"Why, my lord," said Frank, "I did hear a rumour, which surprised me very much, but I could not suppose it to be true. To tell the truth, it was very much in consequence of what I heard that I came to Grey Abbey to-day."

It was now Lord Cashel's turn to be confounded. First, to deny that he had heard anything about it—and then immediately to own that he had heard it, and had been induced to renew his visits to Grey Abbey in consequence! Just what he, in his wisdom, had suspected was the case. But how could Lord Ballindine have the face to own it?

I must, however, tell the reader the event of which Frank was ignorant, and which, it appears, Lord Cashel is determined not to communicate to him.

Fanny Wyndham's father had held a governorship, or some golden appointment in the golden days of India, and consequently had died rich. He left eighty thousand pounds to his son, who was younger than Fanny, and twenty to his daughter. His son had lately been put into the Guards, but he was not long spared to enjoy his sword and his uniform. He died, and his death had put his sister in possession of his money; and Lord Cashel thought that, though Frank might slight twenty thousand pounds, he would be too glad to be allowed to remain the accepted admirer of a hundred thousand.

"I thought you must have heard it, my lord," resumed the senior, as soon as he had collected his shreds of dignity, which Frank's open avowal had somewhat scattered, "I felt certain you must have heard it, and you will, I am sure, perceive that this is no time for you—excuse me if I use a word which may appear harsh—it is no time for any one, not intimately connected with Miss Wyndham by ties of family, to intrude upon her sorrow."

Frank was completely bothered. He thought that if she were so sorrowful, if she grieved so deeply at the match being broken off, that was just the reason why he should see her. After all, it was rather flattering to himself to hear of her sorrows; dear Fanny! was she so grieved that she was forced to part from him?

"But, Lord Cashel," he said, "I am ready to do whatever you please. I'll take any steps you'll advise. But I really cannot see why I'm to be told that the engagement between me and Miss Wyndham is off, without hearing any reason from herself. I'll make any sacrifice you please, or she requires; I'm sure she was attached to me, and she cannot have overcome that affection so soon."

"I have already said that we require—Miss Wyndham requires—no sacrifice from you. The time for sacrifice is past; and I do not think her affection was of such a nature as will long prey on her spirits."

"My affection for her is, I can assure you—"

"Pray excuse me—but I think this is hardly the time either to talk of, or to show, your affection. Had it been proved to be of a lasting, I fear I must say, a sincere nature, it would now have been most valued. I will leave yourself to say whether this was the case."

"And so you mean to say, Lord Cashel, that I cannot see Miss Wyndham?"

"Assuredly, Lord Ballindine. And I must own, that I hardly appreciate your delicacy in asking to do so at the present moment."

There was something very hard in this. The match was to be broken off without any notice to him; and when he requested, at any rate, to hear this decision from the mouth of the only person competent to make it, he was told that it was indelicate for him to wish to do so. This put his back up.

"Well, my lord," he said with some spirit, "Miss Wyndham is at present your ward, and in your house, and I am obliged to postpone the exercise of the right, to which, at least, I am entitled, of hearing her decision from her own mouth. I cannot think that she expects I should be satisfied with such an answer as I have now received. I shall write to her this evening, and shall expect at any rate the courtesy of an answer from herself."

"My advice to my ward will be, not to write to you; at any rate for the present. I presume, my lord, you cannot doubt my word that Miss Wyndham chooses to be released from an engagement, which I must say your own conduct renders it highly inexpedient for her to keep."

"I don't doubt your word, of course, Lord Cashel; but such being the case, I think Miss Wyndham might at least tell me so herself."

"I should have thought, Lord Ballindine, that you would have felt that the sudden news of a dearly loved brother's death, was more than sufficient to excuse Miss Wyndham from undergoing an interview which, even under ordinary circumstances, would be of very doubtful expediency."

"Her brother's death! Good gracious! Is Harry Wyndham dead!"

Frank was so truly surprised—so effectually startled by the news, which he now for the first time heard, that, had his companion possessed any real knowledge of human nature, he would at once have seen that his astonishment was not affected. But he had none, and, therefore, went on blundering in his own pompous manner.

"Yes, my lord, he is dead. I understood you to say that you had already heard it; and, unless my ears deceived me, you explained that his demise was the immediate cause of your present visit. I cannot, however, go so far as to say that I think you have exercised a sound discretion in the matter. In expressing such an opinion, however, I am far from wishing to utter anything which may be irritating or offensive to your feelings."

"Upon my word then, I never heard a word about it till this moment! Poor Harry! And is Fanny much cut up?"

"Miss Wyndham is much afflicted."

"I wouldn't for worlds annoy her, or press on her at such a moment. Pray tell her, Lord Cashel, how deeply I feel her sorrows: pray tell her this, with my kindest—best compliments."

This termination was very cold—but so was Lord Cashel's face. His lordship had also risen from his chair; and Frank saw it was intended that the interview should end. But he would now have been glad to stay. He wanted to ask a hundred questions;—how the poor lad had died? whether he had been long ill?—whether it had been expected? But he saw that he must go; so he rose and putting out his hand which Lord Cashel just touched, he said,

"Good bye, my lord. I trust, after a few months are gone by, you may see reason to alter the opinion you have expressed respecting your ward. Should I not hear from you before then, I shall again do myself the honour of calling at Grey Abbey; but I will write to Miss Wyndham before I do so."

Lord Cashel had the honour of wishing Lord Ballindine a very good morning, and of bowing him to the door; and so the interview ended.



XII. FANNY WYNDHAM

When Lord Cashel had seen Frank over the mat which lay outside his study door, and that there was a six foot servitor to open any other door through which he might have to pass, he returned to his seat, and, drawing his chair close to the fire, began to speculate on Fanny and her discarded lover.

He was very well satisfied with himself, and with his own judgment and firmness in the late conversation. It was very evident that Frank had heard of Harry Wyndham's death, and of Fanny's great accession of wealth; that he had immediately determined that the heiress was no longer to be neglected, and that he ought to strike while the iron was hot: hence his visit to Grey Abbey. His pretended ignorance of the young man's death, when he found he could not see Miss Wyndham, was a ruse; but an old bird like Lord Cashel was not to be caught with chaff. And then, how indelicate of him to come and press his suit immediately after news of so distressing a nature had reached Miss Wyndham! How very impolitic, thought Lord Cashel, to show such a hurry to take possession of the fortune!—How completely he had destroyed his own game. And then, other thoughts passed through his mind. His ward had now one hundred thousand pounds clear, which was, certainly, a great deal of ready money. Lord Cashel had no younger sons; but his heir, Lord Kilcullen, was an expensive man, and owed, he did not exactly know, and was always afraid to ask, how much. He must marry soon, or he would be sure to go to the devil. He had been living with actresses and opera-dancers quite long enough for his own respectability; and, if he ever intended to be such a pattern to the country as his father, it was now time for him to settle down. And Lord Cashel bethought himself that if he could persuade his son to marry Fanny Wyndham and pay his debts with her fortune—(surely he couldn't owe more than a hundred thousand pounds?)—he would be able to give them a very handsome allowance to live on.

To do Lord Cashel justice, we must say that he had fully determined that it was his duty to break off the match between Frank and his ward, before he heard of the accident which had so enriched her. And Fanny herself, feeling slighted and neglected—knowing how near to her her lover was, and that nevertheless he never came to see her—hearing his name constantly mentioned in connection merely with horses and jockeys—had been induced to express her acquiescence in her guardian's views, and to throw poor Frank overboard. In all this the earl had been actuated by no mercenary views, as far as his own immediate family was concerned. He had truly and justly thought that Lord Ballindine, with his limited fortune and dissipated habits, was a bad match for his ward; and he had, consequently, done his best to break the engagement. There could, therefore, he thought, be nothing unfair in his taking advantage of the prudence which he had exercised on her behalf. He did not know, when he was persuading her to renounce Lord Ballindine, that, at that moment, her young, rich, and only brother, was lying at the point of death. He had not done it for his own sake, or Lord Kilcullen's; there could, therefore, be nothing unjust or ungenerous in their turning to their own account the two losses, that of her lover and her brother, which had fallen on Miss Wyndham at the same time. If he, as her guardian, would have been wrong to allow Lord Ballindine to squander her twenty thousands, he would be so much the more wrong to let him make ducks and drakes of five times as much. In this manner he quieted his conscience as to his premeditated absorption of his ward's fortune. It was true that Lord Kilcullen was a heartless roue, whereas Lord Ballindine was only a thoughtless rake; but then, Lord Kilcullen would be an earl, and a peer of parliament, and Lord Ballindine was only an Irish viscount. It was true that, in spite of her present anger, Fanny dearly loved Lord Ballindine, and was dearly loved by him; and that Lord Kilcullen was not a man to love or be loved; but then, the Kelly's Court rents—what were they to the Grey Abbey rents? Not a twentieth part of them! And, above all, Lord Kilcullen's vices were filtered through the cleansing medium of his father's partiality, and Lord Ballindine's faults were magnified by the cautious scruples of Fanny's guardian.

The old man settled, therefore, in his own mind, that Fanny should be his dear daughter, and the only difficulty he expected to encounter was with his hopeful son. It did not occur to him that Fanny might object, or that she could be other than pleased with the arrangement. He determined, however, to wait a little before the tidings of her future destiny should be conveyed to her, although no time was to be lost in talking over the matter with Lord Kilcullen. In the meantime, it would be necessary for him to tell Fanny of Lord Ballindine's visit; and the wily peer was glad to think that she could not but be further disgusted at the hurry which her former lover had shown to renew his protestations of affection, as soon as the tidings of her wealth had reached him. However, he would say nothing on that head: he would merely tell her that Lord Ballindine had called, had asked to see her, and had been informed of her determination to see him no more.

