Tales and Novels — Volume 04

CHAPTER XVI.

“What new wonders? What new misfortunes, Ellinor?” said I, as Ellinor, with a face of consternation, appeared again in the morning in my room, just as I was going down to breakfast: “what new misfortunes, Ellinor?”

“Oh! the worst that could befall me!” cried she, wringing her hands; “the worst, the very worst!—to be the death of my own child!” said she, with inexpressible horror. “Oh! save him! save him! for the love of heaven, dear, save him! If you don’t save him, ‘tis I shall be his death.”

She was in such agony, that she could not explain herself farther for some minutes.

“It was I gave the information against them all to you. But how could I ever have thought Owen was one of them? My son, my own son, the unfortunate cratur; I never thought but what he was with the militia far away. And how could it ever come into my head that Owen could have any hand in a thing of the kind?”

“But I did not see him last night,” interrupted I.

“Oh! he was there! One of his own friends, one of the military that went with you, saw him among the prisoners, and came just now to tell me of it. That Owen should be guilty of the like!—Oh! what could have come over him! He must have been out of his rason. And against you to be plotting! That’s what I never will believe, if even I’d hear it from himself. But he’s among them that were taken last night. And will I live to see him go to gaol?—and will I live to see—No, I’d rather die first, a thousand and a thousand times over. Oh! for mercy’s sake!” said she, dropping on her knees at my feet, “have pity on me, and don’t let the blood of my own child be upon me in my old days.”

“What would you have me do, Ellinor?” said I, much moved by her distress.

“There is but one thing to do,” said she. “Let him off: sure a word from you would be enough for the soldiers that are over them on guard. And Mr. McLeod has not yet seen him; and if he was just let escape, there would be no more about it; and I’d I engage he shall fly the country, the unfortunate cratur! and never trouble you more. This is all I ask: and sure, dear, you can’t refuse it to your own Ellinor; your old nurse, that carried ye in her arms, and fed ye with her milk, and watched over ye many’s the long night, and loved ye; ay, none ever loved, or could love ye so well.”

“I am sensible of it; I am grateful,” interrupted I; “but what you ask of me, Ellinor, is impossible—I cannot let him escape; but I will do my utmost.”

“Troth, nothing will save him, if you would not say the word for him now. Ah! why cannot you let him off, then?”

“I should lose my honour; I should lose my character. You know that I have been accused of favouring the rebels already—you saw the consequences of my protecting your other son, though he was innocent and injured, and bore an excellent character.”

“Christy; ay, true: but poor Owen, unlucky as he is, and misguided, has a better claim upon you.”

“How can that be? Is not the other my foster-brother, in the first place?”

“True for him.”

“And had not I proofs of his generous conduct and attachment to me?”

“Owen is naturally fonder of you by a great deal,” interrupted she; “I’ll answer for that.”

“What! when he has just been detected in conspiring against my life?”

“That’s what I’ll never believe,” cried Ellinor, vehemently: “that he might be drawn in, may be, when out of his rason—he was always a wild boy—to be a united-man, and to hope to get you for his captain, might be the case, and bad enough that; but, jewel, you’ll find he did never conspire against you: I’d lay down my life upon that.”

She threw herself again at my feet, and clung to my knees.

“As you hope for mercy yourself in this world, or the world to come, show some now, and do not be so hard-hearted as to be the death of both mother and son.”

Her supplicating looks and gestures, her words, her tears, moved me so much, that I was on the point of yielding; but recollecting what was due to justice and to my own character, with an effort of what I thought virtuous resolution, I repeated, “It is impossible: my good Ellinor, urge me no farther: ask any thing else, and it shall be granted, but this is impossible.”

As I spoke, I endeavoured to raise her from the ground; but with the sudden force of angry despair, she resisted.

“No, you shall not raise me,” cried she. “Here let me lie, and break my heart with your cruelty! ‘Tis a judgment upon me—it’s a judgment, and it’s fit I should feel it as I do. But you shall feel too, in spite of your hard heart. Yes, your heart is harder than the marble: you want the natural touch, you do; for your mother has knelt at your feet, and you have denied her prayer.”

“My mother!”

“And what was her prayer?—to save the life of your brother.”

“My brother! Good heavens! what do I hear?”

“You hear the truth: you hear that I am your lawful mother. Yes, you are my son. You have forced that secret from me, which I thought to have carried with me to my grave. And now you know all: and now you know how wicked I have been, and it was all for you; for you that refused me the only thing ever I asked, and that, too, in my greatest distress, when my heart was just breaking: and all this time too, there’s Christy—poor good Christy; he that I’ve wronged, and robbed of his rightful inheritance, has been as a son, a dutiful good son to me, and never did he deny me any thing I could ask; but in you I have found no touch of tenderness. Then it’s fit I should tell you again, and again, and again, that he who is now slaving at the forge, to give me the earnings of his labour; he that lives, and has lived all his days, upon potatoes and salt, and is content; he who has the face and the hands so disguised with the smoke and the black, that yourself asked him t’other day did he ever wash his face since he was born—I tell ye, he it is who should live in this castle, and sleep on that soft bed, and be lord of all here—he is the true and real Lord Glenthorn, and to the wide world I’ll make it known. Ay, be pale and tremble, do; it’s your turn now: I’ve touched you now: but it’s too late. In the face of day I shall confess the wrong I’ve done; and I shall call upon you to give back to him all that by right is his own.”

