Читать книгу The Knight Of Gwynne (Vol. 1&2) - Charles James Lever - Страница 17

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Forester's recovery was slow, at least so his friends in the capital thought it, for to each letter requiring to know when he might be expected back again, the one reply forever was returned, “As soon as he felt able to leave Gwynne Abbey.” Nor was the answer, perhaps, injudiciously couched.

From the evening of his first introduction to Lady Eleanor and her daughter, his visits were frequent, sometimes occupying the entire morning, and always prolonged far into the night. Never did an intimacy make more rapid progress; so many tastes and so many topics were in common to all, for while the ladies had profited by reading and study in matters which he had little cultivated, yet the groundwork of an early good education enabled him to join in discussions, and take part in conversation which both interested at the time, and suggested improvement afterward; and if Lady Eleanor knew less of the late events which formed the staple of London small-talk, she was well informed on the characters and passages of the early portion of the reign, which gave all the charm of a history to reminiscences purely personal.

With the wits and distinguished men of that day she had lived in great intimacy, and felt a pride in contrasting the displays of intellectual wealth, so common then, with the flatter and more prosaic habita since introduced into society. “Eccentricities and absurdities,” she would say, “have replaced in the world the more brilliant exhibitions of cultivated and gifted minds, and I must confess to preferring the social qualities of Horace Walpole to the exaggerations of Bagenal Daly, or the ludicrous caprices of Buck Whaley.”

“I think Mr. Daly charming, for my part,” said Helen, laughing. “I'm certain that he is a miracle of truth, as he is of adventure; if everything he relates is not strictly accurate and matter of fact, it is because the real is always inferior to the ideal. The things ought to have happened as he states.”

“It is, at least, ben trovato,” broke in Forester; “yet I go further, and place perfect confidence in his narratives, and truly I have heard some strange ones in our morning rides together.”

“I suspected as much,” said Lady Eleanor, “a new listener is such a boon to him; so, then, you have heard how he carried away the Infanta of Spain, compelled the Elector of Saxony to take off his boots, made the Doge of Venice drunk, and instructed the Pasha of Trebizond in the mysteries of an Irish jig.”

“Not a word of these have I heard as yet.”

“Indeed! then what, in all mercy, has he been talking of—India, China, or North America, perhaps?”

“Still less; he has never wandered from Ireland and Irish life, and I must say, as far as adventure and incident are concerned, it would have been quite unnecessary for him to have strayed beyond it.”

“You are perfectly right there,” said Lady Eleanor, with some seriousness in the tone; “our home anomalies may shame all foreign wonders: he himself could scarcely find his parallel in any land.”

“He has a sincere affection for Lionel, Mamma,” said Helen, in an accent of deprecating meaning.

“And that very same regard gave the bias to Lionel's taste for every species of absurdity! Believe me, Helen, Irish blood is too stimulating an ingredient to enter into a family oftener than once in four generations. Mr. Daly's has been unadulterated for centuries, and the consequence is, that, although neither deficient in strong sense or quick perception, he acts always on the impulse that precedes judgment, and both his generosity and his injustice outrun the mark.”

“I love that same rash temperament,” said Helen, flushing as she spoke; “it is a fine thing to see so much of warm and generous nature survive all that he must have seen of the littleness of mankind.”

“There! Captain Forester, there! Have I not reason on my side? You thought me very unjust towards poor Mr. Daly—I know you did; but it demands all my watchfulness to prevent him being equally the model for my daughter, as he is for my son's imitation.”

“There are traits in his character any might well be proud to imitate,” said Helen, warmly; “his life has been a series of generous, single-minded actions; and,” added she, archly “if Mamma thinks it prudent and safe to warn her children against some of Mr. Daly's eccentricities, no one is more ready to acknowledge his real worth than she is.”

“Helen is right,” said Lady Eleanor; “if we could always be certain that Mr. Daly's imitators would copy the truly great features of his character, we might forgive them falling into his weaknesses; and now, can any one tell me why we have not seen him for some days past? He is in the Abbey?”

