Jack Hinton: The Guardsman

CHAPTER LX. DISCLOSURES

I have more than once heard physicians remark the singular immunity a fool's skull seems to possess from the evil effects of injury—as if Nature, when denying a governing faculty, had, in kind compensation, imparted a triple thickness to the head thus exposed. It is well known how among the educated and thinking classes many maladies are fatal which are comparatively innocuous among those whose hands alone are called on to labour. A very ingenious theory might be spun from this fact, to the manifest self-gratulation of foxhunters, sailors, gentlemen who assault the new police, tithe-proctors, and others. For the present I have no further use for the remark than as it bore upon the head-piece of Lord Dudley de Vere, whose admirable developments had received little or no damage from the rude assault of his companion. When he awoke the next morning, he was only aware that something unusual had occurred; and gradually by 'trying back' in his sensations, he remembered every particle that took place—had the clearest recollection of the 'run upon red'; knew the number of bottles of champagne he had partaken of; and was only puzzled by one thing—what could possibly have suggested the courage with which he confronted Burke, and the hardihood that led to insulting him. As to any awkwardness at being brought home to the house of the person he had himself so ill-treated, he never felt anything approaching to it; the extent of his reasoning on this point only went to his satisfaction that 'some one' took care of him, and that he was not left to lie on the floor of the salon.

This admirable philosophy of De Vere served in a great measure to relieve me from the constraint I felt in presenting myself before him, and soon put me perfectly at my ease in our interview. After learning, that, except some headaching sensations, the only inconvenience he experienced was an unconquerable thirst, I touched lightly on the cause of his misfortune; when, what was my astonishment to discern that he not only did not entertain a particle of ill-will towards the man who had so brutally ill-treated him, but actually grew warm in his panegyric of Burkes consummate skill and address at play—such qualities in his estimation being well worthy to cover any small blemishes of villainy his character might suffer under.

'I say, don't you think Burke a devilish sharp fellow? He's up to everything, and so cool, so confoundedly cool! Not last night, though; no, by Jove! he lost temper completely. I shall be marked with that knock, eh? Damn me, it was too bad; he must apologise for it. You know he was drunk, and somehow he was all wrong the whole evening; he wouldn't let me back the “rouge,” and such a run—you saw that, I suppose?'

I assented with a nod, for I still hesitated how far I should communicate to him my knowledge of Burke's villainy towards myself.

'By-the-bye, it's rather awkward my being here; you know your people have cut me. Don't you think I might get a cab to bring me over to the Rue d'Alger?'

There was something which touched me in the simplicity of this remark, and I proceeded to assure him that any former impressions of my friends would not be remembered against him at that moment.

'Oh, that I'm sure of; no one ever thinks it worth while to bear malice against a poor devil like me. But if I'd have backed the red——'

'Colonel O'Grady is in the drawing-room,' said a servant in a low voice to me at this instant; and leaving Lord Dudley to speculate on the contingencies of his having 'backed the red,' I joined my friend, whom I had not seen on the previous day. We were alone, and in ten minutes I explained to him the entire discovery I had fallen upon, concealing only my affection for Louisa Bellew, which I could not bring myself even to allude to.

'I see,' said Phil, when I concluded—'I see you are half disposed to forgive De Vere all his rascality. Now, what a different estimate we take of men! Perhaps—I can't say—it is because I am an Irishman, but I lean to the bold-faced villain Burke; the miserable, contemptible weakness of the one is far more intolerable to me than the ruffian effrontery of the other. Don't forget the lesson I gave you many a year ago: a fool is always a blackguard. Now, if that fellow could see his companion this minute, there is not a circumstance he has noticed here that he would not retail if it bore to your disadvantage. Untouched by your kindness to him, he would sell you—ay, to the very man you saved him from! But, after all, what have we to do with him? Our first point is to rescue this poor girl's name from being ever mixed with his; anything further is, of course, out of the question. The Rooneys are going back: I saw Paul this morning. “The Cruiskeen Lawn” has been their ruin. All the Irish officers who had taken Madame de Roni for an illustrious stranger have found out the true scent; and so many distinguished persons are involved in the ridicule of their parties that the old chef de police, my friend, has sent them a private order to leave Paris in a week. Paul is in raptures at it. He has spent eighteen thousand in two months; detests the place; is dying to be back in Dublin; and swears that except one Cossack officer he hasn't met a pleasant fellow since he came abroad.'