He sat, for a considerable time, musing over the fire, and strengthening his resolution; and then he stalked and strutted into the drawing-room, where the ladies were sitting, to make his communication to Miss Wyndham.

Miss Wyndham, and her cousin, Lady Selina Grey, the only unmarried daughter left on the earl's hands, were together. Lady Selina was not in her premiere jeunesse [22], and, in manner, face, and disposition, was something like her father: she was not, therefore, very charming; but his faults were softened down in her; and what was pretence in him, was, to a certain degree, real in her. She had a most exaggerated conception of her own station and dignity, and of what was due to her, and expected from her. Because her rank enabled her to walk out of a room before other women, she fancied herself better than them, and entitled to be thought better. She was plain, red-haired, and in no ways attractive; but she had refused the offer of a respectable country gentleman, because he was only a country gentleman, and then flattered herself that she owned the continuance of her maiden condition to her high station, which made her a fit match only for the most exalted magnates of the land. But she was true, industrious, and charitable; she worked hard to bring her acquirements to that pitch which she considered necessary to render her fit for her position; she truly loved her family, and tried hard to love her neighbours, in which she might have succeeded but for the immeasurable height from which she looked down on them. She listened, complacently, to all those serious cautions against pride, which her religion taught her, and considered that she was obeying its warnings, when she spoke condescendingly to those around her. She thought that condescension was humility, and that her self-exaltation was not pride, but a proper feeling of her own and her family's dignity.

[FOOTNOTE 22: premiere jeunesse—(French) prime of youth]

Fanny Wyndham was a very different creature. She, too, was proud, but her pride was of another, if not of a less innocent cast; she was proud of her own position; but it was as Fanny Wyndham, not as Lord Cashel's niece, or anybody's daughter. She had been brought out in the fashionable world, and liked, and was liked by, it; but she felt that she owed the character which three years had given her, to herself, and not to those around her. She stood as high as Lady Selina, though on very different grounds. Any undue familiarity would have been quite as impossible with one as with the other. Lady Selina chilled intruders to a distance; Fanny Wyndham's light burned with so warm a flame, that butterflies were afraid to trust their wings within its reach. She was neither so well read, nor so thoughtful on what she did read, as her friend; but she could turn what she learned to more account, for the benefit of others. The one, in fact, could please, and the other could not.

Fanny Wyndham was above the usual height; but she did not look tall, for her figure was well-formed and round, and her bust full. She had dark-brown hair, which was never curled, but worn in plain braids, fastened at the back of her head, together with the long rich folds which were collected there under a simple comb. Her forehead was high, and beautifully formed, and when she spoke, showed the animation of her character. Her eyes were full and round, of a hazel colour, bright and soft when she was pleased, but full of pride and displeasure when her temper was ruffled, or her dignity offended. Her nose was slightly retrousse [23], but not so much so as to give to her that pertness, of which it is usually the index. The line of her cheeks and chin was very lovely: it was this which encouraged her to comb back that luxuriant hair, and which gave the greatest charm to her face. Her mouth was large, too large for a beauty, and therefore she was not a regular beauty; but, were she talking to you, and willing to please you, you could hardly wish it to be less. I cannot describe the shade of her complexion, but it was rich and glowing; and, though she was not a brunette, I believe that in painting her portrait, an artist would have mixed more brown than other colours.

[FOOTNOTE 23: retrousse—(French) turned-up]

At the time of which I am now speaking, she was sitting, or rather lying, on a sofa, with her face turned towards her cousin, but her eyes fixed on vacancy. As might have been expected, she was thinking of her brother, and his sudden death; but other subjects crowded with that into her mind, and another figure shared with him her thoughts. She had been induced to give her guardian an unqualified permission to reject, in her name, any further intercourse with Frank; and though she had doubtless been induced to do so by the distressing consciousness that she had been slighted by him, she had cheated herself into the belief that prudence had induced her to do so. She felt that she was not fitted to be a poor man's wife, and that Lord Ballindine was as ill suited for matrimonial poverty. She had, therefore, induced herself to give him up; may-be she was afraid that if she delayed doing so, she might herself be given up. Now, however, the case was altered; though she sincerely grieved for her brother, she could not but recollect the difference which his death made in her own position; she was now a great heiress, and, were she to marry Lord Ballindine, if she did not make him a rich man, she would, at any rate, free him from all embarrassment.

Besides, could she give him up now? now that she was rich? He would first hear of her brother's death and her wealth, and then would immediately be told that she had resolved to reject him. Could she bear that she should be subjected to the construction which would fairly be put upon her conduct, if she acted in this manner? And then, again, she felt that she loved him; and she did love him, more dearly than she was herself aware. She began to repent of her easy submission to her guardian's advice, and to think how she could best unsay what she had already said. She had lost her brother; could she afford also to lose her lover? She had had none she could really love but those two. And the tears again came to her eyes, and Lady Selina saw her, for the twentieth time that morning, turn her face to the back of the sofa, and heard her sob.

Lady Selina was sitting at one of the windows, over her carpet-work frame. She had talked a great deal of sound sense to Fanny that morning, about her brother, and now prepared to talk some more. Preparatory to this, she threw back her long red curls from her face, and wiped her red nose, for it was February.

"Fanny, you should occupy yourself, indeed you should, my dear. It's no use your attempting your embroidery, for your mind would still wander to him that is no more. You should read; indeed you should. Do go on with Gibbon. I'll fetch it for you, only tell me where you were."

"I could not read, Selina; I could not think about what I read, more than about the work."

"But you should try, Fanny,—the very attempt would be work to your mind: besides, you would be doing your duty. Could all your tears bring him back to you? Can all your sorrow again restore him to his friends? No! and you have great consolation, Fanny, in reflecting that your remembrance of your brother is mixed with no alloy. He had not lived to be contaminated by the heartless vices of that portion of the world into which he would probably have been thrown; he had not become dissipated—extravagant—and sensual. This should be a great consolation to you."

It might be thought that Lady Selina was making sarcastic allusions to her own brother and to Fanny's lover; but she meant nothing of the kind. Her remarks were intended to be sensible, true, and consolatory; and they at any rate did no harm, for Fanny was thinking of something else before she had half finished her speech.

They had both again been silent for a short time, when the door opened, and in came the earl. His usual pomposity of demeanour was somewhat softened by a lachrymose air, which, in respect to his ward's grief, he put on as he turned the handle of the door; and he walked somewhat more gently than usual into the room.

"Well, Fanny, how are you now?" he said, as he crept up to her. "You shouldn't brood over these sad thoughts. Your poor brother has gone to a better world; we shall always think of him as one who had felt no sorrow, and been guilty of but few faults. He died before he had wasted his fortune and health, as he might have done:—this will always be a consolation."

It was singular how nearly alike were the platitudes of the daughter and the father. The young man had not injured his name, or character, in the world, and had left his money behind him: and, therefore, his death was less grievous!

Fanny did not answer, but she sat upright on the sofa as he came up to her—and he then sat down beside her.

"Perhaps I'm wrong, Fanny, to speak to you on other subjects so soon after the sad event of which we heard last night; but, on the whole, I think it better to do so. It is good for you to rouse yourself, to exert yourself to think of other things; besides it will be a comfort to you to know that I have already done, what I am sure you strongly wished to have executed at once."

It was not necessary for the guardian to say anything further to induce his ward to listen. She knew that he was going to speak about Lord Ballindine, and she was all attention.

"I shall not trouble, you, Fanny, by speaking to you now, I hope?"

"No;" said Fanny, with her heart palpitating. "If it's anything I ought to hear, it will be no trouble to me."

"Why, my dear, I do think you ought to know, without loss of time that Lord Ballindine has been with me this morning."

Fanny blushed up to her hair—not with shame, but with emotion as to what was coming next.

"I have had a long conversation with him," continued the earl, "in the book-room, and I think I have convinced him that it is for your mutual happiness"—he paused, for he couldn't condescend to tell a lie; but in his glib, speechifying manner, he was nearly falling into one—"mutual happiness" was such an appropriate prudential phrase that he could not resist the temptation; but he corrected himself—"at least, I think I have convinced him that it is impossible that he should any longer look upon Miss Wyndham as his future wife."

Lord Cashel paused for some mark of approbation. Fanny saw that she was expected to speak, and, therefore, asked whether Lord Ballindine was still in the house. She listened tremulously for his answer; for she felt that if her lover were to be rejected, he had a right, after what had passed between them, to expect that she should, in person, express her resolution to him. And yet, if she had to see him now, could she reject him? could she tell him that all the vows that had been made between them were to be as nothing? No! she could only fall on his shoulder, and weep in his arms. But Lord Cashel had managed better than that.

"No, Fanny; neither he nor I, at the present moment, could expect you—could reasonably expect you, to subject yourself to anything so painful as an interview must now have been. Lord Ballindine has left the house—I hope, for the last time—at least, for many months."

These words fell cold upon Fanny's ears, "Did he leave any—any message for me?"

"Nothing of any moment; nothing which it can avail to communicate to you: he expressed his grief for your brother's death, and desired I should tell you how grieved he was that you should be so afflicted."

"Poor Harry!" sobbed Fanny, for it was a relief to cry again, though her tears were more for her lover than her brother. "Poor Harry! they were very fond of each other. I'm sure he must have been sorry—I'm sure he'd feel it"—and she paused, and sobbed again—"He had heard of Harry's death, then?"

When she said this, she had in her mind none of the dirty suspicion that had actuated Lord Cashel; but he guessed at her feelings by his own, and answered accordingly.

"At first I understood him to say he had; but then, he seemed to wish to express that he had not. My impression, I own, is, that he must have heard of it; the sad news must have reached him."

