What I have heretofore mentioned of the events which followed immediately on my father's death were all related circumstantially to me by MacNaghtan himself, who used to dwell upon them with a most painfully accurate memory. There was not an incident, however slight, there was not a scene of passing interest, that did not leave its deep impression on him; and, amid all the trials of his own precarious life, these were the events which he recurred to most frequently.

Poor fellow, how severely did he reproach himself for calamities that no effort of his could avert! How often has he deplored mistakes and errors which, though they perhaps hastened, by no means caused, the ruin that imperilled us. The simple fact was, that in his dread of litigation, from which almost all his own misfortunes had sprung, he endeavored to conduct affairs which required the most acute and subtle intelligence to guide. He believed that good sense and good intentions would be amply sufficient to divest my father's circumstances of all embarrassment; and when, at last, he saw two claimants in the field for the property—immense, almost fabulous, demands from Fagan—and heard, besides, that no provision was made for my mother, whose marriage was utterly denied and disbelieved,—then he appears to have lost all self-control altogether, and in his despair to have grasped at any expedient that presented itself; one day addressing a confidential letter to Sir Carew O'Moore, whom he regarded as the rightful heir to the property; the next, adventuring to open relations with Curtis, through the mediation of Fagan. Every weak point in my mother's position became, of course, exposed by these fruitless communications; while, by his own change of purpose, he grew to be distrusted by each in turn.

It was a theme that he avoided speaking on; but when questioned closely by me, he has owned that Curtis exercised a kind of sway, a species of terror-like influence, over him that totally overcame him.

“That old, besotted, crazy intellect,” said he, “appeared to have recovered freshness and energy with prosperity; and, animated with almost diabolical acuteness, to profit by every weakness of my own nature. Even Fagan, with all his practised craft, had to succumb to the shrewd and keenwitted powers of the old man; and Crowther owned that all his experience of life had not shown him his equal in point of intelligence.”

A misanthropic, bitter spirit gave him a vigor and energy that his years might have denied him; and there was a kind of vindictive power about him that withstood all the effects of fatigue and exhaustion.

The law had now begun its campaign in right earnest. There were two great issues to be tried at bar, and a grand question, involving any amount of intricacy, for the Chancery Court. The subject was the possession of a large estate, and every legal celebrity of the day was engaged by one side or the other. Of course such an event became the general topic of discussion in all circles, but more particularly in those wherein my father had once moved. Alas for the popularity of personal qualities,—how short-lived is it ever! Of the many who used to partake of his generous hospitality, and who benefited by his friendship, how few could now speak even charitably of his acts! Indeed, it would appear, from the tone in which they spoke, that each, even the least observant or farseeing, had long anticipated his ruin. Such absurd extravagance, such pretension! A house fit for a sovereign prince, and a retinue like that of royalty! And then the daily style of living,—endless profusion and waste! The “French connection”—none would say marriage—also had its share of reprobation. The kindly disposed only affected to deplore and grieve over the unhappy mistake. The rigidly right seemed to read in his own downfall a justice for a crime committed; while another section, as large as either, “took out” their indignation at his insolence in having dared to present her to the world as his wife!

And yet his once warm heart was scarcely cold when they said these things of him. And so it is to this day and to this hour: the same code of morality exists, and the same set of moralizers are to be met with everywhere. Far be it from me to say that faults and follies should pass unnoticed and unstigmatized; but, at least, let the truth-teller of to-day not have been the tuft-hunter of yesterday,—let the grave monitor who rebukes extravagance, not once have been the Sybarite guest who provoked excess; but least of all let us hear predictions of ruin from the lips that only promised long years of happiness and enjoyment.

Events moved rapidly. The Chancellor appointed a receivership over the property, and an order from the Court required that immediate possession should be taken of the house and demesne. My father's balance at his bankers' amounted to some thousand pounds. This, too, was sequestered by a judge's order, “awaiting proceedings.” An inventory of everything, even to the personal effects of my mother, the jewellery she had brought with her from France, her very wardrobe, was taken. The law has a most microscopic eye for detail. Carriages, horses, servants' liveries, were numbered, the very cradle in which lay her baby was declared to belong to some unknown owner; and a kind of mystical proprietorship seemed to float unseen through the chambers and corridors of that devoted dwelling.

