Not long afterwards, Ulick O’More was summoned to Bristol, where his uncle had become suddenly worse; but he had only reached Hadminster when a telegraph met him with the news of Mr. Goldsmith’s death, and orders to remain at his post.

He came to the Kendals in the evening in great grief; he had really come to love and esteem his uncle, and he was very unhappy at having lost the chance of a reconciliation for his mother. As her chief friend and confidant, he knew that she regarded the alienation of her own family as the punishment of her disobedient marriage, and that his own appointment had been valued chiefly as an opening towards fraternal feeling, and reproached himself for not having made more direct efforts to induce his uncle to enter into personal intercourse with her.

‘If I had only ventured it before he went to Bristol,’ he said; ‘I was a fool not to have done so; and there, the Goldsmiths detest the very name of us! Why could they not have telegraphed for me? I might have heard what would have done my mother’s heart good for the rest of her life. I am sure my poor uncle wanted to ease his mind!’

‘May he not have sent some communication direct to her?’

‘I trust he did! I have long thought he only kept her aloof from habit, and felt kindly towards her all the time.’

‘And never could persuade himself to make a move towards her until too late,’ said Albinia.

‘Yes. Nothing comes home to one more than the words, “Agree with thine adversary quickly whiles thou art in the way with him.” If once one comes to think there’s creditable pride in holding out, there’s no end to it, or else too much end.’

‘Mr. Goldsmith was persevering in the example his father had set him,’ said Mr. Kendal.

‘Ay! my mother never blamed either, and I’m afraid, if the truth were told, my father was hot enough too, though it would all have been bygones with him long ago, if they would have let it. But I was thinking just then of my own foolishness last winter, when I would not grant you it was pride, Mrs. Kendal, for fear I should have to repent of it.’

‘What has brought you to see that it was?’ asked she.

‘One comes to a better mind when the fit is off,’ he said. ‘I hope I will not be as bad next time.’

‘I hope we shall never give you a next time,’ said Albinia; ‘for neither party is comfortable, perched on a high horse.’

‘And you see,’ continued Ulick, ‘it is hard for us to give up our pride, because it is the only thing we’ve got of our own, and has been meat, drink, and clothing to us for many a year.’

‘So no wonder you make the most of it.’

‘True; I think a very high born and very rich man might be humble,’ said Ulick, so meditatively that they laughed; but Sophy said,

‘No, that is not a paradox; the real difficulty is not in willingly yielding, but in taking what we cannot help.’

‘Well,’ said Ulick, ‘I hope it is not pride not to intend working under Andrew Goldsmith.’

‘Do you consider that as your fate?’ asked Albinia.

‘Never my fate,’ said Ulick, quickly; ‘hardly even my alternative, for he would like to put up a notice, “No Irish need apply.” We had enough of each other last winter.’

‘And do you suppose,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘that Mr. Goldsmith has left your position exactly the same?’

‘I’ve no reason to think otherwise. I refused all connexion with the bank if it was to interfere with my name. I don’t think it unlikely that he may have left me a small compliment in the way of shares; but if so, I shall sell them, and make them keep me at Oxford. I’m not too old yet!’

‘Then the work of these four years is wasted,’ said Mr. Kendal, gravely.

‘No, indeed,’ cried Ulick; ‘not if it takes me where I’ve always longed to be! Or, if not, I flatter myself I’m accountant enough to be an agent in my own country.’

‘Anything to get away from here,’ said Albinia, with a shade of asperity, provoked by the spirit of enterprise in his voice.

‘After all, it is a bit of a place,’ said Ulick; ‘and the office parlour is not just a paradise! Then ‘tis all on such a narrow scale, too little to absorb one, and too much to let one do anything else; I see how larger transactions might be engrossing, but this is mere cramping and worrying; I know I could do better for my family in the end than by what I can screw out of my salary now; and if it is no longer to give my poor mother a sense of expiation, as she calls it, why, then, the cage-door is open.’

His eyes glittered, and Sophy exclaimed, ‘Yes; and now the training is over, it has made you fitter to fly.’

‘It has,’ he said; ‘and I’m thankful for it. Without being here, I would never have learnt application—nor some better things, I hope.’

They scarcely saw him again till after the funeral, when late in the day he came into the drawing-room, and saying that his aunt was pretty well and composed, he knelt down on the floor with the little Awk, and silently built up a tower with her wooden bricks. His hand trembled nervously at first, but gradually steadied as the elevation became critical; and a smile of interest lighted his face as he became absorbed in raising the structure to the last brick, holding back the eager child with one hand lest she should overthrow it. Completion, triumph, a shock, a downfall!

‘Well,’ cried the elder Albinia, unable to submit to the suspense.

‘Telle est la vie,’ answered Ulick, smiling sadly as he passed his hand over his brow.

‘It’s too bad of him,’ broke out Mrs. Kendal.

‘I thought you were prepared,’ said Sophy, severely, disappointed to see him so much discomposed.

‘How should I be prepared,’ said he, petulantly, ‘for the whole concern, house, and bank, and all the rest of it?’

‘Left to you?’ was the cry.

‘Every bit of it, and an annuity apiece charged on it to my mother and aunt for their lives! My aunt told me how it came about. It was all that fellow Andrew’s fault.’

‘Or misfortune,’ murmured Albinia.

‘My poor uncle had made a will in Andrew’s favour long before my time, and at Bristol he wanted to make some arrangement for my mother and for me; but it seems Mr. Andrew took exception at me—would not promise to continue me on, nor to give me a share in the business, and at last my uncle was so much disgusted, that he sent for a lawyer and cut Andrew out of his will altogether. My aunt says he went on asking for me, and it was Andrew’s fault that they wrote instead of telegraphing. You can’t think what kind messages he sent to me;’ and Ulick’s eyes filled with tears. ‘My poor uncle, away from home, and with that selfish fellow.’

