When, having passed through a suite of gorgeously furnished rooms, Forester entered the dimly lighted boudoir where his lady-mother reclined, his feelings were full of troubled emotion. The remembrance of the last time he had been there was present to his mind, mingled with anxious fears as to his approaching reception. Had he been more conversant with the “world,” he needed not to have suffered these hesitations. There are few conditions in life between which so wide a gulf yawns as that of the titled heir of a house and the younger brother. He was, then, as little prepared for the affectionate greeting that met him as for the absence of all trace of illness in her Ladyship's appearance. Both were very grateful to his feelings as he drew his chair beside her sofa, and a soft remembrance of former days of happiness stole over his pleased senses. Lord Netherby, with a fitting consideration, had left them to enjoy this interview alone, and thus their emotions were unrestrained by the presence of the only one who had witnessed their parting. Perhaps the most distinguishing trait of the closest affection is that the interruptions to its course do not involve the misery of reconciliation to enable us to return to our own place in the heart; but that, the moment of grief or anger or doubt over, we feel that we have a right to resume our influence in the breast whose thoughts have so long mingled with our own. The close ties of filial and parental love are certainly of this nature, and it must be a stubborn heart whose instincts do not tend to that forgiveness which as much blots out as it pardons past errors. Such was not Lady Netherby's. Pride of station, the ambition of leadership in certain circles, had so incorporated themselves with the better dictates of her mind that she rarely, if ever, permitted mere feeling to influence her; but if for a moment it did get the ascendancy, her heart could feel as acutely as though it had been accustomed to such indulgence. In a word, she was as affectionate as the requirements of her rank permitted. Oh, this Rank, this Rank! how do its conventionalities twine and twist themselves round our natures till love and friendship are actually subject to the cold ordinance of a fashion! How many hide the dark spots of their heart behind the false screen they call their “Rank”! The rich man, in the Bible, clothed in his purple, and faring sumptuously, was but acting in conformity with his “Rank;” nay, more, he was charitable as became his “Rank,” for the poor were fed with the crumbs from his table.
Forester was well calculated by natural advantages to attract a mother's pride. He was handsome and well-bred; had even more than a fair share of abilities, which gained credit for something higher from a native quickness of apprehension; and even already the adventurous circumstances of his first campaign had invested his character with a degree of interest that promised well for his success in the world. If her manner to him was then kind and affectionate, it was mingled also with something of admiration, which her woman's heart yielded to the romantic traits of the youth.
She listened with eager pleasure to the animated description he gave of the morning at Aboukir, and the brilliant panorama of the attack; nor was the enjoyment marred by the mention of the only name that could have pained her, the last words of Lord Netherby having sealed Forester's lips with respect to the Knight of Gwynne.
The changeful fortunes of his life as a prisoner were mingled with the recital of the news by which his exchange was effected; and this brought back once more the subject by which their interview was opened,—the death of his elder brother. Lady Netherby perhaps felt she had done enough for sorrow, for she dwelt but passingly on the theme, and rather addressed herself to the future which was now about to open before her remaining son, carefully avoiding, however, the slightest phrase that should imply dictation, and only seeming to express the natural expectation “the world” had formed of what his career should be. “Lord Netherby tells me,” said she, “that the Duke of York will, in all likelihood, name you as an extra aide-decamp, in which case you probably would remain in the service. It is an honor that could not well be declined.”
“I scarcely like to form fixed intentions which have no fixed foundations,” said Forester; “but if I might give way to my own wishes, it would be to indulge in perfect liberty,—to have no master.”
“Nor any mistress, either, to control you, for some time, I suppose,” rejoined she, smiling, as if carelessly, but watching how her words were taken. Forester affected to partake in the laugh, but could not conceal a slight degree of confusion. Lady Netherby was too clever a tactician to let even a momentary awkwardness interrupt the interview, and resumed: “You will be dreadfully worried by all the 'lionizing' in store for you, I'm certain; you are to be feasted and feted to any extent, and will be fortunate if the gratulations on your recovery do not bring back your illness.”
“I shall get away from it all at once,” said Forester, rising, and walking up and down, as if the thought had suggested the impatient movement.
“You cannot avoid presenting yourself at the levee,” said Lady Netherby, anxiously; for already a dread of her son's wilful temper came over her. “His Royal Highness's inquiries after you do not leave an option on this matter.”
“What if I'm too ill?” said he, doggedly; “what if I should not be in town?”
“But where else could you be, Richard?” said she, with a resumption of her old imperiousness of tone and manner.
“In Ireland, madam,” said Forester, coldly.
“In Ireland! And why, for any sake, in Ireland?”
Forester hesitated, and grew scarlet; he did not know whether to evade inquiry by a vague reply, or at once avow his secret determination. At length, with a faltering, uncertain voice, he said: “A matter of business will bring me to that country; I have already conversed with Lord Castlereagh on the subject. Lord Netherby was present.”
“I'm sure he could never concur,-I'm certain.” So far her Ladyship had proceeded, when a sudden fear came over her that she had ventured too far, and turning hastily, she rang the bell beside her. “Davenport,” said she to the grave-looking groom of the chambers, who as instantaneously appeared, “is my Lord at home?”
“His Lordship is in the library, my Lady.”
“Alone?”
“No, my Lady, a gentleman from Ireland is with his Lordship.”
“A gentleman from Ireland!” repeated she, half aloud, as though the very mention of that country were destined to persecute her; then quickly added, “Say I wish to speak with him here.”
The servant bowed and withdrew; and now a perfect silence reigned in the apartment. Forester felt that he had gone too far to retreat, even were he so disposed, and although dreading nothing more than a “scene,” awaited, without speaking, the course of events. As much yielding to an involuntary impatience as to relieve the awkwardness of the interval, he arose and walked into the adjoining drawing-room, carelessly tossing over books and prints upon the tables, and trying to affect an ease he was very far from experiencing.
It was while he was thus engaged that Lord Netherby entered the boudoir, and seeing her Ladyship alone, was about to speak in his usual tone, when, at a gesture from her, he was made aware of Forester's vicinity, and hastily subdued his voice to a whisper. “Whatever the nature of the tidings which in a hurried and eager tone his Lordship retailed, her manner on hearing evinced a mingled astonishment and delight, if the word dare be applied to an emotion whose source was in anything rather than an amiable feeling.
“It seems too absurd, too monstrous in every way,” exclaimed she, at the end of an explanation which took several minutes to recount. “And why address himself to you? That seems also inexplicable.”