My poor mother!—removed from room to room, with good-natured care, to spare her the shock of proceedings which even her ignorance of the world might have taken alarm at; weak, scarcely able to walk; only half conscious of the movement around her; asking every moment for explanations which none had courage to give her; agitated with vague terror; a sense of some misfortune lowering over her, and each moment nearer; catching at a chance word dropped here; eagerly watching at every look there,—what misery, what suffering was yours, poor, friendless, forsaken widow!

Where was MacNaghten, her one faithful friend and counsellor? He had gone to town early that morning, and had not yet returned. One last but fruitless effort to induce Curtis to come to terms had led him again to seek an interview. Her cousin De Gabriac, who had been ill for several days, had by a mere accident, from expressions picked up by his valet in the household, learned the nature of the allegation against my mother,—that her marriage was denied, and my illegitimacy declared. Almost driven to madness by what sounded like an outrage to his pride, he had set out for Dublin to fasten upon some one—any one—a personal quarrel in the vindication of my mother's honor. Fagan's address was known to him, by frequent mention of his name, and thither he accordingly hastened. The Grinder was from home; but to await his return, De Gabriac was ushered upstairs into the drawing-room, where an elderly man was seated writing at a table. The old man lifted his head and slightly saluted the stranger, but continued his occupation without any further notice, and De Gabriac threw himself into a chair to wait, with what patience he could, for Fagan's coming.

There was a newspaper on the table, and De Gabriac took it up to spell as he could the intelligence of the day. Almost the very first lines which caught his eye were an announcement of an “Extensive sale of valuable furniture, plate, and household effects, late the property of Walter Carew, Esq.” Certain enigmatical words that headed the advertisement puzzled the foreigner, and, unable to restrain his eagerness to unravel their meaning, he advanced to the table where the old man was writing, and in a polite tone asked him to explain what meant such phrases as “In re Joseph Curtis, Esq., of Meagh-valley House, and others, petitioners.”

The other, thus addressed, looked from the newspaper to the inquirer, and back again to the paper, and then to the astonished face of the Frenchman, without a word. “I have to hope,” said De Gabriac, “that nothing in my question may appear rude or uncivil. I merely wished to know—”

“To know who Joseph Curtis is!” broke in the old man, quickly. “Then I 'll tell you, sir. He is the only surviving son of Robert Harrison Curtis and Eleanor Anne, his wife, born at Meagh-valley House, in the parish of Cappagh, barony of Ivrone, Anno Domini 1704. Served in Parliament for twenty-eight years, and commanded the militia of his native county till deprived of that honor by a rascally Government and a perjured Viceroy.” Here his voice grew loud, and his manner violent and excited. “Since when, sir, harassed, persecuted, and tortured, he has been robbed of his estates, stripped of his property, and left houseless and friendless,—ay, sir, friendless, I say; for poverty and want attract no friendship,—and who would still be the victim of knavery and scoundrelism if Providence had not blessed him with a clear head as well as a strong heart. Such he is, and such he stands before you. And now, sir, that I have answered your question, will you favor me with a reply to mine: what are you called?”

“I am the Count Emile de Gabriac,” said the Frenchman, smiling; “I will spare you the pedigree and the birthplace.”

“Wisely done, I've no doubt, sir,” said Curtis, “if, as I surmise, you are the relative of that French lady whom I met at Castle Carew.”

“You speak of my cousin, sir,—Madame de Carew.”

“I do not recognize her as such, sir, nor does the law of this country.”

“How do you mean, sir,—not married? Is it such you would imply?” cried De Gabriac, fiercely.

“Never imagine that your foreign airs can terrify me, young gentleman,” said Curtis, insolently. “I 've seen you in your own country, and know well the braggadocio style you can assume. If you ask me for information, do so with the manner that beseems inquiry. If you are for a quarrel, it's not Joe Curtis will balk your good intentions.”