Ellinor stopped short, for one of my servants at this instant came into the room.

“My lord, Mr. McLeod desires me to let you know the guard has brought up the prisoners, and he is going to commit them to gaol, and would be glad to know if you choose to see them first, my lord.”

Stupified by all I had just heard, I could only reply, that I would come presently. Ellinor rushed past the servant,—“Are they come?” cried she. “Where will I get a sight of them?” I stayed for a few minutes alone, to decide upon what I ought to say and do. A multitude of ideas, more than had ever come in my mind in a twelvemonth, passed through it in these few minutes.

As I was slowly descending the great staircase, Ellinor came running, as fast as she could run, to the foot of the stairs, exclaiming, “It’s a mistake! it’s all a mistake, and I was a fool to believe them that brought me the word. Sure Ody’s not there at all! nor ever was in it. I’ve seen them all, face to face; and my son’s not one of them, nor ever was: and I was a fool from beginning to end—and I beg your pardon entirely,” whispered she, coming close to my ear: “I was out of my reason at the thought of that boy’s being to suffer, and I, his mother, the cause of it. Forgive all I said in my passion, my own best jewel: you was always good and tender to me, and be the same still, dear. I’ll never say a word more about it to any one living: the secret shall die with me. Sure, when my conscience has borne it so long, it may strive and bear it a little longer for your sake: and it can’t be long I have to live, so that will make all easy. Hark! they are asking for you. Do you go your ways into the great parlour, to Mr. McLeod, and think no more of any thing at all but joy. My son’s not one of them! I must go to the forge, and tell Christy the good news.”

Ellinor departed, quite satisfied with herself, with me, and with all the world. She took it for granted that she left me in the same state of mind, and that I should obey her injunctions, and think of nothing but joy. Of what happened in the great parlour, and of the examinations of the prisoners, I have but a confused recollection. I remember that Mr. McLeod seemed rather surprised by my indifference to what concerned me so nearly; and that he was obliged to do all the business himself. The men were, I believe, all committed to gaol, and Joe Kelly turned king’s evidence; but as to any further particulars, I know no more than if I had been in a dream. The discovery which Ellinor had just made to me engrossed all my powers of attention.

CHAPTER XVII.

“Le vrai n’est pas toujours vraisemblable,” says an acute observer of human affairs. The romance of real life certainly goes beyond all other romances; and there are facts which few writers would dare to put into a book, as there are skies which few painters would venture to put into a picture.

When I had leisure to reflect, I considered, that as yet I had no proof of the truth of Ellinor’s strange story, except her own assertions. I sent for her again, to examine her more particularly. I was aware that, if I alarmed her, I should so confuse her imagination, that I should never obtain the truth; therefore I composed myself, and assumed my usual external appearance of nonchalance. I received her lolling upon my sofa, as usual, and I questioned her merely as if to gratify an idle curiosity.

“Troth, dear,” said she, “I’ll tell you the whole story how it was, to make your mind asy, which, God knows, mine never was, from that minute it first came into my head, till this very time being. You mind the time you got the cut in your head—no, not you, jewel; but the little lord that was then, Christy there below that is.—Well, the cut was a terrible cut as ever you seen, got by a fall on the fender from the nurse’s arms, that was drunk, three days after he was born.”

“I remember to have heard my father talk of some accident of this sort, which happened to me when I was an infant.”