“Yes, we rode out together yesterday morning to look at the wreck near the Sound of Achill; strange enough, I only learned from a chance remark of one of the sailors that Daly had been in the boat, the night before, that took the people off the wreck.”

“So like him!” exclaimed Helen, with enthusiasm.

“He is angry with me, I know he is,” said Lady Eleanor, musingly. “I asked his advice respecting the answer I should send to a certain letter, and then rejected the counsel. He would have forgiven me had I run counter to his opinions without asking; but when I called him into consultation, the offence became a grave one.”

“I declare, Mamma, I side with him; his arguments were clear, strong, and unanswerable, and the best proof of it is, you have never had the courage to follow your own determination since you listened to him.”

“I have a great mind to choose an umpire between us. What say you, Captain Forester, will you hear the case? Helen shall take Mr. Daly's side; I will make my own statement.”

“It's a novel idea,” said Helen, laughing, “that the umpire should be selected by one of the litigating parties.”

“Then you doubt my impartiality, Miss Darcy?”

“If I am to accept you as a judge, I 'll not prejudice the Court against myself, by avowing my opinions of it,” said she, archly.

“When I spoke of your arbitration, Captain Forester,” said Lady Eleanor, “I really meant fairly, for upon all the topics we have discussed together, politics, or anything bordering on political opinions, have never come uppermost; and, up to this moment, I have not the slightest notion what are your political leanings, Whig or Tory.”

“So the point in dispute is a political one?” asked Forester, cautiously.

“Not exactly,” interposed Helen; “the policy of a certain reply to a certain demand is the question at issue; but the advice of any party in the matter might be tinged by his party leanings, if he have any.”

“If I judge Captain Forester aright, he has troubled his head very little about party squabbles,” said Lady Eleanor; “and in any case, he can scarcely take a deep interest in a question which is almost peculiarly Irish.”

Forester bowed—partly in pretended acquiescence of this speech, partly to conceal a deep flush that mounted suddenly to his cheek; for he felt by no means pleased at a remark that might be held to reflect on his political knowledge.

“Be thou the judge, then,” said Lady Eleanor. “And, first of all, read that letter.” And she took from her work-box her cousin Lord Netherby's letter, and handed it to Forester.

“I reserve my right to dispute that document being evidence,” said Helen, laughing; “nor is there any proof of the handwriting being Lord Netherby's. Mamma herself acknowledges she has not heard from him for nearly twenty years.”

This cunning speech, meant to intimate the precise relation of the two parties, was understood at once by Forester, who could with difficulty control a smile, although Lady Eleanor looked far from pleased.

There was now a pause, while Forester read over the long letter with due attention, somewhat puzzled to conceive to what particular portion of it the matter in dispute referred.

“You have not read the postscript,” said Helen, as she saw him folding the letter, without remarking the few concluding lines.

Forester twice read over the passage alluded to, and at once whatever had been mysterious or difficult was revealed before him. Lord Netherby's wily temptation was made manifest, not the less palpably, perhaps, because the reader was himself involved in the very same scheme.

“You have now seen my cousin's letter,” said Lady Eleanor, “and the whole question is whether the reply should be limited to a suitable acknowledgment of its kind expressions, and a grateful sense of the Prince's condescension, or should convey—”

“Mamma means,” interrupted Helen, laughingly—“Mamma means, that we might also avow our sincere gratitude for the rich temptation offered in requital of my father's vote on the 'nion.'”

“No minister would dare to make such a proposition to the Knight of Gwynne,” said Lady Eleanor, haughtily.

“Ministers are very enterprising nowadays, Mamma,” rejoined Helen; “I have never heard any one speak of Mr. Pitt's cowardice, and Lord Castlereagh has had courage to invite old Mr. Hickman to dinner!”

Forester would gladly have acknowledged his relationship to the Secretary, but the moment seemed unpropitious, and the avowal would have had the semblance of a rebuke; so he covered his confusion by a laugh, and said nothing.

