“No, my good sir, not if you triumph over yourself, and do justice,” cried Lord Colambre; “if you listen to the truth, which my friend will tell you, and if you will read and believe the confirmation of it, under your son’s own hand, in this packet.”
“His own hand indeed! His seal — unbroken. But how — when — where — why was it kept so long, and how came it into your hands?”
Count O’Halloran told Mr. Reynolds that the packet had been given to him by Captain Reynolds on his death-bed; related the dying acknowledgment which Captain Reynolds had made of his marriage; and gave an account of the delivery of the packet to the ambassador, who had promised to transmit it faithfully. Lord Colambre told the manner in which it had been mislaid, and at last recovered from among the deceased ambassador’s papers. The father still gazed at the direction, and re-examined the seals.
“My son’s hand-writing — my son’s seals! But where is the certificate of the marriage?” repeated he; “if it is withinside of this packet, I have done great in — but I am convinced it never was a marriage. Yet I wish now it could be proved — only, in that case, I have for years done great—”
“Won’t you open the packet, sir?” said Lord Colambre.
Mr. Reynolds looked up at him with a look that said, “I don’t clearly know what interest you have in all this.” But, unable to speak, and his hands trembling so that he could scarcely break the seals, he tore off the cover, laid the papers before him, sat down, and took breath. Lord Colambre, however impatient, had now too much humanity to hurry the old gentleman: he only ran for the spectacles, which he espied on the chimney-piece, rubbed them bright, and held them ready. Mr. Reynolds stretched his hand out for them, put them on, and the first paper he opened was the certificate of the marriage: he read it aloud, and, putting it down, said, “Now I acknowledge the marriage. I always said, if there is a marriage there must be a certificate. And you see now there is a certificate — I acknowledge the marriage.”
“And now,” cried Lord Colambre, “I am happy, positively happy. Acknowledge your grand-daughter, sir — acknowledge Miss Nugent.”
“Acknowledge whom, sir?”
“Acknowledge Miss Reynolds — your grand-daughter; I ask no more — do what you will with your fortune.”
“Oh, now I understand — I begin to understand, this young gentleman is in love — but where is my grand-daughter? how shall I know she is my grand-daughter? I have not heard of her since she was an infant — I forgot her existence — I have done her great injustice.”
“She knows nothing of it, sir,” said Lord Colambre, who now entered into a full explanation of Miss Nugent’s history, and of her connexion with his family, and of his own attachment to her; concluding the whole by assuring Mr. Reynolds that his grand-daughter had every virtue under heaven. “And as to your fortune, sir, I know that she will, as I do, say—”
“No matter what she will say,” interrupted old Reynolds; “where is she? When I see her, I shall hear what she says. Tell me where she is — let me see her. I long to see whether there is any likeness to her poor father. Where is she? Let me see her immediately.”
“She is one hundred and sixty miles off, sir, at Buxton.”
“Well, my lord, and what is a hundred and sixty miles? I suppose you think I can’t stir from my chair, but you are mistaken. I think nothing of a journey of a hundred and sixty miles — I am ready to set off to-morrow — this instant.”
Lord Colambre said, that he was sure Miss Reynolds would obey her grandfather’s slightest summons, as it was her duty to do, and would be with him as soon as possible, if this would be more agreeable to him. “I will write to her instantly,” said his lordship, “if you will commission me.”
“No, my lord, I do not commission — I will go — I think nothing, I say, of a journey of a hundred and sixty miles — I’ll go — and set out to-morrow morning.”
Lord Colambre and the count, perfectly satisfied with the result of their visit, now thought it best to leave old Reynolds at liberty to rest himself, after so many strong and varied feelings. They paid their parting compliments, settled the time for the next day’s journey, and were just going to quit the room, when Lord Colambre heard in the passage a well-known voice — the voice of Mrs. Petito.
“Oh, no, my Lady Dashfort’s best compliments, and I will call again.”