“Poor old fool,” said De Gabriac, contemptuously. “If you had a grandson or a nephew to answer for your insolence—”

“But I have neither, I want neither; I am ready, willing, and able to defend my own honor; and this is exactly what I suspect you are unable to say.”

“But you do not suppose that I can cross a weapon with the like of you!” said De Gabriac, with an insolent laugh.

“You would n't be a Frenchman if you had n't a subterfuge to escape a meeting!” cried Curtis, with a most taunting impertinence of manner.

“This is pushing insolence too far, old man,” said De Gabriac, barely able to restrain himself.

“And yet not far enough, it would seem, to prompt you to an act of manhood. Now hear me, Monsieur Count. I am no admirer of your country, nor its ways; but this I will say, that a French gentleman, so far as I have seen of them, was always ready to resent an insult; and whenever a slight was passed by unnoticed, the presumption ever was that he who endured it was not a gentleman. Is it to some such explanation you wish to conduct me in the present case?”

A contemptuous exclamation and a glance of ineffable disdain was all the reply the Count vouchsafed to this outrageous appeal; and probably by no means could he so effectually have raised the old man's anger. Any allusion to his age, to the infirmities that pertained to it, he bore always with the greatest impatience; but to suppose that his time of life placed him beyond self-vindication was an insult too great to be endured, and he would have braved any peril to avenge it. His sudden access to wealth, far from allaying the irritabilities of his nature, had increased and exaggerated them all. The insolence of prosperity was now added to the querulous temperament that narrow fortune had engendered, and the excitement of his brain was little short of actual frenzy. To what extent of outrage passion might have carried him there is no saying, for he was already hurriedly advancing towards the Count, when the door opened, and Polly Fagan entered. She had overheard from an adjoining room the words of high altercation, and recognizing Curtis as one of the speakers, determined, at any cost, to interfere.

“I am sure, sir,” said she, addressing the old man, while she courtesied deeply to the stranger, “that you will forgive my intrusion; but I only this moment learned that you were here writing, and I thought that probably the quiet seclusion of my room would suit you better: may I make bold to offer it to you?”

“Thanks, madam; but, with your leave, this is quite to my taste,” said he, stiffly.

“It is so comfortable, sir, and looks out upon our little garden!” said Polly, coaxingly.

“I am certain, madam, that it has every attraction, and only needs your presence there to be incomparable.”

“Nay, sir,” said she, laughing, “I'll not take your innuendo, save in its flattering sense.”

“I never flatter, madam, for I would n't try to pass on another the base coinage I 'd reject myself. Others, however,” and here he glanced towards the Frenchman, “may not have these scruples; and I am sure the charms of your apartment will be fully appreciated elsewhere.”

Polly blushed deeply, not the less so that the Frenchman's eyes were bent upon her during the delivery of the speech with evident admiration.

“If mademoiselle would permit me, even as a sanctuary—” began the Count.

“Just so, Miss Polly,” broke in Curtis; “let him take refuge there, as he tells you, for he feels very far from at his ease in my company.”

Polly's quick intelligence read in these few words the real state of the case; and, resolved at all hazards to prevent untoward consequences, she made a sign to the Frenchman to follow her, and left the room.

It was in vain that the old man re-seated himself at the writing-table; all his efforts at composure were fruitless, and he muttered to himself threats of vengeance and imprecations till he worked his mind up to a state of ungovernable fury. It was in the very paroxysm of this passion, and while he was pacing the chamber with hasty steps, that Fagan entered.

“Nothing unpleasant has occurred, sir, I trust,” exclaimed the Grinder, as he beheld the agitated face, and watched the lips that never ceased to mutter unintelligibly.

“Tell me, sir,” cried he, advancing up to Fagan, and placing one hand upon his shoulder, “tell me, sir, what is there in my age and appearance that should exclude me from exacting the satisfaction in vogue amongst gentlemen? I ask you, sir, in plain language,—and you have a right to answer me, for it was in your house and under your roof that I have received this outrage,—where and what is my disqualification?”

“Pray explain yourself, Mr. Curtis. I trust I have n't heard you aright, and that any one had dared to offend you within these walls!”