Fanny still did not understand the earl. The idea of her lover coming after her money immediately on her obtaining possession of it, never entered her mind; she thought of her wealth as far as it might have affected him, but did not dream of its altering his conduct towards her.

"And did he seem unhappy about it?" she continued. "I am sure it would make him very unhappy. He could not have loved Harry better if he had been his brother," and then she blushed again through her tears, as she remembered that she had intended that they should be brothers.

Lord Cashel did not say anything more on this head; he was fully convinced that Lord Ballindine only looked on the young man's death as a windfall which he might turn to his own advantage; but he thought it would be a little too strong to say so outright, just at present.

"It will be a comfort for you to know that this matter is now settled," continued the earl, "and that no one can attach the slightest blame to you in the matter. Lord Ballindine has shown himself so very imprudent, so very unfit, in every way, for the honour you once intended him, that no other line of conduct was open to you than that which you have wisely pursued."

This treading on the fallen was too much for Fanny. "I have no right either to speak or to think ill of him," said she, through her tears; "and if any one is ill-treated in the matter it is he. But did he not ask to see me?"

"Surely, Fanny, you would not, at the present moment, have wished to see him!"

"Oh, no; it is a great relief, under all the circumstances, not having to do so. But was he contented? I should be glad that he were satisfied—that he shouldn't think I had treated him harshly, or rudely. Did he appear as if he wished to see me again?"

"Why, he certainly did ask for a last interview—which, anticipating your wishes, I have refused."

"But was he satisfied? Did he appear to think that he had been badly treated?"

"Rejected lovers," answered the earl with a stately smile, "seldom express much satisfaction with the terms of their rejection; but I cannot say that Lord Ballindine testified any strong emotion." He rose from the sofa as he said this, and then, intending to clinch the nail, added as he went to the door—"to tell the truth, Fanny, I think Lord Ballindine is much more eager for an alliance with your fair self now, than he was a few days back, when he could never find a moment's time to leave his horses, and his friend Mr Blake, either to see his intended wife, or to pay Lady Cashel the usual courtesy of a morning visit." He then opened the door, and, again closing it, added—"I think, however, Fanny, that what has now passed between us will secure you from any further annoyance from him."

Lord Cashel, in this last speech, had greatly overshot his mark; his object had been to make the separation between his ward and her lover permanent; and, hitherto, he had successfully appealed to her pride and her judgment. Fanny had felt Lord Cashel to be right, when he told her that she was neglected, and that Frank was dissipated, and in debt. She knew she should be unhappy as the wife of a poor nobleman, and she felt that it would break her proud heart to be jilted herself. She had, therefore, though unwillingly, still entirely agreed with her, guardian as to the expediency of breaking off, the match; and, had Lord Cashel been judicious, he might have confirmed her in this resolution; but his last thunderbolt, which had been intended to crush Lord Ballindine, had completely recoiled upon himself. Fanny now instantly understood the allusion, and, raising her face, which was again resting on her hands, looked at him with an indignant glance through her tears.

Lord Cashel, however, had left the room without observing the indignation expressed in Fanny's eyes; but she was indignant; she knew Frank well enough to be sure that he had come to Grey Abbey that morning with no such base motives as those ascribed to him. He might have heard of Harry's death, and come there to express his sorrow, and offer that consolation which she felt she could accept from him sooner than from any living creature:—or, he might have been ignorant of it altogether; but that he should come there to press his suit because her brother was dead—immediately after his death—was not only impossible; but the person who could say it was possible, must be false and untrue to her. Her uncle could not have believed it himself: he had basely pretended to believe it, that he might widen the breach which he had made.

Fanny was alone, in the drawing-room—for her cousin had left it as soon as her father began to talk about Lord Ballindine, and she sat there glowering through her tears for a long time. Had Lord Ballindine been able to know all her thoughts at this moment, he would have felt little doubt as to the ultimate success of his suit.



XIII. FATHER AND SON

Lord Cashel firmly believed, when he left the room, that he had shown great tact in discovering Frank's mercenary schemes, and in laying them open before Fanny; and that she had firmly and finally made up her mind to have nothing more to do with him. He had not long been re-seated in his customary chair in the book-room, before he began to feel a certain degree of horror at the young lord's baseness, and to think how worthily he had executed his duty as a guardian, in saving Miss Wyndham from so sordid a suitor. From thinking of his duties as a guardian, his mind, not unnaturally, recurred to those which were incumbent on him as a father, and here nothing disturbed his serenity. It is true that, from an appreciation of the lustre which would reflect back upon himself from allowing his son to become a decidedly fashionable young man, he had encouraged him in extravagance, dissipation, and heartless worldliness; he had brought him up to be supercilious, expensive, unprincipled, and useless. But then, he was gentlemanlike, dignified, and sought after; and now, the father reflected, with satisfaction, that, if he could accomplish his well-conceived scheme, he would pay his son's debts with his ward's fortune, and, at the same time, tie him down to some degree of propriety and decorum, by a wife. Lord Kilcullen, when about to marry, would be obliged to cashier his opera-dancers and their expensive crews; and, though he might not leave the turf altogether, when married he would gradually be drawn out of turf society, and would doubtless become a good steady family nobleman, like his father. Why, he—Lord Cashel himself—wise, prudent, and respectable as he was—example as he knew himself to be to all peers, English, Irish, and Scotch,—had had his horses, and his indiscretions, when he was young. And then he stroked the calves of his legs, and smiled grimly; for the memory of his juvenile vices was pleasant to him.

Lord Cashel thought, as he continued to reflect on the matter, that Lord Ballindine was certainly a sordid schemer; but that his son was a young man of whom he had just reason to be proud, and who was worthy of a wife in the shape of a hundred thousand pounds. And then, he congratulated himself on being the most anxious of guardians and the best of fathers; and, with these comfortable reflections, the worthy peer strutted off, through his ample doors, up his lofty stairs, and away through his long corridors, to dress for dinner. You might have heard his boots creaking till he got inside his dressing-room, but you must have owned that they did so with a most dignified cadence.

It was pleasant enough, certainly, planning all these things; but there would be some little trouble in executing them. In the first place, Lord Kilcullen—though a very good son, on the whole, as the father frequently remarked to himself—was a little fond of having a will of his own, and may-be, might object to dispense with his dancing-girls. And though there was, unfortunately, but little doubt that the money was indispensably necessary to him, it was just possible that he might insist on having the cash without his cousin. However, the proposal must be made, and, as the operations necessary to perfect the marriage would cause some delay, and the money would certainly be wanted as soon as possible, no time was to be lost. Lord Kilcullen was, accordingly, summoned to Grey Abbey; and, as he presumed his attendance was required for the purpose of talking over some method of raising the wind, he obeyed the summons.—I should rather have said of raising a storm, for no gentle puff would serve to waft him through his present necessities.

Down he came, to the great delight of his mother, who thought him by far the finest young man of the day, though he usually slighted, snubbed, and ridiculed her—and of his sister, who always hailed with dignified joy the return of the eldest scion of her proud family to the ancestral roof. The earl was also glad to find that no previous engagement detained him; that is, that he so far sacrificed his own comfort as to leave Tattersall's and the Figuranti of the Opera-House, to come all the way to Grey Abbey, in the county of Kildare. But, though the earl was glad to see his son, he was still a little consternated: the business interview could not be postponed, as it was not to be supposed that Lord Kilcullen would stay long at Grey Abbey during the London season; and the father had yet hardly sufficiently crammed himself for the occasion. Besides, the pressure from without must have been very strong to have produced so immediate a compliance with a behest not uttered in a very peremptory manner, or, generally speaking, to a very obedient child.

On the morning after his arrival, the earl was a little uneasy in his chair during breakfast. It was rather a sombre meal, for Fanny had by no means recovered her spirits, nor did she appear to be in the way to do so. The countess tried to chat a little to her son, but he hardly answered her; and Lady Selina, though she was often profound, was never amusing. Lord Cashel made sundry attempts at general conversation, but as often failed. It was, at last, however, over; and the father requested the son to come with him into the book-room.

When the fire was poked, and the chairs were drawn together over the rug, there were no further preliminaries which could be decently introduced, and the earl was therefore forced to commence.

"Well, Kilcullen, I'm glad you're come to Grey Abbey. I'm afraid, however, we shan't induce you to stay with us long, so it's as well perhaps to settle our business at once. You would, however, greatly oblige your mother, and I'm sure I need not add, myself, if you could make your arrangements so as to stay with us till after Easter. We could then return together."

"Till after Easter, my lord! I should be in the Hue and Cry before that time, if I was so long absent from my accustomed haunts. Besides I should only put out your own arrangements, or rather, those of Lady Cashel. There would probably be no room for me in the family coach.".

"The family coach won't go, Lord Kilcullen. I am sorry to say, that the state of my affairs at present renders it advisable that the family should remain at Grey Abbey this season. I shall attend my parliamentary duties alone."

This was intended as a hit the first at the prodigal son, but Kilcullen was too crafty to allow it to tell. He merely bowed his head, and opened his eyes, to betoken his surprise at such a decision, and remained quiet.

"Indeed," continued Lord Cashel, "I did not even intend to have gone myself, but the unexpected death of Harry Wyndham renders it necessary. I must put Fanny's affairs in a right train. Poor Harry!—did you see much of him during his illness?"

"Why, no—I can't say I did. I'm not a very good hand at doctoring or nursing. I saw him once since he got his commission, glittering with his gold lace like a new weather-cock on a Town Hall. He hadn't time to polish the shine off."

"His death will make a great difference, as far as Fanny is concerned—eh?"

"Indeed it will: her fortune now is considerable;—a deuced pretty thing, remembering that it's all ready money, and that she can touch it the moment she's of age. She's entirely off with Ballindine, isn't she?"

