“Oh, was that the case?” said Lady Clonbrony: “I own I thought it very unlike you to leave me in that sort of way.”
“And, lest you should be jealous of that half hour when he was accompanying me,” said Lord Clonbrony, “I must remark, that, though I had his body with me, I had none of his mind; that he left at home with you ladies, or with some fair one across the water, for the deuce of two words did he bestow upon me, with all his pretence of accompanying me.”
“Lord Colambre seems to have a fair chance of a pleasant breakfast,” said Miss Nugent, smiling; “reproaches on all sides.”
“I have heard none on your side, Grace,” said Lord Clonbrony; “and that’s the reason, I suppose, he wisely takes his seat beside you. But come, we will not badger you any more, my dear boy. We have given him as fine a complexion amongst us as if he had been out hunting these three hours: have not we, Grace?”
“When Colambre has been a season or two more in Lon’on, he’ll not be so easily put out of countenance,” said Lady Clonbrony; “you don’t see young men of fashion here blushing about nothing.”
“No, nor about any thing, my dear,” said Lord Clonbrony; “but that’s no proof they do nothing they ought to blush for.”
“What they do, there’s no occasion for ladies to inquire,” said Lady Clonbrony; “but this I know, that it’s a great disadvantage to a young man of a certain rank to blush; for no people, who live in a certain set, ever do: and it is the most opposite thing possible to a certain air, which, I own, I think Colambre wants; and now that he has done travelling in Ireland, which is no use in pint of giving a gentleman a travelled air, or any thing of that sort, I hope he will put himself under my conduct for next winter’s campaign in town.”
Lord Clonbrony looked as if he did not know how to look; and, after drumming on the table for some seconds, said, “Colambre, I told you how it would be: that’s a fatal hard condition of yours.”
“Not a hard condition, I hope, my dear father,” said Lord Colambre.
“Hard it must be, since it can’t be fulfilled, or won’t be fulfilled, which comes to the same thing,” replied Lord Clonbrony, sighing.
“I am persuaded, sir, that it will be fulfilled,” said Lord Colambre; “I am persuaded that, when my mother hears the truth, and the whole truth — when she finds that your happiness, and the happiness of her whole family, depend upon her yielding her taste on one subject—”
“Oh, I see now what you are about,” cried Lady Clonbrony; “you are coming round with your persuasions and prefaces to ask me to give up Lon’on, and go back with you to Ireland, my lord. You may save yourselves the trouble, all of you; for no earthly persuasions shall make me do it. I will never give up my taste on that pint. My happiness has a right to be as much considered as your father’s, Colambre, or anybody’s; and, in one word, I won’t do it,” cried she, rising angrily from the breakfast table.
“There! did not I tell you how it would be?” cried Lord Clonbrony.
“My mother has not heard me yet,” said Lord Colambre, laying his hand upon his mother’s arm, as she attempted to pass: “hear me, madam, for your own sake. You do not know what will happen, this very day — this very hour, perhaps — if you do not listen to me.”
“And what will happen?” said Lady Clonbrony, stopping short.
“Ay, indeed; she little knows,” said Lord Clonbrony, “what’s hanging over her head.”
“Hanging over my head?” said Lady Clonbrony, looking up; “nonsense! — what?”
“An execution, madam!” said Lord Colambre.
“Gracious me! an execution!” said Lady Clonbrony, sitting down again; “but I heard you talk of an execution months ago, my lord, before my son went to Ireland, and it blew over — I heard no more of it.”
“It won’t blow over now,” said Lord Clonbrony; “you’ll hear more of it now. Sir Terence O’Fay it was, you may remember, that settled it then.”
“Well, and can’t he settle it now? Send for him, since he understands these cases; and I will ask him to dinner myself, for your sake, and be very civil to him, my lord.”
“All your civility, either for my sake or your own, will not signify a straw, my dear, in this case — any thing that poor Terry could do, he’d do, and welcome, without it; but he can do nothing.”
“Nothing! — that’s very extraordinary. But I’m clear no one dare to bring a real execution against us in earnest; and you are only trying to frighten me to your purpose, like a child; but it shan’t do.”
