Although the Chief Baron had assured Haire that his mission had no difficulty about it, that he 'd find her Ladyship would receive him in a very courteous spirit, and, finally, that “he'd do the thing” admirably, the unhappy little lawyer approached his task with considerable misgivings, which culminated in actual terror as he knocked at the door of the house where Lady Lendrick resided in Merrion Square, and sent up his name.

“The ladies are still in committee, sir,” said a bland-looking, usher-like personage, who, taking up Haire's card from the salver, scanned the name with a half-supercilious look.

“In committee! ah, indeed, I was not aware,” stammered out Haire. “I suspect—that is—I have reason to believe her Ladyship is aware—I mean my name is not unknown to Lady Lendrick—would you kindly present my card?”

“Take it up, Bates,” said the man in black, and then turned away to address another person, for the hall was crowded with people of various conditions and ranks, and who showed in their air and manner a something of anxiety, if not of impatience.

“Mr. MacClean,—where's Mr. MacClean?” cried a man in livery, as he held forth a square-shaped letter. “Is Mr. MacClean there?”

“Yes, I'm Mr. MacClean,” said a red-faced, fussy-looking man. “I'm Mr. George Henry MacClean, of 41 Mount Street.”

“Two tickets for Mr. MacClean,” said the usher, handing him the letter with a polite bow.

“Mr. Nolan, Balls Bridge,—does any one represent Mr. Nolan of Balls Bridge?” said the usher, haughtily.

“That 's me,” said a short man, who wiped the perspiration from his face with a red-spotted handkerchief, as large as a small bed-quilt,—“that's me.”

“The references not satisfactory, Mr. Nolan,” said the usher, reading from a paper in his hand.

“Not satisfactory?—what do you mean? Is Peter Arkins, Esquire, of Clontarf, unsatisfactory? Is Mr. Ryland, of Abbey Street, unsatisfactory?”

“I am really, sir, unable to afford you the explanation you desire. I am simply deputed by her Ladyship to return the reply that I find written here. The noise is really so great here I can hear nothing. Who are you asking for, Bates?”

“Mr. Mortimer O'Hagan.”

“He's gone away,” cried a voice; “he was here since eleven o'clock.”

“Application refused. Will some one tell Mr. O'Hagan his application is refused?” said the usher, austerely.

“Might I be bold enough to ask what is going forward?” whispered Haire.

“Mr. W. Haire, Ely Place,” shouted out the man in livery. “Card refused for want of a reference.”

“You ought to have sent up two names,—well-known names, Mr. Haire,” said the usher, with a politeness that seemed marked. “It's not too late yet; let me see,” and he looked at his watch, “we want a quarter to one; be back here in half an hour. Take a car,—you 'll find one at the door. Get your names, and I 'll see if I can't do it for you.”

“I am afraid I don't understand you, and I am sure you don't understand me. I came here by appointment—” The rest of the sentence was lost by a considerable bustle and movement that now ensued, for a number of ladies descended the stairs, chatting and laughing freely; while servants rushed hither and thither, calling up carriages, or inquiring for others not yet come. The usher, frantically pushing the crowd aside to clear a path for the ladies, was profuse of apologies for the confusion; adding at the same time that “it was twice as bad an hour ago. There were n't less than two hundred here this morning.”

A number of little pleasantries passed as the bland usher handed the ladies to their carriages; and it was evident by their laughter that his remarks were deemed pungent and witty. Meanwhile the hall was becoming deserted. The persons who had crowded there, descending singly or in groups, went their several ways, leaving Haire the only one behind. “And now, sir,” said the usher, “you see it's all over. You would n't take my advice. They are all gone, and it's the last meeting.”

“Will you favor me so far as to say for what did they meet? What was the object of the gathering?”

“I suppose, sir, you are not a reader of the morning papers?”

“Occasionally. Indeed, I always glance at them.”

“Well, sir, and has not your glance fallen upon the announcement of the ball,—the grand ball to be given at the-Rotundo for the orphan asylum called the 'Rogues Redemptory,' at Rathmines, at the head of whose patronesses stands my Lady's name?”

Haire shook his head in negative.

“And have you not come like the rest with an application for permission to attend the ball?”

“No; I have come to speak to Lady Lendrick—and by appointment too.”

A faint but prolonged “Indeed!” expressed the usher's-astonishment, and he turned and whispered a few words to-a footman at his side. He disappeared, and returned in & moment to say that her Ladyship would see Mr. Haire.