‘Did he send any message to your mother?’

‘Yes! he told my aunt to write to her that he was sorry they had been strangers so long, and that—I’d been like a son to him. I’m sure I wish I had been. I dare say he would have let me if I had not flown out about my O. I could have saved changing it without making such an intolerable row, and then he might have died more at peace with the world.’

‘At peace with you at least he did.’

‘I trust so. But if I could only have been by his side, and felt myself a comfort, and thanked him with all my heart. Maybe he would have listened to me, and not have sown ill-will between Andrew and me, by giving neither what we would like.’

‘Do you expect us to be sorry?’

‘Nay, I came to be helped out of my ingratitude and discontent at finding the cage-door shut, and myself chained to the oar; for as things are left, I could not get it off my hands without giving up my mother’s interests and my aunt’s. Besides, my poor uncle left me an entreaty to keep things up creditably like himself, and do justice by the bank. It is as if, poor man, it was an idol that he had been high priest to, and wanted me to be the same—ay, and sacrifice too.’

‘Nay, there are two ways of working, two kinds of sacrifice; and besides, you are still working for your mother.’

‘So I am, but without the hope she had before. To be sure, it would be affluence at home, or would be if she could have it in her own hands. Little Redmond shall have the best of educations! And we must mind there is something in advance by the time Bryan wants to purchase his company.’

Albinia asked how his aunt liked the arrangement. It seemed that Andrew had offended her nearly as much as her brother, and that she was clinging to Ulick as her great comfort and support; he did not like to stay long away from her, but he had rushed down to Willow Lawn to avoid the jealous congratulations of the cousinhood.

‘You will hardly keep from glad people,’ said Albinia. ‘You must shut yourself up if you cannot be congratulated. How rejoiced Mr. Dusautoy will be!’

‘Whatever is, is best,’ sighed Ulick. ‘I shall mind less when the first is past! I must go and entertain all these people at dinner!’ and he groaned. ‘Good evening. Heigh ho! I wonder if our Banshee will think me worth keening for?’

‘I hope she will have no occasion yet,’ said Albinia, as he shut the door; ‘but she will be a very foolish Banshee if she does not, for she will hardly find such another O’More! Well, Sophy, my dear.’

‘We should have missed him,’ said Sophy, as grave as a judge.

Albinia’s heart beat high with the hope that Ulick would soon perceive sufficient consolation for remaining at Bayford, but of course he could make no demonstration while Miss Goldsmith continued with him. She made herself very dependent on him, and he devoted his evenings to her solace. He had few leisure moments, for the settlement of his affairs occupied him, and full attention was most important to establish confidence at this critical juncture, when it might be feared that his youth, his nation, and Andrew Goldsmith’s murmurs might tell against him. Mr. Kendal set the example of putting all his summer rents into his hands, and used his influence to inspire trust; and fortunately the world had become so much accustomed to transacting affairs with him, that the country business seemed by no means inclined to fall away. Still there was much hard work and some perplexity, the Bristol connexion made themselves troublesome, and the ordinary business was the heavier from the clerks being both so young and inexperienced that he was obliged to exercise close supervision. It was guessed, too, that he was not happy about the effect of the influx of wealth at home, and that he feared it would only add to the number of horses and debts.

He soon looked terribly fagged and harassed, and owned that he envied Mr. Hope, who had just received the promise of a district church, in course of building under Colonel Bury’s auspices, about four miles from Fairmead. To work his way through the University and take Holy Orders had been Ulick’s ambition; he would gladly have endured privation for such an object, and it did seem hard that such aspirations should be so absolutely frustrated, and himself forced into the stream of uncongenial, unintellectual toil, in so obscure and uninviting a sphere. The resignation of all lingering hope of escape, and the effort to be contented, cost him more than even his original breaking in; and Mr. Kendal one day found him sitting in his little office parlour unable to think or to speak under a terrible visitation of his autumnal tormentor, brow-ague.

This made Mr. Kendal take to serious expostulation. It was impossible to go on in this way; why did he not send for a brother to help him?

Ulick could not restrain a smile at the fruitlessness of thinking of assistance of this kind from his elder brothers, and as to little Redmond, the only younger one still to be disposed of, he hoped to do better things for him.

‘Then send for a sister.’

He hoped he might bring Rose over when his aunt was gone, but he could not shut those two up together at any price.

Then,’ said Mr. Kendal, rather angrily, ‘get an experienced, trustworthy clerk, so as to be able to go from home, or give yourself some relaxation.’

‘Yes, I inquired about such a person, but there’s the salary; and where would be the chance of getting Redmond to school?’

‘I think your father might see to that.’

Ulick had no answer to make to this. The legacy to Mrs. O’More might nearly as well have been thrown into the sea.

‘Well,’ said Mr. Kendal, walking about the room, ‘why don’t you keep a horse?’

‘As a less costly animal than brother, sister, or clerk?’ said Ulick, laughing.

‘Your health will prove more costly than all the rest if you do not take care.’

‘Well, my aunt told me it would be respectable and promote confidence if I lived like a gentleman and kept my horse. I’ll see about it,’ said Ulick, in a more persuadable tone.

The seeing about it resulted in the arrival of a genuine product of county Galway, a long-legged, raw-boned hunter, with a wild, frightened eye, quivering, suspicious-looking ears, and an ill-omened name compounded of kill and of kick, which Maurice alone endeavoured to pronounce; also an outside car, very nearly as good as new. This last exceeded Ulick’s commission, but it had been such a bargain, that Connel had not been able to resist it, indeed it cost more in coming over than the original price; but Ulick nearly danced round it, promising Mrs. and Miss Kendal that when new cushioned and new painted they would find it beat everything.

