“Ah, then,” responded Mr. Crotty, “a pleasanter gentleman ye never met. I hadn’t time to finish my story; for I remember that ould bothering divil of a Colonel called me off. Well—when I rose to come away, he, that’s Lord Wellington, says to me, ‘Arrah, Peter, won’t ye sit a little longer?’ ‘Bad manners to me,’ says I, ‘but it’s more than I dare do.’ ‘What a pity ye’r in such hurry,’ says he, ‘I suppose, however, it can’t be helped at present; but the next time ye come, Peter, put ye’r best breeches into your portmantle, and stop with us as long as ye can.’”
“And is his lordship generally so hospitable and polite to every body that drops in with a message?”
“Oh, then, upon my sowl! he’s not. And if I swore it on a bag full of bibles, there’s some of the divils here that wouldn’t believe me. For one, there’s Major Fitzmaurice—and, Holy Mary! now that I mind it—hasn’t he a whole bundle of letters for you! and he’s in the town too.—Well, I’m not bothered with letter-writin, and that’s a comfort. What would they have to tell me from home, but that rack rents would be their ruin—and what could I say in favour of this villanous country, where, if a man at times happens to have a dollar in his pocket, he couldn’t get a drop to wet his whistle, although it was dry as a lime-burner’s wig, because the people have neither change nor daceney. But—see—there’s the man I spoke about—and now, may the Lord bless ye, if it’s possible.” So saying, and pointing out Major Fitzmaurice, Peter bolted round a corner, as he termed it, “for a rason he had of his own.”
In Major Fitzmaurice, I easily recognised the kind personage who had shared his tent with me on mv first appearance in cantonments.
Like Peter Crotty, he also expressed much surprise at seeing me again, when, as it might have been supposed, I was en route to Valencia.
“I have a packet of letters for you,” he said; “and in hope that I might meet with somebody bound for the east of Spain, I have carried them in my pocket. How fortunate to have dropped upon you! I came in to dine with some friends on the staff who are quartered in Frenada; and, if you have no better engagement, you shall join them with me, and in the evening we will return to the old shop. There it stands as formerly—the same mattrass and bullock-trunk—and ‘ceade millia fealteagh.’ Talking of trunks—I saw Peter Crotty leave you. He has put a finish to his celebrated visit to Lord Wellington. Did he tell you of ‘the portmantle,’ as he calls it, and his ‘best breeches’ into the bargain?”
“All these important facts were faithfully narrated to me.”
“Then come along—I’ll give you your despatches when I find my great coat; and by the time you have perused them, dinner will be ready.”
I found, on opening the packet, four letters addressed to me, and two to the fosterer. Mine were respectively written by my parents, my uncle, and my mistress—and, may Heaven forgive me! love left duty in the back-ground, and Isidora’s was the first seal broken.
I could scarcely believe that the letter I perused was hers. Not a year since I met her a timid and retiring girl—she had never mingled with society—to her, man was strange—she blushed when addressed—and if she answered,