“Spoken like a hero, as ye are, Miss Ellen, notwithstanding your pretty face and soft eyes,” said O’Brien. “And now, Peter, for the means to bring it about. If I can get a ship, there is no fear for you, as I shall choose you for my lieutenant; but how is that to be managed? Do you think that you can come over the old gentleman at Eagle Park?”

  “At all events I’ll try,” replied I; “I can but be floored, O’Brien.”

  Accordingly, the next day I set off for my grandfather’s, and was put down at the lodge, at the usual hour, about eleven o’clock. I walked up the avenue, and knocked at the door: when it was opened, I perceived a hesitation among the servants, and a constrained air which I did not like. I inquired after Lord Privilege — the answer was, that he was pretty well, but did not see any body.

  “Is my uncle here,” said I.

  “Yes, sir,” replied the servant, with a significant look, “and all his family are here too.”

  “Are you sure that I cannot see my grandfather,” said I, laying a stress upon the word.

  “I will tell him that you are here, sir,” replied the man, “but even that is against orders.”

  I had never seen my uncle since I was a child, and could not even recollect him — my cousins, or my aunt, I had never met with. In a minute, an answer was brought, requesting that I would walk into the library. When I was ushered in, I found myself in the presence of Lord Privilege, who sat in his usual place, and a tall gentleman, whom I knew at once to be my uncle, from his likeness to my father.

  “Here is the young gentleman, my lord,” said my uncle, looking at me sternly.

  “Heh! what — oh! I recollect. Well, child, so you’ve been behaving very ill — sorry to hear it. Good-bye.”

  “Behaving ill, my lord!” replied I. “I am not aware of having so done.”

  “Reports are certainly very much against you, nephew,” observed my uncle dryly. “Some one has told your grandfather what has much displeased him. I know nothing about it myself.”

  “Then some rascal has slandered me, sir,” replied I.

  My uncle started at the word rascal; and then recovering himself, replied, “Well, nephew what is it that you require of Lord Privilege, for I presume this visit is not without a cause?”

  “Sir,” replied I, “my visit to Lord Privilege was, first to thank him for having procured me my commission as lieutenant, and to request the favour that he would obtain me active employment, which a line from him will effect immediately.”

  “I was not aware, nephew, that you had been made lieutenant; but I agree with you, that the more you are at sea the better. His lordship shall sign the letter. Sit down.”

  “Shall I write it, sir?” said I to my uncle: “I know what to say.”

  “Yes; and bring it to me when it is written.”

  I felt convinced that the only reason which induced my uncle to obtain me employment, was the idea that I should be better out of the way, and that there was more risk at sea than on shore. I took a sheet of paper and wrote as follows: —

  “My Lord, — May I request that your lordship will be pleased to appoint the bearer of this to a ship, as soon as convenient, as I wish him to be actively employed.

  “I am, my lord, etcetera, etc.”

  “Why not mention your name?”

  “It is of no consequence,” replied I, “as it will be delivered in person, and that will insure my speedy appointment.”

  The letter was placed before his lordship for signature. It was with some difficulty that he was made to understand that he was to sign it. The old gentleman appeared much more imbecile than when I last saw him. I thanked him, folded up the letter, and put it in my pocket. At last, he looked at me, and a sudden flash of recollection appeared to come across his mind.

  “Well, child — so you escaped from the French prison — heh! and how’s your friend — what is his name, heh?”

  “O’Brien, my lord.”

  “O’Brien!” cried my uncle, “he is your friend; then, sir, I presume it is you am indebted for all the inquiries and reports which are so industriously circulated in Ireland — the tampering with my servants — and other impertinences?”

  I did not choose to deny the truth, although I was a little fluttered by the sudden manner in which it came to light. I replied, “I never tamper with any people’s servants, sir.”

  “No,” said he, “but you employ others so to do. I discovered the whole of your proceedings, after the scoundrel left for England.”

  “If you apply the word scoundrel to Captain O’Brien, sir, in his name I contradict it.”

