I sat down, checking my grief and trying to recall my scattered senses. The captains, in the meantime, turning over the logs to pass away the time; the one who had questioned me in navigation reading the Plymouth newspaper, which had a few minutes before been brought on board and sent into the cabin. “Heh! what’s this? I say, Burrows — Keats, look here,” and he pointed to a paragraph. “Mr Simple, may I ask whether it was you who saved the soldier who leaped off the wharf yesterday.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied I, “and that’s the reason why my uniforms are so shabby. I spoilt them then, and had no time to order others. I did not like to say why they were spoilt.” I saw a change in the countenances of all the three, and it gave me courage. Indeed, now that my feelings had found vent, I was no longer under any apprehension.

  “Come, Mr Simple, stand up again,” said the captain, kindly, “that is if you feel sufficiently composed: if not, we will wait a little longer. Don’t be afraid, we wish to pass you.”

  I was not afraid, and stood up immediately. I answered every question satisfactorily, and finding that I did so, they put more difficult ones. “Very good, very good indeed, Mr Simple; now let me ask you one more; it’s seldom done in the service, and perhaps you may not be able to answer it. Do you know how to club-haul a ship?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied I, having, as the reader may recollect, witnessed the manoeuvre when serving under poor Captain Savage, and I immediately stated how it was to be done.

  “That is sufficient, Mr Simple; I wish to ask you no more questions. I thought at first you were a careless officer and no seaman: I now find you are a good seaman and a gallant young man. Do you wish to ask any more questions?” continued he, turning to the two others.

  They replied in the negative; my passing certificate was signed, and the captain did me the honour to shake hands with me, and wish me speedy promotion. Thus ended happily this severe trial to my poor nerves; and, as I came out of the cabin, no one could have imagined that I had been in such distress within, when they beheld the joy that irradiated my countenance.

  Chapter Thirty Nine.

  Is a chapter of plots — Catholic casuistry in a new cassock — Plotting promotes promotion — A peasant’s love, and a peer’s peevishness — Prospects of prosperity.

  As soon as I arrived at the hotel, I sent for a Plymouth paper, and cut out the paragraph which had been of such importance to me in my emergency, and the next morning returned home to receive the congratulations of my family. I found a letter from O’Brien, which had arrived the day before. It was as follows: —

  “My dear Peter, — Some people, they say, are lucky to ‘have a father born before them,’ because they are helped on in the world — upon which principle, mine was born after me, that’s certain; however, that can’t be helped. I found all my family well and hearty: but they all shook a cloth in the wind with respect to toggery. As for Father McGrath’s cassock, he didn’t complain of it without reason. It was the ghost of a garment; but, however, with the blessing of God, my last quarterly bill, and the help of a tailor, we have had a regular refit, and the ancient family of the O’Briens of Ballyhinch are now rigged from stem to stern. My two sisters are both to be spliced to young squireens in the neighbourhood; it appears that they only waited for a dacent town gown to go to the church in. They will be turned off next Friday, and I only wish, Peter, you were here to dance at the weddings. Never mind, I’ll dance for you and for myself too. In the meantime, I’ll just tell you what Father McGrath and I have been doing, all about and consarning that thief of an uncle of yours.

  “It’s very little or nothing at all that Father McGrath did before I came back, seeing as how Father O’Toole had a new cassock, and Father McGrath’s was so shabby that he couldn’t face him under such a disadvantage: but still Father McGrath spied about him, and had several hints from here and from there, all of which, when I came to add them up, amounted to nothing at all.

  “But since I came home, we have been busy. Father McGrath went down to Ballycleuch, as bold as a lion, in his new clothing, swearing that he’d lead Father O’Toole by the nose for slamming the door in his face, and so he would have done, if he could have found him; but as he wasn’t to be found, Father McGrath came back again just as wise, and quite as brave, as he went out.