“Ay, sure enough it did, and that was what first put him in the notion of taking the little lord out of the hands of the Dublin nurse-tenders, and them that were about my Lady Glenthom, and did not know how to manage her, which was the cause of her death: and he said he’d have his own way about his son and heir any way, and have him nursed by a wholesome woman in a cabin, and brought up hardy, as he, and the old lord, and all the family, were before him. So with that he sends for me, and he puts the young lord, God bless him, into my arms himself, and a donny thing he was that same time to look at, for he was but just out of the surgeon’s hands, the head just healed and scarred over like; and my lord said there should be no more doctors never about him. So I took him, that is, Christy, and you, to a house at the sea, for the salt water, and showed him every justice; and my lord often came to see him whilst he was in the country; but then he was off, after a time, to Dublin, and I was in a lone place, where nobody came, and the child was very sick with me, and you was all the time as fine and thriving a child as ever you see; and I thought, to be sure, one night, that he would die wid me. He was very bad, very bad indeed; and I was sitting up in bed, rocking him backwards and forwards this ways: I thought with myself, what a pity it was, the young lord should die, and he an only son and heir, and the estate to go out of the family the Lord knows where; and then the grief the father would be in: and then I thought how happy he would be if he had such a fine babby as you, dear; and you was a fine babby to be sure: and then I thought how happy it would be for you, if you was in the place of the little lord: and then it came into my head, just like a shot, where would be the harm to change you? for I thought the real lord would surely die; and then, what a gain it would be to all, if it was never known, and if the dead child was carried to the grave, since it must go, as only poor Ellinor O’Donoghoe’s, and no more about it. Well, if it was a wicked thought, it was the devil himself put it in my head, to be sure; for, only for him, I should never have had the sense to think of such a thing, for I was always innocent like, and not worldly given. But so it was, the devil put it in my head, and made me do it, and showed me how, and all in a minute. So, I mind, your eyes and hair were both of the very same colour, dear; and as to the rest, there’s no telling how those young things alter in a few months, and my lord would not be down from Dublin in a hurry, so I settled it all right; and as there was no likelihood at all the real lord would live, that quieted my conscience; for I argued, it was better the father should have any sort of child at all than none. So, when my lord came down, I carried him the child to see, that is you, jewel. He praised me greatly for all the care I had taken of his boy; and said, how finely you was come on! and I never see a father in greater joy; and it would have been a sin, I thought, to tell him the truth, after he took the change that was put upon him so well, and it made him so happy like. Well, I was afeard of my life he’d pull off the cap to search for the scar, so I would not let your head be touched any way, dear, saying it was tinder and soft still with the fall, and you’d cry if the cap was stirred; and so I made it out indeed, very well; for, God forgive me, I twitched the string under your chin, dear, and made you cry like mad, when they would come to touch you. So there was no more about it, and I had you home to myself, and, all in good time, the hair grew, and fine thick hair it was, God bless you; and so there was no more about it, and I got into no trouble at all, for it all fell out just as I had laid it out, except that the real little young lord did not die as I thought; and it was a wonder but he did, for you never saw none so near death, and backwards and forwards, what turns of sickness he took with me for months upon months, and year after year, so that none could think, no more than me, there was any likelihood at all of rearing him to man’s estate. So that kept me easier in my mind concerning what I’d done; for as I kept saying to myself, better the family should have an heir to the estate, suppose not the right, than none at all; and if the father, nor nobody, never found it out, there was he and all the family made happy for life, and my child made a lord of, and none the wiser or the worse. Well, so I down-argued my conscience; and any way I took to little Christy, as he was now to be called—and I loved him, all as one as if he was my own—not that he was ever as well-looking as Ody, or any of the childer I had, but I never made any differ betwixt him and any of my own—he can’t say as I did, any how, and he has no reason to complain of my being an unnat’ral mother to him, and being my foster-child I had a right to love him as I did, and I never wronged him in any way, except in the one article of changing him at nurse, which he being an infant, and never knowing, wa” never a bit the worse for, nor never will, now. So all’s right^ dear, and make your mind asy, jewel; there’s the whole truth of the story, for you.”

“But it is a very strange story, Ellinor, after all, and—and I have only your word for it, and may be you are only taking advantage of my regard for you to make me believe you.”

“What is it, plase your honour?” said she, stepping forward, as if she did not hear or understand me.

“I say, Ellinor, that after all I have no proof of the truth of this story, except your word.”

“And is not that enough? and where’s the use of having more? but if it will make you asy, sure I can give you proof—sure need you go farther than the scar on his head? If he was shaved to-morrow, I’d engage you’d see it fast enough. But sure, can’t you put your hand up to your head this minute, and feel there never was no scar there, nor if all the hair you have, God save the mark, was shaved this minute, never a bit of a scar would be to be seen: but proof is it you want?—why, there’s the surgeon that dressed the cut in the child’s head, before he ever came to me; sure he’s the man that can’t forget it, and that will tell all: so to make your mind asy, see him, dear; but for your life don’t let him see your head to feel it, for he’d miss the scar, and might suspect something by your going to question him.”

“Where does he live?” interrupted I.

“Not above twelve miles off.”

“Is he alive?”

“Ay, if he been’t dead since Candlemas.”

At first I thought of writing to this man; but afterwards, being afraid of committing myself by writing, I went to him: he had long before this time left off business, and had retired to enjoy his fortune in the decline of life. He was a whimsical sort of character; he had some remains of his former taste for anatomy, and was a collector of curiosities. I found him just returned from a lake which he had been dragging for a moose-deer’s horns, to complete the skeleton of a moose-deer, which he had mounted in his hall. I introduced myself, desiring to see his museum, and mentioned to him the thigh-bone of a giant found in ray neighbourhood; then by favour of this bone I introduced the able cure that he had made of a cut in my head, when I was a child.

“A cut in your head, sir? Yes, my lord, I recollect perfectly well, it was a very ugly cut, especially in an infant’s head; but I am glad to find you feel no bad effects from it. Have you any cicatrice on the place?—Eleven feet high, did you say? and is the giant’s skeleton in your neighbourhood?”

I humoured his fancy, and by degrees he gave me all the information I wanted without in the least suspecting my secret motives. He described the length, breadth, and depth, of the wound to me; showed me just where it was on the head, and observed that it must have left an indelible mark, but that my fine hair covered it. When he seemed disposed to search for it, I defended myself with the giant’s thigh-bone, and warded off his attacks most successfully. To satisfy myself upon this point, I affected to think that he had not been paid: he said he had been amply paid, and he showed me his books to prove it. I examined the dates, and found that they agreed with Ellinor’s precisely. On my return home, the first thing I did was to make Christy a present of a new wig, which I was certain would induce him to shave his head; for the lower Irish agree with the beaux and belles of London and Paris, in preferring wigs to their own hair. Ellinor told me, that I might safely let his head be shaved, because to her certain knowledge, he had scars of so many cuts which he had received at fairs upon his skull, that there would appear nothing particular in one more or less. As soon as the head was shaved, and the wig was worn, I took an opportunity one day of stopping at the forge to have one of my horse’s shoes changed; and whilst this was doing, I took notice of his new wig, and how well it fitted him. As I expected, he took it off to show it me better, and to pay his own compliments to it.