  “As you please, sir,” replied my uncle, in a passion; “but you will oblige me by quitting this house immediately, and expect nothing more, either from the present or the future Lord Privilege, except that retaliation which your infamous conduct has deserved.”

  I felt much irritated, and replied very sharply, “From the present Lord Privilege I certainly expect nothing more, neither do I from his successor; — but after your death, uncle, I expect that the person who succeeds to the title will do all he can for your humble servant. I wish you a good morning, uncle.”

  My uncle’s eyes flashed fire as I finished my speech, which indeed was a very bold, and a very foolish one too, as it afterwards proved. I hastened out of the room, not only from the fear of being turned out of the house before all the servants, but also from the dread that my letter to the first Lord might be taken from me by force; but I never shall forget the scowl of vengeance which crossed my uncle’s brows as I turned round and looked at him as I shut the door. I found my way out without the assistance of the servants, and hastened home as fast as I could.

  “O’Brien,” said I, on my return, “there is no time to be lost; the sooner you hasten to town with this letter of introduction, the better it will be, for depend upon it my uncle will do me all the harm that he can.” I then repeated to him all that had passed, and it was agreed, that O’Brien should take the letter, which having reference to the bearer, would do as well for him as for me; and, if O’Brien obtained on appointment, I was sure not only of being one of his lieutenants, but also of sailing with a dear friend. The next morning, O’Brien set off for London, and fortunately saw the First Lord the day after his arrival, which was a levée day. The First Lord received the letter from O’Brien, and requested him to sit down. He then read it, inquired after his lordship, asked whether his health was good, etc.

  O’Brien replied that, “with the blessing of God, his lordship might live many years: that he had never heard him complain of ill health.” All which was not false, if not true. I could not help observing to O’Brien, when he returned home and told me what had passed, that “I thought, considering what he had expressed with respect to white lies and black lies, that he had not latterly adhered to his own creed.”

  “That’s very true, Peter; and I’ve thought of it myself, but it is my creed nevertheless. We all know what’s right, but we don’t always follow it. The fact is, I begin to think that it is absolutely necessary to fight the world with it own weapons. I spoke to Father McGrath on the subject, and he replied, ‘That if any one, by doing wrong, necessitated another to do wrong to circumvent him, that the first party was answerable, not only for his own sin, but also for the sin committed in self-defence.’”

  “But O’Brien, I do not fix my faith so implicitly upon Father McGrath; and I do not much admire many of his directions.”

  “No more do I, Peter, when I think upon them; but how am I to puzzle my head upon these points? All I know is, that when you are divided between your inclination and your duty, it’s mighty convenient to have a priest like Father McGrath to decide for you, and to look after your soul into the bargain.”

  It occurred to me, that I myself, when finding fault with O’Brien, had, in the instance of both the letters from Lord Privilege, been also guilty of deceit. I was therefore blaming him for the same fault committed by myself; and I am afraid that I was too ready in consoling myself with Father McGrath’s maxim, “That one might do evil, that good might come.” But to return to O’Brien’s interview.

  After some little conversation, the First Lord said, “Captain O’Brien, I am always very ready to oblige Lord Privilege, and the more so as his recommendation is of an officer of your merit. In a day or two, if you will call at the Admiralty, you will hear further.” O’Brien wrote to us immediately, and we waited with impatience for his next letter; but instead of this letter, he made his appearance on the third day, and first hugging me in his arms, he then came to my sister, embraced her, and skipped and danced about the room.

  “What is the matter, O’Brien?” said I, while Ellen retreated in confusion.

  O’Brien pulled a parchment out of his pocket. “Here, Peter, my dear Peter; now for honour and glory. An eighteen-gun brig, Peter. The Rattlesnake — Captain O’Brien — West India station. By the holy father! my heart’s bursting with joy,” and down he sank into an easy chair “A’n’t I almost beside myself?” inquired he, after a short pause.

  “Ellen thinks so, I daresay,” replied I, looking at my sister, who stood in a corner of the room, thinking O’Brien was really out of his senses, and still red with confusion.