'And Mrs. Paul?'

'Oh, the old story. I put Guilemain up to it, and he has hinted that the Empress of Russia has heard of the Czar's attentions; that there's the devil to pay in St. Petersburg; and that if she doesn't manage to steal out of Paris slyly, some confounded boyard or other will slip a sack over her head and carry her off to Tobolsk.

Elizabeth and the Exiles has formed part of her reading, and Madame de Roni will dream every night of the knout till she reaches her dear native land.—But now to business. I, too, have made my discoveries since we met. De Vere's high play has been a matter of surprise to all who know him. I have found out his secret—he plays with forged billets de banque.'

'And has the wretched fellow gone so far as this?'

'He doesn't know it; he believes that the money is the proceeds of bills he has given to Burke, who affects to get them discounted. See here—here are a handful of their notes. Guillemain knows all, and retains the secret as a hold over Burke, whose honesty to himself he already suspects. If he catch him tripping——'

'Then——'

'Why, then, the galleys for life. Such is the system; a villain with them is worthless if his life isn't at their disposal Satan's bond completely—all, all. But show me De Vere's room, and leave me alone with him for half an hour. Let us then meet at my hotel, and concert future measures.'

Having left O'Grady with De Vere, I walked out upon the boulevards, my head full of the extraordinary facts so suddenly thronging one upon the other. A dash of hope, that for many a day had not visited me, was now mingled through all my meditations, and I began to think that there was yet a chance of happiness for me.

I had not gone many paces when an arm was thrust into mine, and a hearty chuckling laugh at the surprise rang in my ear. I turned: it was Mr. Paul Booney, taking his morning's promenade of Paris, and now on his way home with an enormous bouquet for Madame, which she had taught him to present to her each day on her appearing in the drawing-room.

'Ah, Captain, the very man I wanted! We haven't had a moment to ourselves since your arrival. You must come and take a bit of dinner with us to-day—thank Heaven, we've no company! I have a leg of pork, smuggled into the house as if it was a bale of goods from Alexandria; nobody knows of it but myself and Tim.'

'Tim! why, have you brought Tim to Paris?'

'Hush!' said he in a low, cautious voice; 'I 'd be ruined entirely if Madame was to find him out. Tim is dressed like a Tartar, and stands in the hall; and Mrs. Rooney believes that he never heard of a civil bill in his life. But here we are.'

So saying, he opened a small wicket with a latchkey, and led me into a large and well-trimmed garden, across which we walked at a rapid pace, Paul speculating from the closed shutters of his wife's room that he needed not have hurried home so fast.

'She's not down yet—one o'clock as I'm a sinner! Come along and sit down in the library; I'll join you presently.'

Scarcely had Paul left the room when I began to think over the awkwardness of my position should I meet Miss Bellew. What course to follow under the circumstances I knew not; when just at the moment the door opened, and she entered. Not perceiving me, as I stood in a deep window-recess, she drew a chair to the fire and sat down. I hardly ventured to breathe. I felt like one who had no right to obtrude himself there, and had become, as it were, a spy upon her. A long-drawn breath burst from me; she started up. I moved slightly forward, and stood before her. She leaned her hand upon the arm of the chair for support; her cheek grew deadly pale, and a tremulous quiver shook her lip.

'Mr. Hinton,' she began; and then as if the very sound of her voice had terrified her, she paused. 'Mr. Hinton,' resumed she, 'I am sure—nay, I know—if you were aware of the reasons of my conduct towards you, you would not only acquit me of all blame, but spare me the pain of our ever meeting again.'

'I know them—I do know them,' said I passionately. 'I have been slandered.'

'No, you do not, cannot know what I mean,' interrupted she. 'It is a secret between my own heart and one who is now no more.'

The last words fell from her one by one, while a single tear rolled from her eyelid and trickled along her cheek.

'Yes, yes, Louisa; I do know it—I know all. A chance has told me how your dear father's name has been used to banish me for ever from your sight; how a forgery of his handwriting——'

'What! who could have told you what my father's last note contained?'

