who, if not a very clever fellow, should, at all events, have picked up some share of luck by his position,—just fancy what he has done: he has actually had the folly—I might well give it a worse name—to go to Curtis and ask him to make some kind of apology to the Duke for his rude refusal of leave to shoot over his estate,—a piece of impertinence that Curtis has never ceased to glory in and boast of; a refusal that the old fellow has, so to say, lived on ever since,—to ask him to retract and excuse it! I have no exact knowledge of what passed between them,—indeed, I only know what his Grace himself told me,—but Curtis's manner must have been little short of outrage; and the only answer Rutledge could obtain from him was: 'Did your master send you with this message to me?'—a question, I fancy, the other was not disposed to answer. The upshot, however, was, that as the Duke was taking his walk this morning, after breakfast, he suddenly came upon Curtis, who was evidently waiting for him. If the Duke did not give me very exact details of the interview, I am left to conjecture from his manner that it must have been one of no common kind. 'Your friend,' said his Grace, 'was pleased to tell me what he called some home truths; he took a rapid survey of the acts of the Government, accompanying it with a commentary as little flattering as may be; he called us all by very hard names, and did not spare our private characters. In fact, as he himself assured me, fearing so good an opportunity might not readily present itself of telling me a piece of his mind, he left very little unsaid on any topic that he could think of, concluding with a most meaning intimation that although he had refused me the shooting of his woodcocks, he would be charmed to afford me the opportunity of another kind of sport,—I suppose he meant a better mark for me to aim at; and so he left me.' Though nothing could possibly be in better taste or temper than the Duke's recital of the scene, it was easy to see that he was sorely pained and offended by it. Indeed, he wound up by regretting that a very urgent necessity would recall him at once to town, and a civil assurance that he 'd not fail to complete his visit at some more fortunate opportunity. I turned at once to seek out Curtis, and learn his version of the affair; but he and Ffrench had already taken their departure, this brief note being all their leave-taking:—