He was not quite so envious of Mr. Hope when he devoted the early morning hours to Killye-kickye, as the incorrect world called his steed, and, if the truth must be told, he first began to realize the advantages of wealth, when he set his name down among the subscribers to the hounds.

Nor was this the only subscription to which he was glad to set his name; there were others where Mr. Dusautoy wanted funds, and Mr. Kendal’s difficulties were lessened by having another lord of the soil on his side. Some exchanges brought land enough within their power to make drainage feasible, and Ulick started the idea that it would be better to locate the almshouses at the top of the hill, on the site of Madame Belmarche’s old house, than to place them where Tibb’s Alley at present was, close to the river, and far from church.

Mr. Kendal’s plans were unpopular, and two or three untoward circumstances combined to lead to his being regarded as a tyrant. He could not do things gently, and had not a conciliating manner. Had he been more free spoken, real oppression would have been better endured than benefits against people’s will. He interfered to prevent some Sunday trading; and some of the Tibb’s Alley tenants who ought to have gone at midsummer, chose to stay on and set him at defiance till they had to be forcibly ejected; whereupon Ulick O’More showed that he was not thoroughly Anglicised by demanding if, under such circumstances, it was safe to keep the window shutters unclosed at night, Mr. Kendal’s head was such a beautiful mark under the lamp.

If not a mark for a pistol, he was one for the disaffected blackguard papers, which made up a pathetic case of a helpless widow with her bed taken away from under her, ending with certain vague denunciations which were read with roars of applause at the last beer shop which could not be cleared till Christmas, while the closing of the rest sent herds thither; and papers were nightly read; representing the Nabob expelling the industrious from the beloved cottages of their ancestors, by turns, to swell his own overgrown garden, or to found a convent, whence, as a disguised Jesuit, he meant to convert all Bayford to popery.

As Albinia wrote to Genevieve, they were in a state of siege, for only in the middle of the day did Mr. Kendal allow the womankind to venture out without an escort, the evening was disturbed by howlings at the gate, and all sorts of petty acts of spite were committed in the garden, such as injuring trees, stealing fruit, and carrying off the children’s rabbits. Let that be as it might, Genevieve owned herself glad to come to hospitable Willow Lawn, though sorry for the cause.

Poor Mr. Rainsforth, after vainly striving to recruit his health at Torquay during the vacation, had been sentenced to give up his profession, and ordered to Madeira, and Genevieve was upon the world again.

The Kendals claimed her promise of a long visit, or rather that she should come home, and take time and choice in making any fresh engagement, nay, that she should not even inquire for a situation till after Christmas. And after staying to the last moment when she could help the Rainsforths, she proposed to spend a day or two with her aunt at the convent, and then come to her friends at Bayford.

Mr. Kendal drove his ladies to fetch her. He had lately indulged the household with a large comfortable open carriage with two horses, a rival to Mr. O’More’s notable car, where he used to drive in an easy lounging fashion on one side, with Hyder Ali to balance him on the other.

This was a grand shopping day, an endless business, and as the autumn day began to close in, even Mr. Kendal’s model patience was nearly exhausted before they called for their little friend. There was something very sweet and appropriate in her appearance; her dress, without presuming to share their mourning, did not insult it by gay colouring; it was a quiet dark violet and white checked silk, a black mantle, and black velvet bonnet with a few green leaves to the lilac flowers, and the face when at rest was softly pensive, but ready to respond with cheerful smiles and grateful looks. She had become more English, and had dropped much foreign accent and idiom, but without losing her characteristic grace and power of disembarrassing those to whom she spoke, and in a few moments even Sophy had lost all sense of meeting under awkward or melancholy circumstances, and was talking eagerly to her dear old sympathizing friend.

There was a great exchange of tidings; Genevieve had much to tell of her dear Rainsforths, the many vicissitudes of anxiety in which she had shared, and of the children’s ways of taking the parting; and of the dear little Fanny who seemed to have carried away so large a piece of her susceptible heart, that Sophy could not help breaking out, ‘Well, I do think it is very hard to make yourself a bit of a mother’s heart, only to have it torn out again.’

Albinia smiled, and said, ‘After all, Sophy, happiness in this world is in such loving, only we don’t find it out till the rent has been made.’

‘And some people can get fond of anything,’ said Sophy.

‘I’m sure,’ said Genevieve, ‘every one is so kind to me I can’t help it.’

‘I was not blaming you,’ said Sophy. ‘People are the better for it, but I cannot like except where I esteem, and that does not often come.’

‘Oh! don’t you think so?’ cried Genevieve.

‘I don’t mean moderate approval. That may extend far, and with it good-will, but there is a deep, concentrated feeling which I don’t believe those who like every one can ever have, and that is life.’

Perhaps the deepening twilight favoured the utterance of her feelings, for, as they were descending a hill, she said, ‘Mamma, that was the place where Maurice was brought back to me.’

She had before passed it in silence, but in the dark she was not afraid of betraying the expression that the thrill of exquisite recollection brought to her countenance; and leaning back in her corner indulged in listening to the narration, as Albinia, unaware of the special point of the episode, related Maurice’s desperate enterprise, going on to dilate on the benefit of having Mr. O’More at the bank rather than Andrew Goldsmith.

‘Ah!’ said Genevieve, ‘it is he who wants to pull down our dear old house. I shall quarrel with him.’

‘Genevieve making common cause with the obstructives of Bayford, as if he had not enemies enough!’

‘What’s that light in the sky?’ exclaimed Sophy, starting up to speak to her father on the driving seat.

‘A bonfire,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘If we had remembered that it was the 5th of November, we would not have stayed out so late.’ The next moment he drew up the horses, exclaiming, ‘Mr. Hope, will you have a lift?’