“Yes, sir, in the very room where we stand, not half an hour ago, an insolent scoundrel of a foreigner—a French lackey, a hairdresser, perhaps—has had the insolence to talk to me, a gentleman of fortune and position, a man whose estate places him in the first rank of this country's gentry. You said so yesterday. Don't deny it, sir; I quote your own very words.”

“I am most ready and willing to repeat them, Mr. Curtis,” said Fagan, humbly; “pray go on.”

“You said yesterday,” continued Curtis, “in the presence of two others, that, except Lord Kiltimon's, there was not so large a property in the country; did you, sir, or did you not?”

“I certainly did say so, sir.”

“And now, sir, you would go back of it,—you had some reservation, some qualifying something or other, I'll be bound; but I tell you, Mr. Anthony Fagan, that though these habits may suit an apple-stall in Mary's Abbey, they are unbecoming when used in the presence of men of rank and fortune. I believe that is plain speaking, sir; I trust there may be no misconception of my meaning, at least!”

Fagan was not, either by nature or by disposition, disposed to submit tamely to insult; but whether it was from some strong reason of policy, or that he held Curtis as one not fully responsible for his words, he certainly took no steps to resent his language, but rather seemed eager to assuage the violence of the old man's temper.

“It's all very well, sir,” said Curtis, after listening with considerable show of impatience to these excuses; “it's all very well to say you regret this, and deplore that. But let me tell you there are other duties of your station beside apologies. You should take measures that when persons of my rank and station accept the shelter of your roof, they are not broken in upon by rascally foreigners, vile adventurers, and swindlers! You may be as angry as you please, sir, but I will repeat every word I have said. Yes, Mr. Fagan; I talk from book, sir,—I speak with knowledge; for when you were serving out crab-apples, in a check-apron, at your father's stall, I was travelling on the Continent as a young gentleman of fortune!”

“Until you tell me how you have been insulted, and by whom,” said Fagan, with some warmth, “I must hope that there is some easily explained mistake.”

“Egad! this is better and better,” exclaimed Curtis. “No, sir, you mistake me much; you entirely misunderstand me. I should most implicitly accept your judgment as to a bruised peach or a blighted pear; but upon a question of injured honor or of outraged feeling, I should scarcely defer to you so humbly!” and as he said these words, with an air of most exaggerated self-importance, he put on his hat and left the room, without once noticing the respectful salutation of the Grinder.

When Fagan entered his daughter's room, he was surprised at the presence of the stranger, whom she presented to him as the Count de Gabriac, and who had so far profited by the opportunity as to have already made a most favorable impression upon the fair Polly.

Polly rapidly told her father that the stranger, while awaiting his return, had been accidentally exposed to the most outrageous treatment from Curtis, to shelter him from a continuance of which she had offered him the hospitality of her own apartment.

“He came in,” resumed she, “to learn some tidings of his cousin's affairs; for it appears that law proceedings of the most rigorous kind are in operation, and the poor widow will be obliged to leave Castle Carew.”

Polly spoke with true feelings of regret, for she really now learned for the first time that my mother's position was involved in any difficulty, though from what precise cause she was still in ignorance.

“Leave me to speak with the Count alone, Polly; I can probably afford him the information he seeks.”

The interview was not of long duration; but Fagan acquitted himself with a degree of tact and delicacy that scarcely seemed native to him. It is difficult to guess at his real motives in the matter. Perhaps he entertained some secret doubts that my mother's marriage might one day or other admit of proof; perhaps he felt some touch of gratitude for the treatment his daughter had experienced when a guest at Castle Carew. Indeed, he spoke of this to the Count with pride and satisfaction. Whatever the reasons, he used the greatest and most delicate reserve in alluding to my mother's situation, and told De Gabriac that the proceedings, however rigorous they might appear, were common in such cases, and that when my mother had sufficiently recovered herself to give detailed information as to the circumstances of her marriage, there would be ample time and opportunity to profit by the knowledge. He went even further, and suggested that for the present he wished to place his little cottage at the Killeries at her disposal, until such time as she could fix upon a residence more to her taste. In fact, both his explanations and his offers were made so gracefully and so kindly that De Gabriac assented at once, and promised to come to dinner on the following day to complete all the arrangements.

