The Absentee (4 page)

'That is her own fau't, entirely; she has refused very good
offers—establishments that, I own, I think, as Lady Langdale says, I
was to blame to allow her to let pass; but young LEDIES till they are
twenty, always think they can do better. Mr. Martingale, of Martingale,
proposed for her, but she objected to him on account of he's being on
the turf; and Mr. St. Albans' £7000 a year—because—I REELLY forget
what—I believe only because she did not like him—and something about
principles. Now there is Colonel Heathcock, one of the most fashionable
young men you see, always with the Duchess of Torcaster and that
set—Heathcock takes a vast deal of notice of her, for him; and yet, I'm
persuaded, she would not have him to-morrow, if he came to the PINT, and
for no reason, REELLY now, that she can give me, but because she says
he's a coxcomb. Grace has a tincture of Irish pride. But, for my part,
I rejoice that she is so difficult, for I don't know what I should do
without her.'

'Miss Nugent is indeed—very much attached to you, mother, I am
convinced,' said Lord Colambre, beginning his sentence with great
enthusiasm, and ending it with great sobriety.

'Indeed then, she's a sweet girl, and I am very partial to her, there's
the truth,' cried Lady Clonbrony, in an undisguised Irish accent, and
with her natural warm manner. But a moment afterwards her features and
whole form resumed their constrained stillness and stiffness, and, in
her English accent, she continued—

'Before you put my IDEES out of my head, Colambre, I had something
to say to you—Oh! I know what it was—we were talking of
embarrassments—and I wished to do your father the justice to mention
to you that he has been UNCOMMON LIBERAL to me about this gala, and has
REELLY given me carte-blanche; and I've a notion—indeed I know—that it
is you, Colambre, I am to thank for this.'

'Me!—ma'am!'

'Yes! Did not your father give you any hint?'

'No, ma'am; I have seen my father but for half an hour since I came to
town, and in that time he said nothing to me—of his affairs.'

'But what I allude to is more your affair.'

'He did not speak to me of any affairs, ma'am—he spoke only of my
horses.'

'Then I suppose my lord leaves it to me to open the matter to you. I
have the pleasure to tell you, that we have in view for you—and I
think I may say with more than the approbation of all her family—an
alliance—'

'Oh! my dear mother! you cannot be serious,' cried Lord Colambre; 'you
know I am not of years of discretion yet—I shall not think of marrying
these ten years, at least.'

'Why not? Nay, my dear Colambre, don't go, I beg—I am serious, I assure
you—and, to convince you of it, I shall tell you candidly, at once, all
your father told me: that now you've done with Cambridge, and are come
to Lon'on, he agrees with me in wishing that you should make the figure
you ought to make, Colambre, as sole heir-apparent to the Clonbrony
estate, and all that sort of thing. But, on the other hand, living in
Lon'on, and making you the handsome allowance you ought to have, are,
both together, more than your father can afford, without inconvenience,
he tells me.'

'I assure you, mother, I shall be content—'

'No, no; you must not be content, child, and you must hear me. You must
live in a becoming style, and make a proper appearance. I could not
present you to my friends here, nor be happy, if you did not, Colambre.
Now the way is clear before you: you have birth and title, here is
fortune ready made; you will have a noble estate of your own when old
Quin dies, and you will not be any encumbrance or inconvenience to your
father or anybody. Marrying an heiress accomplishes all this at once;
and the young lady is everything we could wish, besides—you will meet
again at the gala. Indeed, between ourselves, she is the grand object of
the gala; all her friends will come EN MASSE, and one should wish that
they should see things in proper style. You have seen the young lady in
question, Colambre—Miss Broadhurst. Don't you recollect the young lady
I introduced you to last night after the opera?'

'The little, plain girl, covered with diamonds, who was standing beside
Miss Nugent?'

'In di'monds, yes. But you won't think her plain when you see more of
her—that wears off; I thought her plain, at first—I hope—'

'I hope,' said Lord Colambre, 'that you will not take it unkindly of
me, my dear mother, if I tell you, at once, that I have no thoughts of
marrying at present—and that I never will marry for money. Marrying an
heiress is not even a new way of paying old debts—at all events, it is
one to which no distress could persuade me to have recourse; and as I
must, if I outlive old Mr. Quin, have an independent fortune, THERE IS
NO occasion to purchase one by marriage.'