"Oh, entirely," said the earl, with considerable self-complacency; "that affair is entirely over."

"I've stated so everywhere publicly; but I dare say, she'll give him her money, nevertheless. She's not the girl to give over a man, if she's really fond of him."

"But, my dear Kilcullen, she has authorised me to give him a final answer, and I have done so. After that, you know, it would be quite impossible for her to—to—"

"You'll see;—she'll marry Lord Ballindine. Had Harry lived, it might have been different; but now she's got all her brother's money, she'll think it a point of honour to marry her poor lover. Besides, her staying this year in the country will be in his favour: she'll see no one here—and she'll want something to think of. I understand he has altogether thrown himself into Blake's hands—the keenest fellow in Ireland, with as much mercy as a foxhound. He's a positive fool, is Ballindine."

"I'm afraid he is—I'm afraid he is. And you may be sure I'm too fond of Fanny—that is, I have too much regard for the trust reposed in me, to allow her to throw herself away upon him."

"That's all very well; but what can you do?"

"Why, not allow him to see her; and I've another plan in my head for her."

"Ah!—but the thing is to put the plan into her head. I'd be sorry to hear of a fine girl like Fanny Wyndham breaking her heart in a half-ruined barrack in Connaught, without money to pay a schoolmaster to teach her children to spell. But I've too many troubles of my own to think of just at present, to care much about hers;" and the son and heir got up, and stood with his back to the fire, and put his arms under his coat-laps. "Upon my soul, my lord, I never was so hard up in my life!"

Lord Cashel now prepared himself for action. The first shot was fired, and he must go on with the battle.

"So I hear, Kilcullen; and yet, during the last four years, you've had nearly double your allowance; and, before that, I paid every farthing you owed. Within the last five years, you've had nearly forty thousand pounds! Supposing you'd had younger brothers, Lord Kilcullen—supposing that I had had six or eight sons instead of only one; what would you have done? How then would you have paid your debts?"

"Fate having exempted me and your lordship from so severe a curse, I have never turned my mind to reflect what I might have done under such an infliction."

"Or, supposing I had chosen, myself, to indulge in those expensive habits, which would have absorbed my income, and left me unable to do more for you, than many other noblemen in my position do for their sons—do you ever reflect how impossible it would then have been for me to have helped you out of your difficulties?"

"I feel as truly grateful for your self-denial in this respect, as I do in that of my non-begotten brethren."

Lord Cashel saw that he was laughed at, and he looked angry; but he did not want to quarrel with his son, so he continued:

"Jervis writes me word that it is absolutely necessary that thirty thousand pounds should be paid for you at once; or, that your remaining in London—or, in fact, in the country at all, is quite out of the question."

"Indeed, my lord, I'm afraid Jervis is right."

"Thirty thousand pounds! Are you aware what your income is?"

"Why, hardly. I know Jervis takes care that I never see much of it."

"Do you mean that you don't receive it?"

"Oh, I do not at all doubt its accurate payment. I mean to say, that I don't often have the satisfaction of seeing much of it at the right side of my banker's book."

"Thirty thousand pounds! And will that sum set you completely free in the world?"

"I am sorry to say it will not—nor nearly."

"Then, Lord Kilcullen," said the earl, with most severe, but still most courteous dignity, "may I trouble you to be good enough to tell me what, at the present moment, you do owe?"

"I'm afraid I could not do so with any accuracy; but it is more than double the sum you have named."

"Do you mean, that you have no schedule of your debts?—no means of acquainting me with the amount? How can you expect that I can assist you, when you think it too much trouble to make yourself thoroughly acquainted with the state of your own affairs?"

"A list could certainly be made out, if I had any prospect of being able to settle the amount. If your lordship can undertake to do so at once, I will undertake to hand you a correct list of the sums due, before I leave Grey Abbey. I presume you would not require to know exactly to whom all the items were owing."

This effrontery was too much, and Lord Cashel was very near to losing his temper.

"Upon my honour, Kilcullen, you're cool, very cool. You come upon me to pay, Heaven knows how many thousands—more money, I know, than I'm able to raise; and you condescendingly tell me that you will trouble yourself so far as to let me know how much money I am to give you—but that I am not to know what is done with it! No; if I am to pay your debts again, I will do it through Jervis."

"Pray remember," replied Lord Kilcullen, not at all disturbed from his equanimity, "that I have not proposed that you should pay my debts without knowing where the money went; and also that I have not yet asked you to pay them at all."

"Who, then, do you expect will pay them? I can assure you I should be glad to be relieved from the honour."

"I merely said that I had not yet made any proposition respecting them. Of course, I expect your assistance. Failing you, I have no resource but the Jews. I should regret to put the property into their hands; especially as, hitherto, I have not raised money on post obits [24]."

[FOOTNOTE 24: post obit—a loan that need not be repaid until the death of a specified individual, usually someone from whom the borrower expected to inherit enough to repay the loan]

"At any rate, I'm glad of that," said the father, willing to admit any excuse for returning to his good humour. "That would be ruin; and I hope that anything short of that may be—may be—may be done something with."

The expression was not dignified, and it pained the earl to make it; but it was expressive, and he didn't wish at once to say that he had a proposal for paying off his son's debts. "But now, Kilcullen, tell me fairly, in round figures, what do you think you owe?—as near as you can guess, without going to pen and paper, you know?"

"Well, my lord, if you will allow me, I will make a proposition to you. If you will hand over to Mr Jervis fifty thousand pounds, for him to pay such claims as have already been made upon him as your agent, and such other debts as I may have sent in to him: and if you will give myself thirty thousand, to pay such debts as I do not choose to have paid by an agent, I will undertake to have everything settled."

"Eighty thousand pounds in four years! Why, Kilcullen, what have you done with it?—where has it gone? You have five thousand a-year, no house to keep up, no property to support, no tenants to satisfy, no rates to pay—five thousand a-year for your own personal expenses—and, in four years, you have got eighty thousand in debt! The property never can stand that, you know. It never can stand at that rate. Why, Kilcullen, what have you done with it?"

"Mr Crockford has a portion of it, and John Scott has some of it. A great deal of it is scattered rather widely—so widely that it would be difficult now to trace it. But, my lord, it has gone. I won't deny that the greater portion of it has been lost at play, or on the turf. I trust I may, in future, be more fortunate and more cautious."

"I trust so. I trust so, indeed. Eighty thousand pounds! And do you think I can raise such a sum as that at a week's warning?"

"Indeed, I have no doubt as to your being able to do so: it may be another question whether you are willing."

"I am not—I am not able," said the libelled father. "As you know well enough, the incumbrances on the property take more than a quarter of my income."

"There can, nevertheless, be no doubt of your being able to have the money, and that at once, if you chose to go into the market for it. I have no doubt but that Mr Jervis could get it for you at once at five per cent."

"Four thousand a-year gone for ever from the property!—and what security am I to have that the same sacrifice will not be again incurred, after another lapse of four years?"

"You can have no security, my lord, against my being in debt. You can, however, have every security that you will not again pay my debts, in your own resolution. I trust, however, that I have some experience to prevent my again falling into so disagreeable a predicament. I think I have heard your Lordship say that you incurred some unnecessary expenses yourself in London, before your marriage!"

"I wish, Kilcullen, that you had never exceeded your income more than I did mine. But it is no use talking any further on this subject. I cannot, and I will not—I cannot in justice either to myself or to you, borrow this money for you; nor, if I could, should I think it right to do so."

"Then what the devil's the use of talking about it so long?" said the dutiful son, hastily jumping up from the chair in which he had again sat down. "Did you bring me down to Grey Abbey merely to tell me that you knew of my difficulties, and that you could do nothing to assist me?"

"Now, don't put yourself into a passion—pray don't!" said the father, a little frightened by the sudden ebullition. "If you'll sit down, and listen to me, I'll tell you what I propose. I did not send for you here without intending to point out to you some method of extricating yourself from your present pecuniary embarrassment; and, if you have any wish to give up your course, of—I must say, reckless profusion, and commence that upright and distinguished career, which I still hope to see you take, you will, I think, own that my plan is both a safer and a more expedient one than that which you have proposed. It is quite time for you now to abandon the expensive follies of youth; and,"—Lord Cashel was getting into a delightfully dignified tone, and felt himself prepared for a good burst of common-place eloquence; but his son looked impatient, and as he could not take such liberty with him as he could with Lord Ballindine, he came to the point at once, and ended abruptly by saying, "and get married."

"For the purpose of allowing my wife to pay my debts?"

"Why, not exactly that; but as, of course, you could not marry any woman but a woman with a large fortune, that would follow as a matter of consequence."

"Your lordship proposes the fortune not as the first object of my affection, but merely as a corollary. But, perhaps, it will be as well that you should finish your proposition, before I make any remarks on the subject." And Lord Kilcullen, sat down, with a well-feigned look of listless indifference.

"Well, Kilcullen, I have latterly been thinking much about you, and so has your poor mother. She is very uneasy that you should still—still be unmarried; and Jervis has written to me very strongly. You see it is quite necessary that something should be done—or we shall both be ruined. Now, if I did raise this sum—and I really could not do it—I don't think I could manage it, just at present; but, even if I did, it would only be encouraging you to go on just in the same way again. Now, if you were to marry, your whole course of life would be altered, and you would become, at the same time, more respectable and more happy."

"That would depend a good deal upon circumstances, I should think."

"Oh! I am sure you would. You are just the same sort of fellow I was when at your age, and I was much happier after I was married, so I know it. Now, you see, your cousin has a hundred thousand pounds; in fact something more than that."

"What?—Fanny! Poor Ballindine! So that's the way with him is it! When I was contradicting the rumour of his marriage with Fanny, I little thought that I was to be his rival! At any rate, I shall have to shoot him first."