“No, no,” cried old Reynolds, pulling his bell; “I’ll have no calling again — I’ll be hanged if I do! Let her in now, and I’ll see her — Jack! let in that woman now or never.”
“The lady’s gone, sir, out of the street door.”
“After her, then — now or never, tell her.”
“Sir, she was in a hackney coach.”
Old Reynolds jumped up, and went to the window himself, and, seeing the hackney coachman just turning, beckoned at the window, and Mrs. Petito was set down again, and ushered in by Jack, who announced her as, “the lady, sir.” The only lady he had seen in that house.
“My dear Mr. Reynolds, I’m so obliged to you for letting me in,” cried Mrs. Petito, adjusting her shawl in the passage, and speaking in a voice and manner well mimicked after her betters. “You are so very good and kind, and I am so much obliged to you.”
“You are not obliged to me, and I am neither good nor kind,” said old Reynolds.
“You strange man,” said Mrs. Petito, advancing graceful in shawl drapery; but she stopped short. “My Lord Colambre and Count O’Halloran, as I hope to be saved!”
“I did not know Mrs. Petito was an acquaintance of yours, gentlemen,” said Mr. Reynolds, smiling shrewdly.
Count O’Halloran was too polite to deny his acquaintance with a lady who challenged it by thus naming him; but he had not the slightest recollection of her, though it seems he had met her on the stairs when he visited Lady Dashfort at Killpatricks-town. Lord Colambre was “indeed undeniably an old acquaintance:” and as soon as she had recovered from her first natural start and vulgar exclamation, she with very easy familiarity hoped “my Lady Clonbrony, and my Lord, and Miss Nugent, and all her friends in the family, were well;” and said, “she did not know whether she was to congratulate his lordship or not upon Miss Broadhurst, my Lady Berryl’s marriage, but she should soon have to hope for his lordship’s congratulations for another marriage in her present family — Lady Isabel to Colonel Heathcock, who was come in for a large portion, and they are buying the wedding clothes — sights of clothes — and the di’monds, this day; and Lady Dashfort and my Lady Isabel sent me especially, sir, to you, Mr. Reynolds, and to tell you, sir, before any body else; and to hope the cheese come safe up again at last; and to ask whether the Iceland moss agrees with your chocolate, and is palatable? it’s the most diluent thing upon the universal earth, and the most tonic and fashionable — the Duchess of Torcaster takes it always for breakfast, and Lady St. James too is quite a convert, and I hear the Duke of V* * * takes it too.”
“And the devil may take it too, for any thing that I care,” said old Reynolds.
“Oh, my dear, dear sir! you are so refractory a patient.”
“I am no patient at all, ma’am, and have no patience either: I am as well as you are, or my Lady Dashfort either, and hope, God willing, long to continue so.”
Mrs. Petito smiled aside at Lord Colambre, to mark her perception of the man’s strangeness. Then, in a cajoling voice, addressing herself to the old gentleman, “Long, long, I hope, to continue so, if Heaven grants my daily and nightly prayers, and my Lady Dashfort’s also. So, Mr. Reynolds, if the ladies’ prayers are of any avail, you ought to be purely, and I suppose ladies’ prayers have the precedence in efficacy. But it was not of prayers and death-bed affairs I came commissioned to treat — but of weddings my diplomacy was to speak: and to premise my Lady Dashfort would have come herself in her carriage, but is hurried out of her senses, and my Lady Isabel could not in proper modesty; so they sent me as their double, to hope you, my dear Mr. Reynolds, who is one of the family relations, will ho
nour the wedding with your presence.”
“It would be no honour, and they know that as well as I do,” said the intractable Mr. Reynolds. “It will be no advantage, either; but that they do not know as well as I do. Mrs. Petito, to save you and your lady all trouble about me in future, please to let my Lady Dashfort know that I have just received and read the certificate of my son Captain Reynolds’ marriage with Miss St. Omar. I have acknowledged the marriage. Better late than never; and to-morrow morning, God willing, shall set out with this young nobleman for Buxton, where I hope to see, and intend publicly to acknowledge, my grand-daughter — provided she will acknowledge me.”
