When, having passed through a suite of gorgeously furnished rooms, Forester entered the dimly lighted boudoir where his lady-mother reclined, his feelings were full of troubled emotion. The remembrance of the last time he had been there was present to his mind, mingled with anxious fears as to his approaching reception. Had he been more conversant with the “world,” he needed not to have suffered these hesitations. There are few conditions in life between which so wide a gulf yawns as that of the titled heir of a house and the younger brother. He was, then, as little prepared for the affectionate greeting that met him as for the absence of all trace of illness in her Ladyship's appearance. Both were very grateful to his feelings as he drew his chair beside her sofa, and a soft remembrance of former days of happiness stole over his pleased senses. Lord Netherby, with a fitting consideration, had left them to enjoy this interview alone, and thus their emotions were unrestrained by the presence of the only one who had witnessed their parting. Perhaps the most distinguishing trait of the closest affection is that the interruptions to its course do not involve the misery of reconciliation to enable us to return to our own place in the heart; but that, the moment of grief or anger or doubt over, we feel that we have a right to resume our influence in the breast whose thoughts have so long mingled with our own. The close ties of filial and parental love are certainly of this nature, and it must be a stubborn heart whose instincts do not tend to that forgiveness which as much blots out as it pardons past errors. Such was not Lady Netherby's. Pride of station, the ambition of leadership in certain circles, had so incorporated themselves with the better dictates of her mind that she rarely, if ever, permitted mere feeling to influence her; but if for a moment it did get the ascendancy, her heart could feel as acutely as though it had been accustomed to such indulgence. In a word, she was as affectionate as the requirements of her rank permitted. Oh, this Rank, this Rank! how do its conventionalities twine and twist themselves round our natures till love and friendship are actually subject to the cold ordinance of a fashion! How many hide the dark spots of their heart behind the false screen they call their “Rank”! The rich man, in the Bible, clothed in his purple, and faring sumptuously, was but acting in conformity with his “Rank;” nay, more, he was charitable as became his “Rank,” for the poor were fed with the crumbs from his table.

Forester was well calculated by natural advantages to attract a mother's pride. He was handsome and well-bred; had even more than a fair share of abilities, which gained credit for something higher from a native quickness of apprehension; and even already the adventurous circumstances of his first campaign had invested his character with a degree of interest that promised well for his success in the world. If her manner to him was then kind and affectionate, it was mingled also with something of admiration, which her woman's heart yielded to the romantic traits of the youth.

She listened with eager pleasure to the animated description he gave of the morning at Aboukir, and the brilliant panorama of the attack; nor was the enjoyment marred by the mention of the only name that could have pained her, the last words of Lord Netherby having sealed Forester's lips with respect to the Knight of Gwynne.

The changeful fortunes of his life as a prisoner were mingled with the recital of the news by which his exchange was effected; and this brought back once more the subject by which their interview was opened,—the death of his elder brother. Lady Netherby perhaps felt she had done enough for sorrow, for she dwelt but passingly on the theme, and rather addressed herself to the future which was now about to open before her remaining son, carefully avoiding, however, the slightest phrase that should imply dictation, and only seeming to express the natural expectation “the world” had formed of what his career should be. “Lord Netherby tells me,” said she, “that the Duke of York will, in all likelihood, name you as an extra aide-decamp, in which case you probably would remain in the service. It is an honor that could not well be declined.”

“I scarcely like to form fixed intentions which have no fixed foundations,” said Forester; “but if I might give way to my own wishes, it would be to indulge in perfect liberty,—to have no master.”

“Nor any mistress, either, to control you, for some time, I suppose,” rejoined she, smiling, as if carelessly, but watching how her words were taken. Forester affected to partake in the laugh, but could not conceal a slight degree of confusion. Lady Netherby was too clever a tactician to let even a momentary awkwardness interrupt the interview, and resumed: “You will be dreadfully worried by all the 'lionizing' in store for you, I'm certain; you are to be feasted and feted to any extent, and will be fortunate if the gratulations on your recovery do not bring back your illness.”