“Very well, my dear; you’ll see — too late.”
A knock at the house door.
“Who is it? — What is it?” cried Lord Clonbrony, growing very pale.
Lord Colambre changed colour too, and ran down stairs. “Don’t let ’em let any body in, for your life, Colambre; under any pretence,” cried Lord Clonbrony, calling from the head of the stairs: then running to the window, “By all that’s good, it’s Mordicai himself! and the people with him.”
“Lean your head on me, my dear aunt,” said Miss Nugent: Lady Clonbrony leant back, trembling, and ready to faint.
“But he’s walking off now; the rascal could not get in — safe for the present!” cried Lord Clonbrony, rubbing his hands, and repeating, “safe for the present!”
“Safe for the present!” repeated Lord Colambre, coming again into the room. “Safe for the present hour.”
“He could not get in, I suppose. — Oh, I warned all the servants well,” said Lord Clonbrony; “and so did Terry. Ay, there’s the rascal Mordicai walking off, at the end of the street; I know his walk a mile off. Gad! I can breathe again. I am glad he’s gone. But he will come back and always lie in wait, and some time or other, when we’re off our guard (unawares), he’ll slide in.”
“Slide in! Oh, horrid!” cried Lady Clonbrony, sitting up, and wiping away the water which Miss Nugent had sprinkled on her face.
“Were you much alarmed?” said Lord Colambre, with a voice of tenderness, looking at his mother first, but his eyes fixing on Miss Nugent.
“Shockingly!” said Lady Clonbrony; “I never thought it would reelly come to this.”
“It will really come to much more, my dear,” said Lord Clonbrony, “that you may depend upon, unless you prevent it.”
“Lord! What can I do? — I know nothing of business: how should I, Lord Clonbrony? But I know there’s Colambre — I was always told that when he was of age, every thing should be settled; and why can’t he settle it when he’s upon the spot?”
“And upon one condition, I will,” cried Lord Colambre; “at what loss to myself, my dear mother, I need not mention.”
“Then I will mention it,” cried Lord Clonbrony: “at the loss it will be of nearly half the estate he would have had, if we had not spent it.”
“Loss! Oh, I am excessively sorry my son’s to be at such a loss — it must not be.”
“It cannot be otherwise,” said Lord Clonbrony; “nor it can’t be this way either, my Lady Clonbrony, unless you comply with his condition, and consent to return to Ireland.”
“I cannot — I will not,” replied Lady Clonbrony. “Is this your condition, Colambre? — I take it exceedingly ill of you. I think it very unkind, and unhandsome, and ungenerous, and undutiful of you, Colambre; you my son!” She poured forth a torrent of reproaches; then came to entreaties and tears. But our hero, prepared for this, had steeled his mind; and he stood resolved not to indulge his own feelings, or to yield to caprice or persuasion, but to do that which he knew was best for the happiness of hundreds of tenants, who depended upon them — best for both his father and his mother’s ultimate happiness and respectability.
“It’s all in vain,” cried Lord Clonbrony; “I have no resource but one, and I must condescend now to go to him this minute, for Mordicai will be back and seize all — I must sign and leave all to Garraghty.”
“Well, sign, sign, my lord, and settle with Garraghty. Colambre, I’ve heard all the complaints you brought
over against that man. My lord spent half the night telling them to me: but all agents are bad, I suppose; at any rate I can’t help it — sign, sign, my lord; he has money — yes, do; go and settle with him, my lord.”
Lord Colambre and Miss Nugent, at one and the same moment, stopped Lord Clonbrony as he was quitting the room, and then approached Lady Clonbrony with supplicating looks; but she turned her head to the other side, and, as if putting away their entreaties, made a repelling motion with both her hands, and exclaimed, “No, Grace Nugent! — no, Colambre — no — no, Colambre! I’ll never hear of leaving Lon’on — there’s no living out of Lon’on — I can’t, I won’t live out of Lon’on, I say.”