“We can scarcely contemn the hardihood of a Government that has made Crofton a bishop, and Hawes a general,” said Helen, with a flashing eye and a lip curled in superciliousness. “Nothing short of a profound reliance on the piety of the Church and the bravery of the Army would support such a policy as that!”

Lady Eleanor seemed provoked at the hardy tone of Helen's speech; but the mother's look was proud, as she gazed on the brilliant expression of her daughter's beauty, now heightened by the excitement of the moment.

“Is it not possible, Miss Darcy,” said Forester, in a voice at once timid and insinuating—“is it not possible that the measure contemplated by the Government may have results so beneficial as to more than compensate for evils like these?”

“A Jesuit, or a Tory, or both,” cried Helen. “Mamma, you have chosen your umpire most judiciously; his is exactly the impartiality needed.”

“Nay, but hear me out,” cried the young officer, whose cheek was crimsoned with shame. “If the measure be a good one—well, let me beg the question, if it be a good one—and yet, the time for propounding it is either inopportune or unfortunate, and, consequently, the support it might claim on its own merits be withheld either from prejudice, party connection, or any similar cause—you would not call a ministry culpable who should anticipate the happy working of a judicious Act, by securing the assistance of those whose convictions are easily won over, in preference to the slower process of convincing the men of more upright and honest intentions.”

“You have begged so much in the commencement, and assumed so much in the conclusion, sir, that I am at a loss to which end of your speech to address my answer; but I will say this much: it is but sorry evidence of a measure's goodness when it can only meet with the approval of the venal. I don't prize the beauty so highly that is only recognized by the blind man.”

“Distorted vision, Miss Darcy, may lead to impressions more erroneous than even blindness.”

“I may have the infirmity you speak of,” said she, quickly, “but assuredly I'll not wear Government spectacles to correct it.”

If Forester was surprised at finding a young lady so deeply interested in a political question, he was still more so on hearing the tone of determination she spoke in, and would gladly, had he known how, have given the conversation a less serious turn.

“We have been all the time forgetting the real question at issue,” said Lady Eleanor. “I 'm sure I never intended to listen to a discussion on the merits or demerits of the Union, on which you both grow so eloquent; will you then kindly return to whence we started, and advise me as to the reply to this letter.”

“I do not perceive any remarkable difficulty, madam,” said Forester, addressing himself exclusively to Lady Eleanor. “The Knight of Gwynne has doubtless strong opinions on this question; they are either in favor of, or adverse to, the Government views: if the former, your reply is easy and most satisfactory; if the latter, perhaps he would condescend to explain the nature of his objections, to state whether it be to anything in the detail of the measure he is adverse to, or to the principle of the Bill itself. A declaration like this will open a door to negotiation, without the slightest imputation on either side. A minister may well afford to offer his reasons for any line of policy to one as eminent in station and ability as the Knight of Gwynne, and I trust I am not indiscreet in assuming that the Knight would not be derogating from that station in listening to, and canvassing, such explanations.”

“Lord Castlereagh, 'aut—,'” said Helen, starting up from her seat, and making a low courtesy before Forester, who, feeling himself in a measure detected, blushed till his face became scarlet.

“My dear Helen, at this rate we shall never—But what is this?—who have we here?”

This sudden exclamation was caused by the appearance of a small four-wheeled carriage drawn up at the gate of the flower-garden, from which old Hickman's voice could now be heard, inquiring if Lady Eleanor were at home.

“Yes, Sullivan,” said she, with a sigh, “and order luncheon.” Then, as the servant left the room, she added, “I am always better pleased when the visits of that family are paid by the old gentleman, whom I prefer to the son or the grandson. They are better performers, I admit, but he is an actor of nature's own making.”

“Do you know him, Captain Forester?” asked Helen.

But, before he could reply, the door was opened, and Sullivan announced, by his ancient title, “Doctor Hickman.”