"You might, at any rate, confine yourself to sense, Lord Kilcullen, when I am taking so much pains to talk sensibly to you, on a subject which, I presume, cannot but interest you."

"Indeed, my lord, I'm all attention; and I do intend to talk sensibly when I say that I think you are proposing to treat Ballindine very ill. The world will think well of your turning him adrift on the score of the match being an imprudent one; but it won't speak so leniently of you if you expel him, as soon as your ward becomes an heiress, to make way for your own son."

"You know that I'm not thinking of doing so. I've long seen that Lord Ballindine would not make a fitting husband for Fanny—long before Harry died."

"And you think that I shall?"

"Indeed I do. I think she will be lucky to get you."

"I'm flattered into silence: pray go on."

"You will be an earl—a peer—and a man of property. What would she become if she married Lord Ballindine?"

"Oh, you are quite right! Go on. I wonder it never occurred to her before to set her cap at me."

"Now do be serious. I wonder how you can joke on such a subject, with all your debts. I'm sure I feel them heavy enough, if you don't. You see Lord Ballindine was refused—I may say he was refused—before we heard about that poor boy's unfortunate death. It was the very morning we heard of it, three or four hours before the messenger came, that Fanny had expressed her resolution to declare it off, and commissioned me to tell him so. And, therefore, of course, the two things can't have the remotest reference to each other."

"I see. There are, or have been, two Fanny Wyndhams—separate persons, though both wards of your lordship. Lord Ballindine was engaged to the girl who had a brother; but he can have no possible concern with Fanny Wyndham, the heiress, who has no brother."

"How can you be so unfeeling?—but you may pay your debts in your own way. You won't ever listen to what I have to say! I should have thought that, as your father, I might have considered myself entitled to more respect from you."

"Indeed, my lord, I'm all respect and attention, and I won't say one more word till you've finished."

"Well—you must see, there can be no objection on the score of Lord Ballindine?"

"Oh, none at all."

"And then, where could Fanny wish for a better match than yourself? it would be a great thing for her, and the match would be, in all things, so—so respectable, and just what it ought to be; and your mother would be so delighted, and so should I, and—"

"Her fortune would so nicely pay all my debts."

"Exactly. Of course, I should take care to have your present income—five thousand a year—settled on her, in the shape of jointure; and I'm sure that would be treating her handsomely. The interest of her fortune would not be more than that."

"And what should we live on?"

"Why, of course, I should continue your present allowance."

"And you think that that which I have found so insufficient for myself, would be enough for both of us?"

"You must make it enough, Kilcullen—in order that there may be something left to enable you to keep up your title when I am gone."

By this time, Lord Kilcullen appeared to be as serious, and nearly as solemn, as his father, and he sat, for a considerable time, musing, till his father said, "Well, Kilcullen, will you take my advice?"

"It's impracticable, my lord. In the first place, the money must be paid immediately, and considerable delay must occur before I could even offer to Miss Wyndham; and, in the next place, were I to do so, I am sure she would refuse me."

"Why; there must be some delay, of course. But I suppose, if I passed my word, through Jervis, for so much of the debts as are immediate, that a settlement might be made whereby they might stand over for twelve months, with interest, of course. As to refusing you, it's not at all likely: where would she look for a better offer?"

"I don't know much of my cousin; but I don't think she's exactly the girl to take a man because he's a good match for her."

"Perhaps not. But then, you know, you understand women so well, and would have such opportunities; you would be sure to make yourself agreeable to her, with very little effort on your part."

"Yes, poor thing—she would be delivered over, ready bound, into the lion's den." And then the young man sat silent again, for some time, turning the matter over in his mind. At last, he said,—

"Well, my lord; I am a considerate and a dutiful son, and I will agree to your proposition: but I must saddle it with conditions. I have no doubt that the sum which I suggested should be paid through your agent, could be arranged to be paid in a year, or eighteen months, by your making yourself responsible for it, and I would undertake to indemnify you. But the thirty thousand pounds I must have at once. I must return to London, with the power of raising it there, without delay. This, also, I would repay you out of Fanny's fortune. I would then undertake to use my best endeavours to effect a union with your ward. But I most positively will not agree to this—nor have any hand in the matter, unless I am put in immediate possession of the sum I have named, and unless you will agree to double my income as soon as I am married."

To both these propositions the earl, at first, refused to accede; but his son was firm. Then, Lord Cashel agreed to put him in immediate possession of the sum of money he required, but would not hear of increasing his income. They argued, discussed, and quarrelled over the matter, for a long time; till, at last, the anxious father, in his passion, told his son that he might go his own way, and that he would take no further trouble to help so unconscionable a child. Lord Kilcullen rejoined by threatening immediately to throw the whole of the property, which was entailed on himself, into the hands of the Jews.

Long they argued and bargained, till each was surprised at the obstinacy of the other. They ended, however, by splitting the difference, and it was agreed, that Lord Cashel was at once to hand over thirty thousand pounds, and to take his son's bond for the amount; that the other debts were to stand over till Fanny's money was forthcoming; and that the income of the newly married pair was to be seven thousand five hundred a-year.

"At least," thought Lord Kilcullen to himself, as he good-humouredly shook hands with his father at the termination of the interview—"I have not done so badly, for those infernal dogs will be silenced, and I shall get the money. I could not have gone back without that. I can go on with the marriage, or not, as I may choose, hereafter. It won't be a bad speculation, however."

To do Lord Cashel justice, he did not intend cheating his son, nor did he suspect his son of an intention to cheat him. But the generation was deteriorating.



XIV. THE COUNTESS

It was delightful to see on what good terms the earl and his son met that evening at dinner. The latter even went so far as to be decently civil to his mother, and was quite attentive to Fanny. She, however, did not seem to appreciate the compliment. It was now a fortnight since she had heard of her brother's death, and during the whole of that time she had been silent, unhappy, and fretful. Not a word more had been said to her about Lord Ballindine, nor had she, as yet, spoken about him to any one; but she had been thinking about little else, and had ascertained,—at least, so she thought,—that she could never be happy, unless she were reconciled to him.

The more she brooded over the subject, the more she felt convinced that such was the case; she could not think how she had ever been induced to sanction, by her name, such an unwarrantable proceeding as the unceremonious dismissal of a man to whom her troth had been plighted, merely because he had not called to see her. As for his not writing, she was aware that Lord Cashel had recommended that, till she was of age, they should not correspond. As she thought the matter over in her own room, long hour after hour, she became angry with herself for having been talked into a feeling of anger for him. What right had she to be angry because he kept horses? She could not expect him to put himself into Lord Cashel's leading-strings. Indeed, she thought she would have liked him less if he had done so. And now, to reject him just when circumstances put it in her power to enable her to free him from his embarrassments, and live a manner becoming his station! What must Frank think of her?—For he could not but suppose that her rejection had been caused by her unexpected inheritance.

In the course of the fortnight, she made up her mind that all Lord Cashel had said to Lord Ballindine should be unsaid;—but who was to do it? It would be a most unpleasant task to perform; and one which, she was aware, her guardian would be most unwilling to undertake. She fully resolved that she would do it herself, if she could find no fitting ambassador to undertake the task, though that would be a step to which she would fain not be driven. At one time, she absolutely thought of asking her cousin, Kilcullen, about it:—this was just before his leaving Grey Abbey; he seemed so much more civil and kind than usual. But then, she knew so little of him, and so little liked what she did know: that scheme, therefore, was given up. Lady Selina was so cold, and prudent—would talk to her so much about propriety, self-respect, and self-control, that she could not make a confidante of her. No one could talk to Selina on any subject more immediately interesting than a Roman Emperor, or a pattern for worsted-work. Fanny felt that she would not be equal, herself, to going boldly to Lord Cashel, and desiring him to inform Lord Ballindine that he had been mistaken in the view he had taken of his ward's wishes: no—that was impossible; such a proceeding would probably bring on a fit of apoplexy.

There was no one else to whom she could apply, but her aunt. Lady Cashel was a very good-natured old woman, who slept the greatest portion of her time, and knitted through the rest of her existence. She did not take a prominent part in any of the important doings of Grey Abbey; and, though Lord Cashel constantly referred to her, for he thought it respectable to do so, no one regarded her much. Fanny felt, however, that she would neither scold her, ridicule her, nor refuse to listen: to Lady Cashel, therefore, at last, she went for assistance.

Her ladyship always passed the morning, after breakfast, in a room adjoining her own bed-room, in which she daily held deep debate with Griffiths, her factotum, respecting household affairs, knitting-needles, and her own little ailments and cossetings. Griffiths, luckily, was a woman of much the same tastes as her ladyship, only somewhat of a more active temperament; and they were most stedfast friends. It was such a comfort to Lady Cashel to have some one to whom she could twaddle!

The morning after Lord Kilcullen's departure Fanny knocked at her door, and was asked to come in. The countess, as usual, was in her easy chair, with the knitting-apparatus in her lap, and Griffiths was seated at the table, pulling about threads, and keeping her ladyship awake by small talk.

"I'm afraid I'm disturbing you, aunt," said Fanny, "but I wanted to speak to you for a minute or two. Good morning, Mrs Griffiths."

"Oh, no! you won't disturb me, Fanny. I was a little busy this morning, for I wanted to finish this side of the—You see what a deal I've done,"—and the countess lugged up a whole heap of miscellaneous worsted from a basket just under her arm—"and I must finish it by lady-day [25], or I shan't get the other done, I don't know when. But still, I've plenty of time to attend to you."

[FOOTNOTE 25: lady-day—Annunciation Day, March 25]

"Then I'll go down, my lady, and see about getting the syrup boiled," said Griffiths. "Good morning, Miss Wyndham."

"Do; but mind you come up again immediately—I'll ring the bell when Miss Wyndham is going; and pray don't leave me alone, now."