  “So, Peter, I just took a walk that way myself, and, as I surrounded the old house where your uncle had taken up his quarters, who should I meet but the little girl, Ella Flanagan, who was in his service; and I said to myself, ‘There’s two ways of obtaining things in this world, one is for love, and the other is for money.’ The O’Briens are better off in the first article than in the last, as most of their countrymen are, so I’ve been spending it very freely in your service, Peter.

  “‘Sure,’ says I, ‘you are the little girl that my eyes were ever looking upon when last I was this way.’

  “‘And who are you?’ says she.

  “‘Lieutenant O’Brien, of His Majesty’s service, just come home for a minute to look out for a wife,’ says I; ‘and it’s one about your make, and shape, and discretion, that would please my fancy.’

  “And then I praised her eyes, and her nose, and her forehead, and so downwards, until I came to the soles of her feet; and asked her leave to see her again, and when she would meet me in the wood and tell me her mind. At first, she thought (sure enough) that I couldn’t be in earnest, but I swore by all the saints that she was the prettiest girl in the parts — and so she is altogether — and then she listened to my blarney. The devil a word did I say about your uncle or your aunt, or Father McGrath, that she might not suspect, for I’ve an idea that they’re all in the story. I only talked about my love for her pretty self, and that blinded her, as it will all women, ‘cute as they may be.

  “And now, Peter, it’s three weeks last Sunday, that I’ve been bespeaking this poor girl for your sake, and my conscience tells me that it’s not right to make a poor cratur fond of me, seeing as how that I don’t care a fig for her in the way of a wife, and in any other way it would be the ruin of the poor thing. I have spoken to Father McGrath on the subject, who says ‘that we may do evil that good may come, and, that if she had been a party to the deceit, it’s nothing but proper that she should be punished in this world, and that will, perhaps, save her in the next;’ still I don’t like it, Peter, and it’s only for you among the living that I’d do such a thing; for the poor creature now hangs upon me so fondly and talks about the wedding day; and tells me long stories about the connections which have taken place between the O’Flanagans and the O’Briens, times gone by, when they were all in their glory. Yesterday as we sat in the wood, with her arm round my waist, ‘Ella, dear,’ says I ‘who are these people that you stay with?’ And then she told me all she knew about their history, and how Mary Sullivan was a nurse to the baby.

  “‘And what is the baby?’ says I.

  “‘A boy, sure,’ says she.

  “‘And Sullivan’s baby?’

  “‘That’s a girl.’

  “‘And is Mary Sullivan there now?’

  “‘No,’ says she; ‘it’s yestreen she left with her husband and baby, to join the regiment that’s going out to Ingy.’

  “‘Yesterday she left?’ says I, starting up.

  “‘Yes,’ replies she, ‘and what do you care about them?’

  “‘It’s very much I care,’ replied I, ‘for a little bird has whispered a secret to me.’

  “‘And what may that be?’ says she.

  “‘Only that the childer were changed, and you know it as well as I do.’ But she swore that she knew nothing about it, and that she was not there when either of the children were born, and I believe that she told the truth. ‘Well,’ says I, ‘who tended the lady?’

  “‘My own mother,’ says Ella. ‘And if it were so, who can know but she?’

  “‘Then,’ says I, ‘Ella, jewel, I’ve made a vow that I’ll never marry, till I find out the truth of this matter; so the sooner you get it out of your mother the better.’ Then she cried very much, and I was almost ready to cry too, to see how the poor thing was vexed at the idea of not being married. After a while she swabbed up her cheeks, and kissing me, wished me good-bye, swearing by all the saints that the truth should come out somehow or another.

  “It’s this morning that I saw her again, as agreed upon yesterday, and red her eyes were with weeping, poor thing; and she clung to me and begged me to forgive her, and not to leave her; and then she told me that her mother was startled when she put the question to her, and chewed it, and cursed her when she insisted upon the truth; and how she had fallen on her knees, and begged her mother not to stand in the way of her happiness, as she would die if she did (I leave you to guess if my heart didn’t smite me when she said that, Peter, but the mischief was done), and how her mother had talked about her oath and Father O’Toole, and said that she would speak to him.