Strange and grotesque as in every respect he looked, the venerable character of old age secured him a respectful, almost a cordial, reception; and as Lady Eleanor advanced to him, there was that urbanity and courtesy in her manner which are so nearly allied to the expression of actual esteem. It was true, there was little in the old man's nature to elicit such feelings towards him; he was a grasping miser, covetousness and money-getting filled up his heart, and every avenue leading to it. The passion for gain had alone given the interest to his life, and developed into activity any intelligence he possessed. While his son valued wealth as the only stepping-stone to a position of eminence and rank, old Hickman loved riches for their own sake. The bank was, in his estimation, the fountain of all honor, and a strong credit there better than all the reputation the world could confer. These were harsh traits. But then he was old; long years of infirmity were bringing him each hour closer to the time when the passion of his existence must be abandoned; and a feeling of pity was excited at the sight of that withered, careworn face, to which the insensate cravings of avarice lent an unnatural look of shrewdness and intelligence.

“What a cold morning for your drive, Mr. Hickman,” said Lady Eleanor, kindly. “Captain Forester, may I ask you to stir the fire? Mr. Hickman—Captain Forester.”

“Ah, Miss Helen, beautiful as ever!” exclaimed the old man, as, with a look of real admiration, he gazed on Miss Darcy. “I don't know how it is, Lady Eleanor, but the young ladies never dressed so becomingly formerly. Captain Forester, your humble servant; I'm glad to see you about again—indeed, I did n't think it very likely once that you'd ever leave the library on your own feet; Mac-Donough 's a dead shot they tell me—ay, ay!”

“I hope your friends at 'The Grove' are well, sir?” said Lady Eleanor, desirous of interrupting a topic she saw to be particularly distressing to Forester.

“No, indeed, my Lady; my son Bob—Mr. Hickman O'Reilly, I mean—God forgive me, I'm sure they take trouble enough to teach me that name—he's got a kind of a water-brash, what we call a pyrosis. I tell him it's the French dishes he eats for dinner, things he never was brought op to, concoctions of lemon juice, and cloves, and saffron, and garlic, in meat roasted—no, but stewed into chips.”

“You prefer our national cookery, Mr. Hickman?”

“Yes, my Lady, with the gravy in it; the crag-end—if your Ladyship knows what's the crag-end of a—”

“Indeed, Mr. Hickman,” said Lady Eleanor, smiling, “I'm deplorably ignorant about everything that concerns the household. Helen affects to be very deep in these matters; but I suspect it is only a superficial knowledge, got up to amuse the Knight.”

“I beg, Mamma, you will not infer any such reproach on my skill in menage. Papa called my omelette à la curé perfect.”

“I should like to hear Mr. Hickman's judgment on it,” said Lady Eleanor, with a sly smile.

“If it's a plain joint, my Lady, boiled or roasted, without spices or devilment in it, but just the way Providence intended—”

“May I ask, sir, how you suppose Providence intended to recommend any particular kind of cookery?” said Helen, seriously.

“Whatever is most natural, most simple, the easiest to do,” stammered out Hickman, not over pleased at being asked for an explanation.

“Then the Cossack ranks first in the art,” exclaimed Forester; “for nothing can be more simple or easier than to take a slice of a live ox and hang it up in the sun for ten or fifteen minutes.”

“Them's barbarians,” said Hickman, with an emphasis that made the listeners find it no easy task to keep down a laugh.

“Luncheon, my Lady,” said old Tate Sullivan, as with a reverential bow he opened the folding-doors into a small breakfast parlor, where an exquisitely served table was laid out.

“Practice before precept, Mr. Hickman,” said Lady Eleanor; “will you join us at luncheon, where I hope you may find something to your liking?”

As the old man seated himself at the table, his eye ranged over the cabinet pictures that covered the walls, the richly chased silver on the table, and the massive wine-coolers that stood on the sideboard, with an eye whose brilliancy betokened far more the covetous taste of the miser than the pleased expression of mere connoisseurship; nor could he recall himself from their admiration to hear Forester's twice-repeated question as to what he would eat.

