“Her mother’s maiden name was St. Omar; and there was a faux
pas, certainly. She was, I am told, (for it was before my time,)
educated at a convent abroad; and there was an affair with a
Captain Reynolds, a young officer, which her friends were obliged
to hush up. She brought an infant to England with her, and took
the name of Reynolds—but none of that family would acknowledge
her: and she lived in great obscurity, till your Uncle Nugent saw,
fell in love with her, and (knowing her whole history) married
her. He adopted the child, gave her his name, and, after some
years, the whole story was forgotten. Nothing could be more
disadvantageous to Grace than to have it revived: this is the
reason we kept it secret.”
Lord Colambre tore the letter to bits.
From the perturbation which Lady Dashfort saw in his countenance, she guessed the nature of the letter which he had been reading, and for the arrival of which he had been so impatient.
“It has worked!” said she to herself. “Pour le coup Philippe je te tiens!”
Lord Colambre appeared this day more sensible than he had ever yet seemed to the charms of the fair Isabel.
“Many a tennis-ball, and many a heart, is caught at the rebound,” said Lady Dashfort. “Isabel! now is your time!”
And so it was—or so, perhaps, it would have been, but for a circumstance which her ladyship, with all her genius for intrigue, had never taken into her consideration. Count O’Halloran came to return the visit which had been paid to him; and, in the course of conversation, he spoke of the officers who had been introduced to him, and told Lady Dashfort that he had heard a report which shocked him much—he hoped it could not be true—that one of these officers had introduced his mistress as his wife to Lady Oranmore, who lived in the neighbourhood. This officer, it was said, had let Lady Oranmore send her carriage for this woman; and that she had dined at Oranmore with her ladyship and her daughters. “But I cannot believe it! I cannot believe it to be possible, that any gentleman, that any officer could do such a thing!” said the count.
“And is this all?” exclaimed Lady Dashfort. “Is this all the terrible affair, my good count, which has brought your face to this prodigious length?”
The count looked at Lady Dashfort with astonishment.
“Such a look of virtuous indignation,” continued she, “did I never behold on or off the stage. Forgive me for laughing, count; but, believe me, comedy goes through the world better than tragedy, and, take it all in all, does rather less mischief. As to the thing in question, I know nothing about it; I dare say it is not true: but, now, suppose it were—it is only a silly quiz of a raw young officer upon a prudish old dowager. I know nothing about it, for my part: but, after all, what irreparable mischief has been done? Laugh at the thing, and then it is a jest—a bad one, perhaps, but still only a jest—and there’s an end of it: but take it seriously, and there is no knowing where it might end—in this poor man’s being broke, and in half a dozen duels, may be.”