“I shall get away from it all at once,” said Forester, rising, and walking up and down, as if the thought had suggested the impatient movement.

“You cannot avoid presenting yourself at the levee,” said Lady Netherby, anxiously; for already a dread of her son's wilful temper came over her. “His Royal Highness's inquiries after you do not leave an option on this matter.”

“What if I'm too ill?” said he, doggedly; “what if I should not be in town?”

“But where else could you be, Richard?” said she, with a resumption of her old imperiousness of tone and manner.

“In Ireland, madam,” said Forester, coldly.

“In Ireland! And why, for any sake, in Ireland?”

Forester hesitated, and grew scarlet; he did not know whether to evade inquiry by a vague reply, or at once avow his secret determination. At length, with a faltering, uncertain voice, he said: “A matter of business will bring me to that country; I have already conversed with Lord Castlereagh on the subject. Lord Netherby was present.”

“I'm sure he could never concur,-I'm certain.” So far her Ladyship had proceeded, when a sudden fear came over her that she had ventured too far, and turning hastily, she rang the bell beside her. “Davenport,” said she to the grave-looking groom of the chambers, who as instantaneously appeared, “is my Lord at home?”

“His Lordship is in the library, my Lady.”

“Alone?”

“No, my Lady, a gentleman from Ireland is with his Lordship.”

“A gentleman from Ireland!” repeated she, half aloud, as though the very mention of that country were destined to persecute her; then quickly added, “Say I wish to speak with him here.”

The servant bowed and withdrew; and now a perfect silence reigned in the apartment. Forester felt that he had gone too far to retreat, even were he so disposed, and although dreading nothing more than a “scene,” awaited, without speaking, the course of events. As much yielding to an involuntary impatience as to relieve the awkwardness of the interval, he arose and walked into the adjoining drawing-room, carelessly tossing over books and prints upon the tables, and trying to affect an ease he was very far from experiencing.

It was while he was thus engaged that Lord Netherby entered the boudoir, and seeing her Ladyship alone, was about to speak in his usual tone, when, at a gesture from her, he was made aware of Forester's vicinity, and hastily subdued his voice to a whisper. “Whatever the nature of the tidings which in a hurried and eager tone his Lordship retailed, her manner on hearing evinced a mingled astonishment and delight, if the word dare be applied to an emotion whose source was in anything rather than an amiable feeling.

“It seems too absurd, too monstrous in every way,” exclaimed she, at the end of an explanation which took several minutes to recount. “And why address himself to you? That seems also inexplicable.”

“This,” rejoined Lord Netherby, aloud,—-“this was his own inspiration. He candidly acknowledges that no one either counselled or is even aware of the step he has taken.”

“Perhaps the À propos may do us good service,” whispered she, with a glance darted at the room where Forester was now endeavoring, by humming an air, to give token of his vicinity as well as assume an air of indifference.

“I thought of that,” said Lord Netherby, in the same low voice. “Would you see him? A few moments would be enough.”

Lady Netherby made no answer, but with closed eyes and compressed lips seemed to reflect deeply for several minutes. At last she said: “Yes, let him come. I'll detain Richard in the drawing-room; he shall hear everything that is said. If I know anything of him, the insult to his pride will do far more than all our arguments and entreaties.”

“Don't chill my little friend by any coldness of manner,” said his Lordship, smiling, as he moved towards the door; “I have only got him properly thawed within the last few minutes.”

“My dear Richard,” said she, as the door closed after Lord Netherby, “I must keep you prisoner in the drawing-room for a few minutes, while I receive a visitor of Lord Netherby's. Don't close the doors; I can't endure heat and this room becomes insupportable without a slight current of air. Besides, there is no secret, I fancy, in the communication. As well as I understand the matter, it does not concern us; but Netherby is always doing some piece of silly good-nature, for which no one thanks him!”

The last reflection was half soliloquy, but said so that Forester could and did hear every word of it. While her Ladyship, therefore, patiently awaited the arrival of her visitor in one room, Forester threw himself into a chair, and taking up a book at hazard, endeavored to pass the interval without further thought about the matter.