“Sure enough, you are a very fine wig,” said he, apostrophising it as he held it up on the end of his hammer; “and God bless him that give it me, and it fits me as if it was nailed to my head.”

“You seem to have had a good many nails in your head already, Christy,” said I, “if one may judge by all these scars.”

“Oh yes, please your honour, my lord,” said he, “there’s no harm in them neither; they are scratches got when I was no wiser than I should be, at fairs, fighting with the boys of Shrawd-na-scoob.”

Whilst he fought his battles o’er again, I had leisure to study his head; and I traced precisely all the boundary lines. The situation, size, and figure of the cicatrice, which the surgeon and Ellinor had described to me, were so visible and exact, that no doubt could remain in my mind of Christy’s being the real son of the late Lord and Lady Glenthorn. This conviction was still more impressed upon my mind a few days afterwards. I recollected having seen a file of family pictures in a lumber-room in the castle; and I rummaged them out to see if I could discover amongst them any likeness to Christy: I found one; the picture of my grandfather,—I should say, of his grandfather, to which Christy bore a striking resemblance, when I saw him with his face washed, and in his Sunday clothes.

My mind being now perfectly satisfied of the truth of Ellinor’s story, I was next to consider how I ought to act. To be or not to be Lord Glenthorn, or, in other words, to be or not to be a villain, was now the question. I could not dissemble to my conscience this plain state of the case, that I had no right to keep possession of that which I knew to be another’s lawful property; yet, educated as I had been, and accustomed to the long enjoyment of those luxuries, which become necessaries to the wealthy; habituated to attendance as I had been; and, even amongst the dissipated and idle, notorious for extravagance the most unbounded and indolence the most inveterate; how was I at once to change my habits, to abdicate my rank and power, to encounter the evils of poverty? I was not compelled to make such sacrifices; for though Ellinor’s transient passion had prompted her to threaten me with a public discovery, yet I knew that she would as soon cut off her own right hand as execute her threats. Her affection for me, and her pride in my consequence, were so strong, that I knew I might securely rely upon her secrecy. The horrid idea of being the cause of the death of one of her own children had for a moment sufficient power to balance her love for me; yet there was but little probability that any similar trial should occur, nor had I reason to apprehend that the reproaches of her conscience should induce her to make a voluntary discovery; for all her ideas of virtue depended on the principle of fidelity to the objects of her affection, and no scrupulous notions of justice disturbed her understanding or alarmed her self-complacency. Conscious that she would willingly sacrifice all she had in the world for any body she loved, and scarcely comprehending that any one could be selfish, she, in a confused way, applied the maxim of “Do as you would be done by,” and was as generous of the property of others as of her own. At the worst, if a law-suit commenced against me, I knew that possession was nine points of the law. I also knew that Ellinor’s health was declining, and that the secret would die with her. Unlawful possession of the wealth I enjoyed could not, however, satisfy my own mind; and, after a severe conflict between my love of ease and my sense of right—between my tastes and my principles—I determined to act honestly and honourably, and to relinquish what I could no longer maintain without committing injustice, and feeling remorse. I was, perhaps, the more ready to do rightly because I felt that I was not compelled to it. The moment when I made this virtuous decision was the happiest I had at that time ever felt: my mind seemed suddenly relieved from an oppressive weight; my whole frame glowed with new life; and the consciousness of courageous integrity elevated me so much in my own opinion, that titles, and rank, and fortune, appeared as nothing in my estimation. I rang my bell eagerly, and ordered that Christy O’Donoghoe should be immediately sent for. The servant went instantly; but it seemed to me an immoderately long time before Christy arrived. I walked up and down the room impatiently, and at last threw myself at full length upon the sofa: the servant returned.

“The smith is below in the hall, my lord.”

“Show him up.”—He was shown up into the ante-chamber.

“The smith is at the door, my lord.”

“Show him in, cannot you? What detains him?”

“My brogues, my lord! I’d be afraid to come in with ‘em on the carpet.” Saying this, Christy came in, stepping fearfully, astonished to find himself in a splendid drawing-room.

“Were you never in this room before, Christy?” said I.

“Never, my lord, plase your honour, barring the day I mended the bolt.”

“It is a fine room, is not it, Christy?”

“Troth, it is the finest ever I see, sure enough.”

“How should you like to have such a room of your own, Christy?”

“Is it I, plase your honour?” replied he, laughing; “what should I do with the like?”

“How should you feel if you were master of this great castle?”

“It’s a poor figure I should make, to be sure,” said he, turning his head over his shoulder towards the door, and resting upon the lock: “I’d rather be at the forge by a great dale.”

“Are you sure of that, Christy? Should not you like to be able to live without working any more, and to have horses and servants of your own?”

“What would I do with them, plase your honour, I that have never been used to them? sure they’d all laugh at me, and I’d not be the better o’ that, no more than of having nothing to do; I that have been always used to the work, what should I do all the day without it? But sure, my lord,” continued he, changing his voice to a more serious tone, “the horse that I shod yesterday for your honour did not go lame, did he?”

“The horse is very well shod, I believe; I have not ridden him since: I know nothing of the matter.”

