'And the devil may take it too, for anything that I care,' said old Reynolds.
'Oh, my dear, dear sir! you are so refractory a patient.'
'I am no patient at all, ma'am, and have no patience either; I am as well as you are, or my Lady Dashfort either, and hope, God willing, long to continue so.'
Mrs. Petito smiled aside at Lord Colambre, to mark her perception of the man's strangeness. Then, in a cajoling voice, addressing herself to the old gentleman—
'Long, long, I hope, to continue so, if Heaven grants my daily and nightly prayers, and my Lady Dashfort's also. So, Mr. Reynolds, if the ladies' prayers are of any avail, you ought to be purely, and I suppose ladies' prayers have the precedency in efficacy. But it was not of prayers and deathbed affairs I came commissioned to treat—not of burials, which Heaven above forbid, but of weddings my diplomacy was to speak; and to premise my Lady Dashfort would have come herself in her carriage, but is hurried out of her senses, and my Lady Isabel could not in proper modesty; so they sent me as their DOUBLE to hope you, my dear Mr. Reynolds, who is one of the family relations, will honour the wedding with your presence.'
'It would be no honour, and they know that as well as I do,' said the intractable Mr. Reynolds. 'It will be no advantage, either; but that they do not know as well as I do. Mrs. Petito, to save you and your lady all trouble about me in future, please to let my Lady Dashfort know that I have just received and read the certificate of my son Captain Reynolds's marriage with Miss St. Omar. I have acknowledged the marriage. Better late than never; and to-morrow morning, God willing, shall set out with this young nobleman for Buxton, where I hope to see, and intend publicly to acknowledge, my grand-daughter—provided she will acknowledge me.'
'CRIMINI!' exclaimed Mrs. Petito, 'what new turns are here! Well, sir, I shall tell my lady of the METAMORPHOSES that have taken place, though by what magic (as I have not the honour to deal in the black art) I can't guess. But, since it seems annoying and inopportune, I shall take my FINALE, and shall thus have a verbal P.P.C.—as you are leaving town, it seems, for Buxton so early in the morning. My Lord Colambre, if I see rightly into a millstone, as I hope and believe I do on the present occasion, I have to congratulate your lordship (haven't I?) upon something like a succession, or a windfall, in this DENEWMENT. And I beg you'll make my humble respects acceptable to the ci-devant Miss Grace Nugent that was; and I won't DERROGATE her by any other name in the interregnum, as I am persuaded it will only be a temporary name, scarce worth assuming, except for the honour of the public adoption; and that will, I'm confident, be soon exchanged for a viscount's title, or I have no sagacity nor sympathy. I hope I don't (pray don't let me) put you to the blush, my lord.'
Lord Colambre would not have let her, if he could have helped it.
'Count O'Halloran, your most obedient! I had the honour of meeting you at Killpatrickstown,' said Mrs. Petito, backing to the door, and twitching her shawl. She stumbled, nearly fell down, over the large dog—caught by the door, and recovered herself. Hannibal rose and shook his ears. 'Poor fellow! you are of my acquaintance too.' She would have stroked his head; but Hannibal walked off indignant, and so did she.
Thus ended certain hopes; for Mrs. Petito had conceived that her DIPLOMACY might be turned to account; that in her character of an ambassadress, as Lady Dashfort's double, by the aid of Iceland moss in chocolate, flattery properly administered; that, by bearing with all her DEAR Mr. Reynolds's ODDNESSES and ROUGHNESES, she might in time—that is to say, before he made a new will become his dear Mrs. Petito; or (for stranger things have happened and do happen every day) his dear Mrs. Reynolds! Mrs. Petito, however, was good at a retreat; and she flattered herself that at least nothing of this underplot had appeared; and at all events she secured by her services in this embassy, the long-looked-for object of her ambition, Lady Dashfort's scarlet velvet gown—'not yet a thread the worse for the wear!' One cordial look at this comforted her for the loss of her expected OCTOGENAIRE; and she proceeded to discomfit her lady, by repeating the message with which strange old Mr. Reynolds had charged her. So ended all Lady Dashfort's hopes of his fortune.