  “Now, Peter, I’m sure that the childer have been changed and that the nurse has been sent to the Indies to be out of the way. They say they were to go to Plymouth. The husband’s name is, of course, O’Sullivan; so I’d recommend you to take a coach and see what you can do in that quarter; in the meantime, I’ll try all I can for the truth in this, and will write again as soon as I can find out any thing more. All I want to do is to get Father McGrath to go to the old devil of a mother, and I’ll answer for it, he’ll frighten her into swearing anything. God bless you, Peter and give my love to all the family.

  “Yours ever,

  “Terence O’Brien.”

  This letter of O’Brien was the subject of much meditation. The advice to go to Plymouth was too late, the troops having sailed some time; and I had no doubt but that Mary Sullivan and her husband were among those who had embarked at the time that I was at the port to pass my examination. Show the letter to my father I would not, as it would only have put him in a fever, and his interference would, in all probability, have done more harm than good. I therefore waited quietly for more intelligence, and resolved to apply to my grandfather to obtain my promotion.

  A few days afterwards I set off for Eagle Park, and arrived about eleven o’clock in the morning. I sent in my name and was admitted into the library, where I found Lord Privilege in his easy chair as usual.

  “Well, child,” said he, remaining on his chair, and not offering even one finger to me, “what do you want, that you come here without an invitation?”

  “Only, my lord, to inquire after your health, and to thank you for your kindness to me in procuring me and Mr O’Brien the appointment to a fine frigate.”

  “Yes,” replied his lordship, “I recollect — I think I did so, at your request, and I think I heard some one say that you have behaved well, and had been mentioned in the despatches.”

  “Yes, my lord,” replied I, “and I have since passed my examination for lieutenant.”

  “Well, child, I’m glad to hear it. Remember me to your father and family.” And his lordship cast his eyes down upon his book which he had been reading.

  My father’s observations appeared to be well grounded, but I would not leave the room until I had made some further attempt.

  “Has your lordship heard from my uncle?”

  “Yes,” replied he, “I had a letter from him yesterday. The child is quite well. I expect them all here in a fortnight or three weeks, to live with me altogether. I am old — getting very old, and I shall have much to arrange with your uncle before I die.”

  “If I might request a favour of your lordship, it would be to beg that you would interest yourself a little in obtaining my promotion. A letter from your lordship to the First Lord — only a few lines—”

  “Well, child, I see no objection — only I am very old, too old to write now.” And his lordship again commenced reading.

  I must do Lord Privilege the justice to state that he evidently was fast verging to a state of second childhood. He was much bowed down since I had last seen him, and appeared infirm in body as well as mind.

  I waited at least a quarter of an hour before his lordship looked up.

  “What, not gone yet, child? I thought you had gone home.”

  “Your lordship was kind enough to say that you had no objection to write a few lines to the First Lord in my behalf. I trust your lordship will not refuse me—”

  “Well,” replied he, peevishly, “so I did — but I am too old, too old to write — I cannot see — I can hardly hold a pen.”

  “Will your lordship allow me the honour of writing the letter for your lordship’s signature?”

  “Well, child, — yes — I’ve no objection. Write as follows — no — write anything you please — and I’ll sign it. I wish your uncle William was come.”

  This was more than I did. I had a great mind to show him O’Brien’s letter, but I thought it would be cruel to raise doubts, and, harass the mind of a person so close to the brink of the grave. The truth would never be ascertained during his life, I thought; and why, therefore, should I give him pain? At all events, although I had the letter in my pocket, I resolved not to make use of it except as a dernier resort.