“Because I was thinking, may be, it was that made your honour send for me up in the hurry—I was afeard I’d find your honour mad with me; and I’d be very sorry to disoblige you, my lord; and I’m glad to see your honour looking so well after all the trouble you’ve been put to by them rubbles, the villains, to be consarting against you under-ground. But, thanks be to God, you have ‘em all in gaol now. I thought my mother would have died of the fright she took, when the report came that Ody was one of them. I told her there could not be no truth in it at all, but she would not mind me: it would be a strange unnatural thing, indeed, of any belonging to her to be plotting against your honour. I knew Ody could not be in it, and be a brother of mine; and that’s what I kept saying all the time but she never heeded me: for, your honour knows, when the women are frighted, and have taken a thing into their heads, you can’t asy get it out again.”

“Very true: but to return to what I was saying, should not you like to change places with me, if you could?”

“Your honour, my lord, is a very happy jantleman, and a very good jantleman, there’s no doubt, and there’s few but would be proud to be like you in any thing at all.”

“Thank you for that compliment. But now, in plain English, as to yourself, would you like to be in my place—to change places with me?”

“In your honour’s place—I! I would not, my lord; and that’s the truth, now,” said he, decidedly. “I would not: no offence—your honour bid me to speak the truth; for I’ve all I want in the world, a good mother, and a good wife, and good childer, and a reasonable good little cabin, and my little pratees, and the grazing of the cow, and work enough always, and not called on to slave, and I get my health, thank God for all; and what more could I have if I should be made a lord to-morrow? Sure, my good woman would never make a lady; and what should I do with her? I’d be grieved to see her the laughing-stock of high and low, besides being the same myself, and my boy after me. That would never answer for me; so I am not like them that would overturn all to get uppermost; I never had any hand, art, or part, in a thing of the kind; I always thought and knew I was best as I am; not but what, if I was to change with any, it is with you, my lord, I would be proud to change; because if I was to be a jantleman at all, I’d wish to be of a ra-al good ould family born.”

“You are then what you wish to be?” said I.

“Och!” said he, laughing and scratching his head, “your honour’s jesting me about them kings of Ireland, that they say the O’Donoghoes was once: but that’s what I never think on, that’s all idle talk for the like of me, for sure that’s a long time ago, and what use going back to it? One might as well be going back to Adam, that was the father of all, but which makes no differ now.”

“But you do not understand me,” interrupted I; “I am not going back to the kings of Ireland: I mean to tell you, that you were born a gentleman—nay, I am perfectly serious; listen to me.”

“I do, plase your honour, though it is mocking me, I know you are; I would be sorry not to take a joke as well as another.”

“This is no joke; I repeat that I am serious. You are not only a gentleman, but a nobleman: to you this castle and this great estate belongs, and to you they shall be surrendered.”

He stood astonished; and, his eyes opening wide, showed a great circle of white in his black face.

“Eh!” cried he, drawing that long breath, which astonishment had suppressed. “But how can this be?”

“Your mother can explain better than I can: your mother, did I say? she is not your mother; Lady Glenthorn was your mother.”

“I can’t understand it at all—I can’t understand it at all. I’ll lave it all to your honour,” said he, making a motion with his hands, as if to throw from him the trouble of comprehending it.

“Did you never hear of such a thing as a child’s being changed at nurse?”

“I did, plase your honour; but my mother would never do the like, I’ll answer for her, any way; and them that said any thing of the kind, belied her; and don’t be believing them, my lord.”

“But Ellinor was the person who told me this secret.”

“Was she so? Oh, she must have been draaming; she was always too good a mother to me to have sarved me so. But,” added he, struggling to clear his intellects, “you say it’s not my mother she is; but whose mother is she then? Can it be that she is yours? ‘tis not possible to think such a great lord was the son of such as her, to look at you both: and was you the son of my father Johnny O’Donoghoe? How is that again?”

He rubbed his forehead; and I could scarcely forbear laughing at his odd perplexity, though the subject was of such serious importance. When he clearly understood the case, and thoroughly believed the truth, he did not seem elated by this sudden change of fortune; he really thought more of me than of himself.

“Well, I’ll tell you what you will do then,” continued he, after a pause of deep reflection; “say nothing to nobody, but just keep asy on, even as we are. Don’t let there be any surrendering at all, and I’ll speak to my mother, that is, Ellinor O’Donoghoe, and settle it so; and let it be so settled, in the name of God, and no more about it: and none need never be the wiser; ‘tis so best for all. A good day to your honour, and I’ll go shoe the mare.”

“Stay,” said I; “you may hereafter repent of this sudden determination. I insist upon your taking four-and-twenty hours—no, that would be too little—take a month to consider of it coolly, and then let me know your final determination.”

“Oh! plase your honour, I will say the same then as now. It would be a poor thing indeed of me, after all you done for me and mine, to be putting you to more trouble. It would be a poor thing of me to forget how you liked to have lost your life all along with me at the time of the ‘ruction. No, I’ll not take the fortin from you, any how.”

“Put gratitude to me out of the question,” said I. “Far be it from me to take advantage of your affectionate temper. I do not consider you as under any obligations to me; nor will I be paid for doing justice.”

“Sure enough, your honour desarved to be born a gentleman,” said Christy.

“At least I have been bred a gentleman,” said I. “Let me see you again this day month, and not till then.”