'He who wrote it confessed it in my hearing—Ulick Burke. Nay, I can even repeat the words' But as I spoke, a violent trembling seized her; her lips became bloodless; she tottered, and sank upon the chair. I had only time to spring forward and catch her in my arms, and her head fell heavily back, and dropped on my shoulder.

I cannot, if I would, repeat the words which in all the warm eloquence of affection I spoke. I could mark by her heightened colour that the life-blood again coursed freely in her veins, and could see that she heard me. I told her how through every hardship and suffering, in all the sorrow of disappointed ambition, in the long hours of captivity, my heart had ever turned to her; and then, when we did meet, to see her changed!

'But you do not blame—you cannot blame me if I believed——'

'No, if you tell me now that but for this falsehood you have not altered; that your heart is still as much my own as I once thought it.'

A faint smile played on her lips as her eyes were turned upon me; while her voice muttered—

'And do you still love me?'

I pressed her hand to my lips in rapture, when suddenly the door opened and Paul Rooney rushed in.

'Another candidate for the leg of—— Eh! what's this?' said he, as I rose and advanced to meet him; while Louisa, blushing deeply, buried her head in her hand, and then starting up, left the room.

'Captain, Captain,' said Paul gravely, 'what does this mean? Do you suppose that because there is some difference in our rank in life, that you are privileged to insult one who is under my protection? Is it because you are the Guardsman and I the attorney that you have dared to take a liberty here which in your own walk you couldn't venture on?'

'My dear Mr. Rooney, you mistake me sadly.'

'If I do not mistake you, I'll put a hole in your body as sure as my name's Paul,' was the quick reply.

'You do, then, and wrong me to boot. I have been long and ardently attached to Miss Bellew. From the hour I met her at your house I loved her. It is the first time we have met since our long separation: I determined it should not be lost. I 've asked her to be my wife.'

'You have! And what does she say?'

'She has consented.'

'Rum-ti-iddity, iddity!' said Paul, snapping his fingers, and capering about the room like a man deranged. 'Give me your hand, my buck! I 'd rather draw the settlements, so help me, than I 'd see the warrant to make me Master of the Rolls. Who 'd say there isn't luck in a leg of pork? She's a darling girl; and beautiful as she is, her looks isn't the best of her—an angel as sure as I am here! And look here'—here he dropped his voice—'seven thousand a year, that may be made nine! Hennessy's farm is out of lease in October; and the Cluangoff estate is let at ten shillings an acre. Hurroo! maybe I won't be drunk to-night; and bad luck to the Cossack, Tartar, Bohemian, or any other blackguard I'll let into the house this day or night! Sworn, my lord.'

After some little discussion, it was arranged that if Louisa would give her consent to the arrangement, the marriage should take place before the Rooneys left Paris. Meanwhile, Paul agreed with me in keeping the whole matter a perfect secret from everybody, Mrs. Rooney herself included. Our arrangements were scarcely completed when O'Grady appeared. Having waited for me some time at his hotel, he had set out in search of me.

'I'm your man to-day, Paul,' said he. 'You got my note, I suppose?'

'All right,' said Mr. Rooney, whose double secret of the marriage and the leg of pork seemed almost too much for him to bear.

'I suppose I may tell Phil,' said I in a whisper.

'No one else,' said Paul, as we left the house, and I took O'Grady's arm down the street.

'Well, I have frightened De Vere to some purpose,' said O'Grady. 'He has made a full confession about Burke, who was even a deeper villain than we supposed. What do you think? He has been the spy of the Bonapartist faction all this time, and selling old Guillemain as regularly as the others. To indulge his passion for play, he received the pay of four different parties, whom he pitted against one another exactly as he saw proper. Consummate clever scoundrel!—he had to deal with men whose whole lives are passed in the very practice of every chicanery and deceit, and yet he has jockied them all. What a sad thing to think that such abilities and knowledge of mankind should be prostituted to the lowest and most debasing uses; and that the sole tendency of such talent should be to dishonour and disgrace its possessor! Some of his manufactured despatches were masterpieces of cleverness.'

'Well, where is he now? Still in Paris?'

'No. The moment he had so far forgotten himself as to strike De Vere, he forged a passport and returned to London, carrying with him hosts of papers of the French authorities, which to our Foreign Office will be very acceptable. De Vere meanwhile feels quite at his ease. He was always afraid of his companion, yet can't forgive him his last indignity.