Her son saw that the Londonomania was now stronger than ever upon her, but resolved to make one desperate appeal to her natural feelings, which, though smothered, he could not believe were wholly extinguished: he caught her repelling hands, and pressing them with respectful tenderness to his lips, “Oh, my dear mother, you once loved your son,” said he; “loved him better than any thing in this world: if one spark of affection for him remains, hear him now, and forgive him, if he pass the bounds — bounds he never passed before — of filial duty. Mother, in compliance with your wishes my father left Ireland — left his home, his duties, his friends, his natural connexions, and for many years he has lived in England, and you have spent many seasons in London.”
“Yes, in the very best company — in the very first circles,” said Lady Clonbrony; “cold as the high-bred English are said to be in general to strangers.”
“Yes,” replied Lord Colambre, “the very best company (if you mean the most fashionable) have accepted of our entertainments. We have forced our way into their frozen circles; we have been permitted to breathe in these elevated regions of fashion; we have it to say, that the Duke of This, and my Lady That, are of our acquaintance. — We may say more: we may boast that we have vied with those whom we could never equal. And at what expense have we done all this? For a single season, the last winter (I will go no farther), at the expense of a great part of your timber, the growth of a century — swallowed in the entertainments of one winter in London! Our hills to be bare for another half century to come! But let the trees go: I think more of your tenants — of those left under the tyranny of a bad agent, at the expense of every comfort, every hope they enjoyed! — tenants, who were thriving and prosperous; who used to smile upon you, and to bless you both! In one cottage, I have seen—”
Here Lord Clonbrony, unable to restrain his emotion, hurried out of the room.
“Then I am sure it is not my fault,” said Lady Clonbrony; “for I brought my lord a large fortune: and I am confident I have not, after all, spent more any season, in the best company, than he has among a set of low people, in his muddling, discreditable way.”
“And how has he been reduced to this?” said Lord Colambre. “Did he not formerly live with gentlemen, his equals, in his own country; his contemporaries? Men of the first station and character, whom I met in Dublin, spoke of him in a manner that gratified the heart of his son: he was respectable and respected, at his own home; but when he was forced away from that home, deprived of his objects and his occupations, compelled to live in London, or at watering-places, where he could find no employments that were suitable to him — set down, late in life, in the midst of strangers, to him cold and reserved — himself too proud to bend to those who disdained him as an Irishman — is he not more to be pitied than blamed for — yes, I, his son, must say the word — the degradation which has ensued? And do not the feelings, which have this moment forced him to leave the room, show of what he is capable? Oh, mother!” cried Lord Colambre, throwing himself at Lady Clonbrony’s feet, “restore my father to himself! Should such feelings be wasted? — No; give them again to expand in benevolent, in kind, useful actions; give him again to his tenantry, his duties, his country, his home; return to that home yourself, dear mother! leave all the nonsense of high life — scorn the impertinence of these dictators of fashion, who, in return for all the pains we take to imitate, to court them — in return for the sacrifice of health, fortune, peace of mind — bestow sarcasm, contempt, ridicule, and mimicry!”
“Oh, Colambre! Colambre! mimicry — I’ll never believe it.”
“Believe me — believe me, mother; for I speak of what I know. Scorn them — quit them! Return to an unsophisticated people — to poor, but grateful hearts, still warm with the remembrance of your kindness, still blessing you for favours long since conferred, ever praying to see you once more. Believe me, for I speak of what I know — your son has heard these prayers, has felt these blessings. Here! at my heart felt, and still feel them, when I was not known to be your son, in the cottage of the widow O’Neil.”
“Oh, did you see the widow O’Neil! and does she remember me?” said Lady Clonbrony.
“Remember you! and you, Miss Nugent! I have slept in the bed — I would tell you more, but I cannot.”
“Well! I never should have thought they would have remembered me so long! poor people!” said Lady Clonbrony.
“I thought all in Ireland must have forgotten me, it is now so long since I was at home.”
“You are not forgotten in Ireland by any rank, I can answer for that. Return home, my dearest mother — let me see you once more among your natural friends, beloved, respected, happy!”
“Oh, return! let us return home!” cried Miss Nugent, with a voice of great emotion. “Return, let us return home! My beloved aunt, speak to us! say that you grant our request!” She kneeled beside Lord Colambre, as she spoke.