“You shall not—that is, you shall, plase your honour: but for fear any one would suspect any thing, I’d best go shoe the mare, any way.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

The philosophy we learn from books makes but a faint impression upon the mind, in comparison with that which we are taught by our own experience; and we sometimes feel surprised to find that what we have been taught as maxims of morality prove true in real life. After having had, for many years, the fullest opportunities of judging of the value of riches, when I reflected upon my past life, I perceived that their power of conferring happiness is limited, nearly as the philosophic poet describes; that all the changes and modifications of luxury must, in the sum of actual physical enjoyment, be reduced to a few elementary pleasures, of which the industrious poor can obtain their share: a small share, perhaps; but then it is enjoyed with a zest that makes it equal in value perhaps to the largest portion offered to the sated palate of ennui. These truths are as old as the world; but they appeared quite new to me, when I discovered them by my own experience.

During the month which I had allowed to my foster-brother for reflection, I had leisure to philosophize, and my understanding made a rapid progress. I foresaw the probability of Christy’s deciding to become Earl of Glenthorn; notwithstanding that his good sense had so clearly demonstrated to him in theory, that, with his education and habits, he must be happier working in his forge than he could be as lord of Glenthorn Castle. I was not dismayed by the idea of losing my wealth and rank; I was pleased with myself for my honest conduct, and conscious of a degree of pleasure from my own approbation, superior to what my riches had ever procured.

The day appointed for Christy’s final determination arrived. I knew by the first motion of his shoulder as he came into the room, what his decision would be.

“Well, Christy,” said I, “you will be Earl of Glenthorn, I perceive. You are glad now that I did not take you at your word, and that I gave you a month’s time for consideration.”

“Your honour was always considerate; but if I’d wish now to be changing my mind,” said he, hesitating, and shifting from leg to leg, “it is not upon my own account, any way, but upon my son Johnny’s.”

“My good friend,” said I, “no apology is necessary. I should be very unjust if I were offended by your decision, and very mean if, after the declarations I have made, I could, for an instant, hesitate to restore to you that property which it is your right and your choice to reclaim.”

Christy made a low bow, and seemed much at a loss what he was to say next.

“I hope,” continued I, “that you will be as happy when you are Earl of Glenthorn, as you have been as Christy O’Donoghoe.”

“May be not, plase your honour; but I trust my childer will be happy after me; and it’s them and my wife I’m thinking of, as in duty bound. But it is hard your honour should be astray for want of the fortin you’ve been bred to; and this weighs with me greatly on the other side. If your honour could live on here, and share with us—But I see your honour’s displeased at my naming that. It was my wife thought o’ that; I knew it could not do. But then, what I think is, that your honour should name what you would be pleased to keep to live upon: for, to be sure, you have a right to live as a gentleman, that have always lived as one, as every body knows, and none better than I. Would your honour be so kind, then, as just to put down on a bit of paper what you’d wish to keep; and that same, whatever it is, none shall touch but yourself; and I would not own a child for mine that would begrudge it you. I’ll step down and wait below while your honour writes what you plase.”

The generosity of this man touched me to the heart. I accepted from him three hundred a year; and requested that the annuity I allowed to the unfortunate Lady Glenthorn might be continued; that the house which I had built for Ellinor, and the land belonging to it, might be secured to her rent-free for life; and that all my debts should be paid. I recommended Mr. M’Leod in the strongest manner, as an agent whose abilities and integrity would be to him an invaluable treasure.

Christy, when I gave him the paper on which I had stated these requests, took a pen instantly, and would have signed his name without reading it; but to this I absolutely objected.

“Well, then,” said he, “I’ll take it home, and read it over, and take time, as you desire, to consider. There’s no danger of my changing my mind about this: I hope your honour can’t think there is.”

The next day, on returning it to me, he observed, that it was making very little of him to put down only such a trifle; and he pressed me to make the hundreds thousands:—this I refused.

“But I hope your honour won’t object to what I am going to propose. Is not there a house in London? and is not there another in England, in the country? and, sure, I and mine can’t live there and here and every where at once: if you’d just condescend to occupy one of them, you’d do me a great pleasure, and a great sarvice too; for every thing would be right, instead of going wrong, as it might under an agent, and me at a distance, that does not know well how to manage such great estates. I hope you’ll not refuse me that, if it’s only to show me I don’t lose your honour’s good-will.”

The offer was made with so much earnestness, and even delicacy, that I could not abruptly refuse it at the moment, though one of these magnificent houses could be of no use tome with an income of 300l. per annum.

“As to the annuity,” continued Christy, “that shall be paid as punctual as the day: Mr. M’Leod will pay it; and he shall have it all settled right, and put upon a stamp, by the lawyers, in case any thing should happen me. Then, as to Ellinor, sure, she is my mother, for I never can think of her any other way; and, except in that single article of changing me at nurse, was always the best of mothers to me. And even that same trick she played me, though very wicked, to be sure, was very nat’ral—ay, very nat’ral—to prefar her own flesh and blood if she could: and no one could be more sorry for the wrong she did me than she is now: there she is crying at home, ready to break her heart: but as I tell her, there’s no use in repenting a thing when once it is done; and as I forgive her, none can ever bring it up against her: and as to the house and farm, she shall surely have that, and shall never want for any thing. So I hope your honour’s mind will be asy on that matter; and whatever else you recollect to wish, that shall be done, if in my power.”