'No! A blow!'

'Not at all; you mistake. His regrets have a different origin. It is for not backing the “rouge” that he is inexorable towards him. Besides, he is under the impression that all these confessions he has been making establish for him a kind of moral insolvency act, by which he is to come forth irresponsible for the past, and quite ready to contract new debts for the future. At this moment his greatest point of doubt consists in whether he should marry your cousin, Lady Julia, or Miss Bellew; for, in his own phrase, “he must do something that way to come round.”'

'Impudent scoundrel!'

'Fact, I assure you; and so easy, so unaffected, so free from embarrassment of any kind is he, that I'm really quite a convert to this modern school of good manners, when associating with even such as Burke conveys no feeling of shame or discomfort. More than could be said some forty years ago, I fancy.'

It was the hour of my mother's morning reception, and we found the drawing-room crowded with loungers and fashionable idlers, discussing the news of the day, and above all the Roni fête, the extraordinary finale to which gave rise to a hundred conjectures—some asserting that Monsieur de Roni's song was a violent pasquinade against the Emperor Alexander; others, equally well informed, alleging it was the concerted signal for a general massacre of the Allies, which was to have begun at the same moment in the Rue Montmartre. She is a Bonapartist, a Legitimist, a Neapolitan, an Anversoise,' contended one after another—my only fear being that some one would enlighten the party by saying she was the wife of an Irish attorney. All agreed, however, she was bien mauvais ton; that her fête was, with all its magnificence, anything but select; her supper superb, but too crowded by half; and, in fact, that Madame Roni had enjoyed the pleasure of ruining herself to very little other purpose than that of being generally ridiculed and laughed at.

'And this niece, or ward, or whatever it is—who can tell anything of her?' said my mother.

'Ah, pardieu! she's very handsome,' said Grammont, with a malicious smile.

'Perfect,' said another; 'quite perfect; but a little, a very little too graceful Don't you think so?'

'Why what do you mean?' said Lady Charlotte, as her eyes sparkled with animation at the thought of a secret.

'Nothing,' replied the last speaker carelessly; 'except that one always detects the danseuse. She was thinner when I saw her at Naples.'

I whispered one word—but one—in his ear, and his face became purple with shame and confusion.

'Eh, what is it?' said my mother eagerly. 'John knows something of her too. John, dearest, let us hear it?'

'I am in your ladyship's debt as regards one secret,' said O'Grady, interrupting; 'perhaps I may be permitted to pay it on this occasion. The lady in question is the daughter of an Irish baronet, the descendant of a family as old as any of those who now hear me. That baronet would have been a peer of the realm had he consented to vote once—but once—with the minister, on a question where his conscience told him to oppose him. His refusal was repaid by neglect; others were promoted to rank and honours before him; but the frown of a minister could neither take away the esteem of his country nor his own self-respect. He is now dead; but his daughter is the worthy inheritor of his virtues and his name. Perhaps I might interest the present company as much in her favour by adding, she possesses something like eight thousand per annum.'

'Two hundred thousand livres de rente! said Grammont, smacking his lips with astonishment, 'and perfectly insensible to the tone of mockery in which O'Grady's last words were spoken.

'And you are sure of all this?' said my mother.

O'Grady bowed deeply, but without speaking, while his features assumed an expression of severe determination I had never witnessed before. I could not help remarking, that, amid the dismay such an announcement created in that gossiping and calumnious assembly, my cousin Julia's eyes shone with an added lustre, and her whole face beamed with a look of proud and exalted beauty.

This was now the time to tell O'Grady my secret; and drawing him towards a window, I said—

'Phil, I can wait no longer—you must hear it. I'm going to be married.'

The words had not left my lips, when O'Grady started back, his face as pale as death, and his whole frame trembling with eagerness. By a violent effort, however, he rallied; and as he clutched my arm with his fingers, he said—

'I must be going; these good people have made me forget an appointment. Make my respectful homage to her ladyship—and the bride. I shall see you before I leave.'

'Leave! Why, where are you thinking of going?'

'To India.'

'To India!' said Julia, starting round as he spoke.

'To India!' said I, in amazement.

He nodded, and turning quickly round, left the room.