'There is no distress, that I know of, in the case,' cried Lady
Clonbrony. 'Where is your imagination running, Colambre? But merely for
your establishment, your independence.'

'Establishment, I want none—independence I do desire, and will
preserve. Assure my father, my DEAR MOTHER, that I will not be
an expense to him. I will live within the allowance he made me at
Cambridge—I will give up half of it—I will do anything for his
convenience—but marry for money, that I cannot do.'

'Then, Colambre, you are very disobliging,' said Lady Clonbrony, with an
expression of disappointment and displeasure; 'for your father says,
if you don't marry Miss Broadhurst, we can't live in Lon'on another
winter.'

This said—which, had she been at the moment mistress of herself, she
would not have let out—Lady Clonbrony abruptly quitted the room. Her
son stood motionless, saying to himself—

'Is this my mother?—How altered!'

The next morning he seized an opportunity of speaking to his father,
whom he caught, with difficulty, just when he was going out, as usual,
for the day. Lord Colambre, with all the respect due to his father, and
with that affectionate manner by which he always knew how to soften the
strength of his expressions, made nearly the same declarations of his
resolution, by which his mother had been so much surprised and offended.
Lord Clonbrony seemed more embarrassed, but not so much displeased. When
Lord Colambre adverted, as delicately as he could, to the selfishness of
desiring from him the sacrifice of liberty for life, to say nothing of
his affections, merely to enable his family to make a splendid figure
in London, Lord Clonbrony exclaimed, 'That's all nonsense!—cursed
nonsense! That's the way we are obliged to state the thing to your
mother, my dear boy, because I might talk her deaf before she would
understand or listen to anything else. But, for my own share, I don't
care a rush if London was sunk in the salt sea. Little Dublin for my
money, as Sir Terence O'Fay says.'

'Who is Sir Terence O'Fay, may I ask, sir?'

'Why, don't you know Terry? Ay, you've been so long at Cambridge, I
forgot. And did you never see Terry?'

'I have seen him, sir—I met him yesterday at Mr. Mordicai's, the
coachmaker's.'

'Mordicai's!' exclaimed Lord Clonbrony, with a sudden blush, which
he endeavoured to hide by taking snuff. 'He is a damned rascal, that
Mordicai! I hope you didn't believe a word he said—nobody does that
knows him.'

'I am glad, sir, that you seem to know him so well, and to be upon your
guard against him,' replied Lord Colambre; 'for, from what I heard of
his conversation, when he was not aware who I was, I am convinced he
would do you any injury in his power.'

'He shall never have me in his power, I promise him. We shall take care
of that. But what did he say?'

Lord Colambre repeated the substance of what Mordicai had said, and Lord
Clonbrony reiterated—'Damned rascal!—damned rascal! I'll get out
of his hands; I'll have no more to do with him.' But, as he spoke,
he exhibited evident symptoms of uneasiness, moving continually, and
shifting from leg to leg like a foundered horse.

He could not bring himself positively to deny that he had debts and
difficulties; but he would by no means open the state of his affairs
to his son—'No father is called upon to do that,' said he to himself;
'none but a fool would do it.'

Lord Colambre, perceiving his father's embarrassment, withdrew his eyes,
respectfully refrained from all further inquiries, and simply repeated
the assurance he had made to his mother, that he would put his family to
no additional expense; and that, if it was necessary, he would willingly
give up half his allowance.

'Not at all—not at all, my dear boy,' said his father; 'I would rather
cramp myself than that you should be cramped, a thousand times over.
But it is all my Lady Clonbrony's nonsense. If people would but, as they
ought, stay in their own country, live on their own estates, and kill
their own mutton, money need never be wanting.'

For killing their own mutton, Lord Colambre did not see the
indispensable necessity; but he rejoiced to hear his father assert that
people should reside in their own country.

'Ay,' cried Lord Clonbrony, to strengthen his assertion, as he always
thought it necessary to do, by quoting some other person's opinion. 'So
Sir Terence O'Fay always says, and that's the reason your mother can't
endure poor Terry. You don't know Terry? No, you have only seen him;
but, indeed, to see him is to know him; for he is the most off-hand,
good fellow in Europe.'

'I don't pretend to know him yet,' said Lord Colambre. 'I am not so
presumptuous as to form my opinion at first sight.'