It is with pleasure that I recollect and record all these instances of goodness of heart in poor Christy, which, notwithstanding the odd mixture of absurdity and sense in his language and ideas, will, I make no doubt, please my readers, though they cannot affect them as much as they affected me. I now prepared for my departure from Glenthorn Castle, never more to return. To spare me from unnecessary mortification, Christy had the wonderful self-command to keep the secret faithfully, so that none of the people in the neighbourhood, nor even my servants, had the slightest idea of the truth. Having long talked of returning to England, the preparations for my journey excited no surprise. Every thing went on as usual, except that Christy, instead of being at the forge, was almost every day at the whiskey-shop.

I thought it proper to speak openly of my affairs to Mr. M’Leod: he was the only person who could make out a correct list of my debts. Besides, I wished to recommend him as agent to the future earl, to whom an honest and able agent would be peculiarly necessary, ignorant, as he was, both of the world and of business; and surrounded, as he must probably be, on his accession to his estate, by a herd of vulgar and designing flatterers.

Albeit not easily moved to surprise, Mr. M’Leod really did, for an instant, look astonished, when I informed him that Christy O’Donoghoe was Earl of Glenthorn. But I must resolve not to stop to describe the astonishment that each individual showed upon this occasion, else I shall never have finished my story.

It was settled that Mr. M’Leod should continue agent; and, for his credit, I must observe that, after he was made acquainted with my loss of rank and fortune, he treated me with infinitely more respect and regard than he had ever shown me whilst he considered me only as his employer. Our accounts were soon settled; and when this was done, and they were all regularly signed, Mr. M’Leod came up to me, and, in a low voice of great emotion, said, “I am not a man of professions; but when I say I am a man’s friend, I hope I shall ever be found to be so, as far as can be in my power: and I cannot but esteem and admire the man who has acted so nobly as you have done.”

M’Leod wrung my hand as he spoke, and the tears stood in his eyes. I knew that the feeling must indeed be strong, which could extort from him even these few words of praise, and this simple profession of regard; but I did not know, till long afterwards, the full warmth of his affections and energy of his friendship. The very next day, unfortunately for me, he was obliged to go to Scotland, to his mother, who was dying: and at this time I saw no more of him.

In due legal form I now made a surrender of all claim upon the hereditary property of the Earl of Glenthorn, and every thing was in readiness for my journey. During this time poor Ellinor never appeared at the castle. I went to see her, to comfort her about my going away; but she was silent, and seemingly sullen, and would not be comforted.

“I’ve enough to grieve me,” said she: “I know what will be the end of all; I see it as plain as if you’d told me. There’s no hiding nothing from a mother: no, there’s no use in striving to comfort me.” Every method which I tried to console her seemed to grieve her more.

The day before that which was fixed for my departure, I sent to desire to see her. This request I had repeatedly made; but she had, from day to day, excused herself, saying that she was unwell, and that she would be up on the morrow. At last she came; and though but a few days had elapsed since I had seen her, she was so changed in her appearance, that I was shocked the moment I beheld her countenance.

“You don’t look well, Ellinor,” said I: “sit down.”

“No matter whether I sit or stand,” said she, calmly; “I’m not long for this world: I won’t live long after you are gone, that’s one comfort.”

Her eyes were fixed and tearless; and there was a dead unnatural tranquillity in her manner.

“They are making a wonderful great noise nailing up the boxes, and I seen them cording the trunks as I came through the hall. I asked them, could I be of any use: but they said I could be of none, and that’s true; for, when I put my hand to the cord, to pull it, I had no more strength than an infant. It was seven-and-twenty years last Midsummer-day since I first had you an infant in my arms. I was strong enough then, and you—was a sweet babby. Had I seen that time all that would come to pass this day! But that’s over now. I have done a wicked thing; but I’ll send for Father Murphy, and get absolution before I die.”

She sighed deeply, then went on speaking more quickly.

“But I can do nothing until you go. What time will you go in the morning, dear? It’s better go early. Is it in the coach you’ll go? I see it in the yard. But I thought you must leave the coach, with all the rest, to the rightful heir. But my head’s not clear about it all, I believe—and no matter.”

Her ideas rambled from one subject to another in an unconnected manner. I endeavoured in vain to recall her understanding by speaking of her own immediate interests; of the house that was secured to her for life; and of the promise that had been made me, that she should never want for any thing, and that she should be treated with all possible kindness. She seemed to listen to me; but showed that she did not comprehend what I said, by her answers; and, at every pause I made, she repeated the same question—

“What time will you go in the morning, dear?”

At last I touched her feelings, and she recovered her intellect, when I suddenly asked, if she would accompany me to England the next morning.

“Ay, that I will,” cried she, “go with you through the wide world.”

She burst into tears, and wept bitterly for some time.

“Ah! now I feel right again,” said she; “this is what I wanted; but could not cry this many a day—never since the word came to me that you was going, and all was lost.”

I assured her that I now expected to be happier than I had ever been.

“Oh!” cried she: “and have you never been happy all this time? What a folly it was for me, then, to do so wicked a thing! and all my comfort was, the thinking you was happy, dear. And what will become of you now? And is it on foot you’ll go?”

Her thoughts rambled again.

“Whatever way I go, you shall go with me,” said I. “You are my mother; and now that your son has done what he knows to be honest and just, he will prosper in the world, and will be truly happy; and so may you be happy, now that you have nothing more to conceal.”