Mr. Hope, rather to the ladies’ surprise, took the vacant place beside Sophy, instead of climbing up to the box. He had been to see his intended parish, and was an enviable man, for he was as proud of it as if it had been an intended wife, and Albinia, who knew it for a slice of dreary heath, was entertained with his raptures. Church, schools, and parsonage, each in their way were perfection or at least promised to be, and he had never been so much elevated or so communicative. The speechless little curate seemed to have vanished.

The road, as may be remembered, did not run parallel with the curve of the river, but cutting straight across, entered Bayford over the hill, passing a small open bit of waste land, where stood a few cottages, the outskirts of the town.

Suddenly coming from an overshadowed lane upon this common, a glare of light flashed on them, showing them each other’s faces, and casting the shadow of the carriage into full relief. The horses shied violently, and they beheld an enormous bonfire raised on a little knoll about twenty yards in front of them, surrounded by a dense crowd, making every species of hideous noise.

Mr. Kendal checked the horses’ start, and Mr. Hope sprang to their heads. They were young and scarcely trustworthy, their restless movements showed alarm, and it was impossible to turn them without both disturbing the crowd and giving them a fuller view of the object of their terror. Mr. Kendal came down, and reconnoitring for a moment, said, ‘You had better get out while we try to lead them round, we will go home by Squash Lane.’

Just then a brilliant glow of white flame, and a tremendous roar of applause, put the horses in such an agony, that they would have been too much for Mr. Hope, had not Mr. Kendal started to his assistance, and a man standing by likewise caught the rein. He was a respectable carpenter who lived on the heath, and touching his hat as he recognised them, said, ‘Sir, if the ladies would come into my house, and you too, sir. The people are going on in an odd sort of way, and Mrs. Kendal would be frightened. I’ll take care of the carriage.’

Mr. Kendal went to the side of the carriage, and asked the ladies if they were alarmed.

‘O no!’ answered Albinia, ‘it is great fun;’ and as the horses fidgeted again, ‘it feels like a review.’

‘You had better get out,’ he said; ‘I must try to back the horses till I can turn them without running over any one. Will you go into the house? You did not expect to find Bayford so riotous,’ he added with a smile, as he assisted Genevieve out.

‘You are not going to get up again,’ said Albinia, catching hold of him, and in her dread of his committing himself to the mercy of the horses, returning unmeaning thanks to the carpenter’s urgent requests that she would take refuge in his house.

In fact, the scene was new and entertaining, and on the farther side of the road, sheltered by the carriage, the party were entirely apart from the throng, which was too much absorbed to notice them, only a few heads turning at the rattling of the harness, and the ladies were amused at the bright flame, and the dark figures glancing in and out of the light, the shouts of delight and the merry faces.

‘There’s Guy Fawkes,’ cried Albinia, as a procession of scarecrows were home on chairs amid thunders of acclamation; ‘but whom have they besides? Here are some new characters.’

‘Most lugubrious looking,’ said Genevieve. ‘I cannot make out the shouts.’

‘It is the Nabob,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘Perhaps you do not know that is my alias. This is my execution.’

The carpenter implored them to come in, and Mr. Hope added his entreaties, but Mr. Kendal would not leave the horses, and the ladies would not leave him; and they all stood still while his effigy was paraded round the knoll, the mark of every squib, the object of every invective that the rabble could roar out at the top of their voices. Jesuits and Papists; Englishmen treated like blackamoor slaves in the Indies; honest folk driven out of house and home; such was the burthen of the cries that assailed the grim representative carried aloft, while the real man stood unmoved as a statue, his tall, powerful figure unstirred, his long driving-whip resting against his shoulder without betraying the slightest motion, neither firm lip nor steady eye changing. Genevieve, with tears in her eyes, exclaimed, ‘Oh! this is madness! Will no one tell them how wicked they are?’

‘Never mind, my dear,’ said Mr. Kendal, pressing the hand that in her fervour she had laid on his arm, ‘they will come to their senses in time. No, Mr. Hope, I beg you will not interfere, they are in no state for it; they have done no harm as yet.’

‘I wonder what the police are about?’ cried Albinia, indignantly.

‘They are too few to do any good,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘It may be better that they are not incensing the mob. It will all go off quietly when this explosion has relieved their feelings.’

They felt as if there were something grand in this perfectly dispassionate reception of the outrage, and they stood awed and silenced, Sophy leaning on him.

‘It will soon be over now,’ he said, ‘they are poking up the name to receive me.’

‘Hark! what’s that?’

The mob came swaying back, and a rich voice swelled above all the din, ‘Boys, boys, is it burning your friends you are? Then, for the first time, Mr. Kendal started, and muttered, ‘foolish lad! is he here?’

Confused cries rose again, but the other voice gained the mastery.

‘So you call that undertaker-looking figure there Mr. Kendal. Small credit to your taste. You want to burn him. What for?’

‘For being a Nabob and a tyrant,’ was the shout.

‘Much you know of Nabobs! No; I’ll tell you what it’s for. It is because his son got his death fighting for his queen and his country a year ago, and on his death-bed bade him do his best to drive the fever from your doors, and shelter you and save you from the Union in your old age. Is that a thing to burn him for?’

‘We want no Irish papists here!’ shouted a blackguard voice.

‘Serve him with the same sauce.’

‘I never was a papist,’ was the indignant reply. ‘No more was he; but I’ve said that the place shan’t disgrace itself, and—’

‘I’m with you,’ shouted another above all the howls of the mob. ‘Gilbert Kendal was as kind-hearted a chap as ever lived, and I’ll see no wrong done to his father.’

Tremendous uproar ensued; then the well-known tones pealed out again, ‘I’ve given my word to save his likeness. Come on, boys. Hurrah for Kendal!’