'Oh, curse your modesty!' interrupted Lord Clonbrony; 'you mean, you
don't pretend to like him yet; but Terry will make you like him. I
defy you not. I'll introduce you to him—him to you, I mean—most
warn-hearted, generous dog upon earth—convivial—jovial—with wit and
humour enough, in his own way, to split you—split me if he has not. You
need not cast down your eyes, Colambre. What's your objection?'

'I have made none, sir; but, if you urge me, I can only say that, if
he has all these good qualities, it is to be regretted that he does not
look and speak a little more like a gentleman.'

'A gentleman! he is as much a gentleman as any of your formal prigs—not
the exact Cambridge cut, maybe. Curse your English education! 'Twas none
of my advice. I suppose you mean to take after your mother in the notion
that nothing can be good, or genteel, but what's English.'

'Far from it, sir; I assure you, I am as warm a friend to Ireland as
your heart could wish. You will have no reason, in that respect at
least, nor, I hope, in any other, to curse my English education; and,
if my gratitude and affection can avail, you shall never regret the
kindness and liberality with which you have, I fear, distressed yourself
to afford me the means of becoming all that a British nobleman ought to
be.'

'Gad! you distress me now!' said Lord Clonbrony, 'and I didn't expect
it, or I wouldn't make a fool of myself this way,' added he, ashamed of
his emotion, and whiffling it off. 'You have an Irish heart, that I see,
which no education can spoil. But you must like Terry. I'll give you
time, as he said to me, when first he taught me to like usquebaugh. Good
morning to you!'

Whilst Lady Clonbrony, in consequence of her residence in London, had
become more of a fine lady, Lord Clonbrony, since he left Ireland,
had become less of a gentleman. Lady Clonbrony, born an Englishwoman,
disclaiming and disencumbering herself of all the Irish in town, had,
by giving splendid entertainments, at an enormous expense, made her way
into a certain set of fashionable company. But Lord Clonbrony, who was
somebody in Ireland, who was a great person in Dublin, found himself
nobody in England, a mere cipher in London, Looked down upon by the fine
people with whom his lady associated, and heartily weary of them,
he retreated from them altogether, and sought entertainment and
self-complacency in society beneath him—indeed, both in rank and
education, but in which he had the satisfaction of feeling himself the
first person in company. Of these associates, the first in talents, and
in jovial profligacy, was Sir Terence O'Fay—a man of low extraction,
who had been knighted by an Irish lord-lieutenant in some convivial
frolic. No one could tell a good story, or sing a good song better
than Sir Terence; he exaggerated his native brogue, and his natural
propensity to blunder, caring little whether the company laughed at him
or with him, provided they laughed. 'Live and laugh—laugh and live,'
was his motto; and certainly he lived on laughing, as well as many
better men can contrive to live on a thousand a year.

Lord Clonbrony brought Sir Terence home with him next day to introduce
him to Lord Colambre; and it happened that on this occasion Terence
appeared to peculiar disadvantage, because, like many other people, 'Il
gatoit l'esprit qu'il avoit en voulant avoir celui qu'il n'avoit pas.'

Having been apprised that Lord Colambre was a fine scholar, fresh from
Cambridge, and being conscious of his own deficiencies of literature,
instead of trusting to his natural talents, he summoned to his aid, with
no small effort, all the scraps of learning he had acquired in early
days, and even brought before the company all the gods and goddesses
with whom he had formed an acquaintance at school. Though embarrassed
by this unusual encumbrance of learning, he endeavoured to make all
subservient to his immediate design, of paying his court to Lady
Clonbrony, by forwarding the object she had most anxiously in view—the
match between her son and Miss Broadhurst.

'And so, Miss Nugent,' said he, not daring, with all his assurance, to
address himself directly to Lady Clonbrony—'and so, Miss Nugent, you
are going to have great doings, I'm told, and a wonderful grand gala.
There's nothing in the wide world equal to being in a good, handsome
crowd. No later now than the last ball at the Castle that was before I
left Dublin, Miss Nugent—the apartments, owing to the popularity of my
lady-lieutenant, was so throng—so throng—that I remember very well,
in the doorway, a lady—and a very genteel woman she was too, though a
stranger to me—saying to me, "Sir, your finger's in my ear." "I know
it, madam," says I, "but I can't take it out till the crowd give me
elbow room."