“'T is elegant fine plate, no doubt of it,” muttered he, below his breath; “and the pictures may be worth as much more—ay!”

The last monosyllable was the only part of his speech audible, and being interpreted by Forester as a reply to his request, he at once helped the old gentleman to a very highly seasoned French dish before him.

“Eh! what's this?” said Hickman, as he surveyed his plate with unfeigned astonishment; “if I did n't see it laid down on your Ladyship's table, I 'd swear it was a bit of Gal way marble.”

“It's a gélatine truffée, Mr. Hickman,” said Forester, who was well aware of its merits.

“Be it so, in the name of God!” said Hickman, with resignation, as though to say that any one who could eat it might take the trouble to learn the name. “Ay, my Lady, that 's what I like, a slice of Kerry beef—a beast made for man's eating.”

“Mr. Hickman's pony is more of an epicure than his master,” said Forester, as he arose from his chair and moved towards the glass-door that opened on the garden; “he has just eaten the top of your lemon-tree.”

“And by way of dessert, he is now cropping my japonica,” cried Helen, as she sprang from the room to rescue her favorite plant. Forester followed her, and Lady Eleanor was left alone with the doctor.

“Now, my Lady, that I have the opportunity—and sure it was luck gave it to me—would you give me the favor of a little private conversation?”

“If the matter be on business, Mr. Hickman, I must frankly own I should prefer your addressing yourself to the Knight; he will be home early next week.”

“It is—and it is not, my Lady—but, there! they're coming back, now, and it is too late;” and so he heaved a heavy sigh, and lay back in his chair, as though worn out and disappointed.

“Well, then, in the library, Mr. Hickman,” said Lady Eleanor, compassionately, “when you've eaten some luncheon.”

“No more, my Lady; 'tis elegant fine beef as ever I tasted, and the gravy in it, but I'm not hungry now.”

Lady Eleanor, without a guess as to what might form the subject of his communication, perceived that he was agitated and anxious; and so, requesting Forester and her daughter to continue their luncheon, she added: “And I have something to tell Mr. Hickman, if he will give five minutes of his company in the next room.”

Taking a chair near the fire, Lady Eleanor motioned to the doctor to be seated; but the old man was so engaged in admiring the room and its furniture that he seemed insensible to all else. As his eye wandered over the many objects of taste and luxury on every side, his lips muttered unceasingly, but the sound was inarticulate.

“I cannot pledge myself that we shall remain long uninterrupted, Mr. Hickman,” said Lady Eleanor, “so pray lose no time in the communication you have to make.”

“I humbly ask pardon, my Lady,” said the old man, in a voice of deep humility; “I'm old and feeble now, and my senses none of the clearest—but sure it's time for them to be worn out; ninety-one I 'll be, if I live to Lady-day.” It was his habit to exaggerate his age; besides, there was a tremulous pathos in his accents to which Lady Eleanor was far from feeling insensible, and she awaited in silence what was to follow.

“Well, well,” sighed the old man, “if I succeed in this, the last act of my long life, I 'm well content to go whenever the Lord pleases.” And so saying, he took from his coat-pocket the ominous-looking old leather case to which we have already alluded, and searched for some time amid its contents. “Ay! here it is—that is it—it is only a memorandum, my Lady, but it will show what I mean.” And he handed the paper to Lady Eleanor.

It was some time before she had arranged her spectacles and adjusted herself to peruse the document; but before she had concluded, her hand trembled violently, and all color forsook her cheek. Meanwhile; the doctor sat with his filmy eyes directed towards her, as if watching the working of his spell; and when the paper fell from her fingers, he uttered a low “Ay,” as though to say his success was certain.

“Two hundred thousand pounds!” exclaimed she, with a shudder; “this cannot be true.”

“It is all true, my Lady, and so is this too;” and he took from his hat a newspaper and presented it to her.

“The Ballydermot property! The whole estate lost at cards! This is a calumny, sir—the libellous impertinence of a newspaper paragraphist. I'll not believe it.”