  O’Brien, who then called to mind what a slip of decorum he had been guilty of, immediately rose, and resuming his usual unsophisticated politeness, as he walked up to my sister, took her hand and said, “Excuse me, my dear Miss Ellen: I must apologise for my rudeness; but my delight was so great and my gratitude to your brother so intense, that I am afraid that in my warmth, I allowed the expressions of my feelings to extend to one so dear to him, and so like him in person and in mind. Will you only consider that you received the overflowings of a grateful heart towards your brother, and for his sake pardon my indiscretion?”

  Ellen smiled, and held out her hand to O’Brien, who led her to the sofa, where we all three sat down: and O’Brien commenced a more intelligible narrative of what had passed. He had called on the day appointed, and sent up his card. The First Lord could not see him, but referred him to the private secretary, who presented him with his commission to the Rattlesnake, eighteen-gun brig. The secretary smiled most graciously, and told O’Brien in confidence, that he would proceed to the West India station as soon as his vessel was manned and ready for sea. He inquired of O’Brien whom he wished as his first lieutenant. O’Brien replied that he wished for me; but as, in all probability, I should not be of sufficient standing to be first lieutenant, that the Admiralty might appoint any other to the duty, provided I joined the ship. The secretary made a minute of O’Brien’s wish, and requested him, if he had a vacancy to spare as midshipman, to allow him to send one on board; to which O’Brien willingly acceded, shook hands with him, and O’Brien quitted the Admiralty to hasten down to us with the pleasing intelligence.

  “And now,” said O’Brien, “I have made up my mind how to proceed. I shall first run down to Plymouth and hoist my pennant; then I shall ask for a fortnight’s leave, and go to Ireland to see how they get on, and what Father McGrath may be about. So, Peter, let’s pass this evening as happily as we can: for though you and I shall soon meet again, yet it may be years, or perhaps never, that we three shall sit down on the same sofa as we do now.”

  Ellen, who was still nervous from the late death of my mother, looked down, and I perceived the tears start in her eyes at the remark of O’Brien, that perhaps we should never meet again. And I did pass a happy evening: my father dined out, and did not interrupt us. I had a dear sister on one side of me, and a sincere friend on the other. How few situations more enviable.

  O’Brien left us early the next morning, and, at breakfast time, a letter was handed to my father. It was from my uncle, coldly communicating to him that Lord Privilege had died the night before very suddenly, and informing him that the burial would take place on that day week, and that the will would be opened immediately after the funeral. My father handed the letter over to me without saying a word, and sipped his tea with his tea-spoon. I cannot say that I felt very much on the occasion; but I did feel, because he had been kind to me at one time: as for my father’s feelings, I could not — or rather I should say, I did not wish to analyse them. As soon as he had finished his cup of tea, he left the breakfast-table, and went into his study. I then communicated the intelligence to my sister Ellen.

  “My God!” said she, after a pause, putting her hand up to her eyes, “what a strange, unnatural state of society must we have arrived at when my father can thus receive the intelligence of a parent’s death. Is it not dreadful?”

  “It is, my dearest girl,” replied I; “but every feeling has been sacrificed to worldly considerations and an empty name. The younger sons have been neglected, if not deserted. Virtue, talent, everything set at naught — intrinsic value despised — and the only claim to consideration admitted, that of being the heir entail. When all the ties of nature are cast loose by the parents, can you be surprised if the children are no longer bound by them? Most truly do you observe, that it is a detestable state of society.”

  “I did not say detestable, brother; I said strange and unnatural.”

  “Had you said what I said, Ellen, you would not have been wrong. I would not, for the title and wealth which it brings, be the heartless, isolated, I may say neglected, being that my grandfather was: were it offered now, I would not barter for it Ellen’s love.”

  Ellen threw herself in my arms; we then walked into the garden, where we had a long conversation relative to our future wishes, hopes and, prospects.

  Chapter Forty One.

  Pompous obsequies — The reading of the will, not exactly after Wilkie — I am left a legacy — What becomes of it — My father, very warm, writes a sermon to cool himself — I join O’Brien’s brig, and fall in with Swinburne.