“This,” rejoined Lord Netherby, aloud,—-“this was his own inspiration. He candidly acknowledges that no one either counselled or is even aware of the step he has taken.”
“Perhaps the à propos may do us good service,” whispered she, with a glance darted at the room where Forester was now endeavoring, by humming an air, to give token of his vicinity as well as assume an air of indifference.
“I thought of that,” said Lord Netherby, in the same low voice. “Would you see him? A few moments would be enough.”
Lady Netherby made no answer, but with closed eyes and compressed lips seemed to reflect deeply for several minutes. At last she said: “Yes, let him come. I'll detain Richard in the drawing-room; he shall hear everything that is said. If I know anything of him, the insult to his pride will do far more than all our arguments and entreaties.”
“Don't chill my little friend by any coldness of manner,” said his Lordship, smiling, as he moved towards the door; “I have only got him properly thawed within the last few minutes.”
“My dear Richard,” said she, as the door closed after Lord Netherby, “I must keep you prisoner in the drawing-room for a few minutes, while I receive a visitor of Lord Netherby's. Don't close the doors; I can't endure heat and this room becomes insupportable without a slight current of air. Besides, there is no secret, I fancy, in the communication. As well as I understand the matter, it does not concern us; but Netherby is always doing some piece of silly good-nature, for which no one thanks him!”
The last reflection was half soliloquy, but said so that Forester could and did hear every word of it. While her Ladyship, therefore, patiently awaited the arrival of her visitor in one room, Forester threw himself into a chair, and taking up a book at hazard, endeavored to pass the interval without further thought about the matter.
Sitting with his back towards the door of the boudoir. Forester accidentally had placed himself in such a position that a large mirror between the windows reflected to him a considerable portion of the scene within. It was then with an amount of astonishment far above ordinary that he beheld the strange-looking figure who followed Lord Netherby into the apartment of his mother. He was a short, dumpy man, with a bald head, over which the long hairs of either side were studiously combed into an ingenious kind of network, and meeting at an angle above the cranium, looked like the uncovered rafters of a new house. Two fierce-looking gray eyes that seemed ready for fun or malice, rolled and revolved unceasingly over the various decorations of the chamber, while a large thick-lipped mouth, slightly opened at either end, vouched for one who neglected no palpable occasion for self-indulgence or enjoyment. There was, indeed, throughout his appearance, a look of racy satisfaction and contentment, that consorted but ill with his costume, which was a suit of deep mourning; his clothes having all the gloss and shine of a recent domestic loss, and made, as seems something to be expected on these occasions, considerably too large for him, as though to imply that the defunct should not be defrauded in the full measure of sorrow. Deep crape weepers encircled his arms to the elbows, and a very banner of black hung mournfully from his hat.
“Mr.———-” Here Lord Netherby hesitated, forgetful of his name.
“Dempsey, Paul Dempsey, your Grace,” said the little man, as, stepping forward, he performed the salutation before Lady Netherby, by which he was accustomed to precede an invitation to dance.
“Pray be seated, Mr. Dempsey. I have just briefly mentioned to her Ladyship the circumstances of our interesting conversation, and with your permission will proceed with my recital, begging that if I fall into any error you will kindly set me right. This will enable Lady Netherby, who is still an invalid, to support the fatigue of an interview wherein her advice and counsel will be of great benefit to us both.”
Mr. Dempsey bowed several times, not sorry, perhaps, that in such an awful presence he was spared the office of chief orator.
“I told you, my dear,” said Lord Netherby, turning towards her Ladyship, “that this gentleman had for a considerable time back enjoyed the pleasure of intimacy with our worthy relative Lady Eleanor Darcy—”
The fall of a heavy book in the adjoining room interrupted his Lordship, between whom and Lady Netherby a most significant interchange of glances took place. He resumed, however, without a pause,—
“Lady Eleanor and her accomplished daughter. If the more urgent question were uot now before us, it would gratify you to learn, as I have just done, the admirable patience she has exhibited under the severe trials she has met; the profound insight she obtained into the condition, hopeless as it proves to be, of their unhappy circumstances; and the resignation in which, submitting to changed fortune, she not only has at once abandoned the modes of living she was habituated to, but actually descended to what I can fancy must have been the hardest infliction of all,—vulgar companionship, and the society of a boarding-house.”
“A most respectable establishment, though,” broke in Paul; “Fumbally's is known all over Ulster—”
A very supercilious smile from Lady Netherby cut short a panegyric Mr. Dempsey would gladly have extended.
“No doubt, sir, it was the best thing of the kind,” resumed his Lordship; “but remember who Lady Eleanor Darcy was,—ay, and is. Think of the station she had always held, and then fancy her in daily intercourse with those people—”
“Oh, it is very horrid, indeed!” broke in Lady Netherby, leaning back, and looking overcome even at the bare conception of the enormity.
“The little miserable notorieties of a fishing-village—”
“Coleraine, my Lord,—Coleraine,” cried Dempsey.
“Well, be it so. What is Coleraine?”
“A very thriving town on the river Bann, with a smart trade in yarn, two breweries, three meeting-houses, a pound, and a Sunday-school,” repeated Paul, as rapidly as though reading from a volume of a topographical dictionary.
“All very commendable and delightful institutions, on which I beg heartily to offer my congratulations, but, you will allow me to remark, scarcely enough to compensate for the accustomed appliances of a residence at Gwynne Abbey. But I see we are trespassing on Lady Netherby's strength. You seem faint, my dear.”
“It's nothing,—it will pass over in a moment or so. This sad account of these poor people has distressed me greatly.”
“Well, then, we must hasten on. Mr. Dempsey became acquainted with our poor friends in this their exile; and although from his delicacy and good taste he will not dwell on the circumstance, it is quite clear to me, has shown them many attentions; I might use a stronger word, and say kindnesses.”
“Oh! by Jove, I did nothing. I could do nothing—”
“Nay, sir, you are unjust to yourself; the very intentions by which you set out on your present journey are the shortest answer to that question. It would appear, my dear, that my fair relative, Miss Darcy, has not forfeited the claim she possessed to great beauty and attraction; for here, in the gentleman before us, is an evidence of their existence. Mr. Dempsey, who 'never told his love,' as the poet says, waited in submission himself for the hour of his changing fortune; and until the death of his mother—”
“No, my Lord; my uncle, Bob Dempsey, of Dempsey's Grove.”