Sitting with his back towards the door of the boudoir. Forester accidentally had placed himself in such a position that a large mirror between the windows reflected to him a considerable portion of the scene within. It was then with an amount of astonishment far above ordinary that he beheld the strange-looking figure who followed Lord Netherby into the apartment of his mother. He was a short, dumpy man, with a bald head, over which the long hairs of either side were studiously combed into an ingenious kind of network, and meeting at an angle above the cranium, looked like the uncovered rafters of a new house. Two fierce-looking gray eyes that seemed ready for fun or malice, rolled and revolved unceasingly over the various decorations of the chamber, while a large thick-lipped mouth, slightly opened at either end, vouched for one who neglected no palpable occasion for self-indulgence or enjoyment. There was, indeed, throughout his appearance, a look of racy satisfaction and contentment, that consorted but ill with his costume, which was a suit of deep mourning; his clothes having all the gloss and shine of a recent domestic loss, and made, as seems something to be expected on these occasions, considerably too large for him, as though to imply that the defunct should not be defrauded in the full measure of sorrow. Deep crape weepers encircled his arms to the elbows, and a very banner of black hung mournfully from his hat. 368

“Mr.———-” Here Lord Netherby hesitated, forgetful of his name.

“Dempsey, Paul Dempsey, your Grace,” said the little man, as, stepping forward, he performed the salutation before Lady Netherby, by which he was accustomed to precede an invitation to dance.

“Pray be seated, Mr. Dempsey. I have just briefly mentioned to her Ladyship the circumstances of our interesting conversation, and with your permission will proceed with my recital, begging that if I fall into any error you will kindly set me right. This will enable Lady Netherby, who is still an invalid, to support the fatigue of an interview wherein her advice and counsel will be of great benefit to us both.”

Mr. Dempsey bowed several times, not sorry, perhaps, that in such an awful presence he was spared the office of chief orator.

“I told you, my dear,” said Lord Netherby, turning towards her Ladyship, “that this gentleman had for a considerable time back enjoyed the pleasure of intimacy with our worthy relative Lady Eleanor Darcy—”

The fall of a heavy book in the adjoining room interrupted his Lordship, between whom and Lady Netherby a most significant interchange of glances took place. He resumed, however, without a pause,—

“Lady Eleanor and her accomplished daughter. If the more urgent question were uot now before us, it would gratify you to learn, as I have just done, the admirable patience she has exhibited under the severe trials she has met; the profound insight she obtained into the condition, hopeless as it proves to be, of their unhappy circumstances; and the resignation in which, submitting to changed fortune, she not only has at once abandoned the modes of living she was habituated to, but actually descended to what I can fancy must have been the hardest infliction of all,—vulgar companionship, and the society of a boarding-house.”

“A most respectable establishment, though,” broke in Paul; “Fumbally's is known all over Ulster—”

A very supercilious smile from Lady Netherby cut short a panegyric Mr. Dempsey would gladly have extended.

“No doubt, sir, it was the best thing of the kind,” resumed his Lordship; “but remember who Lady Eleanor Darcy was,—ay, and is. Think of the station she had always held, and then fancy her in daily intercourse with those people—”

“Oh, it is very horrid, indeed!” broke in Lady Netherby, leaning back, and looking overcome even at the bare conception of the enormity.

“The little miserable notorieties of a fishing-village—”

“Coleraine, my Lord,—Coleraine,” cried Dempsey.

“Well, be it so. What is Coleraine?”

“A very thriving town on the river Bann, with a smart trade in yarn, two breweries, three meeting-houses, a pound, and a Sunday-school,” repeated Paul, as rapidly as though reading from a volume of a topographical dictionary.

“All very commendable and delightful institutions, on which I beg heartily to offer my congratulations, but, you will allow me to remark, scarcely enough to compensate for the accustomed appliances of a residence at Gwynne Abbey. But I see we are trespassing on Lady Netherby's strength. You seem faint, my dear.”

“It's nothing,—it will pass over in a moment or so. This sad account of these poor people has distressed me greatly.”