The war-cry was echoed by a body of voices, there was a furious melee and a charge towards the Nabob, who rocked and toppled down, while stragglers came pressed backwards on all sides.

‘Here, Hope, take care of them. Stay with them,’ said Mr. Kendal, putting the whip into the curate’s hand, and striding towards the nucleus of the fray, through the throng who were driven backwards.

‘O’More,’ he called, ‘what’s all this? Give over! Are you mad?’ and then catching up, and setting on his legs, a little fallen boy, ‘Go home; get out of all this mischief. What are you doing? Take home that child,’ to a gaping girl with a baby. ‘O’More, I say, I’ll commit every man of you if you don’t give over.’

He was recognised, and those who had little appetite for the skirmish gave back from him; but the more reckless and daring small fry began shrieking, ‘The Nabob!’ and letting off crackers and squibs, through which he advanced upon the knot of positive combatants, who were exchanging blows over his prostrate image in front of the fire.

One he caught by the collar, in the act of aiming a blow. The fist was instantly levelled at him, with the cry, ‘You rascal! what do you mean by it?’ But the fierce struggle failed to shake off the powerful grasp; and at the command, ‘Don’t be such a fool!’ Ulick burst out, ‘Murder! ‘tis himself!’ and in the surprise was dragged some paces before recovering his perceptions.

The cry of police had at the same instant produced a universal scattering, and five policemen, coming on the ground, found scarcely any one to separate or capture. Mr. Kendal relaxed his hold, saying, ‘You are my prisoner.’

‘I didn’t think you’d been so strong,’ said Ulick, shaking himself, and looking bewildered. ‘Where’s the effigy?’

‘What’s that to you. Come away, like a rational being.’

‘Ha! what’s that?’ as a frightful, agonizing shriek rent the air, and a pillar of flame came rushing across the now open space. It was a child, one mass of fire, and flying, in its anguish, from all who would have seized it. One moment of horror, and it had vanished! The next, Genevieve’s voice was heard crying, ‘Bring me something more to press on it.’ She had contrived to cross its path with her large carriage rug, and was kneeling over it, forcing down the rug to smother the flames. Mr. Hope brought her a shawl, and they all stood round in silent awe.

‘The poor child will be stifled,’ said Albinia, kneeling down to help to unfold its face.

Poor little face, distorted with terror and agony! One of the policemen recognised it as the child of the public-house in Tibb’s Alley. There were moans, but no one dared to uncover the limbs; and the policeman and Mr. Hope proposed carrying it at once to Mr. Bowles, and then home. Mr. Kendal desired that it should be laid on the seat of the carriage, which he would drive gently to the doctor’s. Genevieve got in to watch over the poor little boy, and the others walked on by the side, passed the battle-field, now entirely deserted, too much shocked for aught but conjectures on his injuries, and the cause of the misfortune. Either he must have been pushed in on the fire by the runaway rabble, or have trod upon some of the scattered combustibles.

Mr. Bowles desired that the child should be taken home at once, promising to follow instantly; so at the entrance of Tibb’s Alley, the carriage stopped, and Mr. Hope lifted out the poor little wailing bundle. Albinia was following, but a decided prohibition from her husband checked her. ‘I would not have either of you go to that house on any account. Tell them to send to us for whatever they want, but that is enough.’

There was no gainsaying such a command, but as they reached the door of Willow Lawn, Mr. Kendal exclaimed, ‘Where is Miss Durant?’

‘She is gone with the little boy,’ said Sophy. ‘She told me she hoped you would not be displeased. Mr. Hope will take care of her, and she will soon come in.’

‘Every one is mad to-night!’ cried Mr. Kendal. ‘In such a place as that! I will go for her directly.’

‘Pray don’t,’ said Albinia, ‘no one could speak a rude word to her on such an errand. She and Mr. Hope will be much more secure from incivility without you.’

‘I believe it may be so, but I wish—’

His wish was broken off, for his little Albinia, screaming, ‘Papa! papa!’ clung to him in a transport of caresses, which Maurice explained by saying, ‘Little Awkey has been crying, mamma, she thought they were burning papa in the bonnie.’

‘Papa not burnt!’ cried little Awkey, patting his cheeks, and laying her head on his shoulders alternately, as he held her to his breast. ‘Naughty people wanted to make a fire, but they sha’n’t burn papa or poor Guy Fawkes, or any of the good men.’

‘And where were you, Ulick?’ cried Maurice, in an imperious, injured way. ‘You said once, perhaps you would take me to see the fire; and I went up to the bank, and they said you were gone, and it was glaring so in the sky, and I did so want to go.’

‘I am glad you stayed away, my man,’ said Albinia.

‘I did want to go,’ said Maurice; ‘and I ran up to the top of the street, and there was Mr. Tritton; and he said if I liked a lark, he would take care of me; but—’ and there he stopped short, and the colour came into his face.

Albinia threw her arm round him, and kissed him, saying, ‘My trusty boy! and so you came home?’

‘Yes; and there was Awkey crying about their burning papa, and she would not go up to the garret-window to see the fire, nor do anything.’

‘Why, what is the sword here for?’ exclaimed Sophy, finding it on the stairs.

‘Because then Awkey was not so afraid.’

For once, Maurice had been exemplary, keeping from the tempting uproar, and devoting himself to soothing his little sister. It was worth all the vexations of the evening; but he went on to ask if Ulick could not take him now, if the fire was not out yet.

‘Not exactly,’ said Mr. Kendal, drily.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Kendal,’ said Ulick, who had apparently only just resumed the use of speech; ‘don’t know what I may have done when you collared me, but I’d no more notion of its being you than the Lord Lieutenant.’

‘And pray what took you there?’ asked Mr. Kendal. ‘The surprise was quite as great to me.’