“His uncle, I mean. Mr. Dempsey, of Dempsey's Hole.”
“Grove,-Dempsey's Grove,” interpolated Paul, reddening.
“Grove, I should say,” repeated Lord Netherby, unmoved. “By which he has succeeded to a very comfortable independence, and is now in a position to make an offer of his hand and fortune.”
“Under the conditions, my Lord,—under the conditions,” whispered Paul.
“I have not forgotten them,” resumed Lord Netherby, aloud. “It would be ungenerous not to remember them, even for your sake, Mr. Dempsey, seeing how much my poor, dear relative, Lady Eleanor, is beut on prosecuting this unhappy suit, void of all hope, as it seems to be, and not having any money of her owu—”
“Ready money,—cash,” interposed Paul.
“So I mean—ready money to make the advances necessary—Mr. Dempsey wishes to raise a certain sum by loan, on the security of his property, which may enable the Darcys to proceed with their claim; this deed to be executed on his marriage with Miss Darcy. Am I correct, sir?”
“Quite correct, my Lord; you've only omitted that, to save expensive searches, lawyers' fees, and other devilments of the like nature, that your Lordship should advance the blunt yourself?”
“I was coming to that point. Mr. Dempsey opines that, taking the interest it is natural we should do in our poor friends, he has a kind of claim to make this proposition to us. He is aware of our relationship—mine, I mean—to Lady Eleanor. She spoke to you, I believe, on that subject, Mr. Dempsey?”
“Not exactly to me,” said Paul, hesitating, and recalling the manner in which he became cognizant of the circumstance; “but I heard her say that your Lordship was under very deep obligation to her own father,—that you were, so to say, a little out at elbows once, very like myself before Bob died, and that then—”
“We all lived together like brothers and sisters,” said his Lordship, reddening. “I 'm sure I can't forget how happily the time went over.”
“Then Lady Eleanor, I presume, sir, did not advert to those circumstances as a reason for your addressing yourself to Lord Netherby?” said her Ladyship, with a look of stern severity.
“Why, my Lady, she knows nothing about my coming here. Lord bless us! I wouldn't have told her for a thousand pounds!”
“Nor Miss Darcy, either?”
“Not a bit of it! Oh, by Jove! if you think they 're not as proud as ever they were, you are much mistaken; and, indeed, on this very same subject I heard her say that nothing would induce her to accept a favor from your Lordship, if even so very improbable an event should occur as your offering one.”
“So that we owe the honor of your visit to the most single-minded of motives, sir,” said Lady Netherby, whose manner had now assumed all its stateliness.
“Yes, my Lady, I came as you see,—Dempsius cum Dempsio,—so that if I succeed, I can say like that fellow in the play, 'Alone, I did it.'”
Lord Netherby, who probably felt that the interview had lasted sufficiently long for the only purpose he had destined or endured it, was now becoming somewhat desirous of terminating the audience; nor was his impatience allayed by those sportive sallies of Mr. Dempsey in allusion to his own former condition as a dependant.
At length he said, “You must be aware, Mr. Dempsey, that this is a matter demanding much time and consideration. The Knight of Gwynne is absent.”
“That's the reason there is not an hour to lose,” interposed Paul.
“I am at a loss for your meaning.”
“I mean that if he comes home before it 's all settled, that the game is up. He would never consent, I 'm certain.”
“So you think that the ladies regard you with more favorable eyes?” said her Ladyship, smiling a mixture of superciliousness and amusement.
“I have my own reasons to think so,” said Paul, with great composure.
“Perhaps you take too hopeless a view of your case, sir,” resumed Lord Netherby, blandly. “I am, unhappily, very ignorant of Irish family rank; but I feel assured that Mr. Dempsey, of Dempsey's Hole—”
“Grove,—Dempsey's Grove,” said Paul, with a look of anger.
“I ask your pardon, humbly,—I would say of Dempsey's Grove,-might be an accepted suitor in the very highest quarters. At all events, from news I have heard this morning it is more than likely that the Knight will be in London before many weeks, and I dare not assume either the responsibility of favoring your views, or incurring his displeasure by an act of interference. I think her Ladyship coucurs with me.”
“Perfectly. The case is really one which, however we may and do feel the liveliest interest in, lies quite beyond our influence or control.”
“Mr. Dempsey may rest assured that, even from so brief an acquaintance, we have learned to appreciate some of his many excellent qualities of head and heart.”
Lady Netherby bowed an acquiescence cold and stately; and, his Lordship rising at the same time, Paul saw that the audience drew to a close. He arose then slowly, and with a faint sigh,—for he thought of his long and dreary journey, made to so little profit.
“So I may jog back again as I came,” muttered he, as he drew on his gloves. “Well, well, Lady Eleanor knew him better than I did. Good-morning, my Lady. I hope you are about to enjoy better health. Good-bye, my Lord.”
“Do you make any stay in town, Mr. Dempsey?” inquired his Lordship, in that bland voice that best became him. “Till I pack my portmanteau, my Lord, and pay my bill at the 'Tavistock,'—not an hour longer.”
“I 'm sorry for that. I had hoped, and Lady Netherby also expected, we should have the pleasure of seeing you again.”
“Very grateful, my Lord; but I see how the land lies as well as if I was here a month.”
And with this significant speech Mr. Dempsey repeated his salutations and withdrew.
“What presumption!” exclaimed Lady Netherby, as the door closed behind him. “But how needlessly Lady Eleanor Darcy must have lowered herself to incur such acquaintanceship!”
Lord Netherby made no reply, but gave a glance towards the still open door of the drawing-room. Her Ladyship understood it at once, and said,—
“Oh, let us release poor Richard from his bondage. Tell him to come in.”
Lord Netherby walked forward; but scarcely had he entered the drawing-room, when he called out, “He 's gone!”
“Gone! when?—how?” cried Lady Netherby, ringing the bell. “Did you see Lord Wall incourt when he was going, Davenport?” asked she, at once assuming her own calm deportment.
“Yes, my Lady.”
“I hope he took the carriage.”
“No, my Lady, his Lordship went on foot.”
“That will do, Davenport. I don't receive to-day.”
“I must hasten after him,” said Lord Netherby, as the servant withdrew. “We have, perhaps, incurred the very hazard we hoped to obviate.”
“I half feared it,” exclaimed Lady Netherby, gravely. “Lose no time, however, and bring him to dinner; say that I feel very poorly, and that his society will cheer me greatly. If he is unfit to leave the house, stay with him; but above all things let him not be left alone.”