“Well, then, we must hasten on. Mr. Dempsey became acquainted with our poor friends in this their exile; and although from his delicacy and good taste he will not dwell on the circumstance, it is quite clear to me, has shown them many attentions; I might use a stronger word, and say kindnesses.”

“Oh! by Jove, I did nothing. I could do nothing—”

“Nay, sir, you are unjust to yourself; the very intentions by which you set out on your present journey are the shortest answer to that question. It would appear, my dear, that my fair relative, Miss Darcy, has not forfeited the claim she possessed to great beauty and attraction; for here, in the gentleman before us, is an evidence of their existence. Mr. Dempsey, who 'never told his love,' as the poet says, waited in submission himself for the hour of his changing fortune; and until the death of his mother—”

“No, my Lord; my uncle, Bob Dempsey, of Dempsey's Grove.”

“His uncle, I mean. Mr. Dempsey, of Dempsey's Hole.”

“Grove,-Dempsey's Grove,” interpolated Paul, reddening.

“Grove, I should say,” repeated Lord Netherby, unmoved. “By which he has succeeded to a very comfortable independence, and is now in a position to make an offer of his hand and fortune.”

“Under the conditions, my Lord,—under the conditions,” whispered Paul.

“I have not forgotten them,” resumed Lord Netherby, aloud. “It would be ungenerous not to remember them, even for your sake, Mr. Dempsey, seeing how much my poor, dear relative, Lady Eleanor, is beut on prosecuting this unhappy suit, void of all hope, as it seems to be, and not having any money of her owu—”

“Ready money,—cash,” interposed Paul.

“So I mean—ready money to make the advances necessary—Mr. Dempsey wishes to raise a certain sum by loan, on the security of his property, which may enable the Darcys to proceed with their claim; this deed to be executed on his marriage with Miss Darcy. Am I correct, sir?”

“Quite correct, my Lord; you've only omitted that, to save expensive searches, lawyers' fees, and other devilments of the like nature, that your Lordship should advance the blunt yourself?”

“I was coming to that point. Mr. Dempsey opines that, taking the interest it is natural we should do in our poor friends, he has a kind of claim to make this proposition to us. He is aware of our relationship—mine, I mean—to Lady Eleanor. She spoke to you, I believe, on that subject, Mr. Dempsey?”

“Not exactly to me,” said Paul, hesitating, and recalling the manner in which he became cognizant of the circumstance; “but I heard her say that your Lordship was under very deep obligation to her own father,—that you were, so to say, a little out at elbows once, very like myself before Bob died, and that then—”

“We all lived together like brothers and sisters,” said his Lordship, reddening. “I 'm sure I can't forget how happily the time went over.”

“Then Lady Eleanor, I presume, sir, did not advert to those circumstances as a reason for your addressing yourself to Lord Netherby?” said her Ladyship, with a look of stern severity.

“Why, my Lady, she knows nothing about my coming here. Lord bless us! I wouldn't have told her for a thousand pounds!”

“Nor Miss Darcy, either?”

“Not a bit of it! Oh, by Jove! if you think they 're not as proud as ever they were, you are much mistaken; and, indeed, on this very same subject I heard her say that nothing would induce her to accept a favor from your Lordship, if even so very improbable an event should occur as your offering one.”

“So that we owe the honor of your visit to the most single-minded of motives, sir,” said Lady Netherby, whose manner had now assumed all its stateliness.

“Yes, my Lady, I came as you see,—Dempsius cum Dempsio,—so that if I succeed, I can say like that fellow in the play, 'Alone, I did it.'”

Lord Netherby, who probably felt that the interview had lasted sufficiently long for the only purpose he had destined or endured it, was now becoming somewhat desirous of terminating the audience; nor was his impatience allayed by those sportive sallies of Mr. Dempsey in allusion to his own former condition as a dependant.

At length he said, “You must be aware, Mr. Dempsey, that this is a matter demanding much time and consideration. The Knight of Gwynne is absent.”

“That's the reason there is not an hour to lose,” interposed Paul.

“I am at a loss for your meaning.”

“I mean that if he comes home before it 's all settled, that the game is up. He would never consent, I 'm certain.”

