AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

As I wandered on, the irritation of my spirit gradually subsided. It was, to be sure, distressing to think over the light in which my uncle’s letter had placed me before Sir George Dashwood, had even my reputation only with him been at stake; but with my attachment to his daughter, it was almost maddening. And yet there was nothing to be done; to disavow my participation would be to throw discredit upon my uncle. Thus were my hopes blighted; and thus, at that season when life was opening upon me, did I feel careless and indifferent to everything. Had my military career still remained to me, that at least would have suggested scenes sufficient to distract me from the past; but now my days must be spent where every spot teemed with memories of bygone happiness and joys never to come back again.

My mind was, however, made up; and without speaking a word to Considine, I turned homeward, and sat down at my writing-table. In a few brief lines I informed my army agent of my intention of leaving the service, and desired that he would sell out for me at once. Fearing lest my resolution might not be proof against the advice and solicitation of my friends, I cautioned him against giving my address, or any clew by which letters might reach me.

This done, I addressed a short note to Mr. Blake, requesting to know the name of his solicitor, in whose hands the bond was placed, and announcing my intention of immediate repayment.

Trifling as these details were in themselves, I cannot help recording how completely they changed the whole current of my thoughts. A new train of interests began to spring up within me; and where so lately the clang of the battle, the ardor of the march, the careless ease of the bivouac, had engrossed every feeling, now more humble and homely thoughts succeeded; and as my personal ambition had lost its stimulant, I turned with pleasure to those of whose fate and fortunes I was in some sort the guardian. There may be many a land where the verdure blooms more in fragrance and in richness, where the clime breathes softer, and a brighter sky lights up the landscape; but there is none—I have travelled through many a one—where more touching and heart-bound associations are blended with the features of the soil than in Ireland, and cold must be the spirit, and barren the affections of him who can dwell amidst its mountains and its valleys, its tranquil lakes, its wooded fens, without feeling their humanizing influence upon him. Thus gradually new impressions and new duties succeeded; and ere four months elapsed, the quiet monotony of my daily life healed up the wounds of my suffering, and in the calm current of my present existence, a sense of content, if not of happiness, crept gently over me, and I ceased to long for the clash of arms and the loud blast of the trumpet.

Unlike all my former habits, I completely abandoned the sports of the field. He who had participated in them with me was no longer there; and the very sight of the tackle itself suggested sad and depressing thoughts.

My horses I took but little pleasure in. To gratify the good and kind people about, I would walk through the stables, and make some passing remark, as if to show some interest; but I felt it not. No; it was only by the total change of all the ordinary channels of my ideas that I could bear up; and now my days were passed in the fields, either listlessly strolling along, or in watching the laborers as they worked. Of my neighbors I saw nothing; returning their cards, when they called upon me, was the extent of our intercourse; and I had no desire for any further. As Considine had left me to visit some friends in the south, I was quite alone, and for the first time in my life, felt how soothing can be such solitude. In each happy face, in every grateful look around me, I felt that I was fulfilling my uncle’s last behest; and the sense of duty, so strong when it falls upon the heart accompanied by the sense of power, made my days pass rapidly away.

It was towards the close of autumn, when I one morning received a letter from London, informing me that my troop had been sold, and the purchase money—above four thousand pounds—lodged to my credit at my banker’s.

As Mr. Blake had merely answered my former note by a civil message that the matter in question was by no means pressing, I lost not a moment, when this news reached me, to despatch Mike to Gurt-na-Morra with a few lines, expressing my anxious desire to finish the transaction, and begging of Mr. Blake to appoint a day for the purpose.

To this application Mr. Blake’s reply was, that he would do himself the honor of waiting upon me the following day, when the arrangements I desired could be agreed upon. Now this was exactly what I wished, if possible, to avoid. Of all my neighbors, he was the one I predetermined to have no intercourse with; I had not forgotten my last evening at his house, nor had I forgiven his conduct to my uncle. However, there was nothing for it but submission; the interview need not be a long, and it should be a last one. Thus resolving, I waited in patience for the morrow.