Lord Netherby hastened from the room, and his carriage was soon heard at a rapid pace proceeding down the square.
Lady Netherby sat with her eyes fixed on the carpet, and her hands clasped closely, lost in thought. “Yes,” said she, half aloud, “there is a fate in it! This Lady Eleanor may have her vengeance yet!”
It was about an hour after this, and while she was still revolving her own deep thoughts, that Lord Netherby re-entered the room.
“Well, is he here?” asked she, impatiently.
“No, he's off to Ireland; the very moment he reached the hotel he ordered four horses to his carriage, and while his servant packed some trunks he himself drove over to Lord Castlereagh's, but came back almost immediately. They must have used immense despatch, for Long told me that they would be nigh Barnet when I called.”
“He 's a true Wallincourt,” said her Ladyship, bitterly. “Their family motto is 'Rash in danger,' and they have well deserved it.”
Forester—for so to the end we must call him—but exemplified the old adage in his haste. The debility of long illness was successfully combated for some hours by the fever of excitement; but as that wore off, symptoms of severe malady again exhibited themselves, and when on the second evening of his journey he arrived at Bangor, he was dangerously ill. With a head throbbing, and a brain almost mad, he threw himself upon a bed, perhaps the thought of his abortive effort to reach Ireland the most agonizing feeling of his tortured mind. His first care was to inquire after the sailing of the packet; and learning that the vessel would leave within an hour, he avowed his resolve to go at every hazard. As the time drew nigh, however, more decided evidences of fever set in, and the medical man who had been called to his aid pronounced that his life would pay the penalty were he to persist in his rash resolve. His was not a temper to yield to persuasion on selfish grounds, and nothing short of his actual inability to endure moving from where he lay at last compelled him to cede; even then he ordered his only servant to take the despatches which Lord Castlereagh had given him, and proceed with them to Dublin, where he should seek out Mr. Bicknell, and place them in his hands, with strict injunctions to have them forwarded to Lady Eleanor Darcy at once. The burning anxiety of a mind weakened by a tedious and severe malady, the fever of travelling, and the impatient struggles be made to be clear and explicit in his directions, repeated as they were full twenty times over, all conspired to exaggerate the worst features of his case; and ere the packet sailed, his head was wandering in wild delirium.
Linwood knew his master too well to venture on a contradiction; and although with very grave doubts that he should ever see him again alive, he set out, resolving to spare no exertions to be back soon again in Bangor. The transit of the Channel forty-five years ago was, however, very different from that at present, and it was already the evening of the following day when he reached Dublin.
There was no difficulty in finding out Mr. Bicknell's residence; a very showy brass-plate on a door in a fashionable street proclaimed the house of the well-known man of law. He was not at home, however, nor would be for some hours; he had gone out on a matter of urgent business, and left orders that except for some most pressing reason, he was not to be sent for. Linwood did not hesitate to pronounce his business such, and at length obtained the guidance of a servant to the haunt in question.
It was in a street of a third or fourth-rate rank, called Stafford Street, that Bicknell's servant now stopped, and having made more than one inquiry as to name and number, at last knocked at the door of a sombre-looking, ruinous old house, whose windows, broken or patched with paper, bespoke an air of poverty and destitution. A child in a ragged and neglected dress opened the door, and answering to the question “If Mr. Bicknell were there,” in the affirmative, led Linwood up stairs creaking as they went with rottenness and decay.
“You 're to rap there, and he 'll come to you,” said the child, as they reached the landing, where two doors presented themselves; and so saying, she slipped noiselessly and stealthily down the stairs, leaving him alone in the gloomy lobby. Linwood was not without astonishment at the place in which he found himself; but there was no time for the indulgence of such a feeling, and he knocked, at first gently, and then, as no answer came, more loudly, and at last when several minutes elapsed, without any summons to enter, he tapped sharply at the panel with his cane. Still there was no reply; the deep silence of the old house seemed like that of a church at midnight; not a sound was heard to break it. There was a sense of dreariness and gloom over the ruinous spot and the fast-closing twilight that struck Linwood deeply; and it is probable, had the mission with which he was intrusted been one of less moment than his master seemed to think it, that Linwood would quietly have descended the stairs, and deferred his interview with Mr. Bicknell to a more suitable time and place. He had come, however, bent on fulfilling his charge; and so, after waiting what he believed to be half an hour, and which might possibly have been five or ten minutes, he applied his hand to the lock, and entered the room.
It was a large, low-ceilinged apartment, whose moth-eaten furniture seemed to rival with the building itself, and which, though once not without some pretension to respectability, was now crumbling to decay, or coarsely mended by some rude hand. A door, not quite shut, led into an inner apartment; and from this room the sound of voices proceeded, whose conversation in all probability had prevented Linwood's summons from being heard.
Whether the secret instincts of his calling were the prompter,—for Linwood was a valet,—or that the strange circumstances in which he found himself had suggested a spirit of curiosity, but Linwood approached the door and peeped in. The sin of eaves-dropping, like most other sins, would seem only difficult at the first step; the subsequent ones came easily, for, as the listener established himself in a position to hear what went forward, he speedily became interested in what he heard.
By the gray half-light three figures were seen. One was a lady; so at least her position and attitude bespoke her, although her shawl was of a coarse and humble stuff, and her straw bonnet showed signs of time and season. She sat back in a deep leather chair, with hands folded, and her head slightly thrown forward, as if intently listening to the person who at a distance of half the room addressed lier. He was a thick-set, powerful man, in a jockey-cut coat and top-boots; a white hat, somewhat crushed and travel-stained, was at his feet, and across it a heavy horsewhip; his collar was confined by a single fold of a spotted handkerchief that thus displayed a brawny throat and a deep beard of curly black hair that made the head appear unnaturally large. The third figure was of a little, dapper, smart-looking personage, with a neatly powdered head and a scrupulously white cravat, who, standing partly behind the lady's chair, bestowed an equal attention on the speaker.
The green-coated man, it was clear to see, was of an order in life far inferior to the others, and in the manner of his address, his attitude as he sat, and his whole bearing, exhibited a species of rude deference to the listeners.
“Well, Jack,” cried the little man, in a sharp lively voice, “we knew all these facts before; what we were desirous of was something like proof,—something that might be brought out into open court and before a jury.”
“I'm afraid then, sir,” replied the other, “I can't help you there. I told Mr. Daly all I knew and all I suspected, when I was up in Newgate; and if he had n't been in such a hurry that night to leave Dublin for the north, I could have brought him to the very house this fellow Garret was living in.”
