The following day was that eventful one which should witness the return of either Edward Egan, Esq., or the Honourable Sackville Scatterbrain as member for the county. There was no doubt in any reasonable man's mind as to the real majority of Egan, but the numbers were sufficiently close to give the sheriff an opportunity of doing a bit of business to oblige his friends, and therefore he declared the Honourable Sackville Scatterbrain duly elected. Great was the uproar; the people hissed, and hooted, and groaned, for which the Honourable Sackville very good-naturedly returned them his thanks. Murphy snapped his fingers in the sheriff's face, and told them his honourable friend should not long remain member, for that he must be unseated on petition, and that he would prove the return most corrupt, with which words he again snapped his fingers in the sheriff's face.

The sheriff threatened to read the riot act if such conduct was repeated.

Egan took off his hat, and thanked him for his honourable, upright, and impartial conduct, whereupon all Egan's friends took off their hats also, and made profound bows to the functionary, and then laughed most uproariously. Counter laughs were returned from the opposite party, who begged to remind the Eganites of the old saying, “that they might laugh who win.” A cross-fire of sarcasms was kept up amidst the two parties as they were crushing forward out of the courthouse; and at the door, before entering his carriage, Scatterbrain very politely addressed Egan, and trusted that, though they had met as rivals on the hustings, they nevertheless parted friends, and expressing the highest respect for the squire, offered his hand in amity.

Egan, equally good-hearted as his opponent, shook his hand cordially; declaring he attributed to him none of the blame which attached to other persons. “Besides, my dear sir,” said Egan, laughing, “I should be a very ill-natured person to grudge you so small an indulgence as being member of parliament for a month or so.”

Scatterbrain returned the laugh, good-humouredly, and replied that, “at all events, he had the seat.”

“Yes, my dear sir,” said Egan, “and make the most of it while you have it. In short, I shall owe you an obligation when I go over to St. Stephen's, for you will have just aired my seat for me—good bye.”

They parted with smiles, and drove to their respective homes; but as even doubtful possession is preferable to expectation for the time being, it is certain that Neck-or-Nothing Hall rang with more merriment that night on the reality of the present, than Merryvale did on the hope of the future.

Even O'Grady, as he lay with his wounded arm on the sofa, found more healing in the triumph of the hour than from all the medicaments of the foregoing week, and insisted on going down-stairs and joining the party at supper.

“Gusty, dear,” said his wife, “you know the doctor said—”

“Hang the doctor!”

“Your arm, my love.”

“I wish you'd leave off pitying my arm, and have some compassion on my stomach.”

“The doctor said—”

“There are oysters in the house; I'll do myself more good by the use of an oyster-knife than all the lancets in the College of Surgeons.”

“But your wound, dear?”

“Are they Carlingfords or Poldoodies?”

“So fresh, love.”

“So much the better.”

“Your wound I mean, dear?”

“Nicely opened.”

“Only dressed an hour ago?”

“With some mustard, pepper, and vinegar.”

“Indeed, Gusty, if you take my advice—”

“I'd rather have oysters any day.”

O'Grady sat up on the sofa as he spoke and requested his wife to say no more about the matter, but put on his cravat. While she was getting it from his wardrobe, his mind wandered from supper to the pension, which he looked upon as secure now that Scatterbrain was returned; and oyster-banks gave place to the Bank of Ireland, which rose in a pleasing image before O'Grady's imagination. The wife now returned with the cravat, still dreading the result of eating to her husband, and her mind occupied wholly with the thought of supper, while O'Grady was wrapt in visions of a pension.

“You won't take it, Gusty, dear,” said his wife with all the insinuation of manner she could command.

“Won't I, 'faith?” said O'Grady. “Maybe you think I don't want it?”

“Indeed, I don't, dear.”

“Are you mad, woman? Is it taking leave of the few senses you ever had you are?”

“'T won't agree with you.”

“Won't it? just wait till I'm tried.”

“Well, love, how much do you expect to be allowed?”

“Why I can't expect much just yet—we must begin gently—feel the pulse first; but I should hope, by way of start, that six or seven hundred—”

“Gracious Heaven!” exclaimed his wife, dropping the cravat from her hands. “What the devil is the woman shouting at?” said O'Grady.

“Six or seven hundred!!!” exclaimed Mrs. O'Grady; “my dear, there's not as much in the house.”

“No, nor has not been for many a long day; I know that as well as you,” said O'Grady; “but I hope we shall get as much for all that.”

“My dear, where could you get them?” asked the wife, timidly, who began to think his head was a little light.

“From the treasury, to be sure.”

“The treasury, my dear?” said the wife, still at fault; “how could you get oysters from the treasury?”

“Oysters!” exclaimed O'Grady, whose turn it was now to wonder, “who talks of oysters?”

“My dear, I thought you said you'd eat six or seven hundred of oysters!”

“Pooh! pooh! woman; it is of the pension I'm talking—six or seven hundred pounds—pounds—cash—per annum; now I suppose you'll put on my cravat. I think a man may be allowed to eat his supper who expects six hundred a year.”