I was seated at my breakfast the next morning, conning between whiles the columns of the last paper, and feeding my spaniel, who sat upon a large chair beside me, when the door opened, and the servant announced, “Mr. Blake;” and the instant after that gentleman bustled in holding out both his hands with all evidences of most friendly warmth, and calling out,—

“Charley O’Malley, my lad! I’m delighted to see you at last!”

Now, although the distance from the door to the table at which I sat was not many paces, yet it was quite sufficient to chill down all my respectable relative’s ardor before he approached: his rapid pace became gradually a shuffle, a slide, and finally a dead stop; his extended arms were reduced to one hand, barely advanced beyond his waistcoat; his voice, losing the easy confidence of its former tone, got husky and dry, and broke into a cough; and all these changes were indebted to the mere fact of my reception of him consisting in a cold and distant bow, as I told the servant to place a chair and leave the room.

Without any preliminary whatever, I opened the subject of our negotiation, expressed my regret that it should have waited so long, and my desire to complete it.

Whether it was that the firm and resolute tone I assumed had its effect at once, or that disappointed at the mode in which I received his advances he wished to conclude our interview as soon as need be, I know not; but he speedily withdrew from a capacious pocket a document in parchment, which, having spread at large upon the table, and having leisurely put on his spectacles, he began to hum over its contents to himself in an undertone.

“Yes, sir, here it is,” said he. “‘Deed of conveyance between Godfrey O’Malley, of O’Malley Castle, Esq., on the one part’—perhaps you’d like your solicitor to examine it,—‘and Blake, of Gurt’—because there is no hurry, Captain O’Malley—‘on the other.’ In fact, after all, it is a mere matter of form between relatives,” said he, as I declined the intervention of a lawyer. “I’m not in want of the money—‘all the lands and tenements adjoining, in trust, for the payment of the said three thousand’—thank God, Captain, the sum is a trifle that does not inconvenience me! The boys are provided for; and the girls—the pickpockets, as I call them, ha, ha, ha!—not ill off neither;—‘with rights of turbary on the said premises’—who are most anxious to have the pleasure of seeing you. Indeed, I could scarcely keep Jane from coming over to-day. ‘Sure he’s my cousin,’ says she; ‘and what harm would it be if I went to see him?’ Wild, good-natured girls, Captain! And your old friend Matthew—you haven’t forgot Matthew?—has been keeping three coveys of partridge for you this fortnight. ‘Charley,’ says he,—they call you Charley still, Captain,—‘shall have them, and no one else.’ And poor Mary—she was a child when you were here—Mary is working a sash for you. But I’m forgetting—I know you have so much business on your hands—”

“Pray, Mr. Blake, be seated. I know nothing of any more importance than the matter before us. If you will permit me to give you a check for this money. The papers, I’m sure, are perfectly correct.”

“If I only thought it did not inconvenience you—”

“Nothing of the kind, I assure you. Shall I say at sight, or in ten days hence?”

“Whenever you please, Captain. But it’s sorry I am to come troubling you about such things, when I know you are thinking of other matters. And, as I said before, the money does not signify to me; the times, thank God, are good, and I’ve never been very improvident.”

“I think you’ll find that correct.”

“Oh, to be sure it is! Well, well; I’m going away without saying half what I intended.”

“Pray do not hurry yourself. I have not asked have you breakfasted, for I remember Galway habits too well for that. But if I might offer you a glass of sherry and water after your ride?”

“Will you think me a beast if I say yes, Captain? Time was when I didn’t care for a canter of ten or fifteen miles in the morning no more than yourself; and that’s no small boast; God forgive me, but I never see that clover-field where you pounded the Englishman, without swearing there never was a leap made before or since. Is this Mickey, Captain? Faith, and it’s a fine, brown, hearty-looking chap you’re grown, Mickey. That’s mighty pleasant sherry, but where would there be good wine if it wasn’t here? Oh, I remember now what it was I wanted. Peter,—my son Peter, a slip of a boy, he’s only sixteen,—well, d’you see, he’s downright deranged about the army: he used to see your name in the papers every day, and that terrible business at—what’s the name of the place?—where you rode on the chap’s back up the breach.”

“Ciudad Rodrigo, perhaps,” said I, scarcely able to repress a laugh.