“I trust you will forgive me, sir,” said Lady Lendrick,—a very large, very showy, and still handsome woman,—as she motioned him to be seated. “I got your card when my head was so full of this tiresome ball, and I made the absurd mistake of supposing you came for tickets. You are, I think your note says, an old friend of Mr. Thomas-Lendrick?”

“I am an old friend of his father's. Madam! The Chief Baron and myself were schoolfellows.”

“Yes, yes: I have no doubt,” said she, hurriedly; “but from your note—I have it here somewhere,” and she rummaged amongst a lot of papers that littered the table,—“your note gave me to understand that your visit to me regarded Mr. Thomas Lendrick, and not the Chief Baron. It is possible, however, I may have mistaken your meaning. I wish I could find it. I laid it out of my hand a moment ago. Oh, here it is! now we shall see which of us is right,” and with a sort of triumph she opened the letter and read aloud, slurring over the few commencing lines till she came to “that I may explain to your Ladyship the circumstances by which Mr. Thomas Lendrick's home will for the present be broken up, and entreat of you to extend to his daughter the same kind interest and favor you have so constantly extended to her father.” “Now, sir, I hope I may say that it is not I have been mistaken. If I read this passage aright, it bespeaks my consideration for a young lady who will shortly need a home and a protectress.”

“I suppose I expressed myself very ill. I mean, Madam, I take it, that in my endeavor not to employ any abruptness, I may have fallen into some obscurity. Shall I own, besides,” added he, with a tone of half-desperation in his voice, “that I had no fancy for this mission of mine at all,—that I undertook it wholly against my will? Baron Len-drick's broken health, my old friendship for him, his insistence,—and you can understand what that is, eh?”—he thought she was about to speak; but she only gave a faint equivocal sort of smile, and he went on: “All these together overcame my scruples, and I agreed to come.” He paused here as though he had made the fullest and most ample explanation, and that it was now her turn to speak.

“Well, sir,” said she, “go on; I am all ears for your communication.”

“There it is: that 's the whole of it, Madam. You are to understand distinctly that with the arrangement itself I had no concern whatever. Baron Lendrick never asked my advice; I never tendered it. I 'm not sure that I should have concurred with his notions,—but that 's nothing to the purpose; all that I consented to was to come here, to tell you the thing is so, and why it is so—there!” and with this he wiped his forehead, for the exertion had heated and fatigued him.

“I know I 'm very dull, very slow of comprehension; and in compassion for this defect, will you kindly make your explanation a little, a very little, fuller? What is it that is so?” and she emphasized the last word with a marked sarcasm in her tone.

“Oh, I can see that your Ladyship may not quite like it. There is no reason why you should like it,—all things considered; but, after all, it may turn out very well. If she suit him, if she can hit it off with his temper,—and she may,—young folks have often more forbearance than older ones,—there 's no saying what it may lead to.”

“Once for all, sir,” said she, haughtily, for her temper was sorely tried, “what is this thing which I am not to like, and yet bound to bear?”

“I don't think I said that; I trust I never said your Ladyship was bound to bear anything. So well as I can recall the Chief Baron's words,—and, God forgive me, but I wish I was—no matter what or where—when I heard them,—this is the substance of what he said: 'Tell her,' meaning your Ladyship,—'tell her that, rightly understood, the presence of my granddaughter as mistress of my house—'”

“What do you say, sir?—is Miss Lendrick coming to reside at the Priory?”

“Of course—what else have I been saying this half-hour?”

“To take the position of lady of the house?” said she, not deigning to notice his question.

“Just so, Madam.”

“I declare, sir, bold as the step is,”—she arose as she spoke, and drew herself haughtily up,—“bold as the step is, it is not half so bold as your own courage in coming to tell of it. What the Chief Baron had not the hardihood to communicate in writing, you dare to deliver to me by word of mouth,—you dare to announce to me that my place, the station I ought to fill, is to be occupied by another, and that whenever I pass the threshold of the Priory, I come as the guest of Lucy Lendrick! I do hope, sir, I may attribute to the confusion of your faculties—a confusion of which this short interview has given me proof—that you really never rightly apprehended the ignominy of the mission your friend intrusted to you.”

“You 're right there,” said he, placing both his hands on the side of his head; “confusion is just the name for it.”