  I went to another table, and sat down to write the letter. As his lordship had said that I might write what I pleased, it occurred to me that I might assist O’Brien, and I felt sure that his lordship would not take the trouble to read the letter. I therefore wrote as follows, while Lord Privilege continued to read his book: —

  “My Lord, — You will confer a very great favour upon me, if you will hasten the commission which, I have no doubt, is in preparation for my grandson Mr Simple, who has passed his examination, and has been mentioned in the public despatches; and also that you will not lose sight of Lieutenant O’Brien, who has so distinguished himself by his gallantry in the various cutting-out expeditions in the West Indies. Trusting that your lordship will not fail to comply with my earnest request, I have the honour to be your lordship’s very obedient humble servant.”

  I brought this letter, with a pen full of ink, and the noise of my approach induced his lordship to look up. He stared at first, as having forgotten the whole circumstance — then said— “O yes! I recollect, so I did — give me the pen.” With a trembling hand he signed his name, and gave me back the letter without reading it, as I expected.

  “There, child, don’t tease me any more. Good-bye; remember me to your father.”

  I wished his lordship a good morning, and went away well satisfied with the result of my expedition. On my arrival I showed the letter to my father, who was much surprised at my success, and he assured me that my grandfather’s interest was so great with the Administration, that I might consider my promotion as certain. That no accident might happen, I immediately set off for London, and delivered the letter at the door of the First Lord with my own hands, leaving my address with the porter.

  Chapter Forty.

  O’Brien and myself take a step each, “pari passu” — A family reunion, productive of anything but unity — My uncle, not always the best friend.

  A few days afterwards I left my card with my address with the First Lord, and the next day received a letter from his secretary, which, to my delight, informed me that my commission had been made out some days before. I hardly need say that I hastened to take it up, and when paying my fee to the clerk, I ventured, at a hazard, to inquire whether he knew the address of Lieutenant O’Brien.

  “No,” replied he, “I wish to find it out, for he has this day been promoted to the rank of Commander.”

  I almost leaped with joy when I heard this good news; I gave O’Brien’s address to the clerk, hastened away with my invaluable piece of parchment in my hand, and set off immediately for my father’s house.

  But I was met with sorrow. My mother had been taken severely ill, and I found the house in commotion — doctors, and apothecaries, and nurses, running to and fro, my father in a state of excitement, and my dear sister in tears. Spasm succeeded spasm; and although every remedy was applied, the next evening she breathed her last. I will not attempt to describe the grief of my father, who appeared to feel remorse at his late unkind treatment of her, my sister, and myself. These scenes must be imagined by those who have suffered under similar bereavements. I exerted myself to console my poor sister, who appeared to cling to me as to her only support, and, after the funeral was over, we recovered our tranquillity, although the mourning was still deeper in our hearts than in our outward dress. I had written to O’Brien to announce the mournful intelligence, and, like a true friend, he immediately made his appearance to console me.

  O’Brien had received the letter from the Admiralty, acquainting him with his promotion; and, two days after he arrived, went to take up his commission. I told him frankly by what means he had obtained it, and he again concluded his thanks by a reference to the mistake of the former supposition, that of my being “the fool of the family.”

  “By the powers, it would be well for any man if he had a few of such foolish friends about him,” continued he; “but I won’t blarney you, Peter; you know what my opinion always has been, so we’ll say no more about it.”

  When he came back, we had a long consultation as to the best method of proceeding to obtain employment, for O’Brien was anxious to be again afloat, and so was I. I regretted parting with my sister, but my father was so morose and ill-tempered, that I had no pleasure at home, except in her company. Indeed, my sister was of opinion, that it would be better if I were away, as my father’s misanthropy, now unchecked by my mother, appeared to have increased, and he seemed to view me with positive dislike. It was, therefore, agreed unanimously between my sister, and me, and O’Brien, who was always of our councils, that it would be advisable that I should be again afloat.

  “I can manage him much better when alone, Peter; I shall have nothing to occupy me, and take me away from him, as your presence does now; and, painful as it is to part with you, my duty to my father, and my wish for your advancement, induce me to request that you will, if possible, find some means of obtaining employment.”