“Who is Garret?” broke in the lady, in a deep, full voice.
“The late Mr. Gleeson's butler, ma'am,” said the little man; “a person we have never been able to come at. To summon him as a witness would avail us nothing; it is his private testimony that might be of such use to us.”
“Well, you see, sir,” continued the green coat, or, as he was familiarly named by the other, Jack, whom, perhaps, our reader has already recognized as Freney, the others being Miss Daly and Bicknell,-“well, you see, sir, Mr. Daly was angry at the way things was done that night,—and sure enough he had good cause,-and sorra bit of a word he 'd speak to me when I was standing with the tears in my eyes to thank him; no, nor he wouldn't take the mare that was ready saddled and bridled in Healey's stables waiting for him, but he turned on his heel with 'D——n you for a common highwayman; it's what a man of blood and birth ever gets by stretching a hand to save you.'”
“He should have thought of that before,” remarked Miss Daly, solemnly.
“Faith, and if he did, ma'am, your humble servant would have had to dance upon nothing!” rejoined Freney, with a laugh that was very far from mirthful.
“And what was the circumstance which gave Mr. Daly so much displeasure, Jack?” asked Bicknell. “I thought that everything went on exactly as he had planned it.”
“Quite the contrary, sir; nothing was the way it ought to be. The fire was never thought of—”
“Never thought of! Do you mean to say it was an accident?”
“No, I don't, sir; I mean that all we wanted was to make believe that the jail was on fire, which was easy enough with burning straw; the rest was all planned safe and sure. And when we saw the real flames shooting up, sorra one was more frightened than some of ourselves; each accusing the other, cursing and shouting, and crying like mad! Ay, indeed! there was an ould fellow in for sheep-stealing, and nothing would convince him but that it was 'the devil took us at our word,' and sent his own fire for us. Not one of them was more puzzled than myself. I turned it every way in my mind, and could make nothing of it; for although I knew well that Mr. Daly would burn down Dublin from Barrack Street to the North Wall if he had a good reason for it, I knew also he 'd not do it out of mere devilment. Besides, ma'am, the way matters was going, it was likely none of us would escape. There was I—saving your presence—with eight-pound fetters on my legs. Ay, faix! I went down the ladder with them afterwards.”
“But the fire.”
“I 'm coming to it, sir. I was sitting this way, with my chin on my hands, at the window of my cell, trying to get a taste of fresh air, for the place was thick of smoke, when I seen the flames darting out of the windows of a public-house at the corner, the sign of the 'Cracked Padlock,' and at the same minute out came the fire through the roof, a great red spike of flame higher than the chimney. 'That's no accident,' says I to myself, 'whatever them that's doing it means;' and sure enough, the blaze broke out in the other corner of the street just as I said the words. Well, ma'am, of all the terrible yells and cries that was ever heard, the prisoners set up then; for though there was eight lying for execution on Saturday, and twice as many more very sure of the same end after the sessions, none of us liked to face such a dreadful thing as fire. Just then, ma'am, at that very minute, there came, as it might be, under my window, a screech so loud and so piercing that it went above all the other cries, just the way the yellow fire darted through the middle of the thick lazy smoke. Sorra one could give such a screech but a throat I knew well, and so I called out at the top of my voice, 'Ah, ye limb of the devil, this is your work!' and as sure as I 'm here, there came a laugh in my ears; and whether it was the devil himself gave it or Jemmy, I often doubted since.”
“And who is Jemmy?” asked Bicknell.
“A bit of a 'gossoon' I had to mind the horses, and meet me with a beast here and there, as I wanted. The greatest villain for wickedness that was ever pinioned!”
“And so he was really the cause of the fire?”
“Ay, was he! He not only hid the tinder and chips—”
Just as Freney had got thus far, he drew his legs up close beneath him, sunk down his head as if into his neck, and with a spring, such as a tiger might have given, cleared the space between himself and the door, and rolled over on the floor, with the trembling figure of Linwood under him. So terribly sudden was the leap, that Miss Daly and Bicknell scarcely saw the bound ere they beheld him with one hand upon the victim's throat, while with the other he drew forth a clasp-knife, and opened the blade with his teeth.
“Keep back, keep back!” said Freney, as Bicknell drew nigh; and the words came thick and guttural, like the deep growl of a mastiff.
“Who are you, and what brings you here?” said Freney, as, setting his knee on the other's chest, he relinquished the grasp by which he had almost choked him.
“I came to see Mr. Bicknell,” muttered the nearly lifeless valet.
“What did you want with me?”
“Wait a bit,” interposed Freney. “Who brought you here? How came you to be standing by that door?”
“Mr. Bicknell's servant showed me the house, and a child brought me to this room.”
“There, sir,” said Freney, turning his head towards
Bicknell, without releasing the strong pressure by which he pinned the other down,—“there, sir, so much for your caution. You told me if I came to this lady's lodgings here, that I was safe, and now here 's this fellow has heard us and everything we 've said, maybe these two hours.”
“I only heard about Newgate,” muttered the miserable Linwood; “I was but a few minutes at the door, and was going to knock. I came from Lord Wall incourt with papers of great importance for Mr. Bicknell. I have them, if you'll let me—”
“Let him get up,” said Miss Daly, calmly.
Freney stood back, and retired between his victim and the door, where he stood, with folded arms and bent brows, watching him.
“He has almost broke in my ribs,” said Linwood, as he pressed his hands to his side, with a grimace of true suffering.
“So much for eaves-dropping. You need expect no pity from me,” said Miss Daly, sternly. “Where are these papers?”
“My Lord told me,” said the man, as he took them from his breast, “that I was to give them into Mr. Bicknell's own hands, with strictest directions to have them forwarded at the instant But for that,” added he, whining, “I had never come to this.”
“Let it be a lesson to you about listening, sir,” said Miss Daly. “Had my brother been here—”
“Oh, by the powers!” broke in Freney, “he 'd have pitched you neck and crop into the water-hogshead below, if your master was the Lord-Lieutenant.”
By this time Bicknell was busy reading the several addresses on the packets, and the names inscribed in the corners of each.
“If I 'm not mistaken, madam,” said he to Miss Daly, “this Lord Wallincourt is the new peer, whose brother died at Lisbon. The name is Forester.”
“Yes, sir, you are right,” muttered Linwood.
