"'Put on your hat, my father desires it,' says my Lord Colambre.

The _ould_ lord made a sign to that purpose, but was too full to speak. 'Where's your father?' continues my young lord. 'He's very _ould_, my lord,' says I.--' I didn't _ax_ you how _ould_ he was,' says he; 'but where is he?'--'He's behind the crowd below, on account of his infirmities; he couldn't walk so fast as the rest, my lord,' says I; 'but his heart is with you, if not his body.'--'I must have his body too: so bring him bodily before us; and this shall be your warrant for so doing,' said my lord, joking: for he knows the _natur_ of us, Paddy, and how we love a joke in our hearts, as well as if he had lived all his life in Ireland; and by the same token will, for that _rason_, do what he pleases with us, and more may be than a man twice as good, that never would smile on us.

"But I'm telling you of my father. 'I've a warrant for you, father,' says I; 'and must have you bodily before the justice, and my lord chief justice.' So he changed colour a bit at first; but he saw me smile. 'And I've done no sin,' said he; 'and, Larry, you may lead me now, as you led me all my life.'

"And up the slope he went with me as light as fifteen; and when we got up, my Lord Clonbrony said, 'I am sorry an old tenant, and a good old tenant, as I hear you were, should have been turned out of your farm.'

"'Don't fret, it's no great matter, my lord,' said my father. 'I shall be soon out of the way; but if you would be so kind to speak a word for my boy here, and that I could afford, while the life is in me, to bring my other boy back out of banishment.'

"'Then,' says my Lord Clonbrony, 'I'll give you and your sons three lives, or thirty-one years, from this day, of your former farm. Return to it when you please. And,' added my Lord Clonbrony, 'the flaggers, I hope, will be soon banished.' Oh, how could I thank him--not a word could I proffer--but I know I clasped my two hands, and prayed for him inwardly. And my father was dropping down on his knees, but the master would not let him; and _obsarved_ that posture should only be for his G.o.d. And, sure enough, in that posture, when he was out of sight, we did pray for him that night, and will all our days.

"But, before we quit his presence, he called me back, and bid me write to my brother, and bring you back, if you've no objections, to your own country.

"So come, my dear Pat, and make no delay, for joy's not joy compl_a_te till you're in it--my father sends his blessing, and Peggy her love. The family entirely is to settle for good in Ireland, and there was in the castle yard last night a bonfire made by my lord's orders of the _ould_ yellow damask furniture, to plase my lady, my lord says. And the drawing-room, the butler was telling me, is new hung; and the chairs with velvet as white as snow, and shaded over with natural flowers by Miss Nugent. Oh! how I hope what I guess will come true, and I've _rason_ to believe it will, for I dreamt in my bed last night it did. But keep yourself to yourself--that Miss Nugent (who is no more Miss Nugent, they say, but Miss Reynolds, and has a new-found grandfather, and is a big heiress, which she did not want in my eyes, nor in my young lord's), I've a notion, will be sometime, and may be sooner than is expected, my Lady Viscountess Colambre--so haste to the wedding. And there's another thing: they say the rich _ould_ grandfather's coming over;--and another thing, Pat, you would not be out of the fashion--and you see it's growing the fashion not to be an Absentee.

"Your loving brother,

"LARRY BRADY."

1812.

MADAME DE FLEURY

CHAPTER I.

"There oft are heard the notes of infant woe, The short thick sob, loud scream, and shriller squall.

How can you, mothers, vex your infants so?"--POPE.

"D'abord, madame, c'est impossible!--Madame ne descendra pas ici?[1]" said Francois, the footman of Mad. de Fleury, with a half expostulatory, half indignant look, as he let down the step of her carriage at the entrance of a dirty pa.s.sage, that led to one of the most miserable-looking houses in Paris.

[Footnote 1: In the first place, my lady, it is impossible! Surely my lady will not get out of her carriage here?]

"But what can be the cause of the cries which I hear in this house?"

said Mad. de Fleury.

"'Tis only some child, who is crying," replied Francois: and he would have put up the step, but his lady was not satisfied.

"'Tis nothing in the world," continued he, with a look of appeal to the coachman, "it _can_ be nothing, but some children, who are locked up there above. The mother, the workwoman my lady wants, is not at home, that's certain."

"I must know the cause of these cries; I must see these children,"

said Mad. de Fleury, getting out of her carriage.

Francois held his arm for his lady as she got out.

"Bon!" cried he, with an air of vexation. "Si madame la veut absolument, a la bonne heure!--Mais madame sera abimee. Madame verra que j'ai raison. Madame ne montera jamais ce vilain escalier.

