by the author of the "O'Hara Tales" [John and Michael Banim].
Originally published in Tait's Edinburgh Magazine (William Tait) vol.1 #5 (Aug 1832).
So were called a highly respectable Irish family; and the appellation is continued to their descendants of the present day, in consequence of the concluding circumstances of the following true narration. Incredulous some readers may be after having perused our paper to the end, notwithstanding our intimation that it deals with facts. Should such be the case we cannot help it; and shall only add, that while the occurrence, for which we apprehend most question, has authenticated parallels in many countries over the world, its truth, in the particular instance before us, has been vouched to the writer by a member of—The Family of the Cold Feet. Ay, and cold, cold were his own feet while he told the chilling story; so inveterately, so inheritedly and innately cold, that the blaze of the jovial fire to which we sat, during his narrative, could not impart to them the least warmth; and cold, cold were his children's feet—all except one, who obviously took after her mother, as well in constitution as in face and personal conformation; and cold, cold had been his father's feet—as cold, while he lived, as when he had been dead three days, and decidedly cold all over; and his grandfather's, and his grandfather's mother's—which respectable lady brought the inconvenience into the family. And now we begin to tell in what manner.
Antony Nugent, at four-and-twenty, was a tall, well-limbed, fair-haired, ruddy-cheeked, blue-eyed, and half-educated Irishman;—a younger brother, too, though on that account scarce a whit less dangerous to the heart's ease of many a blooming girl around him. He lived with his brother, the baronet, in the old cut-stone mansion, called Upper Court, having nothing to do but hunt, fish, shoot, cock-fight, dog-fight, badger-bait, ferret-chase the rabbits in the warren, and, above all, dear women, make love to you. Profession he would none of; taking fees, either as attorney, barrister, surgeon or physician, was very much beneath his family consequence; he might have put his fine broad shoulders into a red jacket, indeed, (or rather long and broad skirted red coat, as was then good military exquisitism,) had there been spirited wars going on all over Europe: but it was a time of profound peace, and he candidly admitted that he did not like the trouble of drilling, and parading, and mounting guard, when very little could be expected to come of it; and he had much rather stay at home, amusing himself as a country gentleman on his brother's grounds.
This sounded in many ears as quite an independent resolution; but that it really was so may be questioned. There was little doubt that, at a very early age, he had, with great facility, disposed of, among the pleasures of the Irish metropolis, the few thousands which fell to his share, as a younger brother, according to his father's will: so that when he spoke with a toss of his head, of "staying at home, amusing himself as a country gentleman on his brother's grounds," he must have meant, though perhaps it never struck him, at his brother's expense into the bargain. Sir Roger was fond of him, however, and one of a class of men of that peculiar good nature, besides, who can countenance the expenses of those they are fond of, or, as he would himself have said, "used to," at the risk of their own personal independence; and so, Tony did very well; ay, just as well as if he had been elder son born, and wrote himself Sir Tony.
Well, love-making, it has been declared, was, above all others, his amusement on his brother's grounds, and in the neighbourhood. For it he would, in truth, give up fox, hare, the river's side, the rabbit-warren, a cock-fight, a badger-bait—any other thing; and of this he boasted, as he ought to have done, to more fair faces than two or three, and was estimated accordingly—for a season at least—by each of those to whom, in turn, he made the avowal in strict confidence. Nor was "Master Tony"—or, more expressively with reference to his virtual reign at Upper Court, "the young master," as the tenants called him—particularly select in the indulgence of his pastime. His "grand passion," or universal passion, asserted and proved itself in a very efficient kind of way, from the "cottier's" comely daughter up through the family of the small farmers, of the "strong farmer," of the gentleman farmer, and of the still more genteel farmer, till it had achieved its utmost flight, proportioned to his opportunities, at the fireside of the next 'squire, locally "square," baronet, bishop, or, haply, real lord. For Tony certainly had the blessed talent of making himself agreeable, and therefore welcome, from the mud-cabin to the family seat. We have called him half educated,—that is, he pretended to Virgil, and hinted at Euclid; still he had been a member of T. C. D., and he could smatter on, amusingly, among the very best society of his county; and in rhyming, which he devoted exclusively to songs in praise of angling, hunting, fishing, wine, and women, Tony was considered a master. To enable the reader to form some opinion on this point, as well as to further illustrate the ruling bent of his mind, a song is subjoined, which has been copied by one of his cold-footed descendants, from the family archives, at our solicitation.
Since with varying charms they inflame us,
To change us from one or from two,
Dear creatures they never can blame us,
If what they insist on we do!
