“What is the matter, O’Brien?” said I, while Ellen retreated in confusion.
O’Brien pulled a parchment out of his pocket. “Here, Peter, my dear Peter; now for honour and glory. An eighteen-gun brig, Peter. The Rattlesnake—Captain O’Brien—West India station. By the holy father! my heart’s bursting with joy,” and down he sank into an easy chair “A’n’t I almost beside myself?” inquired he, after a short pause.
“Ellen thinks so, I daresay,” replied I, looking at my sister, who stood in a corner of the room, thinking O’Brien was really out of his senses, and still red with confusion.
O’Brien, who then called to mind what a slip of decorum he had been guilty of, immediately rose, and resuming his usual unsophisticated politeness, as he walked up to my sister, took her hand and said, “Excuse me, my dear Miss Ellen: I must apologise for my rudeness; but my delight was so great and my gratitude to your brother so intense, that I am afraid that in my warmth, I allowed the expressions of my feelings to extend to one so dear to him, and so like him in person and in mind. Will you only consider that you received the overflowings of a grateful heart towards your brother, and for his sake pardon my indiscretion?”
Ellen smiled, and held out her hand to O’Brien, who led her to the sofa, where we all three sat down: and O’Brien commenced a more intelligible narrative of what had passed. He had called on the day appointed, and sent up his card. The First Lord could not see him, but referred him to the private secretary, who presented him with his commission to the Rattlesnake, eighteen-gun brig. The secretary smiled most graciously, and told O’Brien in confidence, that he would proceed to the West India station as soon as his vessel was manned and ready for sea. He inquired of O’Brien whom he wished as his first lieutenant. O’Brien replied that he wished for me; but as, in all probability, I should not be of sufficient standing to be first lieutenant, that the Admiralty might appoint any other to the duty, provided I joined the ship. The secretary made a minute of O’Brien’s wish, and requested him, if he had a vacancy to spare as midshipman, to allow him to send one on board; to which O’Brien willingly acceded, shook hands with him, and O’Brien quitted the Admiralty to hasten down to us with the pleasing intelligence.
“And now,” said O’Brien, “I have made up my mind how to proceed. I shall first run down to Plymouth and hoist my pennant; then I shall ask for a fortnight’s leave, and go to Ireland to see how they get on, and what Father McGrath may be about. So, Peter, let’s pass this evening as happily as we can: for though you and I shall soon meet again, yet it may be years, or perhaps never, that we three shall sit down on the same sofa as we do now.”
Ellen, who was still nervous from the late death of my mother, looked down, and I perceived the tears start in her eyes at the remark of O’Brien, that perhaps we should never meet again. And I did pass a happy evening: my father dined out, and did not interrupt us. I had a dear sister on one side of me, and a sincere friend on the other. How few situations more enviable.
O’Brien left us early the next morning, and, at breakfast time, a letter was handed to my father. It was from my uncle, coldly communicating to him that Lord Privilege had died the night before very suddenly, and informing him that the burial would take place on that day week, and that the will would be opened immediately after the funeral. My father handed the letter over to me without saying a word, and sipped his tea with his tea-spoon. I cannot say that I felt very much on the occasion; but I did feel, because he had been kind to me at one time: as for my father’s feelings, I could not—or rather I should say, I did not wish to analyse them. As soon as he had finished his cup of tea, he left the breakfast-table, and went into his study. I then communicated the intelligence to my sister Ellen.
“My God!” said she, after a pause, putting her hand up to her eyes, “what a strange, unnatural state of society must we have arrived at when my father can thus receive the intelligence of a parent’s death. Is it not dreadful?”
“It is, my dearest girl,” replied I; “but every feeling has been sacrificed to worldly considerations and an empty name. The younger sons have been neglected, if not deserted. Virtue, talent, everything set at naught—intrinsic value despised—and the only claim to consideration admitted, that of being the heir entail. When all the ties of nature are cast loose by the parents, can you be surprised if the children are no longer bound by them? Most truly do you observe, that it is a detestable state of society.”