A great many people besides O'Grady order suppers, and dinners too, on the expectation of less than six hundred a year. Perhaps there is no more active agent for sending people into the Insolvent Court than the aforesaid “expectation.”

O'Grady went down-stairs, and was heartily welcomed by Scatterbrain on his re-appearance from his sick-room; but Mrs. O'Grady suggested that, for fear any excess would send him back there for a longer time, a very moderate indulgence at the table should suffice. She begged the honourable member to back her argument, which he did; and O'Grady promised temperance, but begged the immediate appearance of the oysters, for he experienced that eager desire which delicate health so often prompts for some particular food.

Andy was laying the table at the time, and was ordered to expedite matters as much as possible.

“Yis, ma'am.”

“You're sure the oysters are all good, Andy?”

“Sartin, ma'am.”

“Because the last oysters you know—”

“Oh, yis, ma'am—were bad, ma'am—bekase they had their mouths all open. I remember, ma'am; but when I'm towld a thing once, I never forget it again; and you towld me when they opened their mouths once they were no good. So you see, ma'am, I'll never bring up bad oysthers again, ma'am.”

“Very good, Andy; and you have kept them in a cool place, I hope.”

“Faix, they're cowld enough where I put them, ma'am.”

“Very well; bring them up at once.”

Off went Andy, and returned with all the haste he could with a large dish heaped up with oysters.

O'Grady rubbed his hands with the impatience of a true lover of the crustaceous delicacy, and Scatterbrain, eager to help him, flourished his oyster-knife; but before he had time to commence operations the olfactory nerves of the company gave evidence that the oysters were rather suspicious; every one began sniffing, and a universal “Oh dear!” ran round the table.

“Don't you smell it, Furlong?” said Scatterbrain, who was so lost in looking at Augusta's mustachios that he did not mind anything else.

“Isn't it horrid?” said O'Grady, with a look of disgust.

Furlong thought he alluded to the mustachio, and replied with an assurance that he “liked it of all things.”

“Like it?” said O'Grady; “you've a queer taste. What do you think of it, miss?” added he to Augusta, “it's just under your nose.” Furlong thought this rather personal, even from a father.

“I'll try my knife on one,” said Scatterbrain, with a flourish of the oyster-knife, which Furlong thought resembled the preliminary trial of a barber's razor.

Furlong thought this worse than O'Grady; but he hesitated to reply to his chief, and an honourable into the bargain.

In the meantime, Scatterbrain opened an oyster, which Furlong, in his embarrassment and annoyance, did not perceive.

“Cut off the beard,” said O'Grady, “I don't like it.”

This nearly made Furlong speak, but, considering O'Grady's temper and ill-health, he hesitated, till he saw Augusta rubbing her eye, in consequence of a small splinter of the oyster-shell having struck it from Scatterbrain's mismanagement of his knife; but Furlong thought she was crying, and then he could be silent no longer; he went over to where she sat, and with a very affectionate demonstration in his action, said, “Never mind them, dear Gussy—never mind—don't cwy—I love her dear little moustachios, I do.” He gave a gentle pat on the back of the neck as he spoke, and it was returned by an uncommonly smart box on the ear from the young lady, and the whole party looked thunderstruck. “Dear Gussy” cried for spite, and stamped her way out of the room, followed by Furlong.

“Let them go,” said O'Grady; “they'll make it up outside.”

“These oysters are all bad,” said Scatterbrain.

O'Grady began to swear at his disappointment—he had set his heart on oysters. Mrs. O'Grady rang the bell—Andy appeared.

“How dare you bring up such oysters as these?” roared O'Grady.

“The misthris ordhered them, sir.”

“I told you never to bring up bad oysters,” said she.

“Them's not bad, ma'am,” said Andy,

“Have you a nose?” says O'Grady.

“Yes, sir.”

“And can't you smell them, then?”

“Faix, I smelt them for the last three days, sir.”

“And how could you say they were good, then?” asked his mistress.

“Sure you tould me, ma'am, that if they didn't open their mouths they were good, and I'll be on my book oath them oysters never opened their mouths since I had them, for I laid them on a coolflag in the kitchen and put the jack-weight over them.”

Notwithstanding O'Grady's rage, Scatterbrain could not help roaring with laughter at Andy's novel contrivance for keeping oysters fresh. Andy was desired to take the “ancient and fish-like smell” out of the room, amidst jeers and abuse; and, as he fumbled his way to the kitchen in the dark, lamenting the hard fate of servants, who can never give satisfaction, though they do everything they are bid, he went head over heels down-stairs, which event was reported to the whole house as soon as it happened, by the enormous clatter of the broken dish, the oysters, and Andy, as they all rolled one over the other to the bottom.

O'Grady, having missed the cool supper he intended, and had longed for, was put into a rage by the disappointment; and as hunger with O'Grady was only to be appeased by broiled bones, accordingly, against all the endeavours of everybody, the bells rang violently through the house, and the ogre-like cry of “broiled bones!” resounded high and low.