“'T 's true, notwithstanding, my Lady. Harvey Dawson was there himself, and saw it all; and as for the other, the deeds and mortgages are at this moment in the hands of my son's solicitor.”

“And this may be foreclosed—”

“On the 24th, at noon, my Lady,” continued Hickman, as he folded the memorandum and replaced it in his pocket-book.

“Well, sir,” said she, as, with a great effort to master her emotion, she addressed him in a steady and even commanding voice, “the next thing is to learn what are your intentions respecting this debt? You have not purchased all these various liabilities of my husband's without some definite object. Speak it out—what is it? Has Mr. Hickman O'Reilly's ambition increased so rapidly that he desires to date his letters from Gwynne Abbey?”

“The Saints forbid it, my Lady,” said the old man, with a pious horror. “I 'd never come here this day on such an errand as that. If it was not to propose what was agreeable, you 'd not see me here—”

“Well, sir, what is the proposition? Let me hear it at once, for my patience never bears much dallying with.”

“I am coming to it, my Lady,” muttered Hickman, who already felt really ashamed at the deep emotion his news evoked. “There are two ways of doing it—” A gesture of impatience from Lady Eleanor stopped him, but, after a brief pause, he resumed: “Bear with me, my Lady. Old age and infirmity are always prolix; but I'll do my best.”

It would be as unfair a trial of the reader's endurance as it proved to Lady Eleanor's, were we to relate the slow steps by which Mr. Hickman announced his plan, the substance of which, divested of all his own circumlocution and occasional interruptions, was simply this: a promise had been made by Lord Castlereagh to Hickman O'Reilly that if, through his influence, exercised by means of moneyed arrangements or otherwise, the Knight of Gwynne would vote with the Government on the “Union,” he should be elevated to the Peerage, an object which, however inconsiderable in the old man's esteem, both his son and grandson had set their hearts upon. For this service they, in requital, would extend the loan to another period of seven years, stipulating only for some trifling advantages regarding the right of cutting timber, some coast fisheries, and other matters to be mentioned afterwards—points which, although evidently of minor importance, were recapitulated by the old man with a circumstantial minuteness.

It was only by a powerful effort that Lady Eleanor could control her rising indignation at this proposal, while the very thought of Hickman O'Reilly as a Peer, and member of that proud “Order” of which her own haughty family formed a part, was an insult almost beyond endurance.

“Go on, sir,” said she, with a forced composure which deceived old Hickman completely, and made him suppose that his negotiation was proceeding favorably.

“I 'm sure, my Lady, it 's little satisfaction all this grandeur would give me. I 'd rather be twenty years younger, and in the back parlor of my old shop at Loughrea than the first peer in the kingdom.”

“Ambition is not your failing, then, sir,” said she, with a glance which, to one more quick-sighted, would have conveyed the full measure of her scorn.

“That it is n't, my Lady; but they insist upon it.”

“And is the Peerage to be enriched by the enrolment of your name among its members? I thought, sir, it was your son.”

“Bob—Mr. Hickman, I mean—suggests that I should be the first lord in the family, my Lady, because then Beecham's title won't seem so new when it comes to him. 'T is the only use they can make of me now—ay!” and the word was accented with a venomous sharpness that told the secret anger he had himself awakened by his remark.

“The Knight of Gwynne,” said Lady Eleanor, proudly, “has often regretted to me the few opportunities he had embraced through life of serving his country; I have no doubt, sir, when he hears your proposal, that he will rejoice at this occasion of making an amende. I will write to him by this post. Is there anything more you wish to add, Mr. Hickman?” said she, as, having risen from her chair, she perceived that the old man remained seated.

“Yes, indeed, my Lady, there is, and I don't think I 'd have the heart for it, if it was n't your Ladyship's kindness about the other business; and even now, maybe, it would take you by surprise.”

“You can scarcely do that, sir, after what I have just listened to,” said she, with a smile.