‘Why,’ said Ulick, ‘one of the little lads of my Sunday class gave me a hint the other day that those brutes meant to have a pretty go to-night, and that Jackson was getting up a figure of the Nabob to break their spite upon. So I told my little fellow to give a hint to a few more of the right sort, and we’d go up together and not let the rascals have their own way.’

‘Upon my word, I wonder what the Vicar will say to the use you make of his Sunday-school. Pretty work for his model teacher.’

‘What better could the boys be taught than to fight for the good cause? Why, no one is a scratch the worse for it. And do you think we could sit by and see our best friend used worse than a dog?’

‘Why not give notice to the police?’

‘And would you have me hinder a fight?’ cried Ulick, in the most Irish of all his voices.

‘Oh! very well, if you like—only there will be a run on the bank to-morrow.’

‘What has Ulick been doing, Sophy?’ asked Maurice.

‘Only what you would have done had you been older, Maurice,’ she said, in a hurt voice; ‘defending papa’s effigy, for which he does not seem to meet with much gratitude.’

‘Well,’ said Mr. Kendal, who all the time had had more gratitude in his eyes than on his tongue, ‘if the burning had had the same consequence as melting one’s waxen effigy was thought to have, it might have been worth while to interfere, but I should have thought it more dignified in a respectable substantial householder to let those foolish fellows have their swing.’

‘More dignified maybe,’ smiled Albinia, ‘but less like an O’More.’

‘No, you are not going,’ said Mr. Kendal; ‘I shall not release my prisoner just yet.’

‘You carried off all the honour of the day,’ said Ulick. ‘I had no notion you had such an arm. Why, you swung me round like a tom-cat, or—’ and he exemplified the exploit upon Maurice, and was well buffeted.

‘That’s a little Irish blarney to propitiate me,’ laughed Mr. Kendal, who certainly was in unusual spirits after his execution and rescue by proxy, but you wont escape prison fare.’

‘There’s no doubt who was the heroine of the day,’ added Sophy. ‘How one envies her!’

‘What! your little governess friend?’ said Ulick. ‘Yes; she did show superior wit, when the rest of the world stood gaping round.’

‘It was admirable—just like Genevieve’s tenderness and dexterity,’ said Albinia. ‘I dare say she is doing everything for the poor little fellow.’

‘Yes, admirable,’ said Mr. Kendal; ‘but you all behaved very creditably, ladies.’

‘Ay,’ said Albinia; ‘not to scream is what a man thinks the climax of excellence in a woman.’

‘It is generally all that is required,’ said Mr. Kendal. I don’t know what I should have done if poor Lucy had been there.’

Thereupon the ladies went upstairs, Maurice following Sophy to extract a full account of the skirmish. The imp probably had an instinct that she would think more of what redounded to Ulick O’More’s glory than of what would be edifying to his own infant mind. It was doubtful how long it would be before Guy Fawkes would arrive at his proper standing in the little Awk’s opinion, after the honour of an auto-da-fe in company with papa.

Mr. Hope escorted Genevieve home, and was kept to dinner. They narrated that they had found the public-house open, and the bar full of noisy runaways.

The burns were dreadful, but the surgeon did not think they would be fatal, and the child had held Genevieve’s hand throughout the dressing, and seemed so unwilling to part with her, that she had promised to come again the next day, and had been thanked gratefully. There seemed no positive want of comforts, and there was every hope that all would do well.

Genevieve looked pale after the scene she had gone through, and could not readily persuade herself to eat, still less rally her spirits to talk; but she managed to avoid observation at dinner-time, and afterwards a rest on the sofa restored her. She evidently felt, as she said, that this was coming home, and her exquisite gift of tact making her perceive that she was to be at ease and on an equality, she assumed her position without giving her friends the embarrassment of installing her, and Mr. Hope was in such a state of transparent admiration, that Albinia could not help two or three times noiselessly clapping her hands under the table, and secretly thanking the rioters and their tag-rag and bob-tail for having provided a home for little Genevieve Durant.

There was indeed a pang as she thought of Gilbert; but she believed that Genevieve’s heart had never been really touched, and was still fresh and open. She thought she might make Mr. Kendal and Sophy equally magnanimous. Perhaps by that time Sophy would be too happy to have leisure to be hurt, and she had little fear but that Mr. Kendal’s good sense would conquer his jealousy for his son, though it might cost him something.

Two lovers to befriend at once! Two desirable attachments to foster! There was glory! Not that Albinia fulfilled her mission to a great extent; shamefacedness always restrained her, and she had not Emily’s gift for making opportunities. Indeed, when she did her best, so perversely bashful were the parties, that the wrong pairs resorted together, the two who could talk being driven into conversation by the silence of the others.

Of Mr. Hope’s sentiments there could be no doubt. He was fairly carried off his feet by the absorption of the passion, which was doubly engrossing because all ladies had hitherto appeared to him as beings with whom conversation was an impossible duty; but after all he had heard of Miss Durant, he might as a judicious man select her for an excellent parsoness, and as a young man fall vehemently in love. Nothing could be more evident to the lookers-on, but Albinia could not satisfy herself whether Genevieve had any suspicion.

She was not very young, knew something of the world, and was acute and observing; but on the other hand, she had made it a principle never to admit the thought of courtship, and she might not be sufficiently acquainted with the habits of the individual to be sensible of the symptomatic alteration.

She had begged the Dusautoys to make her leisure profitable, and spent much of her time upon the schools, on her little patient in Tibb’s Alley, and in going about among the poor; she visited her old shopkeeper friends, and drank tea with them much oftener than gratified Mr. Kendal, talking so openly of the pleasure of seeing them again, that Albinia sometimes thought the blood of the O’Mores was a little chafed.

‘There,’ said Genevieve, completing a housewife, filled with needles ready threaded, ‘I wonder whether the omnibus is too protestant to leave a parcel at the convent?’