I hastened after him with all my speed, and dashing downstairs was making for the porte cochère, when a shadow beside the doorway caught my eye. I stopped. It was O'Grady; he was leaning against the wall, his head buried in his hands. A horrible doubt shot through my heart. I dared not dwell upon it; but rushing towards him, I called him by his name. He turned quickly round, while a fierce, wild look glistened in his eyes.

'Not now, Hinton, not now!' said he, motioning me away with his hand; and then, as a cold shudder passed over him, he drew his hand across his face, and added in a lower tone, 'I never thought to have betrayed myself thus. Good-bye, my dear fellow, good-bye! It were better we shouldn't meet again.'

'My dearest, best friend! I never dreamed that the brightest hour of my life was to throw this gloom over your heart.'

'Yes, Jack,' said he, in a voice low and broken, 'from the first hour I saw her I loved her. The cold manner she maintained towards me at your father's house——'

'In my father's house! What do you mean?'

'When in London, I speak of—when I joined first—your cousin—'

'My cousin!'

'Yes, Lady Julia. Are you so impatient to call her wife that you will not remember her as cousin?'

'Call her wife! My dear boy, you're raving. It's Louisa Bellew!'

'What! Is it Miss Bellew you are to marry?'

'To be sure——'

But I could not finish the sentence, as O'Grady fell upon my shoulder, and his strong frame was convulsed with emotion.

In an instant, however, I tore myself away; and calling out, 'Wait for me, O'Grady!' I rushed upstairs, peeped hastily into the drawing-room, and then hurrying along the corridor opened a door at the end. The blinds of the windows were down, and the room so dark that I could scarcely perceive if any one were there had not my steps been guided by a low sob which I heard issue from the end of the sofa.

'Julia,' said I, rushing forward—'Julia, my dearest cousin! this is no time to deceive ourselves. He loves you—loved you from the first hour he met you. Let me have but one word. Can he, dare he hope that you are not indifferent to him? Let him but see you, but speak to you. Believe me, you have bent a heart as proud and haughty as your own; and you will have broken it if you refuse him. There, dearest girl—— Thanks! my heart's thanks for that!'

The slightest pressure of her taper fingers sent a thrill through me, as I sprang up and dashed down the stairs. In an instant I had seized O'Grady's arm, and the next moment whispered in his ear—

'You 've won her!'

CHAPTER LXI. NEW ARRIVALS

Mr. Paul Rooney's secret was destined to be inviolable as regarded his leg of pork; for Madame de Roni, either from chagrin or fatigue, did not leave her room the entire day. Miss Bellew declined joining us; and we sat down, a party of three, each wrapped up in his own happiness in a degree far too great to render us either social or conversational It is true the wine circulated briskly, and we nodded pleasantly now and then to one another; but all our efforts to talk led to so many blunders and cross answers that we scarcely ventured on more than a chance phrase or a good-humoured smile. There were certainly several barriers in the way of our complete happiness, in the innumerable prejudices of my lady-mother, who would be equally averse to O'Grady's project as to my own; but now was not the time to speculate on these, and we wrapped ourselves up in the glorious anticipation of our success, and cared little for such sources of opposition as might now arise. Meanwhile, Paul entered into a long and doubtless very accurate statement of the Bellew property, to which, I confess, I paid little attention, save when the name of Louisa occurred, which momentarily aroused me from my dreaminess. All the wily stratagems by which he had gained his points with Galway juries, all the cunning devices by which he had circumvented opposing lawyers and obtained verdicts in almost hopeless cases, however I might have relished another time, I only now listened to without interest, or heard without understanding.

Towards ten o'clock I received more than one hint from O'Grady that we had promised to take tea at the Place Vendôme; while I myself was manoeuvring to find out, if we were to adjourn for coffee, what prospect there might be of seeing Louisa Bellew in the drawing-room.

It was in that dusky twilight we sat, a time which seems so suited to the quiet enjoyment of one's claret with a small and chosen party; where intimacy prevails sufficiently to make conversation more a thing of choice than necessity; where each man can follow out his own path in thought and only let his neighbour have a peep here and there into his dreamings, when some vista opens, or some bold prospect stretches away. Next to the blazing fire of a winter's hearth, this is the pleasantest thing I know of. Thus was it, when the door opened, and a dusky outline of a figure appeared at the entrance.