"No, my lady—not a moment," and Griffiths escaped to the syrup.

Fanny's heart beat quick and hard, as she sat down on the sofa, opposite to her aunt. It was impossible for any one to be afraid of Lady Cashel, there was so very little about her that could inspire awe; but then, what she had to say was so very disagreeable to say! If she had had to tell her tale out loud, merely to the empty easy chair, it would have been a dreadful undertaking.

"Well, Fanny, what can I do for you? I'm sure you look very nice in your bombazine; and it's very nicely made up. Who was it made it for you?"

"I got it down from Dublin, aunt; from Foley's."

"Oh, I remember; so you told me. Griffiths has a niece makes those things up very well; but then she lives at Namptwich, and one couldn't send to England for it. I had such a quantity of mourning by me, I didn't get any made up new; else, I think I must have sent for her."

"My dear aunt, I am very unhappy about something, and I want you to help me. I'm afraid, though, it will give you a great deal of trouble."

"Good gracious, Fanny!—what is it? Is it about poor Harry? I'm sure I grieved about him more than I can tell."

"No, aunt: he's gone now, and time is the only cure for that grief. I know I must bear that without complaining. But, aunt, I feel—I think, that is, that I've used Lord Ballindine very ill."

"Good gracious me, my love! I thought Lord Cashel had managed all that—I thought that was all settled. You know, he would keep those horrid horses, and all that kind of thing; and what more could you do than just let Lord Cashel settle it?"

"Yes, but aunt—you see, I had engaged myself to Lord Ballindine, and I don't think—in fact—oh, aunt! I did not wish to break my word to Lord Ballindine, and I am very very sorry for what has been done," and Fanny was again in tears.

"But, my dear Fanny," said the countess, so far excited as to commence rising from her seat—the attempt, however, was abandoned, when she felt the ill effects of the labour to which she was exposing herself—"but, my dear Fanny—what would you have? It's done, now, you know; and, really, it's for the best."

"Oh, but, dear aunt, I must get somebody to see him. I've been thinking about it ever since he was here with my uncle. I wouldn't let him think that I broke it all off, merely because—because of poor Harry's money," and Fanny sobbed away dreadfully.

"But you don't want to marry him!" said the naive countess.

Now, Fanny did want to marry him, though she hardly liked saying so, even to Lady Cashel.

"You know, I promised him I would," said she; "and what will he think of me?—what must he think of me, to throw him off so cruelly, so harshly, after all that's past?—Oh, aunt! I must see him again."

"I know something of human nature," replied the aunt, "and if you do, I tell you, it will end in your being engaged to him again. You know it's off now. Come, my dear; don't think so much about it: I'm sure Lord Cashel wouldn't do anything cruel or harsh."

"Oh, I must see him again, whatever comes of it;" and then she paused for a considerable time, during which the bewildered old lady was thinking what she could do to relieve her sensitive niece. "Dear, dear aunt, I don't want to deceive you!" and Fanny, springing up, knelt at her aunt's feet, and looked up into her face. "I do love him—I always loved him, and I cannot, cannot quarrel with him." And then she burst out crying vehemently, hiding her face in the countess's lap.

Lady Cashel was quite overwhelmed. Fanny was usually so much more collected than herself, that her present prostration, both of feeling and body, was dreadful to see. Suppose she was to go into hysterics—there they would be alone, and Lady Cashel felt that she had not strength to ring the bell.

"But, my dear Fanny! oh dear, oh dear, this is very dreadful!—but, Fanny—he's gone away now. Lift up your face, Fanny, for you frighten me. Well, I'm sure I'll do anything for you. Perhaps he wouldn't mind coming back again,—he always was very good-natured. I'm sure I always liked Lord Ballindine very much,—only he would have all those horses. But I'm sure, if you wish it, I should be very glad to see him marry you; only, you know, you must wait some time, because of poor Harry; and I'm sure I don't know how you'll manage with Lord Cashel."

"Dear aunt—I want you to speak to Lord Cashel. When I was angry because I thought Frank didn't come here as he might have done, I consented that my uncle should break off the match: besides, then, you know, we should have had so little between us. But I didn't know then how well I loved him. Indeed, indeed, aunt, I cannot bring my heart to quarrel with him; and I am quite, quite sure he would never wish to quarrel with me. Will you go to my uncle—tell him that I've changed my mind; tell him that I was a foolish girl, and did not know my mind. But tell him I must be friends with Frank again."

"Well, of course I'll do what you wish me,—indeed, I would do anything for you, Fanny, as if you were one of my own; but really, I don't know—Good gracious! What am I to say to him? Wouldn't it be better, Fanny, if you were to go to him yourself?"

"Oh, no, aunt; pray do you tell him first. I couldn't go to him; besides, he would do anything for you, you know. I want you to go to him—do, now, dear aunt—and tell him—not from me, but from yourself—how very, very much I—that is, how very very—but you will know what to say; only Frank must, must come back again."

"Well, Fanny, dear, I'll go to Lord Cashel; or, perhaps, he wouldn't mind coming here. Ring the bell for me, dear. But I'm sure he'll be very angry. I'd just write a line and ask Lord Ballindine to come and dine here, and let him settle it all himself, only I don't think Lord Cashel would like it."

Griffiths answered the summons, and was despatched to the book-room to tell his lordship that her ladyship would be greatly obliged if he would step upstairs to her for a minute or two; and, as soon as Griffiths was gone on her errand, Fanny fled to her own apartment, leaving her aunt in a very bewildered and pitiable state of mind: and there she waited, with palpitating heart and weeping eyes, the effects of the interview.

She was dreadfully nervous, for she felt certain that she would be summoned before her uncle. Hitherto, she alone, in all the house, had held him in no kind of awe; indeed, her respect for her uncle had not been of the most exalted kind; but now she felt she was afraid of him.

She remained in her room much longer than she thought it would have taken her aunt to explain what she had to say. At last, however, she heard footsteps in the corridor, and Griffiths knocked at the door. Her aunt would be obliged by her stepping into her room. She tried not to look disconcerted, and asked if Lord Cashel were still there. She was told that he was; and she felt that she had to muster up all her courage to encounter him.

When she went into the room, Lady Cashel was still in her easy-chair, but the chair seemed to lend none of its easiness to its owner. She was sitting upright, with her hands on her two knees, and she looked perplexed, distressed, and unhappy. Lord Cashel was standing with his back to the fire-place, and Fanny had never seen his face look so black. He really seemed, for the time, to have given over acting, to have thrown aside his dignity, and to be natural and in earnest.

Lady Cashel began the conversation.

"Oh, Fanny," she said, "you must really overcome all this sensitiveness; you really must. I've spoken to your uncle, and it's quite impossible, and very unwise; and, indeed, it can't be done at all. In fact, Lord Ballindine isn't, by any means, the sort of person I supposed."

Fanny knit her brows a little at this, and felt somewhat less humble than she did before. She knew she should get indignant if her uncle abused her lover, and that, if she did, her courage would rise in proportion. Her aunt continued—

"Your uncle's very kind about it, and says he can, of course, forgive your feeling a little out of sorts just at present; and, I'm sure, so can I, and I'm sure I'd do anything to make you happy; but as for making it all up with Lord Ballindine again, indeed it cannot be thought of, Fanny; and so your uncle will tell you."

And then Lord Cashel opened his oracular mouth, for the purpose of doing so.

"Really, Fanny, this is the most unaccountable thing I ever heard of. But you'd better sit down, while I speak to you," and Fanny sat down on the sofa. "I think I understood you rightly, when you desired me, less than a month ago, to inform Lord Ballindine that circumstances—that is, his own conduct—obliged you to decline the honour of his alliance. Did you not do so spontaneously, and of your own accord?"

"Certainly, uncle, I agreed to take your advice; though I did so most unwillingly."

"Had I not your authority for desiring him—I won't say to discontinue his visits, for that he had long done—but to give up his pretensions to your hand? Did you not authorise me to do so?"

"I believe I did. But, uncle—"

"And I have done as you desired me; and now, Fanny, that I have done so—now that I have fully explained to him what you taught me to believe were your wishes on the subject, will you tell me—for I really think your aunt must have misunderstood you—what it is that you wish me to do?"

"Why, uncle, you pointed out—and it was very true then, that my fortune was not sufficient to enable Lord Ballindine to keep up his rank. It is different now, and I am very, very sorry that it is so; but it is different now, and I feel that I ought not to reject Lord Ballindine, because I am so much richer than I was when he—when he proposed to me."

"Then it's merely a matter of feeling with you, and not of affection? If I understand you, you are afraid that you should be thought to have treated Lord Ballindine badly?"

"It's not only that—" And then she paused for a few moments, and added, "I thought I could have parted with him, when you made me believe that I ought to do so, but I find I cannot."

"You mean that you love him?" and the earl looked very black at his niece. He intended to frighten her out of her resolution, but she quietly answered,

"Yes, uncle, I do."

"And you want me to tell him so, after having banished him from my house?"

Fanny's eyes again shot fire at the word "banished", but she answered, very quietly, and even with a smile,

"No, uncle; but I want you to ask him here again. I might tell him the rest myself."

"But, Fanny, dear," said the countess, "your uncle couldn't do it: you know, he told him to go away before. Besides, I really don't think he'd come; he's so taken up with those horrid horses, and that Mr Blake, who is worse than any of 'em. Really, Fanny, Kilcullen says that he and Mr Blake are quite notorious."

"I think, aunt, Lord Kilcullen might be satisfied with looking after himself. If it depended on him, he never had a kind word to say for Lord Ballindine."

"But you know, Fanny," continued the aunt, "he knows everybody; and if he says Lord Ballindine is that sort of person, why, it must be so, though I'm sure I'm very sorry to hear it."