“Well, there 's no use in going round about the bush, and this is what I mean. We thought there might be a difficulty, perhaps, about the vote; that the Knight might have promised his friends, or said something or other how he 'd go, and would n't be able to get out of it so easily, so we saw another way of serving his views about the money. You see, my Lady, we considered it all well amongst us.”

“We should feel deeply grateful, sir, to know how far this family has occupied your kind solicitude. But proceed.”

“If the Knight does n't like to vote with the Government, of course there is no use in Bob doing it; so he 'll be a Patriot, my Lady—and why not? Ha! ha! ha! they 'll be breaking the windows all over Dublin, and he may as well save the glass!—ay!”

“Forgive me, sir, if I cannot see how this has any reference to my family.”

“I'm coming to it—coming fast, my Lady. We were thinking then how we could help the Knight, and do a good turn to ourselves; and the way we hit upon was this: to reduce the interest on the whole debt to five per cent, make a settlement of half the amount on Miss Darcy, and then, if the young lady had no objection to my grandson, Beecham—”

“Stop, sir,” said Lady Eleanor; “I never could suppose you meant to offend me intentionally—I cannot permit of your doing so through inadvertence or ignorance. I will therefore request that this conversation may cease. Age has many privileges, Mr. Hickman, but there are some it can never confer: one of these is the right to insult a lady and—a mother.”

The last words were sobbed rather than spoken: affection and pride, both outraged together, almost choked her utterance, and Lady Eleanor sat down trembling in every limb, while the old man, only half conscious of the emotion he had evoked, peered at her in stolid amazement through his spectacles.

Any one who knew nothing of old Hickman's character might well have pitied his perplexity at that moment; doubts of every kind and sort passed through his mind as rapidly as his timeworn faculties permitted, and at last he settled down into the conviction that Lady Eleanor might have thought his demand respecting fortune too exorbitant, although not deeming the proposition, in other respects, ineligible. To this conclusion the habits of his own mind insensibly disposed him.

“Ay, my Lady,” said he, after a pause, “'tis a deal of money, no doubt; but it won't be going out of the family, and that's more than could be said if you refuse the offer.”

“Sir!” exclaimed Lady Eleanor, in a tone that to any one less obtusely endowed would have been an appeal not requiring repetition; but the old man had only senses for his own views, and went on:—

“They tell me that Mr. Lionel is just as free with his money as his father; throws it out with both hands, horse-racing and high play, and every extravagance he can think of. Well, and if that's true, my Lady, sure it 's well worth while to think that you 'll have a decent house to put your head under when your daughter's married to Beecham. He has no wasteful ways, but can look after the main chance as well as any boy ever I seen. This notion about Miss Helen is the only thing like expense I ever knew him take up, and sure”—here he dropped his voice to soliloquy—“sure, maybe, that same will pay well, after all—ay!”

“My head! my head is bursting with blood,” sighed Lady Eleanor; but the last words alone reached Hickman's ears.

“Ay! blood's a fine thing, no doubt of it, but, faith, it won't pay interest on a mortgage; nor I never heard of it staying the execution of a writ! 'T is little good blood I had in my veins, and yet I contrived to scrape a trifle together notwithstanding—ay!”

“I do not feel myself very well, Mr. Hickman,” said Lady Eleanor; “may I request you will send my daughter to me, and excuse me if I wish you a good morning.”

“Shall I hint anything to the young lady about what we were saying?” said he, in a tone of most confidential import.

“At your peril, sir!” said Lady Eleanor, with a look that at once seemed to transfix him; and the old man, muttering his adieu, hobbled from the room, while Lady Eleanor leaned back in her chair, overcome by the conflict of her emotions.

“Is he gone?” said Lady Eleanor, faintly, as her daughter entered.

“Yes, Mamma; but are you ill? You look dreadfully pale and agitated.”

“Wearied—fatigued, my dear, nothing more. Tell Captain Forester I must release him from his engagement to us to-day; I cannot come to dinner.” And, so saying, she covered her eyes with her hand, and seemed lost in deep thought.