  On that day week I accompanied my father to Eagle Park, to assist at the burial of Lord Privilege. We were ushered into the room where the body had lain in state for three days. The black hangings, the lofty plumes, the rich ornaments on the coffin, and the number of wax candles, with which the room was lighted, produced a solemn and grand effect. I could not help, as I leaned against the balustrade before the coffin, and thought of its contents, calling to mind when my poor grandfather’s feelings seemed, as it were, inclined to thaw in my favour, when he called me “his child,” and, in all probability, had not my uncle had a son, would have died in my arms, fond and attached to me for my own sake, independently of worldly considerations. I felt that had I known him longer, I could have loved him, and that he would have loved me; and I thought to myself how little all these empty honours, after his decease, could compensate for the loss of those reciprocal feelings, which would have so added to his happiness during his existence. But he had lived for pomp and vanity; and pomp and vanity attended him to his grave. I thought of my sister Ellen, and of O’Brien, and walked away with the conviction that Peter Simple might have been an object of envy to the late Right Honourable Lord Viscount Privilege, Baron Corston, Lord Lieutenant of the county, and one of His Majesty’s most Honourable Privy Councillors.

  When the funeral, which was very tedious and very splendid, was over, we all returned in the carriages to Eagle Park, when my uncle, who had of course assumed the title, and who had attended as chief mourner, was in waiting to receive us. We were shown into the library, and in the chair so lately and constantly occupied by my grandfather, sat the new lord. Near to him were the lawyers, with parchments lying before them. As we severally entered, he waved his hand to unoccupied chairs, intimating to us to sit down; but no words were exchanged, except an occasional whisper between him and the lawyers. When all the branches of the family were present, down to the fourth and fifth cousins, the lawyer on the right of my uncle put on his spectacles, and unrolling the parchment, commenced reading the will. I paid attention to it at first; but the legal technicalities puzzled me, and I was soon thinking of other matters, until, after half-an-hour’s reading, I was startled at the sound of my own name. It was a bequest by codicil to me, of the sum of ten thousand pounds. My father, who sat by me, gave me a slight push, to attract my attention; and I perceived that his face was not quite so mournful as before. I was rejoicing at this unexpected intelligence. I called to mind what my father had said to me when we were returning from Eagle Park, that “my grandfather’s attentions to me were as good as ten thousand pounds in his will,” and was reflecting how strange it was that he had hit upon the exact sum. I also thought of what my father had said of his own affairs, and his not having saved anything for his children, and congratulated myself that I should now be able to support my dear sister Ellen, in case of any accident happening to my father, when I was roused by another mention of my name. It was a codicil dated about a week back, in which my grandfather, not pleased at my conduct, revoked the former codicil, and left me nothing. I knew where the blow came from, and I looked my uncle in the face; a gleam of malignant pleasure was in his eyes, which had been fixed on me, waiting to receive my glance. I returned it with a smile expressive of scorn and contempt, and then looked at my father, who appeared to be in a state of misery. His head had fallen upon his breast, and his hands were clasped. Although I was shocked at the blow, for I knew how much the money was required, I felt too proud to show it; indeed, I felt that I would not for worlds have exchanged situations with my uncle, much less feelings; for when those who remain meet to ascertain the disposition made, by one who is summoned away to the tribunal of his Maker, of those worldly and perishable things which he must leave behind him, feelings of rancour and ill-will might, for the time, be permitted to subside, and the memory of a “departed brother” be productive of charity and good-will. After a little reflection, I felt that I could forgive my uncle.

  Not so my father: the codicil which deprived me of my inheritance, was the last of the will, and the lawyer rolled up the parchment and took off his spectacles. Everybody rose; my father seized his hat, and telling me in a harsh voice to follow him, tore off the crape weepers, and then threw them on the floor as he walked away. I also took off mine, and laid them on the table, and followed him. My father called his carriage, waiting in the hall till it was driven up, and jumped into it. I followed him; he drew up the blind, and desired them to drive home.