'Is Master Phil here?' said a cranky voice there was no mistaking as Mr. Delany's.

'Yes, Corny. What's wrong? Anything new?'

'Where's the Captain?' said he in the same tone.

'I 'm here, Corny,' said L

'Well, there's them looking for you without,' said he, 'that'll maybe surprise you, pleasant as ye are now.'

A detestable effort at a laugh here brought on a fit of coughing that lasted a couple of minutes.

'Who is it?' said I. 'Where are they?'

A significant gesture with his thumb over his shoulder was the only reply to my question, while he barked out, 'Don't you see me coughing the inside out o' me?'

I started up, and without attending to Paul's suggestion to bring my friends in, or to O'Grady's advice to be cautious if it were Burke, hurried outside, where a servant of the house was in waiting to conduct me.

'Two gentlemen in the drawing-room, sir,' said he, as he preceded me down the corridor.

The next instant the door opened, and I saw my father, accompanied by another person, who being wrapped up in travelling equipment, I could not recognise.

'My dear father I' said I, rushing towards him, when suddenly I stopped short, as I perceived that instead of the affectionate welcome I looked for he had crossed his hands behind his back, and fixed on me a look of stern displeasure.

'What does this mean?' said I, in amazement; 'it was not thus I expected——'

'It was not thus I hoped to have received my son,' said he resolutely, 'after a long and eventful separation. But this is too painful to endure longer. Answer me, and with the same truth I have always found in you—is there a young lady in this house called Miss Bellew?'

'Yes, sir,' said I, and a cold perspiration broke over me, and I could scarcely support myself.

'Did you make her acquaintance in Ireland?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Did you at that time use every effort to win her affections, and give her to understand that she had yours?'

'Yes, sir,' said I more faintly than before, for already some horrible doubt was creeping on my mind.

'And have you now, sir,' continued he, in a voice elevated to a higher pitch—'have you now, sir, when a prospect of a richer alliance presents itself, dishonoured yourself and my name, by deserting the girl whose affections you have so gained?'

'No, sir! that is untrue.'

'Stop, young man! I have one at hand this moment who may compel you to retract your words as shamefully as you have boldly said them. Do you know this gentleman?'

'Father Loft us!' said I, starting back with astonishment, as the good priest unfolded a huge comforter from his throat, and stood forth.

'Yes, indeed! no other,' said he, in a voice of great sadness; 'and sorry I am to see you this way.'

'You, surely, my dear friend,' said I—'you cannot believe thus harshly of me?'

'If it wasn't for your handwriting, I'd not have believed the Pope of Rome,' was his reply, as he wiped his eyes. 'But there it is.'

So saying, he handed to me, with trembling fingers, a letter, bearing the Paris postmark.

I tore it open, and found it was written in my own name, and addressed to Father Loftus, informing him of my deep regret that, having discovered the unhappy circumstance of her mother's conduct, I was obliged to relinquish all thoughts of an alliance with Miss Bellow's family, whose connection with my own had been so productive of heavy misfortune. This also contained an open note, to be handed by the priest to Miss Bellew, in which I was made formally to renounce her hand, for reasons in the possession of Father Loftus.

In a second the truth flashed across me from whom this plot proceeded; and scarcely permitting myself time to read the letter through, I called out—

'This is a forgery! I never wrote it, never saw it before!'

'What!' said my father, starting round, and fixing his eye on the priest.

'You never wrote it?' echoed Father Tom. 'Do you say so? Is that your word as a gentleman?'

'It is,' said I firmly. 'This day, this very day, I have asked Miss Bellew to be my wife, and she has consented.'

Before my father could seize my hand, the good priest had thrown his arms round my neck and given me an embrace a bear might have envied. The scene that followed I cannot describe. My poor father, quite overpowered, sat down upon a chair, holding my hand within both his; while Father Tom bustled about the room, looking into all the glass and china ornaments for something to drink, as his mouth, he said, was like a lime-burner's hat. The honest fellow, it appeared, on receiving the letters signed with my name, left his home the same night and travelled with all speed to London, where he found my father just on the eve of leaving for Paris. Very little persuasion was necessary to induce him to continue his journey farther. On their arrival at Paris they had gone to O'Grady's hotel, where, securing Corny*s services, they lost not a moment in tracking me out in the manner I have mentioned.