“Well, sir, since that he’ll hear of nothing but going into the army; ay, and into the dragoons too. Now, Captain, isn’t it mighty expensive in the dragoons?”

“Why, no, not particularly so,—at least in the regiment I served with.”

“I promised him I’d ask you; the boy’s mad, that’s the fact. I wish, Captain, you’d just reason with him a little; he’ll mind what you say, there’s no fear of that. And you see, though I’d like to do what’s fair, I’m not going to cut off the girls for the sake of the boys; with the blessing of Providence, they’ll never be able to reproach me for that. What I say is this: treat me well, and I’ll treat you the same. Marry the man my choice would pick out for you, and it’s not a matter of a thousand or two I’ll care for. There was Bodkin—you remember him?” said he, with a grin; “he proposed for Mary, but since the quarrel with you, she could never bear the sight of him, and Alley wouldn’t come down to dinner if he was in the house. Mary’s greatly altered; I wish you heard her sing ‘I’d mourn the hopes that leave me.’ Queer girl she is; she was little more than a child when you were here, and she remembers you just as if it was yesterday.”

While Mr. Blake ran on at this rate, now dilating upon my own manifold virtues and accomplishments, now expatiating upon the more congenial theme,—the fascinations of his fair daughters, and the various merits of his sons,—I could not help feeling how changed our relative position was since our last meeting; the tone of cool and vulgar patronage he then assumed towards the unformed country lad was now converted into an air of fawning and deferential submission, still more distasteful.

Young as I was, however, I had already seen a good deal of the world; my soldiering had at least taught me something of men, and I had far less difficulty in deciphering the intentions and objects of my worthy relative, than I should have had in the enigmatical mazes of the parchment bond of which he was the bearer. After all, to how very narrow an extent in life are we fashioned by our own estimate of ourselves! My changed condition affected me but little until I saw how it affected others; that the position I occupied should seem better now that life had lost the great stimulus of ambition, was somewhat strange; and that flattery should pay its homage to the mourning coat which it would have refused to my soldier’s garb, somewhat surprised me. Still my bettered fortunes shone only brightly by reflected light; for in my own heart I was sad, spiritless, and oppressed.

Feeling somewhat ashamed at the coldness with which I treated a man so much my elder, I gradually assumed towards Mr. Blake a manner less reserved. He quickly availed himself of the change, and launched out into an eloquent exposÉ of my advantages and capabilities; the only immediate effect of which was to convince me that my property and my prospects must have been very accurately conned over and considered by that worthy gentleman before he could speak of the one or the other with such perfect knowledge.

“When you get rid of these little encumbrances, your rent-roll will be close on four thousand a year. There’s Bassett, sure, by only reducing his interest from ten to five per cent, will give you a clear eight hundred per annum; let him refuse, and I’ll advance the money. And, besides, look at Freney’s farm; there’s two hundred acres let for one third of the value, and you must look to these tilings; for, you see, Captain, we’ll want you to go into Parliament; you can’t help coming forward at the next election, and by the great gun of Athlone, we’ll return you.”

Here Mr. Blake swallowed a full bumper of sherry, and getting up a little false enthusiasm for the moment, grasped me by both hands and shook me violently; this done, like a skilful general, who, having fired the last shot of his artillery, takes care to secure his retreat, he retired towards the door, where his hat and coat were lying.

“I’ve a hundred apologies to make for encroaching upon your time; but, upon my soul, Captain, you are so agreeable, and the hours have passed away so pleasantly—May I never, if it is not one o’clock!—but you must forgive me.”

My sense of justice, which showed me that the agreeability had all been on Mr. Blake’s side, prevented me from acknowledging this compliment as it deserved; so I merely bowed stiffly, without speaking. By this time he had succeeded in putting on his great-coat, but still, by some mischance or other, the moment of his leaving-taking was deferred; one time he buttoned it awry, and had to undo it all again; then, when it was properly adjusted, he discovered that his pocket-handkerchief was not available, being left in the inner coat-pocket; to this succeeded a doubt as to the safety of the check, which instituted another search, and it was full ten minutes before he was completely caparisoned and ready for the road.