Lord Cashel saw that he could not trust any more to his wife: that last hit about Kilcullen had been very unfortunate; so he determined to put an end to all Fanny's yearnings after her lover with a strong hand, and said,

"If you mean, Fanny, after what has passed, that I should go to Lord Ballindine, and give him to understand that he is again welcome to Grey Abbey, I must at once tell you that it is absolutely—absolutely impossible. If I had no personal objection to the young man on any prudential score, the very fact of my having already, at your request, desired his absence from my house, would be sufficient to render it impossible. I owe too much to my own dignity, and am too anxious for your reputation, to think of doing such a thing. But when I also remember that Lord Ballindine is a reckless, dissipated gambler—I much fear, with no fixed principle, I should consider any step towards renewing the acquaintance between you a most wicked and unpardonable proceeding."

When Fanny heard her lover designated as a reckless gambler, she lost all remaining feelings of fear at her uncle's anger, and, standing up, looked him full in the face through her tears.

"It's not so, my lord!" she said, when he had finished. "He is not what you have said. I know him too well to believe such things of him, and I will not submit to hear him abused."

"Oh, Fanny, my dear!" said the frightened countess; "don't speak in that way. Surely, your uncle means to act for your own happiness; and don't you know Lord Ballindine has those horrid horses?"

"If I don't mind his horses, aunt, no one else need; but he's no gambler, and he's not dissipated—I'm sure not half so much so as Lord Kilcullen."

"In that, Fanny, you're mistaken," said the earl; "but I don't wish to discuss the matter with you. You must, however, fully understand this: Lord Ballindine cannot be received under this roof. If you regret him, you must remember that his rejection was your own act. I think you then acted most prudently, and I trust it will not be long before you are of the same opinion yourself," and Lord Cashel moved to the door as though he had accomplished his part in the interview.

"Stop one moment, uncle," said Fanny, striving hard to be calm, and hardly succeeding. "I did not ask my aunt to speak to you on this subject, till I had turned it over and over in my mind, and resolved that I would not make myself and another miserable for ever, because I had been foolish enough not to know my mind. You best know whether you can ask Lord Ballindine to Grey Abbey or not; but I am determined, if I cannot see him here, that I will see him somewhere else," and she turned towards the door, and then, thinking of her aunt, she turned back and kissed her, and immediately left the room.

The countess looked up at her husband, quite dumbfounded, and he seemed rather distressed himself. However, he muttered something about her being a hot-headed simpleton and soon thinking better about it, and then betook himself to his private retreat, to hold sweet converse with his own thoughts—having first rung the bell for Griffiths, to pick up the scattered threads of her mistress's knitting.

Lord Cashel certainly did not like the look of things. There was a determination in Fanny's eye, as she made her parting speech, which upset him rather, and which threw considerable difficulties in the way of Lord Kilcullen's wooing. To be sure, time would do a great deal: but then, there wasn't so much time to spare. He had already taken steps to borrow the thirty thousand pounds, and had, indeed, empowered his son to receive it: he had also pledged himself for the other fifty; and then, after all, that perverse fool of a girl would insist on being in love with that scapegrace, Lord Ballindine! This, however, might wear away, and he would take very good care that she should hear of his misdoings. It would be very odd if, after all, his plans were to be destroyed, and his arrangements disconcerted by his own ward, and niece—especially when he designed so great a match for her!

He could not, however, make himself quite comfortable, though he had great confidence in his own diplomatic resources.



XV. HANDICAP LODGE

Lord Ballindine left Grey Abbey, and rode homewards, towards Handicap Lodge, in a melancholy and speculative mood. His first thoughts were all of Harry Wyndham. Frank, as the accepted suitor of his sister, had known him well and intimately, and had liked him much; and the poor young fellow had been much attached to him. He was greatly shocked to hear of his death. It was not yet a month since he had seen him shining in all the new-blown splendour of his cavalry regimentals, and Lord Ballindine was unfeignedly grieved to think how short a time the lad had lived to enjoy them. His thoughts, then, naturally turned to his own position, and the declaration which Lord Cashel had made to him respecting himself. Could it be absolutely true that Fanny had determined to give him up altogether?—After all her willing vows, and assurances of unalterable affection, could she be so cold as to content herself with sending him a formal message, by her uncle, that she did not wish to see him again? Frank argued with himself that it was impossible; he was sure he knew her too well. But still, Lord Cashel would hardly tell him a downright lie, and he had distinctly stated that the rejection came from Miss Wyndham herself.

Then, he began to feel indignant, and spurred his horse, and rode a little faster, and made a few resolutions as to upholding his own dignity. He would run after neither Lord Cashel nor his niece; he would not even ask her to change her mind, since she had been able to bring herself to such a determination as that expressed to him. But he would insist on seeing her; she could not refuse that to him, after what had passed between them, and he would then tell her what he thought of her, and leave her for ever. But no; he would do nothing to vex her, as long as she was grieving for her brother. Poor Harry!—she loved him so dearly! Perhaps, after all, his sudden rejection was, in some manner, occasioned by this sad event, and would be revoked as her sorrow grew less with time. And then, for the first time, the idea shot across his mind, of the wealth Fanny must inherit by her brother's death.

It certainly had a considerable effect on him, for he breathed slow awhile, and was some little time before he could entirely realise the conception that Fanny was now the undoubted owner of a large fortune. "That is it," thought he to himself, at last; "that sordid earl considers that he can now be sure of a higher match for his niece, and Fanny has allowed herself to be persuaded out of her engagement: she has allowed herself to be talked into the belief that it was her duty to give up a poor man like me." And then, he felt very angry again. "Heavens!" said he to himself—"is it possible she should be so servile and so mean? Fanny Wyndham, who cared so little for the prosy admonitions of her uncle, a few months since, can she have altered her disposition so completely? Can the possession of her brother's money have made so vile a change in her character? Could she be the same Fanny who had so entirely belonged to him, who had certainly loved him truly once? Perish her money! he had sought her from affection alone; he had truly and fondly loved her; he had determined to cling to her, in spite of the advice of his friends! And then, he found himself deserted and betrayed by her, because circumstances had given her the probable power of making a better match!"

Such were Lord Ballindine's thoughts; and he flattered himself with the reflection that he was a most cruelly used, affectionate, and disinterested lover. He did not, at the moment, remember that it was Fanny's twenty thousand pounds which had first attracted his notice; and that he had for a considerable time wavered, before he made up his mind to part with himself at so low a price. It was not to be expected that he should remember that, just at present; and he rode on, considerably out of humour with all the world except himself.

As he got near to Handicap Lodge, however, the genius of the master-spirit of that classic spot came upon him, and he began to bethink himself that it would be somewhat foolish of him to give up the game just at present. He reflected that a hundred thousand pounds would work a wondrous change and improvement at Kelly's Court—and that, if he was before prepared to marry Fanny Wyndham in opposition to the wishes of her guardian, he should now be doubly determined to do so, even though all Grey Abbey had resolved to the contrary. The last idea in his mind, as he got off his horse at his friend's door was, as to what Dot Blake would think, and say, of the tidings he brought home with him?

It was dark when he reached Handicap Lodge, and, having first asked whether Mr Blake was in, and heard that he was dressing for dinner, he went to perform the same operation himself. When he came down, full of his budget, and quite ready, as usual, to apply to Dot for advice, he was surprised, and annoyed, to find two other gentlemen in the room, together with Blake. What a bore! to have to make one of a dinner-party of four, and the long protracted rubber of shorts which would follow it, when his mind was so full of other concerns! However, it was not to be avoided.

The guests were, the fat, good-humoured, ready-witted Mat Tierney, and a little Connaught member of Parliament, named Morris, who wore a wig, played a very good rubber of whist, and knew a good deal about selling hunters. He was not very bright, but he told one or two good stories of his own adventures in the world, which he repeated oftener than was approved of by his intimate friends; and he drank his wine plentifully and discreetly—for, if he didn't get a game of cards after consuming a certain quantum, he invariably went to sleep.

There was something in the manner in which the three greeted him, on entering the room, which showed him that they had been speaking of him and his affairs. Dot was the first to address him.

"Well, Frank, I hope I am to wish you joy. I hope you've made a good morning's work of it?"

Frank looked rather distressed: before he could answer, however, Mat Tierney said,

"Well, Ballindine, upon my soul I congratulate you sincerely, though, of course, you've seen nothing at Grey Abbey but tears and cambric handkerchiefs. I'm very glad, now, that what Kilcullen told me wasn't true. He left Dublin for London yesterday, and I suppose he won't hear of his cousin's death before he gets there."

"Upon my honour, Lord Ballindine," said the horse-dealing member, "you are a lucky fellow. I believe old Wyndham was a regular golden nabob, and I suppose, now, you'll touch the whole of his gatherings."

Dot and his guests had heard of Harry Wyndham's death, and Fanny's accession of fortune; but they had not heard that she had rejected her lover, and that he had been all but turned out of her guardian's house. Nor did he mean to tell them; but he did not find himself pleasantly situated in having to hear their congratulations and listen to their jokes, while he himself felt that the rumour which he had so emphatically denied to Mat Tierney, only two days since, had turned out to be true.

Not one of the party made the slightest reference to the poor brother from whom Fanny's new fortune had come, except as the lucky means of conveying it to her. There was no regret even pretended for his early death, no sympathy expressed with Fanny's sorrow. And there was, moreover, an evident conviction in the minds of all the three, that Frank, of course, looked on the accident as a piece of unalloyed good fortune—a splendid windfall in his way, unattended with any disagreeable concomitants. This grated against his feelings, and made him conscious that he was not yet heartless enough to be quite fit for, the society in which he found himself.