When MacNaghten came to hear of the plan, he was overjoyed, not only because it offered a home to my mother in her houseless destitution, but as evidencing a kind spirit on Fagan's part, from which he augured most favorably. In fact, the arrangement, while relieving them from all present embarrassment, suggested also future hope; and it was now determined that while De Gabriac was to accompany my mother to the far west, Dan himself was to set out for France, with a variety of letters which might aid him in tracing out the story of my father's marriage.

It was at an humble little hotel in Stafford Street, a quaint old house called “The Hart,” that they passed the last evening together before separating. Polly Fagan came over to drink tea with my mother, and they chatted away in sombre mood till past midnight. MacNaghten was to sail with an early tide, and they agreed to sit up till it should be his time to depart. Often and often have I heard Dan speak of that evening. Every incident of it made an impression upon his memory quite disproportioned to their non-importance, and he has taken pains even to show me where each of them sat. The corner where my mother's chair stood is now before me, and I fancy I can bring up her pale young widow's face, tear-furrowed and sad, trying to look interested where, with all her efforts, her wandering thoughts were ever turning to the past, and where by no exertion could she keep pace with those who “sorrowed not as she sorrowed.”

“We did not dare to talk to her of the future,” said poor MacNaghten,—“her grief was too holy a thing to be disturbed by such thoughts; but amongst ourselves we spoke whisperingly of when we were all to meet again, and she seemed to listen to us with interest. It was strange enough,” remarked he, “how sorrow had blended all our natures,—differing and discordant as Heaven knows they were—into some resemblance of a family. I felt towards Polly as though she had been my sister, and totally forgot that Gabriac belonged to another land and another people: so humanizing is the touch of affliction!”

It struck three; and at four o'clock Dan was to sail. As he stood up, he caught sight of my mother, and saw that her eyes were full of tears. She made a signal to him to approach, and then said, in a fervent whisper,—

“Come and see him before you go;” and led the way to the adjoining room, where her baby lay asleep. “I know,” said she, in broken accents, “that you will be a friend to him always; but if aught were to befall you—”

MacNaghten cast his eyes heavenward, but made no answer.

“Yes,” cried she, “I have that hope;” and, so saying, she knelt down beside the little cot to pray.

“It was odd,” said he, when telling me this. “I had never heard words of prayer in the French language before; but they struck upon my heart with a power and significance I cannot explain. Was it some strange inward consciousness of the power of Him before whom I was standing, and who knows every tongue and every people, and to whom all hearts are open, let their accents be ever so unlike or so various? I was in the street,” added he, “without knowing how I came there, for my brain was turning with a thousand thoughts.

“'Where to, sir?' said the carman.

“'The Pigeon House,' said I, seating myself on the vehicle.

“'Ain't you Mr. MacNaghten, sir?' asked a large, well-dressed man, in a civil voice, as he touched his hat respectfully to me.

“'That is my name,' replied I.

“'Mr. Daniel MacNaghten, of Garrah Lynn?' asked he, again.

“'When I owned it,' rejoined I, trying to smile at a sad recollection.

“'Then I have a writ against you, sir,' continued he, 'and I'm sorry I must execute it, too.'

“'At whose suit, and for what sum?' asked I, trying to be calm and collected. He answered my last question first, by saying it was for an acceptance for twelve hundred and seventy-six pounds odd; and, after a little pressing, added,—

“'At the suit of Joseph Curtis, Esq., of Meagh-valley House.'

“'What's to be done?' said I. 'I cannot pay it.'

“'Come over to Green Street for the present, anyhow,' said he, civilly; 'there are plenty of houses.'

“'No, no; to jail, if I must,' said I, boldly. 'It's not myself I was thinking about.'

“Just as day was breaking, I passed into the prison; and when I thought to be looking upon the mountains of the bay slowly fading behind me, I was ushered into the debtors' yard, to wait till my future dwelling-place should be assigned me.”

I copy this incident in the very words he himself related it.