“Good-by, Captain, good-by!” said he warmly, yet warily, not knowing at what precise temperature the metal of my heart was fusible. At a mild heat I had been evidently unsinged, and the white glow of his flattery seemed only to harden me. The interview was now over, and as I thought sufficient had been done to convince my friend that the terms of distant acquaintance were to be the limits of our future intercourse, I assumed a little show of friendliness, and shook his hand warmly.

“Good-by, Mr. Blake; pray present my respectful compliments to your friends. Allow me to ring for your horse; you are not going to have a shower, I hope.”

“No, no, Captain, only a passing cloud,” said he, warming up perceptibly under the influence of my advances, “nothing more. Why, what is it I’m forgetting now! Oh, I have it! May be I’m too bold; but sure an old friend and relation may take a liberty sometimes. It was just a little request of Mrs. Blake, as I was leaving the house.” He stopped here as if to take soundings, and perceiving no change in my countenance, continued: “It was just to beg, that, in a kind and friendly way, you’d come over and eat your dinner with us on Sunday; nobody but the family, not a soul—Mrs. Blake and the girls; a boiled leg of mutton; Matthew; a fresh trout, if we can catch one! Plain and homely, but a hearty welcome, and a bottle of old claret, may be, too—ah! ah! ah!”

Before the cadence of Mr. Blake’s laugh had died away, I politely but resolutely declined the proffered invitation, and by way of setting the question at rest forever, gave him to understand that, from impaired health and other causes, I had resolved upon strictly confining myself to the limits of my own house and grounds, at least for the present.

Mr. Blake then saluted me for the last time, and left the room. As he mounted his hackney, I could not help overhearing an abortive effort he made to draw Mike into something like conversation; but it proved an utter failure, and it was evident he deemed the man as incorrigible as the master.

“A very fine young man the captain is—remarkable!—and it’s proud I am to have him for a nephew!”

So saying, he cantered down the avenue, while Mickey, as he looked after him, muttered between his teeth, “And faix, it’s prouder you’d be av he was your son-in-law!”

Mike’s soliloquy seemed to show me, in a new light, the meaning of my relative’s manner. It was for the first time in my life that such a thought had occurred to me, and it was not without a sense of shame that I now admitted it.

If there be something which elevates and exalts us in our esteem, tinging our hearts with heroism and our souls with pride, in the love and attachment of some fair and beautiful girl, there is something equally humiliating in being the object of cold and speculative calculation to a match-making family: your character studied; your pursuits watched; your tastes conned over; your very temperament inquired into; surrounded by snares; environed by practised attentions; one eye fixed upon the registered testament of your relative, the other riveted upon your own caprices; and then those thousand little cares and kindnesses which come so pleasurably upon the heart when the offspring of true affection, perverted as they are by base views and sordid interest, are so many shocks to the feeling and understanding. Like the Eastern sirocco, which seems to breathe of freshness and of health, and yet bears but pestilence and death upon its breezes,—so these calculated and well-considered traits of affection only render callous and harden the heart which had responded warmly, openly, and abundantly to the true outpourings of affection. At how many a previously happy hearth has the seed of this fatal passion planted its discord! How many a fair and lovely girl, with beauty and attractions sufficient to win all that her heart could wish of fondness and devotion, has, by this pernicious passion, become a cold, heartless, worldly coquette, weighing men’s characters by the adventitious circumstances of their birth and fortune, and scrutinizing the eligibility of a match with the practised acumen with which a notary investigates the solvency of a creditor. How do the traits of beauty, gesture, voice, and manner become converted into the common-place and distasteful trickery of the world! The very hospitality of the house becomes suspect, their friendship is but fictitious; those rare and goodly gifts of fondness and sisterly affection which grow up in happier circumstances, are here but rivalry, envy, and ill-conceived hatred. The very accomplishments which cultivate and adorn life, that light but graceful frieze which girds the temple of homely happiness, are here but the meditated and well-considered occasions of display. All the bright features of womanhood, all the freshness of youth, and all its fascinations are but like those richly-colored and beautiful fruits, seductive to the eye and fair to look upon, but which within contain nothing but a core of rottenness and decay.

No, no; unblessed by all which makes a hearth a home, I may travel on my weary way through life; but such a one as this I will not make the partner of my sorrows and my joys, come what will of it!