O'Grady's surprise was little inferior to my own, as I introduced General Hinton and Father Loftus. But as to Mr. Rooney, he actually believed the whole to be a dream; and even when candles were brought, and he had taken a patient survey of the priest, he was far from crediting that my parent was not performed by deputy, till my father's tact and manner convinced him of his mistake.

While the priest was recounting some circumstances of his journey, I took occasion to tell my father of O'Grady's intentions regarding Julia, which with all the warmth of his nature he at once responded to; and touching his glass gaily with Phil's, merely added, 'With my best wishes.' Poor O'Grady caught up the meaning at once, and grasped his hand with enthusiasm, while the tears started to his eyes.

It would lead me too far, and perhaps where the goodnature of my reader might not follow me, were I to speak more of that happy evening. It is enough to say that Father Loftus won every moment on my father, who also was delighted with the hearty racinees of honest Paul. Their stores of pleasantry and fun, so new to him, were poured forth with profusion; and a party every member of which was more disposed to like one another and be pleased, never met together.

I myself, however, was not without my feeling of impatience to reach the drawing-room, which I took the first favourable opportunity of effecting—only then perceiving that O'Grady had anticipated me, having stolen away some time before.

CHAPTER LXII. CONCLUSION

It would be even more wearisome to my reader than the fact was worrying to myself, were I to recount the steps by which my father communicated to Lady Charlotte the intended marriages, and finally obtained her consent to both. Fortunately, for some time previous she had been getting tired of Paris, and was soon brought to suppose that these little family arrangements were as much 'got up' to afford her an agreeable surprise and a healthful stimulant to her weak nerves as for any other cause whatever.'

With Mrs. Rooney, on the other hand, there was considerable difficulty. The holy alliance she had contracted with the sovereigns had suggested so much of grandeur to her expectations that she dreamed of nothing but archdukes and counts of the empire, and was at first quite inexorable at the bare idea of the mésalliance that awaited her ward. A chance decided what resisted every species of argument. Corny Delany, who had been sent with a note to Mr. Rooney, happened to be waiting in the hall while Mrs. Rooney passed out to her carriage escorted by the 'Tartar' of whom we have already made mention. Mrs. Rooney was communicating her orders to her bearded attendant by a code of signals on her fingers, when Corny, who watched the proceeding with increasing impatience, exclaimed—

'Arrah, can't you tell the man what you want? Sure, though you have him dressed like a wild baste, he doesn't forget English.'

It is a Tartar!' said Mrs. Rooney, with a contemptuous sneer at Corny and a forbidding wave of her hand ordaining silence.

'A Tarther! Oh, blessed Timothy! there's a name for one that comes of dacent people! He's a county Oarlow man, and well known he is in the same parts. Many a writ he served—eh, Tim?'

'Tim!' said Mrs. Rooney, in horror, as she beheld her wild-looking friend grin from ear to ear, with a most fearful significance of what he heard.

'It wasn't my fault, ma'am, at all,' said the Tartar, with a very Dublin accent in the words; 'it was the master made me.'

What further explanation Tim might have afforded it is difficult to say, for Mrs. Rooney's nerves had received too severe and too sudden a shock. A horrible fear lest all the kingly and royal personages by whom she had been for some weeks surrounded might only turn out to be Garlow men, or something as unsubstantial, beset her; a dreadful unbelief of everything and everybody seized upon her, and quite overcome, she fainted. O'Grady, who happened to come up at the instant, learned the whole secret at once, and with his wonted readiness resolved to profit by it. Mrs. Paul returned to the drawing-room, and ere half an hour was fully persuaded that as General Hinton was about to depart for Ireland as Commander of the Forces, the alliance was on the whole not so deplorable as she had feared.

To reconcile so many conflicting interests, to conciliate so many totally opposite characters, was a work I should completely have failed in without O'Grady's assistance. He, however, entered upon it con amore; and under his auspices, not only did Lady Charlotte receive the visits of Father Tom Loftus, but Mr. Paul became actually a favourite with my cousin Julia; and, finally, the grand catastrophe of the drama was accomplished, and my lady-mother proceeded in all state to wait on Mrs. Rooney herself, who, whatever her previous pretensions, was so awed by the condescension of her ladyship's manner that she actually struck her colours at the first broadside.