“The same Mr. Richard Forester my brother knew, the cousin of Lord Castlereagh?”
“Yes, ma'am,” said Linwood.
“Where is he? Is he here?”
“No, ma'am, he's lying dangerously ill, if he be yet alive, at Bangor. He wanted to bring these papers over himself, but was only able to get so far when the fever came on him again.”
“Is he alone?”
“Quite alone, ma'am, no one knows even his name. He would not let me say who he was.”
Miss Daly turned towards Bicknell, and spoke for several minutes in a quick and eager voice. Meanwhile Freney, now convinced that he had not to deal with a spy or a thief-catcher, came near and addressed Linwood.
“I did n't mean to hurt ye till I was sure ye deserved it, but never play that game any more.”
Linwood appeared to receive both apology and precept with equal discontent.
“Another thing,” resumed Freney: “I 'm sure you are an agreeable young man in the housekeeper's room and the butler's parlor, very pleasant and conversable, with a great deal of anecdote and amusing stories; but, mind me, let nothing tempt ye to talk about what ye heard me say tonight. It's not that I care about myself,—it's worse than jail-breaking they can tell of me,—but I won't have another name mentioned. D 'ye mind me?”
As if to enforce the caution, he seized the listener between his finger and thumb; and whether there was something magnetic in the touch, or that it somehow conveyed a foretaste of what disobedience might cost, but Linwood winced till the tears came, and stammered out,—
“You may depend on it, sir, I 'll never mention it.”
“I believe you,” said the robber, with a grin, and fell back to his place.
“I will not lose a post, rely upon it, madam,” said Bick-nell; “and am I to suppose you have determined on this journey?”
“Yes,” said Miss Daly, “the case admits of little hesitation; the young man is alone, friendless, and unknown. I 'll hasten over at once,—I am too old for slander, Mr. Bicknell. Besides, let me see who will dare to utter it.”
There was a sternness in her features as she spoke that made her seem the actual image of her brother. Then, turning to Linwood, she continued,—
“I 'll go over this evening to Bangor in the packet, let me find you there.”
“I 'll see him safe on board, ma'am,” said Freney, with a leer, while, slipping his arm within the valet's, he half led, half drew him from the room.
In the deep bay-window of a long, gloomy-looking dinner-room of a Dublin mansion, sat a party of four persons around a table plentifully covered with decanters and bottles, and some stray remnants of a dessert which seemed to have been taken from the great table in the middle of the apartment. The night was falling fast, for it was past eight o'clock of an evening in autumn, and there was barely sufficient light to descry the few scrubby-looking ash and alder trees that studded the barren grass-plot between the house and the stables. There was nothing to cheer in the aspect without, nor, if one were to judge from the long pauses that ensued after each effort at conversation, the few and monotonous words of the speakers, were there any evidences of a more enlivening spirit within doors. The party consisted of Dr. Hickman and his son Mr. O'Reilly, Mr. Heffernan, and “Counsellor” O'Halloran.
At first, and by the dusky light in the chamber, it would seem as if but three persons were assembled; for the old doctor, whose debility had within the last few months made rapid strides, had sunk down into the recess of the deep chair, and save by a low quavering respiration, gave no token of his presence. As these sounds became louder and fuller, the conversation gradually dropped into a whisper, for the old man was asleep. In the subdued tone of the speakers, the noiseless gestures as they passed the bottle from hand to hand, it was easy to mark that they did not wish to disturb his slumbers. It is no part of our task to detail how these individuals came to be thus associated. The assumed object which at this moment drew them together was the approaching trial at Galway of a record brought against the Hickmans by Darcy. It was Bick-nell's last effort, and with it must end the long and wearisome litigation between the houses.
The case for trial had nothing which could suggest any fears as to the result. It was on a motion for a new trial that the cause was to come on. The plea was misdirection and want of time, so that, in itself, the matter was one of secondary importance. The great question was that a general election now drew nigh, and it was necessary for O'Reilly to determine on the line of political conduct he should adopt, and thus give O'Halloran the opportunity of a declaration of his client's sentiments in his address to the jury.
The conduct of the Hickmans since their accession to the estate of Gwynne Abbey had given universal dissatisfaction to the county gentry. Playing at first the game of popularity, they assembled at their parties people of every class and condition; and while affronting the better-bred by low association, dissatisfied the inferior order by contact with those who made their inferiority more glaring. The ancient hospitalities of the Abbey were remembered in contrast with the ostentatious splendor of receptions in which display and not kindness was intended. Vulgar presumption and purse-pride had usurped the place once occupied by easy good breeding and cordiality; and even they who had often smarted under the cold reserve of Lady Eleanor's manner, were now ready to confess that she was born to the rank she assumed, and not an upstart, affecting airs of superiority. The higher order of the county gentry accordingly held aloof, and at last discontinued their visits altogether; of the second-rate many who were flattered at first by invitations, became dissatisfied at seeing the same favors extended to others below them, and they, too, ceased to present themselves, until, at last, the society consisted of a few sycophantic followers, who swallowed the impertinence of the host with the aid of his claret, and buried their own self-respect, if they were troubled with such a quality, under the weight of good dinners.
Hickman O'Reilly for a length of time affected not to mark the change in the rank and condition of his guests, but as one by one the more respectable fell off, and the few left were of a station that the fine servants of the house regarded as little above their own, he indignantly declined to admit any company in future, reduced the establishment to the few merely necessary for the modest requirements of the family, and gave it to be known that the uncongenial tastes and habits of his neighbors made him prefer isolation and solitude to such association.
For some time he had looked to England as the means of establishing for himself and his son a social position. The refusal of the minister to accord the baronetcy was a death-blow to this hope, while he discovered that mere wealth, unassisted by the sponsorship of some one in repute, could not suffice to introduce Beeeham into the world of fashion. Although these things had preyed on him severely, there was no urgent necessity to act in respect of them till the time came, as it now had done, for a general election.
The strict retirement of his life must now give way before the requirements of an election candidate, and he must consent to take the field once more as a public man, or, by abandoning his seat in Parliament, accept a condition of what he knew to be complete obscurity. The old doctor was indeed favorable to the latter course,—the passion for hoarding had gone on increasing with age. Money was, in his estimation, the only species of power above the changes and caprice of the world. Bank-notes were the only things he never knew to deceive; and he took an almost fiendish delight in contrasting the success of his own penurious practices with all the disappointments his son O'Reilly had experienced in his attempts at what he called “high life.” Every slight shown him, each new instance of coldness or aversion of the neighborhood, gave the old man a diabolical pleasure, and seemed to revive his youth in the exercise of a malignant spirit.