“Yes, sir; but I apprehend you must have undertaken this office in a calm moment, and let me ask you how you could have lent yourself to such a task? You are aware, for the whole world is aware, that in living apart from the Chief Baron I am yielding to a necessity imposed by his horrible, his insufferable temper; now, how long will this explanation be valid, if my place in any respect should be occupied by another? The isolation in which he now lives, his estrangement from the world, serve to show that he has withdrawn from society, and accepted the position of a recluse. Will this continue now? Will these be the habits of the house with a young lady at its bead, free to indulge all the caprices of ignorant girlhood? I declare, sir, I wonder how a little consideration for your friend might not have led you to warn him against the indiscretion he was about to commit. The slight to me,” said she, sarcastically, and flushing deeply, “it was possible you might overlook; but I scarcely see how you could have forgotten the stain that must attach to that 'large intellect,—that wise and truly great man.' I am quoting a paragraph I read in the 'Post' this morning, with which, perhaps, you are familiar.”

“I did not see it,” said Haire, helplessly.

“I declare, sir, I was unjust enough to think you wrote it. I thought no one short of him who had come on your errand to-day could have been the author.”

“Well, I wish with all my heart I 'd never come,” said he, with a melancholy gesture of his hands.

“I declare, sir, I am not surprised at your confession. I suppose you are not aware that in the very moment adopted for this—this—this new establishment, there is something like studied insult to me. It is only ten days ago I mentioned to the Chief Baron that my son, Colonel Sewell, was coming back from India on a sick-leave. He has a wife and three little children, and, like most soldiers, is not over-well off. I suggested that as the Priory was a large roomy house, with abundant space for many people without in the slightest degree interfering with each other, he should offer the Sewells to take them in. I said nothing more,—nothing about mÉnage,—no details of any kind. I simply said: “Could n't you give the Sewells the rooms that look out on the back lawn? Nobody ever enters them; even when you receive in the summer evenings, they are not opened. It would be a great boon to an invalid to be housed so quietly, so removed from all noise and bustle.' And to mark how I intended no more, I added, 'They would n't bore you, nor need you ever see them unless you wished for it.' And what was his reply? 'Madam, I never liked soldiers. I 'm not sure that his young wife would n't be displeasing to me, and I know that his children would be insufferable.'

“I said, 'Let me take the dear children, then.' 'Do, by all means, and their dear parents also,' he broke in. 'I should be in despair if I thought I had separated you.' Yes, sir, I give you his very words. This wise and truly great man, or truly wise and great—which is it?—had nothing more generous nor more courteous to say to me than a sarcasm and an impertinence. Are you not proud of your friend?”

Never was there a more unlucky peroration, from the day when Lord Denman concluded an eloquent defence of a queen's innocence by appealing to the unhappy illustration which called forth the touching words, “Let him that is without sin cast the first stone at her.” Never was there a more signal blunder than to ask this man to repudiate the friendship which had formed the whole pride and glory of his life.

“I should think I am proud of him, Madam,” said he, rising, and speaking with a boldness that amazed even himself. “I was proud to be his class-fellow at school; I was proud to sit in the same division with him in college,—proud when he won his gold medal and carried off his fellowship. It was a proud day to me when I saw him take his seat on the bench; and my heart nearly burst with pride when he placed me on his right hand at dinner, and told the Benchers and the Bar that we had walked the road of life together, and that the grasp of my hand—he called it my honest hand—had been the ever-present earnest of each success he had achieved in his career. Yes, Madam, I am very proud of him; and my heart must be cold indeed before I cease to be proud of him.”

“I declare, sir, you astonish, you amaze me. I was well aware how that truly great and wise man had often inspired the eloquence of attack. Many have assailed—many have vituperated him; but that any one should have delivered a panegyric on the inestimable value of his friendship!—his friendship, of all things!—is what I was not prepared for.”

Haire heard the ringing raillery of her laugh; he was stung by he knew not what tortures of her scornful impertinence; bitter, biting words, very cruel words, too, fell over and around him like a sort of hail; they beat on his face and rattled over his head and shoulders. He was conscious of a storm, and conscious too that he sought neither shelter nor defence, but only tried to fly before the hurricane, whither he knew not.

How he quitted that room, descended the stairs, and escaped from the house, he never was able to recall. He was far away outside the city wandering along through an unfrequented suburb ere he came to his full consciousness, murmuring to himself ever as he went, “What a woman, what a woman! what a temper,—ay, and what a tongue!” Without any guidance of his own—without any consciousness of it—he walked on and on, till he found himself at the gate-lodge of the Priory; a carriage was just passing in, and he stopped to ask whose it was. It was the Chief Baron's granddaughter who had arrived that morning by train. He turned back when he heard this, and returned to town. “Whether you like it or not, Lady Lendrick, it is done now, and there 's no good in carrying on the issue after the verdict.” And with this reflection, embodying possibly as much wisdom as his whole career had taught him, he hastened homeward, secretly determining, if he possibly could, never to reveal anything to the Chief Baron of his late interview with Lady Lendrick.