“Crimini!” exclaimed Mrs. Petito, “what new turns are here? Well, sir, I shall tell my lady of the metamorphoses that have taken place, though by what magic I can’t guess. But, since it seems annoying and inopportune, I shall make my finale, and shall thus leave a verbal P.P.C. — as you are leaving town, it seems, for Buxton so early in the morning. My Lord Colambre, if I see rightly into a millstone, as I hope and believe I do on the present occasion, I have to congratulate your lordship (haven’t I?) upon something like a succession, or a windfall, in this denewment. And I beg you’ll make my humble respects acceptable to the ci-devant Miss Grace Nugent that was; and I won’t derrogate her by any other name in the interregnum, as I am persuaded it will only be a temporary name, scarce worth assuming, except for the honour of the public adoption; and that will, I’m confident, be soon exchanged for a viscount’s title, or I have no sagacity or sympathy. I hope I don’t (pray don’t let me) put you to the blush, my lord.”
Lord Colambre would not have let her, if he could have helped it.
“Count O’Halloran, your most obedient! I had the honour of meeting you at Killpatricks-town,” said Mrs. Petito, backing to the door, and twitching her shawl. She stumbled, nearly fell down, over the large dog — caught by the door, and recovered herself — Hannibal rose and shook his ears. “Poor fellow! you are of my acquaintance, too.” She would have stroked his head; but Hannibal walked off indignant, and so did she.
Thus ended certain hopes: for Mrs. Petito had conceived that her diplomacy might be turned to account; that in her character of an ambassadress, as Lady Dashfort’s double, by the aid of Iceland moss in chocolate, of flattery properly administered, and of bearing with all her dear Mr. Reynolds’ oddnesses and rough-nesses, she might in time — that is to say, before he made a new will — become his dear Mrs. Petito; or (for stranger things have happened and do happen every day), his dear Mrs. Reynolds! Mrs. Petito, however, was good at a retreat; and she flattered herself that at least nothing of this underplot had appeared: and at all events she secured, by her services in this embassy, the long looked-for object of her ambition, Lady Dashfort’s scarlet velvet gown—”not yet a thread the worse for the wear!” One cordial look at this comforted her for the loss of her expected octogenaire; and she proceeded to discomfit her lady, by repeating the message with which strange old Mr. Reynolds had charged her. So ended all Lady Dashfort’s hopes of his fortune.
Since the death of his youngest son, she had been indefatigable in her attentions, and sanguine in her hopes: the disappointment affected both her interest and her pride, as an intrigante. It was necessary, however, to keep her feelings to herself; for if Heathcock should hear any thing of the matter before the articles were signed, he might “be off!” — so she put him and Lady Isabel into her coach directly — drove to Rundell and Bridges’, to make sure at all events of the jewels.
In the mean time Count O’Halloran and Lord Colambre, delighted with the result of their visit, took leave of Mr. Reynolds, after having arranged the journey, and appointed the hour for setting off the next day. Lord Colambre proposed to call upon Mr. Reynolds in the evening, and introduce his father, Lord Clonbrony; but Mr. Reynolds said, “No, no! I’m not ceremonious. I have given you proofs enough of that, I think, in the short time we’ve been already acquainted. Time enough to introduce your father to me when we are in a carriage, going our journey: then we can talk, and get acquainted: but merely to come this evening in a hurry, and say, ‘Lord Clonbrony, Mr. Reynolds; — Mr. Reynolds, Lord Clonbrony’ — and then bob our two heads at one another, and scrape one foot back, and away! — where’s the use of that nonsense at my time of life, or at any time of life? No, no! we have enough to do without that, I dare say. — Good morning to you, Count O’Halloran! I thank you heartily. From the first moment I saw you, I liked you: lucky too, that you brought your dog with you! ’Twas Hannibal made me first let you in; I saw him over the top of the blind. Hannibal, my good fellow! I’m more obliged to you than you can guess.”