O'Reilly's only hope of reconciling his father to the cost of a new election was in the prospect held out that the seat might at last be secured in perpetuity for Beeeham, and the chance of a rich marriage in England thus provided. Even this view he was compelled to sustain by the assurance that the expense would be a mere trifle, and that, by the adoption of popular principles, he should come in almost for nothing. To make the old doctor a convert to these notions, he had called in Heffernau and O'Halloran, who both, during the dinner, had exerted themselves with their natural tact, and now that the doctor had dropped asleep, were reposing themselves, and recruiting the energies so generously expended.
Hence the party seemed to have a certain gloom and weight over it, as the shadow of coming night fell on the figures seated, almost in silence, around the table. None spoke save an occasional word or two, as they passed round the bottle. Each retreated into his own reflections, and communed with himself. Men who have exhibited themselves to each other, in a game of deceit and trick, seem to have a natural repugnance to any recurrence to the theme when the occasion is once over. Even they whose hearts have the least self-respect will avoid the topic if possible.
“How is the bottle?—with you, I believe,” said O'Reilly to Heffernan, in the low tone to which they had all reduced the conversation.
“I have just filled my glass; it stands with the Counsellor.”
O'Halloran poured out the wine and sipped it slowly. “A very remarkable man,” said he, sententiously, with a slight gesture of his head to the chair where the old doctor lay coiled up asleep. “His faculties seem as clear, and his judgment as acute, as if he were only five-and-forty, and I suppose he must be nearly twice that age.”
“Very nearly,” replied O'Reilly; “he confesses commonly to eighty-six; but when he is weak or querulous, he often says ninety-one or two.”
“His memory is the most singular thing about him,” said Heffernan. “Now, the account of Swift's appearance in the pulpit with his gown thrust back, and his hands stuck in the belt of his cassock, brow-beating the lord mayor and aldermen for coming in late to church,—it came as fresh as if he were talking of an event of last week.”
“How good the imitation of voice was, too,” added Heffernan: “'Giving two hours to your dress, and twenty minutes to your devotions, you come into God's house looking more like mountebanks than Christian men!'”
“I 've seldom seen him so much inclined to talk and chat away as this evening,” said O'Reilly; “but I think you chimed in so well with his humor, it drew him on.”
“There was something of dexterity,” said Heffernan, “in the way he kept bringing up these reminiscences and old stories, to avoid entering upon the subject of the election. I saw that he would n't approach that theme, no matter how skilfully you brought it forward.”
“You ought not to have alluded to the Darcys, however,” said O'Halloran. “I remarked that the mention of their name gave him evident displeasure; indeed, he soon after pushed his chair back from the table and became silent.”
“He always sleeps after dinner,” observed O'Reilly, carelessly. “It was about his usual time.”
Another pause now succeeded, in which the only sounds heard were the deep-drawn breathings of the sleeper.
“You saw Lord Castlereagh, I think you told me?” said O'Reilly, anxious to lead Heffernan into something like a declaration of opinion.
“Oh, repeatedly; I dined either with him or in his company, three or four times every week of my stay in town.”
“Well, is he satisfied with the success of his measure?” asked O'Halloran, caustically. “Is this Union working to his heart's content?”
“It is rather early to pass a judgment on that point, I think.”
“I'm not of that mind,” rejoined O'Halloran, hastily. “The fruits of the measure are showing themselves already. The men of fortune are flying the country; their town houses are to let; their horses are advertised for sale at Dycer's. Dublin is, even now, beginning to feel what it may become when the population has no other support than itself.”
“Such will always be the fortune of a province. Influence will and must converge to the capital,” rejoined Heffernan.
“But what if the great element of a province be wanting? What if we have not that inherent respect and reverence for the metropolis provincials always should feel? What if we know that our interests are misunderstood, our real wants unknown, our peculiar circumstances either undervalued or despised?”
“If the case be as you represent it—-”
“Can you deny it? Tell me that.”
“I will not deny or admit it. I only say, if it be such, there is still a remedy, if men are shrewd enough to adopt it.”
“And what may that remedy be?” said O'Reilly, calmly.
“An Irish party!”
“Oh, the old story; the same plot over again we had this year at the Rotunda?” said O'Reilly, contemptuously.
“Which only failed from our own faults,” added Heffer-nan, angrily. “Some of us were lukewarm and would do nothing; some waited for others to come forward; and some again wanted to make their hard bargain with the minister before they made him feel the necessity of the compact.”
O'Reilly bit his lip in silence, for he well understood at whom this reproof was levelled.
“The cause of failure was very different,” said O'Hallo-ran, authoritatively. “It was one which has dissolved many an association, and rendered many a scheme abortive, and will continue to do so, as often as it occurs. You failed for want of a 'Principle.' You had rank and wealth, and influence more than enough to have made your weight felt and acknowledged, but you had no definite object or end. You were a party, and you had not a purpose.”
“Come, come,” said Heffernan, “you are evidently unaware of the nature of our association, and seem not to have read the resolutions we adopted.”
“No,—-on the contrary, I read them carefully; there was more than sufficient in them to have made a dozen parties. Had you adopted one steadfast line of action, set out with one brief intelligible proposition,—I care not what,—Slave Emancipation, or Catholic Emancipation, Repeal of Tests Acts, or Parliamentary Reform, any of them,—taken your stand on that, and that alone, you must have succeeded. Of course, to do this is a work of time and labor; some men will grow weary and sink by the way, but others take up the burden, and the goal is reached at last There must be years long of writing and speaking, meeting, declaring, and plotting; you must consent to be thought vulgar and low-minded,—ay, and to become so, for active partisans are only to be found in low places. You will be laughed at and jeered, abused, mocked, and derided at first; later on, you will be assailed more powerfully and more coarsely; but, all this while, your strength is developing, your agencies are spreading. Persuasion will induce some, notoriety others, hopes of advantage many more, to join you. You will then have a press as well as a party, and the very men that sneered at your beginnings will have to respect the persistence and duration of your efforts. I don't care how trumpery the arguments used; I don't value one straw the fallacy of the statements put forward. Let one great question, one great demand for anything, be made for some five-and-twenty or thirty years,—let the Press discuss, and the Parliament debate it,—you are sure of its being accorded in the end. Now, it will be a party ambitious of power that will buy your alliance at any price; now, a tottering Government anxious to survive the session and reach the snug harbor of the long vacation. Now, it will be the high 'bid' of a popular administration; now, it will be the last hope of second-rate capacities, ready to supply their own deficiencies by incurring a hazard. However it come, you are equally certain of it.”