D'ailleurs c'est an cinquieme. Mais, madame, c'est impossible."[1]

[Footnote 1: To be sure it must be as my lady pleases--but my lady will find it terribly dirty!--my Lady will find I was right--my lady will never get up that shocking staircase--it is impossible!]

Notwithstanding the impossibility, Mad. de Fleury proceeded; and bidding her talkative footman wait in the entry, made her way up the dark, dirty, broken staircase, the sound of the cries increasing every instant, till, as she reached the fifth story, she heard the shrieks of one in violent pain. She hastened to the door of the room from which the cries proceeded; the door was fastened, and the noise was so great, that though she knocked as loud as she was able, she could not immediately make herself heard. At last the voice of a child from within answered, "The door is locked--mamma has the key in her pocket, and won't be home till night; and here's Victoire has tumbled from the top of the big press, and it is she that is shrieking so."

Mad. de Fleury ran down the stairs which she had ascended with so much difficulty, called to her footman, who was waiting in the entry, despatched him for a surgeon, and then she returned to obtain from some people who lodged in the house a.s.sistance to force open the door of the room in which the children were confined.

On the next floor there was a smith at work, filing so earnestly that he did not hear the screams of the children. When his door was pushed open, and the bright vision of Mad. de Fleury appeared to him, his astonishment was so great that he seemed incapable of comprehending what she said. In a strong provincial accent he repeated, "_Plait-il?_" and stood aghast till she had explained herself three times: then suddenly exclaiming, "Ah! c'est ca!"--he collected his tools precipitately, and followed to obey her orders. The door of the room was at last forced half open, for a press that had been overturned prevented its opening entirely. The horrible smells that issued did not overcome Mad. de Fleury's humanity: she squeezed her way into the room, and behind the fallen press saw three little children: the youngest, almost an infant, ceased roaring, and ran to a corner: the eldest, a boy of about eight years old, whose face and clothes were covered with blood, held on his knee a girl younger than himself, whom he was trying to pacify, but who struggled most violently, and screamed incessantly, regardless of Mad. de Fleury, to whose questions she made no answer.

"Where are you hurt, my dear?" repeated Mad. de Fleury in a soothing voice. "Only tell me where you feel pain?"

The boy, showing his sister's arm, said, in a surly tone--"It is this that is hurt--but it was not I did it."

"It was, it _was_," cried the girl as loud as she could vociferate: "it was Maurice threw me down from the top of the press."

"No--it was you that were pushing me, Victoire, and you fell backwards.--Have done screeching, and show your arm to the lady."

"I can't," said the girl.

"She won't," said the boy.

"She _cannot_," said Mad. de Fleury, kneeling down to examine it. "She cannot move it: I am afraid that it is broken."

"Don't touch it! don't touch it!" cried the girl, screaming more violently.

"Ma'am, she screams that way for nothing often," said the boy. "Her arm is no more broke than mine, I'm sure; she'll move it well enough when she's not cross."

"I am afraid," said Mad. de Fleury, "that her arm is broken."

"Is it indeed?" said the boy, with a look of terror.

"Oh! don't touch it--you'll kill me, you are killing me," screamed the poor girl, whilst Mad. de Fleury with the greatest care endeavoured to join the bones in their proper place, and resolved to hold the arm till the arrival of the surgeon.

From the feminine appearance of this lady, no stranger would have expected such resolution; but with all the natural sensibility and graceful delicacy of her s.e.x, she had none of that weakness or affectation, which incapacitates from being useful in real distress.

In most sudden accidents, and in all domestic misfortunes, female resolution and presence of mind are indispensably requisite: safety, health, and life, often depend upon the fort.i.tude of women. Happy they, who, like Mad. de Fleury, possess strength of mind united with the utmost gentleness of manner and tenderness of disposition!

Soothed by this lady's sweet voice, the child's rage subsided; and no longer struggling, the poor little girl sat quietly on her lap, sometimes writhing and moaning with pain.

The surgeon at length arrived: her arm was set: and he said, "that she had probably been saved much future pain by Mad. de Fleury's presence of mind."

"Sir,--will it soon be well?" said Maurice to the surgeon.

"Oh, yes, very soon, I dare say," said the little girl. "To-morrow, perhaps; for now that it is tied up, it does not hurt me to signify--and after all, I do believe, Maurice, it was not you threw me down."

As she spoke, she held up her face to kiss her brother.--"That is right," said Mad. de Fleury; "there is a good sister."