And yet his once warm heart was scarcely cold when they said these things of him. And so it is to this day and to this hour: the same code of morality exists, and the same set of moralizers are to be met with everywhere. Far be it from me to say that faults and follies should pass unnoticed and unstigmatized; but, at least, let the truth-teller of to-day not have been the tuft-hunter of yesterday,—let the grave monitor who rebukes extravagance, not once have been the Sybarite guest who provoked excess; but least of all let us hear predictions of ruin from the lips that only promised long years of happiness and enjoyment.
Events moved rapidly. The Chancellor appointed a receivership over the property, and an order from the Court required that immediate possession should be taken of the house and demesne. My father's balance at his bankers' amounted to some thousand pounds. This, too, was sequestered by a judge's order, “awaiting proceedings.” An inventory of everything, even to the personal effects of my mother, the jewellery she had brought with her from France, her very wardrobe, was taken. The law has a most microscopic eye for detail. Carriages, horses, servants' liveries, were numbered, the very cradle in which lay her baby was declared to belong to some unknown owner; and a kind of mystical proprietorship seemed to float unseen through the chambers and corridors of that devoted dwelling.
My poor mother!—removed from room to room, with good-natured care, to spare her the shock of proceedings which even her ignorance of the world might have taken alarm at; weak, scarcely able to walk; only half conscious of the movement around her; asking every moment for explanations which none had courage to give her; agitated with vague terror; a sense of some misfortune lowering over her, and each moment nearer; catching at a chance word dropped here; eagerly watching at every look there,—what misery, what suffering was yours, poor, friendless, forsaken widow!
Where was MacNaghten, her one faithful friend and counsellor? He had gone to town early that morning, and had not yet returned. One last but fruitless effort to induce Curtis to come to terms had led him again to seek an interview. Her cousin De Gabriac, who had been ill for several days, had by a mere accident, from expressions picked up by his valet in the household, learned the nature of the allegation against my mother,—that her marriage was denied, and my illegitimacy declared. Almost driven to madness by what sounded like an outrage to his pride, he had set out for Dublin to fasten upon some one—any one—a personal quarrel in the vindication of my mother's honor. Fagan's address was known to him, by frequent mention of his name, and thither he accordingly hastened. The Grinder was from home; but to await his return, De Gabriac was ushered upstairs into the drawing-room, where an elderly man was seated writing at a table. The old man lifted his head and slightly saluted the stranger, but continued his occupation without any further notice, and De Gabriac threw himself into a chair to wait, with what patience he could, for Fagan's coming.
There was a newspaper on the table, and De Gabriac took it up to spell as he could the intelligence of the day. Almost the very first lines which caught his eye were an announcement of an “Extensive sale of valuable furniture, plate, and household effects, late the property of Walter Carew, Esq.” Certain enigmatical words that headed the advertisement puzzled the foreigner, and, unable to restrain his eagerness to unravel their meaning, he advanced to the table where the old man was writing, and in a polite tone asked him to explain what meant such phrases as “In re Joseph Curtis, Esq., of Meagh-valley House, and others, petitioners.”
The other, thus addressed, looked from the newspaper to the inquirer, and back again to the paper, and then to the astonished face of the Frenchman, without a word. “I have to hope,” said De Gabriac, “that nothing in my question may appear rude or uncivil. I merely wished to know—”
“To know who Joseph Curtis is!” broke in the old man, quickly. “Then I 'll tell you, sir. He is the only surviving son of Robert Harrison Curtis and Eleanor Anne, his wife, born at Meagh-valley House, in the parish of Cappagh, barony of Ivrone, Anno Domini 1704. Served in Parliament for twenty-eight years, and commanded the militia of his native county till deprived of that honor by a rascally Government and a perjured Viceroy.” Here his voice grew loud, and his manner violent and excited. “Since when, sir, harassed, persecuted, and tortured, he has been robbed of his estates, stripped of his property, and left houseless and friendless,—ay, sir, friendless, I say; for poverty and want attract no friendship,—and who would still be the victim of knavery and scoundrelism if Providence had not blessed him with a clear head as well as a strong heart. Such he is, and such he stands before you. And now, sir, that I have answered your question, will you favor me with a reply to mine: what are you called?”
“I am the Count Emile de Gabriac,” said the Frenchman, smiling; “I will spare you the pedigree and the birthplace.”
“Wisely done, I've no doubt, sir,” said Curtis, “if, as I surmise, you are the relative of that French lady whom I met at Castle Carew.”
“You speak of my cousin, sir,—Madame de Carew.”