The reader is sufficiently well acquainted with O'Grady by this time to know, that of course, when once he had determined to have his broiled bone, nothing on the face of the earth could prevent it but the want of anything to broil, or the immediate want of his teeth; and as his masticators were in order, and something in the house which could carry mustard and pepper, the invalid primed and loaded himself with as much combustible matter as exploded in a fever the next day.

The supper-party, however, in the hope of getting him to bed, separated soon; and as Scatterbrain and Furlong were to start early in the morning for Dublin, the necessity of their retiring to rest was pleaded. The honourable member had not been long in his room when he heard a tap at his door, and his order to “come in” was followed by the appearance of Handy Andy.

“I found somethin' on the road nigh the town to-day, sir, and I thought it might be yours, maybe,” said Andy, producing a small pocket-book.

The honourable member disavowed the ownership.

“Well, there's something else I want to speak to your honour about.”

“What is it, Handy?”

“I want your honour to see the account of the money your honour gave me that I spint at the shebeen [Footnote: Low publick house.] upon the 'lecthors that couldn't be accommodated at Mrs. Fay's.”

“Oh! never mind it, Andy; if there's anything over, keep it yourself.”

“Thank your honour, but I must make the account all the same, if you plaze, for I'm going to Father Blake, to my duty, [Footnote: Confession.] soon, and I must have my conscience as clear as I can, and I wouldn't like to be keeping money back.”

“But if I give you the money, what matter?”

“I'd rather you'd just look over this little bit of a count, if you plaze,” said Andy, producing a dirty piece of paper, with some nearly inscrutable hieroglyphics upon it. Scatterbrain commenced an examination of this literary phenomenon from sheer curiosity, asking Andy at the same time if he wrote it.

“Yis, sir,” said Andy; “but you see the man couldn't keep the count of the piper's dhrink at all, it was so confusin', and so I was obliged to pay him for that every time the piper dhrunk, and keep it separate, and the 'lecthors that got their dinner afther the bill was made out I put down myself too, and that's it you see, sir, both ating and dhrinkin'.”

“Then I owe you money, instead of your having a balance in hand, Andy,” said the member.

“Oh, no matter, your honour; it's not for that I showed you the account.”

“It's very like it, though,” said Scatterbrain, laughing; “here, Andy, here are a couple of pounds for you, take them, Andy—take it and be off; your bill is worth the money,” and Scatterbrain closed the door on the great accountant.

Andy next went to Furlong's room, to know if the pocket-book belonged to him; it did not, but Furlong, though he disclaimed the ownership, had that small curiosity which prompts little minds to pry into what does not belong to them, and taking the pocket-book into his hands, he opened it, and fumbled over its leaves; in the doing of which a small piece of folded paper fell from one of the pockets unnoticed by the impertinent inquisitor or Andy, to whom he returned the book when he had gratified his senseless curiosity. Andy withdrew, Furlong retired to rest; and as it was in the grey of an autumnal morning he dressed himself, the paper still remained unobserved: so that the housemaid, on setting the room to rights, found it, and fancying Miss Augusta was the proper person to confide Mr. Furlong's stray papers to, she handed that young lady the manuscript which bore the following copy of verses:—

I CAN NE'ER FORGET THEE

I

II

III

When Augusta saw the lines, she was charmed. She discovered her Furlong to be a poet! That the lines were his there was no doubt—they were found in his room, and of course they must be his, just as partial critics say certain Irish airs must be English, because they are to be found in Queen Elizabeth's music-book.

Augusta was so charmed with the lines that she amused herself for a long time in hiding them under the sofa-cushion and making her pet dog find and fetch them. Her pleasure, however, was interrupted by her sister Charlotte remarking, when the lines were shown to her in triumph, that the writing was not Furlong's, but in a lady's hand.

Even as beer is suddenly soured by thunder, so the electric influence of Charlotte's words converted all Augusta had been brewing to acidity; jealousy stung her like a wasp, and she boxed her dog's ears as he was barking for another run with the verses.

“A lady's hand?” said Augusta, snatching the paper from her sister; “I declare if it ain't! the wretch—so he receives lines from ladies.”

“I think I know the hand, too,” said Charlotte.

“You do?” exclaimed Augusta, with flashing eyes.

“Yes, I'm certain it is Fanny Dawson's writing.”

“So it is,” said Augusta, looking at the paper as if her eyes could have burnt it; “to be sure—he was there before he came here.”

“Only for two days,” said Charlotte, trying to slake the flame she had raised.

“But I've heard that girl always makes conquests at first sight,” returned Augusta, half crying; “and what do I see here? some words in pencil.”

The words were so faint as to be scarcely perceptible, but Augusta deciphered them; they were written on the margin, beside a circumflex which embraced the last four lines of the second verse, so that it stood thus:—

Dearest, I will.

“Will you, indeed?” said Augusta, crushing the paper in her hand, and biting it; “but I must not destroy it—I must keep it to prove his treachery to his face.” She threw herself on the sofa as she spoke, and gave vent to an outpour of spiteful tears.