She shook her head.

“It’s too late,” said she, “quite too late. I often told Christy I would die before you left this place, dear; and so I will, you will see. God bless you! God bless you! and pray to him to forgive me! None that could know what I’ve gone through would ever do the like; no, not for their own child, was he even such as you, and that would be hard to find. God bless you, dear; I shall never see you more! The hand of death is upon me—God for ever bless you, dear!”

She died that night; and I lost in her the only human being who had ever shown me warm, disinterested affection. Her death delayed for a few days my departure from Glenthorn Castle. I stayed to see her laid in the grave. Her funeral was followed by crowds of people: by many, from the general habit of attending funerals; by many, who wished to pay their court to me, in showing respect to the memory of my nurse.

When the prayers over the dead were ended, and the grave closed, just as the crowd were about to disperse, I stood up on a monument belonging to the Glenthorn family; and the moment it was observed that I wished to address the multitude, the moving waves were stilled, and there was a dead silence. Every eye was fixed upon me with eager expectation. It was the first time in my life that I had ever spoken before numbers; but as I was certain that I had something to say, and quite indifferent about the manner, words came without difficulty. Amazement appeared in every face when I declared myself to be the son of the poor woman whom we had just interred. And when I pointed to the real Earl of Glenthorn, and when I declared that I relinquished to him his hereditary title and lawful property, my auditors looked alternately at me and at my foster-brother, seeming to think it impossible that a man, with face and hands so black as Christy’s usually were known to be, could become an earl.

When I concluded my narrative, and paused, the silence still continued; all seemed held in mute astonishment.

“And now, my good friends,” continued I, “let me bid you farewell; probably you will never see or hear of me more; but, whether he be rich or poor, or high or low-born, every honest man must wish to leave behind him a fair character. Therefore, when I am gone, and, as it were, dead to you, speak of me, not as of an impostor, who long assumed a name and enjoyed a fortune that was not his own; but remember that I was bred to believe myself heir to a great estate, and that, after having lived till the age of seven-and-twenty, in every kind of luxury, I voluntarily gave up the fortune I enjoyed, the moment I discovered that it was not justly mine.”

“That you did, indeed,” interrupted Christy; “and of that I am ready to bear witness for you in this world and in the next. God bless and prosper you wherever you go! and sure enough he will, for he cannot do other than prosper one that deserves it so well. I never should have known a sentence of the secret,” continued he, addressing his neighbours, “if it had not been for his generosity to tell it me; and even had I found it out by any maracle, where would have been the gain of that to me? for you know he could, had he been so inclined, have kept me out of all by the law—ay, baffled me on till my heart was sick, and till my little substance was wasted, and my bones rotten in the ground; but, God’s blessing be upon him! he’s an honest man, and done that which many a lord in his place would not have done; but a good conscience is a kingdom in itself, and that he cannot but have, wherever he goes—and all which grieves me is that he is going away from us. If he’d be prevailed with by me, he’d stay where he is, and we’d share and share alike; but he’s too proud for that—and no wonder—he has a right to be proud; for no matter who was his mother, he’ll live and die a gentleman, every inch of him. Any man, you see, may be made a lord; but a gentleman, a man must make himself. And yourselves can witness, has not he reigned over us like a gentleman, and a raal gentleman; and shown mercy to the poor, and done justice to all, as well as to me? and did not he take me by the hand when I was persecuted, and none else in the wide world to befrind me; and did not he stand up for me against the tyrants that had the sway then; ay, and did not he put himself to trouble, day and night, go riding here and there, and spaking and writing for me? Well, as they say, he loves his ease, and that’s the worse can be said of him; he took all this pains for a poor man, and had like to have lost his life by it. And now, wherever he is and whatever, can I help loving and praying for him? or could you? And since you will go,” added he, turning to me with tears in his eyes, “take with you the blessings of the poor, which, they say, carry a man straight to heaven, if any thing can.”

The surrounding crowd joined with one voice in applauding this speech: “It is he that has said what we all think,” cried they, following me with acclamations to the castle. When they saw the chaise at the door which was to carry me away, their acclamations suddenly ceased—“But is he going?—But can’t he stay?—And is he going this minute? troth it’s a pity, and a great pity!”

Again and again these honest people insisted upon taking leave of me, and I could not force myself away without difficulty. They walked on beside my carriage, Christy at their head; and in this species of triumph, melancholy indeed, but grateful to my heart, I quitted Glenthorn Castle, passed through that park which was no longer mine, and at the verge of the county shook hands for the last time with these affectionate and generous people. I then bid my postilion drive on fast; and I never looked back, never once cast a lingering look at all I left behind. I felt proud of having executed my purpose, and conscious I had not the insignificant, inefficient character that had formerly disgraced me. As to the future, I had not distinctly arranged my plans, nor was my mind during the remainder of the day sufficiently tranquil for reflection. I felt like one in a dream, and could scarcely persuade myself of the reality of the events, that had succeeded each other with such astonishing rapidity. At night I stopped at an inn where I was not known; and having no attendants or equipage to command respect from hostlers, waiters, and inn-keepers, I was made immediately sensible of the reality, at least of the change in my fortune; but I was not mortified—I felt only as if I were travelling incognito. And I contrived to go to bed without a valet-de-chambre, and slept soundly, for I had earned a sound sleep by exertion both of body and mind.