“So you think that the ladies regard you with more favorable eyes?” said her Ladyship, smiling a mixture of superciliousness and amusement.

“I have my own reasons to think so,” said Paul, with great composure.

“Perhaps you take too hopeless a view of your case, sir,” resumed Lord Netherby, blandly. “I am, unhappily, very ignorant of Irish family rank; but I feel assured that Mr. Dempsey, of Dempsey's Hole—”

“Grove,—Dempsey's Grove,” said Paul, with a look of anger.

“I ask your pardon, humbly,—I would say of Dempsey's Grove,-might be an accepted suitor in the very highest quarters. At all events, from news I have heard this morning it is more than likely that the Knight will be in London before many weeks, and I dare not assume either the responsibility of favoring your views, or incurring his displeasure by an act of interference. I think her Ladyship coucurs with me.”

“Perfectly. The case is really one which, however we may and do feel the liveliest interest in, lies quite beyond our influence or control.”

“Mr. Dempsey may rest assured that, even from so brief an acquaintance, we have learned to appreciate some of his many excellent qualities of head and heart.”

Lady Netherby bowed an acquiescence cold and stately; and, his Lordship rising at the same time, Paul saw that the audience drew to a close. He arose then slowly, and with a faint sigh,—for he thought of his long and dreary journey, made to so little profit.

“So I may jog back again as I came,” muttered he, as he drew on his gloves. “Well, well, Lady Eleanor knew him better than I did. Good-morning, my Lady. I hope you are about to enjoy better health. Good-bye, my Lord.”

“Do you make any stay in town, Mr. Dempsey?” inquired his Lordship, in that bland voice that best became him. “Till I pack my portmanteau, my Lord, and pay my bill at the 'Tavistock,'—not an hour longer.”

“I 'm sorry for that. I had hoped, and Lady Netherby also expected, we should have the pleasure of seeing you again.”

“Very grateful, my Lord; but I see how the land lies as well as if I was here a month.”

And with this significant speech Mr. Dempsey repeated his salutations and withdrew.

“What presumption!” exclaimed Lady Netherby, as the door closed behind him. “But how needlessly Lady Eleanor Darcy must have lowered herself to incur such acquaintanceship!”

Lord Netherby made no reply, but gave a glance towards the still open door of the drawing-room. Her Ladyship understood it at once, and said,—

“Oh, let us release poor Richard from his bondage. Tell him to come in.”

Lord Netherby walked forward; but scarcely had he entered the drawing-room, when he called out, “He 's gone!”

“Gone! when?—how?” cried Lady Netherby, ringing the bell. “Did you see Lord Wall incourt when he was going, Davenport?” asked she, at once assuming her own calm deportment.

“Yes, my Lady.”

“I hope he took the carriage.”

“No, my Lady, his Lordship went on foot.”

“That will do, Davenport. I don't receive to-day.”

“I must hasten after him,” said Lord Netherby, as the servant withdrew. “We have, perhaps, incurred the very hazard we hoped to obviate.”

“I half feared it,” exclaimed Lady Netherby, gravely. “Lose no time, however, and bring him to dinner; say that I feel very poorly, and that his society will cheer me greatly. If he is unfit to leave the house, stay with him; but above all things let him not be left alone.”

Lord Netherby hastened from the room, and his carriage was soon heard at a rapid pace proceeding down the square.

Lady Netherby sat with her eyes fixed on the carpet, and her hands clasped closely, lost in thought. “Yes,” said she, half aloud, “there is a fate in it! This Lady Eleanor may have her vengeance yet!”

It was about an hour after this, and while she was still revolving her own deep thoughts, that Lord Netherby re-entered the room.

“Well, is he here?” asked she, impatiently.

“No, he's off to Ireland; the very moment he reached the hotel he ordered four horses to his carriage, and while his servant packed some trunks he himself drove over to Lord Castlereagh's, but came back almost immediately. They must have used immense despatch, for Long told me that they would be nigh Barnet when I called.”

“He 's a true Wallincourt,” said her Ladyship, bitterly. “Their family motto is 'Rash in danger,' and they have well deserved it.”