“So are we all,” said Lord Colambre.
Hannibal was well patted, and then they parted. In returning home they met Sir James Brooke.
“I told you,” said Sir James, “I should be in London almost as soon as you. Have you found old Reynolds?”
“Just come from him.”
“How does your business prosper? I hope as well as mine.”
A history of all that had passed up to the present moment was given, and hearty congratulations received.
“Where are you going now, Sir James? — cannot you come with us?” said Lord Colambre and the count.
“Impossible,” replied Sir James;—”but, perhaps, you can come with me — I’m going to Rundell and Bridges’, to give some old family diamonds either to be new set or exchanged. Count O’Halloran, I know you are a judge of these things; pray come and give me your opinion.”
“Better consult your bride elect!” said the count.
“No; she knows little of the matter — and cares less,” replied Sir James.
“Not so this bride elect, or I mistake her much,” said the count, as they passed by the window, at Rundell and Bridges’, and saw Lady Isabel, who, with Lady Dashfort, had been holding consultation deep with the jeweller; and Heathcock, playing personnage muet.
Lady Dashfort, who had always, as old Reynolds expressed it, “her head upon her shoulders,” — presence of mind where her interests were concerned, ran to the door before the count and Lord Colambre could enter, giving a hand to each — as if they had all parted the best friends in the world.
“How do? how do? — Give you joy! give me joy! and all that. But mind! not a word,” said she, laying her finger upon her lips, “not a word before Heathcock of old Reynolds, or of the best part of the old fool — his fortune!”
The gentlemen bowed, in sign of submission to her ladyship’s commands; and comprehended that she feared Heathcock might be off, if the best part of his bride (her fortune, or her expectations) were lowered in value or in prospect.
“How low is she reduced,” whispered Lord Colambre, “when such a husband is thought a prize — and to be secured by a manoeuvre!” He sighed.
“Spare that generous sigh!” said Sir James Brooke: “it is wasted.”
Lady Isabel, as they approached, turned from a mirror, at which she was trying on a diamond crescent. Her face clouded at the sight of Count O’Halloran and Lord Colambre, and grew dark as hatred when she saw Sir James Brooke. She walked away to the farther end of the shop, and asked one of the shopmen the price of a diamond necklace, which lay upon the counter.
The man said he really did not know; it belonged to Lady Oranmore; it had just been new set for one of her ladyship’s daughters, “who is going to be married to Sir James Brooke — one of the gentlemen, my lady, who are just come in.”
Then, calling to his master, he asked him the price of the necklace: he named the value, which was considerable.
“I really thought Lady Oranmore and her daughters were vastly too philosophical to think of diamonds,” said Lady Isabel to her mother, with a sort of sentimental sneer in her voice and countenance. “But it is some comfort to me to find, in these pattern-women, philosophy and love do not so wholly engross the heart, that they
“‘Feel every vanity in fondness lost.’”
“’Twould be diffi
cult, in some cases,” thought many present.
“‘Pon honour, di’monds are cursed expensive things, I know!” said Heathcock. “But, be that as it may,” whispered he to the lady, though loud enough to be heard by others, “I’ve laid a damned round wager, that no woman’s diamonds married this winter, under a countess, in Lon’on, shall eclipse Lady Isabel Heathcock’s! and Mr. Rundell here’s to be judge.”
Lady Isabel paid for this promise one of her sweetest smiles; one of those smiles which she had formerly bestowed upon Lord Colambre, and which he had once fancied expressed so much sensibility — such discriminative and delicate penetration.
Our hero felt so much contempt, that he never wasted another sigh of pity for her degradation. Lady Dashfort came up to him as he was standing alone; and, whilst the count and Sir James were settling about the diamonds, “My Lord Colambre,” said she, in a low voice, “I know your thoughts, and I could moralize as well as you, if I did not prefer laughing — you are right enough; and so am I, and so is Isabel; we are all right. For look here: women have not always the liberty of choice, and therefore they can’t be expected to have always the power of refusal.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 564