‘I don’t think its scruples of conscience would withstand sixpence,’ said Albinia.

‘You might post it for less than that,’ said Sophy.

‘Don’t you know,’ said Ulick O’More, who was playing with the little Awk in the window, ‘that the feminine mind loves expedients? It would be less commonplace to confide the parcel to the conductor, than merely let him receive it as guard of the mail bag and servant of the public.’

‘Exactly,’ laughed Genevieve. ‘Think of the moral influence of being selected as bearer of a token of tenderness to my aunt on her fete, instead of being treated as a mere machine, devoid of human sympathies.’

‘Sophy, where were we reading of a nation which gives the simplest transaction the air of a little romance?’ said Ulick.

‘And I have heard of a nation which denudes every action of sentiment, and leaves you the tree without the leaves,’ was Genevieve’s retort.

‘That misses fire, Miss Durant; my nation does everything by the soul, nothing by mechanism.’

‘When they do do it.’

‘That’s a defiance. You must deprive the conductor of the moral influence, whether as man or machine, and entrust the parcel to me.’

‘That would be like chartering a steamer to send home a Chinese puzzle.’

‘No, indeed; I must go to Hadminster. Bear me witness, Sophy, Miss Goldsmith wants me to talk to the house agent.’

‘Mind, if you miss St. Leocadia’s day, you will miss my aunt’s fete.’

Mr. O’More succeeded in carrying off the little parcel. The next morning, as the ladies were descending the hill, a hurried step came after them, and the curate said in an abrupt rapid manner, ‘I beg your pardon, I was going to Hadminster; could I do anything for you?’

‘Nothing, thank you,’ said Albinia, at whom he looked.

‘Did I not hear—Miss Durant had some work to send her aunt to-day?’

‘How did you know that, Mr. Hope?’ exclaimed Genevieve.

‘I heard something pass, when some one was admiring your work,’ he said, not looking at her. ‘And this—I think—is St. Leocadia’s day.’

‘I am very much obliged to you for remembering it, but I have sent my little parcel otherwise, so I need not trouble you.’

‘Ah! how stupid in me! I am very sorry. I beg your pardon,’ and he hurried off, looking as if very sorry were not a mere matter of course.

‘Poor man,’ thought Albinia, ‘I dare say he has reckoned on it all this time, and hunted out St. Leocadia in Alban Butler, and then tried to screw up his courage all yesterday. Ulick has managed to traverse a romance, but perhaps it is just as well, for what would be the effect on the public of Mr. Hope in that coat being seen ringing at the convent door?’

‘Well, Miss Durant,’ said Ulick, entering the drawing-room in the winter twilight, ‘here is evidence for you!’

‘You have actually penetrated the convent, and seen my aunt? Impossible! and yet this pencilled note is her own dear writing!’

‘You don’t mean that you really were let in?’ cried Sophy.

‘I entered quite legitimately, I assure you. It was all luck. I’d just been putting up at the Crown, when what should I see in a sort of a trance, staring right into the inn-yard, but as jolly-looking a priest as ever held a station. “An’ it’s long since I’ve seen the like of you,” says he aloud to himself. “Is it the car?” says I. “Sure it is,” says he. “I’ve not laid my eyes on so iligant a vehicle since I left County Tyrone.”’

‘Mr. O’Hara!’ exclaimed Genevieve.

‘“And I’m mistaken if you’re not the master of it,” he goes on, taking the measure of me all over,’ continued Ulick, putting on his drollest brogue. ‘You see he had too much manners to say that such a personable young gentleman, speaking such correct English, could be no other than an Irishman, so I made my bow, and said the car and I were both from County Galway, and we were straight as good friends as if we’d hunted together at Ballymakilty. To be sure, he was a little taken aback when he found I was one of the Protestant branch, of the O’Mores, but a countryman is a countryman in a barbarous land, and he asked me to call upon him, and offered to do me any service in his power.’

‘I am sure he would. He is the kindest old gentleman I know,’ exclaimed Genevieve. ‘He always used to bring me barleysugar-drops when I was a little girl, and it was he who found out our poor old Biddy in distress at Hadminster, and sent her to live with us.’

‘Indeed! Then I owe him another debt of gratitude—in fact, he told me that one of his flock, meaning Biddy, had spoken to him honourably of me. “Well,” said I, “the greatest service you could do me, sir, would be to introduce me to Mademoiselle Belmarche; I have a young lady’s commission for her.” “From my little Genevieve,” he said, “the darling that she is. Did you leave the child well?” And so when I said it was a present for her saint’s day, and that your heart was set on it—’

‘But, Mr. O’More, I never did set my heart on your seeing her.’

‘Well, well, you would have done it if you’d known there had been any chance of it, besides, your heart was set on her getting the work, and how could I make sure of that unless I gave it into her own hand? I wouldn’t have put it into Mr. O’Hara’s snuffy pocket to hinder myself from being bankrupt.’

‘Then he took you in?’

‘So he did, like an honest Irishman as he was. He rang at the bell and spoke to the portress, and had me into the parlour and sent up for the lady; and I have seldom spent a pleasanter hall-hour. Mademoiselle Belmarche bade me tell you that she would write fuller thanks to you another day, and that her eyes would thank you every night.’

‘Was her cold gone? Did she seem well, the dear aunt?’

Genevieve was really grateful, and had many questions to ask about her aunt, which met with detailed answers.

‘By-the-by,’ said Ulick,’ I met Mr. Hope in the street as I was coming away, I offered him a lift, but he said he was not coming home till late. I wonder what he is doing.’

Albinia and Sophy exchanged glances, and had almost said, ‘Poor Mr. Hope!’ It was very hard that the good fortune and mere good nature of an indifferent person should push him where the quiet curate so much wished to be. Albinia would have liked to have had either a little impudence or a little tact to enable her to give a hint to Ulick to be less officious.

