CHAPTER XVII.
Pray now, the news?
You've made fair work, I fear me: pray, your news?
Coriolanus.
Mrs. Sullivan had agreed to leave Dublin in that packet boat which proceeds westward, at nine o'clock in the morning, and which would take her party to the Canal Inn to sleep, the same night: they were to spend the second at some convenient resting place on the borders of Connaught, and early on the morning of the third day expected to reach Ballinamoyle.
Adelaide had employed herself the evening previous to their departure, in writing Mrs. Temple an account of all she had seen worthy of remark in the Irish capital, not forgetting to make honourable mention of her friend Colonel Desmond. This letter was written in much better spirits than the one she had sent from Shrewsbury by Lamotte; and when it reached Mrs. Temple, she was as much gratified by observing this circumstance, as by the tone of affectionate gratitude towards herself and her husband, which pervaded it throughout.
At half past nine o'clock the bustle of leaving Dublin had completely subsided, and the party assembled on the deck of the packet boat had full leisure to view each other, and the surrounding country. As they passed slowly along, one fine seat after another presented itself to their eyes. The country being, hereabouts, principally laid out in parks, lawns, and plantations; that want of wood is not felt for the first twenty miles from Dublin, in this direction, which renders a large proportion of Ireland so desolate to an eye accustomed to woodland scenery. The boat was towed along by two stout horses; but the poor animals were scarcely equal to the laborious task assigned them, and went sideling along in a manner most painful to a humane eye to see. They were driven by giddy boys, and some faint hearts on board quaked lest any accident should occur from their carelessness. Passing the locks is by no means a pleasant operation: you are shut up for a few minutes between massive stonewalls, with a watery abyss beneath, which seems to threaten to swallow you up; and one or other of your fellow passengers is sure to take that opportunity of informing you, that a packet boat was once upset passing a lock, that every soul on board perished, by a variety of deaths, more or less horrible, according to the vivacity of the imagination which the relater may happen to possess. The bell which announces the arrival of the packet boat at the places appointed for changing horses, assembles every individual within reach of its sound, who can accomplish reaching the spot ere its departure. Men, women, and children, of all descriptions, throng to gaze at the passengers, and inquire the news from Dublin. Here are to be seen the landlord, the physician, and the curate of the district, debating the politics of the day. Some passenger gives them the newspapers, or reads an extract from a pamphlet just come out, or relates rumours in direct contradiction to those they heard the day before, which however reign with unquestioned credit, till the next diurnal importation of lies reaches them, which banish, in turn, their ephemeral predecessors, and are themselves dispossessed of their authority by as short-lived usurpers.
Colonel Desmond, as our party passed along, pointed out every thing worthy of notice. He was an excellent cicerone, and there were few questions asked he could not satisfactorily answer. Mrs. Sullivan was much delighted with the good natured attention he paid her, partly from his natural urbanity, partly from his regard for Adelaide, and for his deceased friend, whose widow and child he could not see without wishing to serve them.
Mrs. Sullivan, looking on him quite as a friend, made him the confidant of her suspicions regarding Miss Wildenheim's birth, which she had resolved to keep secret in Ireland, lest they should tempt her brother-in-law to bequeath any part of his fortune from Caroline. In answer to a long string of interrogatories, respecting her late husband's life abroad, Colonel Desmond laughingly replied, "I really can't affirm that poor Maurice was always immaculate, but he certainly was guiltless of the sin of giving birth to this angelic girl. And I must, as a friend, inform you, that his brother would more easily pardon his presenting to him a dozen such claimants to multiply his name, than you for taking a single letter from it: if you don't call your daughter Miss O—Sullivan, she will never possess an acre of the Ballinamoyle estate, which, I assure you, is well worth having, though it should entail the ugliest name in the world." Mrs. Sullivan thanked him; and, profiting by the hint, there was such a practising of the most pathetic of interjections that day, that a stranger might have supposed, some half dozen of the party were in the last agonies; or that they were a set of strolling comedians, rehearsing for a tragedy, whereas they were only getting up the farce, which was to be played at Ballinamoyle.