“Well, then, upon my——eh? May the devil—I beg pardon, madam, but this is really such a riddle to me that I must confess my inability to unravel it.”
“Shall I aid you, sir?” said Lady Hester, with an easy smile on her features. “When bequeathing this estate to me, Sir Stafford expressly provided, that if from any political convulsion Ireland should be separated from her union with Great Britain, or if by course of law a substantial claim was established to the property by another, that I should be recompensed for the loss by an income of equal amount derived from the estate of his son, George Onslow, at whose discretion it lay to allocate any portion of his inheritance he deemed suitable for the purpose.”
“All true, madam, quite true,” broke in Grounsell; “and the Solicitor-General's opinion is that the provision is perfectly nugatory,—not worth sixpence. It has not one single tie of obligation, and, from its vagueness, is totally inoperative.”
“In law, sir, it may be all that you say,” replied Lady Hester, calmly; “but I have yet to learn that this is the appeal to which Captain Onslow would submit it.”
Grounsell stared at her; and for the first time in all his life he thought her handsome. That his own features revealed the admiration he felt was also plain enough, and Lady Hester was very far from being insensible to the tribute.
“So that, madam,” cried he, at length, “You prefer insecurity to certainty.”
“Say rather, sir, that I have more confidence in the honorable sentiments of an English gentleman than I have in the solvency of a poor and wretched peasantry. Up to this very hour I have known nothing except the claims upon myself. I don't like the climate; and I am certain the neighbors do not like me,—in fact, I have neither the youth nor the enterprise suited to a new country.”
“Why, good heavens, madam, it isn't New Zealand we're in!” cried Grounsell, angrily.
“Perhaps not,” sighed she, languidly; “but it is just as strange to me.”
“I see, madam,” said Grounsell, rising, “my plan was a bad one. A wing in the Borghese Palace, a spacious apartment of the Corsini, on the Arno, or even the first floor of the Moncenigo, at Venice, would have been a happier choice than a gloomy old mansion on the banks of an Irish river.”