Weddings are stupid things in reality, but on paper they are detestable. Not even the Morning Post can give them a touch of interest. I shall not, then, trouble my reader with any narrative of white satin and orange-flowers, bouquets, breakfasts, and Bishop Luscombe; neither shall I entertain him with the article in the French Feuilleton as to which of the two brides was the more strictly beautiful, and which more lovely.

Having introduced my reader to certain acquaintances—some of them rather equivocal ones, I confess—I ought perhaps to add a word of their future fortunes.

Mr. Ulick Burke escaped to America, where, by the exercise of his abilities and natural sharpness, he accumulated a large fortune, and distinguished by his anti-English prejudices, became a leading member of Congress.

Of Lord Dudley de Vere I only know that he has lived long enough, if not to benefit by experience, to take advantage of Lord Brougham's change in the law of imprisonment for debt. I saw his name in a late number of the Times, with a debt of some fifteen thousand annexed to it, against which his available property was eleven pounds odd shillings.

Father Loftus sleeps in Murranakilty. No stone marks his resting-place; but not a peasant's foot, for many a mile round, has not pressed the little pathway that leads to his grave, to offer up a prayer for a good man and a friend to the poor.

Tipperary Joe is still to be met on the Kilkenny road. His old red coat, now nearly russet colour, is torn and ragged; the top-boots have given place to bare legs, as well tanned as their predecessors; but his merry voice and cheerful 'Tally-ho!' are still as rich as of yore, and his heart, poor fellow! as light as ever it was.

Corny Delany is the amiable proprietor of a hotel in the neighbourhood of Castlebar, where his habitual courtesy and amenity are as conspicuous as of yore. He has requested me to take this opportunity of recommending his establishment to the 'Haythins and Turks' that yearly perform tours in his vicinity.

The Rooneys live, and are as hospitable as ever. I dare not venture to give their address, lest you should take advantage of the information.

O'Grady and his wife are now at Malta.

Jack Hinton and his are, as they have every right to be—

Your very grateful and obedient Servants.

My dear Friends,—You must often have witnessed, in the half-hour which preludes departure from a dinner-party, the species of quiet bustle leave-taking produces. The low-voiced announcement of Mr. Somebody's carriage, the whispered good-night, the bow, the slide, the half-pressed finger—and he is gone. Another and another succeed him, and the few who linger on turn ever towards the opening door, and while they affect to seem at ease, are cursing their coachman and wondering at the delay.

The position of the host on such an occasion is precisely that of the author at the close of a volume. The same doubts are his whether the entertainment he has provided has pleased his guests; whether the persons he has introduced to one another are mutually satisfied. And, finally, the same solitude which visits him who 'treads alone some banquet-hall deserted' settles down upon the weary writer who watches one by one the spirits he has conjured up depart for ever, and, worse still, sees the tie snapped that for so long a period has bound him to his readers; and while they have turned to other and newer sources of amusement, he is left to brood over the time when they walked together, and his voice was heard amongst them.

Like all who look back, he sees how much better he could have done were he again to live over the past. He regrets many an opportunity of interesting you lost for ever, many an occasion to amuse you which may never occur again. It is thus that somehow—insensibly, I believe—a kind of sadness creeps over one at the end of a volume; misgivings as to success mingle with sorrows for the loss of our accustomed studies; and, altogether, the author is little to be envied, who, having enjoyed your sympathy and good wishes for twelve months, finds himself at last at the close of the year at the limit of your kindness, and obliged to say 'Good-bye,' even though it condemns him to solitude.

I did wish, before parting with you at this season, to justify myself before you for certain things which my critics have laid to my charge; but on second thoughts I have deemed it better to say nothing, lest by my defence against manslaughter a new indictment should be framed, and convict me of murder.

Such is the simple truth. The faults, the very great faults, of my book I am as well aware of as I feel myself unable to correct them. But in justice to my monitors I must say, that they have less often taken me up when tripping than when I stood erect upon good and firm ground. Yet let me be grateful for all their kindness, which for critics is certainly long-lived; and that I may still continue for a season to enjoy their countenance and yours is the most sincere desire of your very devoted servant,

Harry Lorrequer.

P.S.—A bashful friend desires an introduction to you. May I present Tom Burke, of Ours? H. L.

THE END