St. Leocadia’s feast was the 9th of December. Three days after, Genevieve received a letter which made her change countenance, and hurry to her own room, whence she did not emerge till luncheon-time.

In the late afternoon, there was a knock at the drawing-room door, and Mr. Dusautoy said, ‘Can I speak with you a minute, Mrs. Kendal?’

Dreading ill news of Lucy, she hurried to the morning-room with him.

‘Fanny said I had better speak to you. This poor fellow is in a dreadful state.’

‘Algernon!’

‘No, indeed. Poor Hope! What has possessed the girl?’

‘Genevieve has not refused him?’

‘Did you not know it? I found him in his rooms as white as a sheet! I asked what was the matter, he begged me to let him go away for one Sunday, and find him a substitute. I saw how it was, and at the first word he broke down and told me.’

‘Was this to-day?’

‘Yes. What can the silly little puss be thinking of to put an excellent fellow like that to so much pain? Going about it in such an admirable way, too, writing to old Mamselle first, and getting a letter from her which he sends with his own, and promising to guarantee her fifty pounds a year out of his own pocket. ‘I should like to know what that little Jenny means by it. I gave her credit for more sense.’

‘Perhaps she thinks, under the circumstances of her coming here, within the year—’

‘Ah! very proper, very pretty of her; I never thought of that; I suppose I have your permission to tell Hope?’

‘I believe all the town knew it,’ said Albinia.

‘Yes; he need not be downhearted, he has only to be patient, and he will like her the better for it. After all, though he is as good a man as breathes, he cannot be Gilbert, and it will be a great relief to him. I’ll tell him to put all his fancies about O’More out of his head.’

‘Most decidedly,’ said Albinia; ‘nothing can be greater nonsense. Tell him by no means to go away, for when she finds that our feelings are not hurt, and has become used to the idea, I have every hope that she will be able to form a new—’

‘Ay; ay; poor Gilbert would have wished it himself. It is very good of you, Mrs. Kendal; I’ll put the poor fellow in spirits again.’

‘Did you hear whether she gave any reasons?’

‘Oh! I don’t know—something about her birth and station; but that’s stuff—she’s a perfect lady, and much more.’

‘And he is only a bookseller’s son.’

‘True, and though it might be awkward to have the parson’s father-in-law cutting capers if he lived in the same town, yet being dead these fifteen or eighteen years, where’s the damage?’

‘Was that all?’

‘I fancy that she said she never meant to marry, but that’s all nonsense; she is the very girl that ought, and I hope you will talk to her and bring her to reason. There’s not a couple in the whole place that I should be so glad to marry as those two.’

Albinia endeavoured to discuss the matter with Genevieve that night when they went upstairs. It was not easy to do, for Genevieve seemed resolved to wish her good-night outside her door, but she made her entrance, and putting her arm round her little friend’s waist, said, ‘Am I very much in your way, my dear? I thought you might want a little help, or at least a little talk.’

‘Oh! Mrs. Kendal, I hoped you did not know!’ and her eyes filled with tears.

Mr. Dusautoy told me, my dear; poor Mr. Hope’s distress betrayed him, and Mr. Dusautoy was anxious I should—’

Genevieve did not let her finish, but exclaiming, ‘I did not expect this from you, madame,’ gave way to a shower of tears.

‘My dear child, do we not all feel you the more one with ourselves for this reluctance?’ said Albinia, caressing her fondly. ‘It shall not be forced upon you any more till you can bear it.’

‘’Till!’ exclaimed Genevieve, alarmed. ‘Oh! do not say that! Do not hold out false hopes! I never shall!’

‘I do not think you are a fair judge as yet, my dear.’

‘I think I am,’ said Genevieve, slowly, ‘I must not let you love me on false pretences, dearest Mrs. Kendal. I do not think it is all for—for his sake—but indeed, though I must esteem Mr. Hope, I do not believe I could ever feel for him as—’ then breaking off. ‘I pray you, with all my heart, dearest friend, never to speak to me of marriage. I am the little governess, and while Heaven gives me strength to work for my aunt, and you let me call this my home, I am content, I am blessed. Oh! do not disturb and unsettle me!’

So imploringly did she speak, that she obliterated all thought of the prudent arguments with which Albinia had come stored. It was no time for them; there was no possibility of endeavouring to dethrone the memory of her own Gilbert, and her impulse was far more to agree that no one else could ever be loved, than to argue in favour of a new attachment. She was proud of Gilbert for being thus recollected, and doubly pleased with the widowed heart; nor was it till the first effect of Genevieve’s tears had passed off that she began to reflect that the idea might become familiar, and that romance having been abundantly satisfied by the constancy of the Lancer, sober esteem might be the basis of very happy married affection.

Mr. Hope did not go away, but he shrank into himself, and grew more timid than ever, and it was through the Dusautoys that Albinia learnt that he was much consoled, and intended to wait patiently. He had written to Mdlle. Belmarche, who had been extremely disappointed, and continued to believe that so excellent and well brought up a young girl as her niece would not resist her wishes with regard to a young pastor so respectable.

Sophy, when made aware of what was going on, did not smile or shed a tear, only a strange whiteness came across her face. She made a commonplace remark with visible effort, nor was she quite herself for some time. It was as if the reference to her brother had stirred up the old wound. Genevieve seemed to have been impelled to manifest her determination of resuming her occupation, she wrote letters vigorously, answered advertisements, and in spite of the united protest of her friends, advertised herself as a young person of French extraction, but a member of the Church of England, accustomed to tuition, and competent to instruct in French, Italian, music, and all the ordinary branches of education. Address, G. C. D., Mr. Richardson’s, bookseller, Bayford.