"Whither have _you_ taken yourself all the day, rather, that you had not a moment to come and look after us? The Miss O'Joscelyns have been expecting you to ride with them, walk with them, talk with them, and play _la grace_ with them. They didn't give up the sticks till it was quite dark, in the hope of you and Mr Tierney making your appearance."

"Well, f.a.n.n.y, don't tell my mother, and I'll tell you the truth:-- promise now."

"Oh, I'm no tell-tale."

"Well then," and he whispered into her ear--"I was running away from the Miss O'Joscelyns."

"But that won't do at all; don't you know they were asked here for your especial edification and amus.e.m.e.nt?"

"Oh, I know they were. So were the bishop, and the colonel, and Lord George, and their respective wives, and Mr Hill. My dear mamma asked them all here for my amus.e.m.e.nt; but, you know, one man may lead a horse to water--a hundred can't make him drink. I cannot, cannot drink of the Miss O'Joscelyns, and the Bishop of Maryborough."

"For shame, Adolphus! you ought at any rate to do something to amuse them."

"Amuse them! My dear f.a.n.n.y, who ever heard of amusing a bishop? But it's very easy to find fault; what have you done, yourself, for their amus.e.m.e.nt?"

"I didn't run away from them; though, had I done so, there would have been more excuse for me than for you."

"So there would, f.a.n.n.y," said Kilcullen, feeling that she had alluded to her brother's death; "and I'm very, very sorry all these people are here to bore you at such a time, and doubly sorry that they should have been asked on my account. They mistake me greatly, here. They know that I've thought Grey Abbey dull, and have avoided it; and now that I've determined to get over the feeling, because I think it right to do so, they make it ten times more unbearable than ever, for my gratification!

It's like giving a child physic mixed in sugar; the sugar's sure to be the nastiest part of the dose. Indeed I have no dislike to Grey Abbey at present; though I own I have no taste for the sugar in which my kind mother has tried to conceal its proper flavour."

"Well, make the best of it; they'll all be gone in ten days."

"Ten days! Are they to stay ten days? Will you tell me, f.a.n.n.y, what was the object in asking Mat Tierney to meet such a party?"

"To help you to amuse the young ladies."

"Gracious heavens! Does Lady Cashel really expect Mat Tierney to play _la grace_ with the Miss O'Joscelyns?--Well, the time will come to an end, I suppose. But in truth I'm more sorry for you than for any one.

It was very ill-judged, their getting such a crowd to bore you at such a time," and Lord Kilcullen contrived to give his voice a tone of tender solicitude.

"Kilcullen," said the earl, across the table, "you don't hear the bishop. His lordship is asking you to drink wine with him."

"I shall be most proud of the honour," said the son, and bobbed his head at the bishop across the table.

f.a.n.n.y was on the point of saying something respecting her brother to Lord Kilcullen, which would have created a kind of confidence between them, but the bishop's gla.s.s of wine broke it off, and from that time Lord Kilcullen was forced by his father into a general conversation with his guests.

In the evening there was music and singing. The Miss O'Joscelyns, and Miss Fitzgeralds, and Mr Hill, performed: even Mat Tierney condescended to amuse the company by singing the "Coronation", first begging the bishop to excuse the peculiar allusions to the "_clargy_", contained in one of the verses; and then f.a.n.n.y was asked to sing. She had again become silent, dull, and unhappy, was brooding over her miseries and disappointments, and she declined. Lord Kilcullen was behind her chair, and when they pressed her, he whispered to her, "Don't sing for them, f.a.n.n.y; it's a shame that they should tease you at such a time; I wonder how my mother can have been so thoughtless."

f.a.n.n.y persisted in declining to sing--and Lord Kilcullen again sat down beside her. "Don't trouble yourself about them, f.a.n.n.y," said he, "they're just fit to sing to each other; it's very good work for them."

"I should think it very good work, as you call it, for myself, too, another time; only I'm hardly in singing humour at present, and, therefore, obliged to you for your a.s.sistance and protection."

"Your most devoted knight as long as this fearful invasion lasts!--your Amadis de Gaul--your Bertrand du Guesclin [45]! And no paladin of old ever attempted to defend a damsel from more formidable foes."

[FOOTNOTE 45: Amadis . . . du Guesclin--mediaeval heroes. Amadis de Gaul was the t.i.tle hero of a 14th century romantic novel, probably first written in Spanish, which was popular throughout Europe. Bertrand du Guesclin was a historical figure, a fourteenth century French soldier and Marshall of France.]

"Indeed, Adolphus, I don't think them so formidable. Many of them are my own friends."

"Is Mrs Ellison your own friend?--or Mrs Moore?"

"Not exactly those two, in particular."

"Who then? Is it Miss Judith O'Joscelyn? or is the Reverend Mr Hill one of those to whom you give that sweetest of all names?"

"Yes; to both of them. It was only this morning I had a long _tete-a-tete_--"

"What, with Mr Hill?"

"No, not with Mr Hill though it wouldn't be the first even with him, but with Judith O'Joscelyn. I lent her a pattern for worsted work."

"And does that make her your friend? Do you give your friendship so easily?"

"You forget that I've known her for years."

"Well, now, I've not. I've seen her about three times in my life, and spoken two words to her perhaps twice; and yet I'll describe her character to you; and if you can say that the description is incorrect, I will permit you to call her your friend."

"Well, let's hear the character."

"It wouldn't be kind in me, though, to laugh at your _friend_."

"Oh, she's not so especially and particularly my friend that you need mind that."

"Then you'll promise not to be angry?"

"Oh no, I won't be angry."

"Well, then; she has two pa.s.sions: they are for worsted and hymn-books.

She has a moral objection to waltzing. Theoretically she disapproves of flirtations: she encourages correspondence between young ladies; always crosses her letters, and never finished one for the last ten years without expressing entire resignation to the will of G.o.d,--as if she couldn't be resigned without so often saying so. She speaks to her confidential friends of young men as a very worthless, insignificant race of beings; she is, however, prepared to take the very first that may be unfortunate enough to come in her way; she has no ideas of her own, but is quick enough at borrowing those of other people; she considers herself a profound theologian; dotes on a converted papist, and looks on a Puseyite [46] as something one shade blacker than the devil. Now isn't that sufficiently like for a portrait?"

[FOOTNOTE 46: Puseyite--a follower of Edward Pusey (1800-1882), one of three scholars at Oxford who started a movement critical of the Church of England. One of the three, John Henry Newman, converted to Catholicism, and Pusey and his followers were accused of advocating Catholic practices.]

"It's the portrait of a set, I fear, rather than an individual. I don't know that it's particularly like Miss O'Joscelyn, except as to the worsted and hymn-books."

"What, not as to the waltzing, resignation, and worthless young men?

Come, are they not exactly her traits? Does she waltz?"

"No, she does not."

"And haven't you heard her express a moral objection to it?"

"Well, I believe I have."

"Did you ever get a letter from her, or see a letter of hers?"

"I don't remember; yes, I did once, a long time ago."

"And wasn't she very resigned in it?"

"Well, I declare I believe she was; and it's very proper too; people ought to be resigned."