“Is it possible to resist that voice, that look?” thought Lord Colambre.
“If any body knew,” said Lady Clonbrony, “if any body could conceive, how I detest the sight, the thoughts of that old yellow damask furniture, in the drawing-room at Clonbrony Castle—”
“Good Heavens!” cried Lord Colambre, starting up, and looking at his mother in stupified astonishment; “is that what you are thinking of, ma’am?”
“The yellow damask furniture!” said her niece, smiling. “Oh, if that’s all, that shall never offend your eyes again. Aunt, my painted velvet chairs are finished; and trust the furnishing that room to me. The legacy lately left me cannot be better applied — you shall see how beautifully it will be furnished.”
“Oh, if I had money, I should like to do it myself; but it would take an immensity to new furnish Clonbrony Castle properly.”
“The furniture in this house,” said Miss Nugent, looking round —
“Would do a great deal towards it, I declare,” cried Lady Clonbrony; “that never struck me before, Grace, I protest — and what would not suit one might sell or exchange here — and it would be a great amusement to me — and I should like to set the fashion of something better in that country. And I declare now, I should like to see those poor people, and that widow O’Neil. I do assure you, I think I was happier at home; only that one gets, I don’t know how, a notion, one’s nobody out of Lon’on. But, after all, there’s many drawbacks in Lon’on — and many people are very impertinent, I’ll allow — and if there’s a woman in the world I hate, it is Mrs. Dareville — and, if I was leaving Lon’on, I should not regret Lady Langdale neither — and Lady St. James is as cold as a stone. Colambre may well say frozen circles — these sort of people are really very cold, and have, I do believe, no hearts. I don’t verily think there is one of them would regret me more — Hey! let me see, Dublin — the winter — Merrion-square — new furnished — and the summer — Clonbrony Castle!”
Lord Colambre and Miss Nugent waited in silence till her mind should have worked itself clear. One great obstacle had been removed; and now that the yellow damask had been taken out of her imagination, they no longer despaired.
Lord Clonbrony put his head into the room. “What hopes? — any? if not, let me go.” He saw the doubting expression of Lady Clonbrony’s countenance — hope in the face of his son and niece. “My dear, dear Lady Clonbrony, make us all happ
y by one word,” said he, kissing her.
“You never kissed me so since we left Ireland before,” said Lady Clonbrony. “Well, since it must be so, let us go,” said she.
“Did I ever see such joy!” said Lord Clonbrony, clasping his hands: “I never expected such joy in my life! — I must go and tell poor Terry!” and off he ran.
“And now, since we are to go,” said Lady Clonbrony, “pray let us go immediately, before the thing gets wind, else I shall have Mrs. Dareville, and Lady Langdale, and Lady St. James, and all the world, coming to condole with me, just to satisfy their own curiosity: and then, Miss Pratt, who hears every thing that every body says, and more than they say, will come and tell me how it is reported every where that we are ruined. Oh! I never could bear to stay and hear all this. I’ll tell you what I’ll do — you are to be of age soon, Colambre, — very well, there are some papers for me to sign, — I must stay to put my name to them, and, that done, that minute I’ll leave you and Lord Clonbrony to settle all the rest; and I’ll get into my carriage, with Grace, and go down to Buxton again; where you can come for me, and take me up, when you’re all ready to go to Ireland — and we shall be so far on our way. Colambre, what do you say to this?”
“That, if you like it, madam,” said he, giving one hasty glance at Miss Nugent, and withdrawing his eyes, “it is the best possible arrangement.”
“So,” thought Grace, “that is the best possible arrangement which takes us away.”
“If I like it!” said Lady Clonbrony; “to be sure I do, or I should not propose it. What is Colambre thinking of? I know, Grace, at all events, what you and I must think of — of having the furniture packed up, and settling what’s to go, and what’s to be exchanged, and all that. Now, my dear, go and write a note directly to Mr. Soho, and bid him come himself, immediately: and we’ll go and make out a catalogue this instant of what furniture I will have packed.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 559