There was a pause as O'Halloran concluded. Heffernan saw plainly to what the Counsellor pointed, and that he was endeavoring to recruit for that party of which he destined the future leadership for himself, and Con had no fancy to serve in the ranks of such an army. O'Reilly, who thought that the profession of a popular creed might be serviceable in the emergency of an election, looked with more favor on the exposition, and after a brief interval said,—
“Well, supposing I were to see this matter in your light, what support could you promise me? I mean at the hustings.”
“Most of the small freeholders, now,-all of them, in time; the priests to a man, the best election agents that ever canvassed a constituency. By degrees the forces will grow stronger, according to the length and breadth of the principle you adopt,—make it emancipation, and I 'll insure you a lease of the county.” Heffernan smiled dubiously. “Ah, never mind Mr. Heffernan's look; these notions don't suit him. He 's one of the petty traders in politics, who like small sales and quick returns.”
“Such dealing makes fewest bankrupts,” said Heffernan, coolly.
“I own to you,” said O'Halloran, “the rewards are distant, but they 're worth waiting for. It is not the miserable bribe of a situation, or a title, both beneath what they would accord to some state apothecary; but power, actual power, and real patronage are in the vista.”
A heavy sigh and a rustling sound in the deep armchair announced that the doctor was awaking, and after a few struggles to throw off the drowsy influence, he sat upright, and made a gesture that he wished for wine.
“We 've been talking about political matters, sir,” said O'Reilly. “I hope we didn't disturb your doze?”
“No; I was sleeping sound,” croaked the old man, in a feeble whine, “and I had a very singular dream! I dreamed I was sitting in a great kitchen of a big house, and there was a very large, hairy turnspit sitting opposite to me, in a nook beside the fire, turning a big spit with a joint of meat on it. 'Who's the meat for?' says I to him. 'For my Lord Castlereagh,' says he, 'devil a one else.' 'For himself alone?' says I. 'Just so,' says he; 'don't you know that's the Irish Parliament that we 're roasting and basting, and when it's done,' says he, 'we 'll sarve it up to be carved.' 'And who are you?' says I to the turnspit. 'I'm Con Heffernan,' says he; 'and the devil a bit of the same meat I 'm to get, after cooking it till my teeth 's watering.'”
A loud roar of laughter from O'Halloran, in which Heffernan endeavored to take a part, met this strange revelation of the doctor's sleep, nor was it for a considerable time after that the conversation could be resumed without some jesting allusion of the Counsellor to the turnspit and his office.
“Your dream tallies but ill, sir, with the rumors through Dublin,” said O'Reilly, whose quick glance saw through the mask of indifference by which Heffernan concealed his irritation.
“I did n't hear it. What was it, Bob?”
“That the ministry had offered our friend here the secretaryship for Ireland.”
“Sure, if they did—” He was about to add, “That he 'd have as certainly accepted it,” when a sense of the impropriety of such a speech arrested the words.
“You are mistaken, sir,” interposed Heffernan, answering the unspoken sentence. “I did refuse. The conditions on which I accorded my humble support to the bill of the Union have been shamefully violated, and I could not, if I even wished it, accept office from a Government that have been false to their pledges.”
“You see my dream was right, after all,” chuckled the old man. “I said they kept him working away in the kitchen, and gave him none of the meat afterwards.”
“What if I had been stipulating for another, sir?” said Heffernan, with a forced smile. “What if the breach of faith I allude to had reference not to me, but to your son yonder, for whom, and no other, I asked—I will not say a favor, but a fair and reasonable acknowledgment of the station he occupies?”
“Ah, that weary title!” exclaimed the doctor, crankily. “What have we to do with these things?”
“You are right, sir,” chimed in O'Halloran. “Your present position, self-acquired and independent, is a far prouder one than any to be obtained by ministerial favor.”
“I 'd rather he'd help us to crush these Darcys,” said the old man, as his eyes sparkled and glistened like the orbs of a serpent. “I 'd rather my Lord Castlereagh would put his heel upon them than stretch out the hand to us.”
“What need to trouble your head about them?” said Heffernan, conciliatingly; “they are low enough in all conscience now.”
“My father means,” said O'Reilly, “that he is tired and sick of the incessant appeals to law this family persist in following; that these trials irritate and annoy him.”
“Come sir,” cried O'Halloran, encouragingly, “you shall see the last of them in a few weeks. I have reason to know that an old maiden sister of Bagenal Daly's has supplied Bicknell with the means of the present action. It's the last shot in the locker. We 'll take care to make the gun recoil on the hand that fires it.”
“Darcy and Daly are both out of the country,” observed the old man, cunningly.
“We 'll call them up for judgment, however,” chimed in O'Halloran. “That same Daly is one of those men who infested our country in times past, and by the mere recklessness of their hold on life, bullied and oppressed all who came before them. I am rejoiced to have an opportunity of showing up such a character.”
“I wish we had done with them all,” sighed the doctor.
“So you shall, with this record. Will you pledge yourself not to object to the election expenses if I gain you the verdict?”
“Come, that's a fair offer,” said Heffernan, laughing.
“Maybe, they 'll come to ten thousand,” said the doctor, cautiously.
“Not above one half the sum, if Mr. O'Reilly will consent to take my advice.”
“And why wouldn't he?” rejoined the old man, querulously. “What signifies which side he takes, if it saves the money?”
“Is it a bargain, then?”
“Will you secure me against more trials at law? Will you pledge yourself that I am not to be tormented by these anxieties and cares?”
“I can scarcely promise that much; but I feel so assured that your annoyance will end here, that I am willing to pledge myself to give you my own services without fee or reward in future, if any action follow this one.”
“I think that is most generous,” said Heffernan.
“It is as much as saying, he 'll enter into recognizances for an indefinite series of five-hundred-pound briefs,” added O'Reilly.
“Done, then. I take you at your word,” said the doctor; while stretching forth his lean and trembling hand, he grasped the nervous fingers of the Counsellor in token of ratification.
“And now woe to the Darcys!” muttered O'Halloran, as he arose to say good-night, Heffernan arose at the same time, resolved to accompany the Counsellor, and try what gentle persuasion could effect in the modification of views which he saw were far too explicit to be profitable.