The party soon went into the dining-room; and Frank at first got a little ease, for Fanny Wyndham seemed to be forgotten in the willing devotion which was paid to Blake's soup; the interest of the fish, also, seemed to be absorbing; and though conversation became more general towards the latter courses, still it was on general subjects, as long as the servants were in the room. But, much to his annoyance, his mistress again came on the tapis [26], together with the claret.

[FOOTNOTE 26: A tapis was a small cloth or tapestry sometimes used to cover a table; hence the expression "on the tapis" meant "on the table" or "under consideration."]

"You and Kilcullen don't hit it off together—eh, Ballindine?" said Mat.

"We never quarrelled," answered Frank; "we never, however, were very intimate."

"I wonder at that, for you're both fond of the turf. There's a large string of his at Murphy's now, isn't there, Dot?"

"Too many, I believe," said Blake. "If you've a mind to be a purchaser, you'll find him a very pleasant fellow—especially if you don't object to his own prices."

"Faith I'll not trouble him," said Mat; "I've two of them already, and a couple on the turf and a couple for the saddle are quite enough to suit me. But what the deuce made him say, so publicly, that your match was off, Ballindine? He couldn't have heard of Wyndham's death at the time, or I should think he was after the money himself."

"I cannot tell; he certainly had not my authority," said Frank.

"Nor the lady's either, I hope."

"You had better ask herself, Tierney; and, if she rejects me, maybe she'll take you."

"There's a speculation for you," said Blake; "you don't think yourself too old yet, I hope, to make your fortune by marriage?—and, if you don't, I'm sure Miss Wyndham can't."

"I tell you what, Dot, I admire Miss Wyndham much, and I admire a hundred thousand pounds more. I don't know anything I admire more than a hundred thousand pounds, except two; but, upon my word, I wouldn't take the money and the lady together."

"Well, that's kind of him, isn't it, Frank? So, you've a chance left, yet."

"Ah! but you forget Morris," said Tierney; "and there's yourself, too. If Ballindine is not to be the lucky man, I don't see why either of you should despair."

"Oh! as for me, I'm the devil. I've a tail, only I don't wear it, except on state occasions; and I've horns and hoofs, only people can't see them. But I don't see why Morris should not succeed: he's the only one of the four that doesn't own a racehorse, and that's much in his favour. What do you say, Morris?"

"I'd have no objection," said the member; "except that I wouldn't like to stand in Lord Ballindine's way."

"Oh! he's the soul of good-nature. You wouldn't take it ill of him, would you, Frank?"

"Not the least," said Frank, sulkily; for he didn't like the conversation, and he didn't know how to put a stop to it.

"Perhaps you wouldn't mind giving him a line of introduction to Lord Cashel," said Mat.

"But, Morris," said Blake, "I'm afraid your politics would go against you. A Repealer would never go down at Grey Abbey."

"Morris'll never let his politics harm him," said Tierney. "Repeal's a very good thing the other side of the Shannon; or one might, carry it as far as Conciliation Hall, if one was hard pressed, and near an election. Were you ever in Conciliation Hall yet, Morris?"

"No, Mat; but I'm going next Thursday. Will you go with me?"

"Faith, I will not: but I think you should go; you ought to do something for your country, for you're a patriot. I never was a public man."

"Well, when I can do any good for my country, I'll go there. Talking of that, I saw O'Connell in town yesterday, and I never saw him looking so well. The verdict hasn't disturbed him much. I wonder what steps the Government will take now? They must be fairly bothered. I don't think they dare imprison him."

"Not dare!" said Blake—'and why not? When they had courage to indict him, you need not fear but what they'll dare to go on with a strong hand, now they have a verdict."

"I'll tell you what, Dot; if they imprison the whole set," said Mat, "and keep them in prison for twelve months, every Catholic in Ireland will be a Repealer by the end of that time."

"And why shouldn't they all be Repealers?" said Morris. "It seems to me that it's just as natural for us to be Repealers, as it is for you to be the contrary."

"I won't say they don't dare to put them in prison," continued Mat; "but I will say they'll be great fools to do it. The Government have so good an excuse for not doing so: they have such an easy path out of the hobble. There was just enough difference of opinion among the judges—just enough irregularity in the trial, such as the omissions of the names from the long panel—to enable them to pardon the whole set with a good grace."

"If they did," said Blake, "the whole high Tory party in this country—peers and parsons—would be furious. They'd lose one set of supporters, and wouldn't gain another. My opinion is, they'll lock the whole party up in the stone jug—for some time, at least."

"Why," said Tierney, "their own party could not quarrel with them for not taking an advantage of a verdict, as to the legality of which there is so much difference of opinion even among the judges. I don't know much about these things, myself; but, as far as I can understand, they would have all been found guilty of high treason a few years back, and probably have been hung or beheaded; and if they could do that now, the country would be all the quieter. But they can't: the people will have their own way; and if they want the people to go easy, they shouldn't put O'Connell into prison. Rob them all of the glories of martyrdom, and you'd find you'll cut their combs and stop their crowing."

"It's not so easy to do that now, Mat," said Morris. "You'll find that the country will stick to O'Connell, whether he's in prison or out of it;—but Peel will never dare to put him there. They talk of the Penitentiary; but I'll tell you what, if they put him there, the people of Dublin won't leave one stone upon another; they'd have it all down in a night."

"You forget, Morris, how near Richmond barracks are to the Penitentiary."

"No, I don't. Not that I think there'll be any row of the kind, for I'll bet a hundred guineas they're never put in prison at all."

"Done," said Dot, and his little book was out—"put that down, Morris, and I'll initial it: a hundred guineas, even, that O'Connell is not in prison within twelve months of this time."

"Very well: that is, that he's not put there and kept there for six months, in consequence of the verdict just given at the State trials."

"No, my boy; that's not it. I said nothing about being kept there six months. They're going to try for a writ of error, or what the devil they call it, before the peers. But I'll bet you a cool hundred he is put in prison before twelve months are over, in consequence of the verdict. If he's locked up there for one night, I win. Will you take that?"

"Well, I will," said Morris; and they both went to work at their little books.

"I was in London," said Mat, "during the greater portion of the trial—and it's astonishing what unanimity of opinion there was at the club that the whole set would be acquitted. I heard Howard make bet, at the Reform Club, that the only man put in prison would be the Attorney-General."

"He ought to have included the Chief Justice," said Morris. "By the bye, Mat, is that Howard the brother of the Honourable and Riverind Augustus?"

"Upon my soul, I don't know whose brother he is. Who is the Riverind Augustus?"

"Morris wants to tell a story, Mat,' said Blake; 'don't spoil him, now."

"Indeed I don't," said the member: "I never told it to any one till I mentioned it to you the other day. It only happened the other day, but it is worth telling."

"Out with it, Morris," said Mat, "it isn't very long, is it?—because, if it is, we'll get Dot to give us a little whiskey and hot water first. I'm sick of the claret."

"Just as you like, Mat," and Blake rang the bell, and the hot water was brought.

"You know Savarius O'Leary," said Morris, anxious to tell his story, "eh, Tierney?"

"What, Savy, with the whiskers?" said Tierney, "to be sure I do. Who doesn't know Savy?"

"You know him, don't you, Lord Ballindine?" Morris was determined everybody should listen to him.

"Oh yes, I know him; he comes from County Mayo—his property's close to mine; that is, the patch of rocks and cabins—which he has managed to mortgage three times over, and each time for more than its value—which he still calls the O'Leary estate."

"Well; some time ago—that is, since London began to fill, O'Leary was seen walking down Regent Street, with a parson. How the deuce he'd ever got hold of the parson, or the parson of him, was never explained; but Phil Mahon saw him, and asked him who his friend in the white choker was. 'Is it my friend in black, you mane?' says Savy, 'thin, my frind was the Honourable and the Riverind Augustus Howard, the Dane.' 'Howard the Dane,' said Mahon, 'how the duce did any of the Howards become Danes?' 'Ah, bother!' said Savy, 'it's not of thim Danes he is; it's not the Danes of Shwaden I mane, at all, man; but a rural Dane of the Church of England.'"

Mat Tierney laughed heartily at this, and even Frank forgot that his dignity had been hurt, and that he meant to be sulky; and he laughed also: the little member was delighted with his success, and felt himself encouraged to persevere.

"Ah, Savy's a queer fellow, if you knew him," he continued, turning to Lord Ballindine, "and, upon my soul, he's no fool. Oh, if you knew him as well—"

"Didn't you hear Ballindine say he was his next door neighbour in Mayo?" said Blake, "or, rather, next barrack neighbour; for they dispense with doors in Mayo—eh, Frank? and their houses are all cabins or barracks."

"Why, we certainly don't pretend to all the Apuleian luxuries of Handicap Lodge; but we are ignorant enough to think ourselves comfortable, and swinish enough to enjoy our pitiable state."

"I beg ten thousand pardons, my dear fellow. I didn't mean to offend your nationality. Castlebar, we must allow, is a fine provincial city—though Killala's the Mayo city, I believe; and Claremorris, which is your own town I think, is, as all admit, a gem of Paradise: only it's a pity so many of the houses have been unroofed lately. It adds perhaps to the picturesque effect, but it must, I should think, take away from the comfort."

"Not a house in Claremorris belongs to me," said Lord Ballindine, again rather sulky, "or ever did to any of my family. I would as soon own Claremorris, though, as I would Castleblakeney. Your own town is quite as shattered-looking a place."

"That's quite true—but I have some hopes that Castleblakeney will be blotted out of the face of creation before I come into possession."

"But I was saying about Savy O'Leary," again interposed Morris, "did you ever hear what he did?"

But Blake would not allow his guest the privilege of another story. "If you encourage Morris," said he, "we shall never get our whist," and with that he rose from the table and walked away into the next room.