As Lord Colambre was returning home, he was overtaken by Sir Terence O’Fay.
“Well, my lord,” cried Sir Terence, out of breath, “you have led me a pretty dance all over the town: here’s a letter somewhere down in my safe pocket for you, which has cost me trouble enough. Phoo! where is it now?—it’s from Miss Nugent,” said he, holding up the letter. The direction to Grosvenor-square, London, had been scratched out; and it had been re-directed by Sir Terence to the Lord Viscount Colambre, at Sir James Brooke’s, Bart., Brookwood, Huntingdonshire, or elsewhere, with speed, “But the more haste the worse speed; for away it went to Brookwood, Huntingdonshire, where I knew, if any where, you was to be found; but, as fate and the post would have it, there the letter went coursing after you, while you were running round, and back, and forwards, and every where, I understand, to Toddrington and Wrestham, and where not, through all them English places, where there’s no cross-post: so I took it for granted that it found its way to the dead-letter office, or was sticking up across a pane in the d——d postmaster’s window at Huntingdon, for the whole town to see, and it a love-letter, and some puppy to claim it, under false pretence; and you all the time without it, and it might breed a coolness betwixt you and Miss Nugent.”
“But, my dear Sir Terence, give me the letter now you have me.”
“Oh, my dear lord, if you knew what a race I have had, missing you here by five minutes, and there by five seconds—but I have you at last, and you have it—and I’m paid this minute for all I liquidated of my substance, by the pleasure I have in seeing you crack the seal and read it. But take care you don’t tumble over the orange-woman—orange barrows are a great nuisance, when one’s studying a letter in the streets of London, or the metropolis. But never heed; stick to my arm, and I’ll guide you, like a blind man, safe through the thick of them.”
Miss Nugent’s letter, which Lord Colambre read in spite of the jostling of passengers, and the incessant talking of Sir Terence, was as follows:—
“Let me not be the cause of banishing you from your home and your
country, where you would do so much good, and make so many happy.
Let me not be the cause of your breaking your promise to your
mother; of your disappointing my dear aunt so cruelly, who has
complied with all our wishes, and who sacrifices, to oblige us,
her favourite tastes. How could she be ever happy in Ireland—how
could Clonbrony Castle be a home to her without her son? If you
take away all she had of amusement and pleasure, as it is
called, are not you bound to give her, in their stead, that
domestic happiness, which she can enjoy only with you, and by your
means? If, instead of living with her, you go into the army, she
will be in daily, nightly anxiety and alarm about you; and her son
will, instead of being a comfort, be a source of torment to her.
“I will hope that you will do now, as you have always hitherto
done, on every occasion where I have seen you act, what is right,
and just, and kind. Come here on the day you promised my aunt you
would; before that time I shall be in Cambridgeshire, with my
friend Lady Berryl; she is so good as to come to Buxton for me—I
shall remain with her, instead of returning to Ireland. I have
explained my reasons to my dear aunt—Could I have any concealment
from her, to whom, from my earliest childhood, I owe every thing
that kindness and affection could give? She is satisfied—she
consents to my living henceforward with Lady Berryl. Let me have
the pleasure of seeing by your conduct, that you approve of mine.
“Your affectionate cousin
“and friend,
“GRACE NUGENT.”
This letter, as may be imagined by those who, like him, are capable of feeling honourable and generous conduct, gave our hero exquisite pleasure. Poor, good-natured Sir Terence O’Fay enjoyed his lordship’s delight; and forgot himself so completely, that he never even inquired whether Lord Colambre had thought of an affair on which he had spoken to him some time before, and which materially concerned Sir Terence’s interest. The next morning, when the carriage was at the door, and Sir Terence was just taking leave of his friend Lord Clonbrony, and actually in tears, wishing them all manner of happiness, though he said there was none left now in London, or the wide world even, for him—Lord Colambre went up to him, and said, “Sir Terence, you have never inquired whether I have done your business.”
“Oh, my dear, I’m not thinking of that now—time enough by the post—I can write after you; but my thoughts won’t turn for me to business now—no matter.”
“Your business is done,” replied Lord Colambre.
“Then I wonder how you could think of it, with all you had upon your mind and heart. When any thing’s upon my heart, good morning to my head, it’s not worth a lemon. Good-bye to you, and thank you kindly, and all happiness attend you.”