So away with all fears of displeasing,
In easing
The teazing they doom us to know.
Their wrath we are sure of appeasing,
If we love them, and pay as we go!
In a garden, like bees, we may hum on,
And sip what we wish through its bowers—
And why should not the garden of woman
Be free as the garden of flowers?
Oh! if one is my rose, daffadilly,
Sweet Willy,
Or lily, another I call—
Nay, sometimes, lest our taste should grow chilly,
Why not snatch a leaf from them all!
Now, any sagacious reader will perceive that so much had not been said about Mr. Tony's characteristics, unless that they must have a good deal to do with the origin and perpetuation of "cold feet" in his family; and such, indeed, is the fact, as we hasten to make evident. The house of a neighbouring gentleman had long been untenanted, save by the trusty servants in whose care he had left it. Mr. Neville lost a well-beloved wife, in her first confinement, and immediately after quitted his home and country to seek forgetfulness of sorrow in foreign lands. The innocent cause of her mother's death, his infant daughter, he deposited in safe and respectable hands, to be nursed through the first years of childhood; and when Esther Neville gained her sixth year, he sent for her from England, to which country he had just returned from the continent, and thenceforward assumed his natural right as her protector. For some time she was educated in England, afterwards in France and Italy, and ultimately in England again; and in her nineteenth year her father came back with her to his native country, to instal her, as her mother's successor, in his paternal mansion; announcing his determination never to re-marry, and proclaiming her heiress to his considerable estate, and funded preperty.
Antony Nugent for some long weeks before her arrival within ten minutes ride of Upper Court, had been rather at a loss for a new object of adoration. He soon got Sir Roger to accompany him to Mr. Neville's on a welcoming visit; fell in love with Esther, ten seconds after he had seen her; and having contrived to stay for dinner, while his brother returned home, told her as much before he left the house that evening.
Let no one be astonished at this despatch. It was his way. He couldn't help it. No, no more than a connoisseur can help expressing raptures at the first sight of an old picture, although he may have seen hundreds, quite as old, before it. In very truth, Tony could not recollect the time since his sixteenth year, that he had once been able to curb the avowal of his perfect love for any and every woman or girl the least interesting, by whose side he found himself the necessary number of hours. And we pray, in his behalf, that no ill-natured person will suppose it was because Esther Neville happened to be an heiress, and he a younger brother, that he so soon declared himself, in the present instance. No such thing. Heiresses were by no means new to him. He had been at the knees of one or two before, and given them up in a few months, weeks, or days, as it might be, for the untiring pleasure of once more manifesting his mighty love for the sex, in the case, perhaps, of a pennyless fifth or seventh daughter. No, indeed; the least mercenary lover on earth was Tony. And in some degree to account for this, considering his own pauper state, and a rapid growth of nephews at Upper Court, perhaps it is as well to surmise that, in making fervid love, like a lusty sun, to every flower in the female garden, he had not as yet ever thought of becoming entitled by marriage, to the goods and chattels of one individual woman. But why he should not have done so we are utterly unable to explain.
And how sped his as yet newest of all wooings? How did Esther Neville take his sufficiently abrupt attack? Not as she ought to have done, had she much experience of the world, or of the various sorts of fools of it. Out of select English boarding schools, or of continental convents she had lived but little ; and romance substituted in her mind a wholesome and most necessary knowledge of mankind and of womankind. Of such a man as we have sketched Tony Nugent, at four-and-twenty, she had dreamed, as well as of her own powers of striking to the death at first sight; not forgetting his really fervid and seemingly unchangeable manner in giving her so quick a proof of her good opinion of herself. In truth, although as the most romantic woman is bound to do, Esther made no response to his first startling speech; Tony had not repeated it, with pretty additions, more than four times, when she did, and vows of deathless fidelity were forthwith interchanged; and in the stolen walks they enjoyed among the wild and solitary scenery adjacent to Mr. Neville's house, plans of future happiness, of happiness that never could, would, should, or ought to tire, towered up, like that same wild scenery, before and before them, till it faded into rich and beautiful vagueness in the distance. And this was as true of Tony Nugent as of Esther Neville. He felt as enthusiastic and as sincere as she did. Yes—not a doubt of it. He felt, in fact, as he had felt a hundred times before, just like a man in love for the very first time; and he could have sworn to the world, as well as to his own heart, that it was utterly impossible he should ever look with the slightest interest on another woman.
In fact, the ardent, quick-tempered Esther, was in her paradise—Fool's Paradise. Once or twice only, she thought it odd that, in all their schemes for perennial blisses, her lover never happened to allude to the married state. But, on reflection, this could mean nothing at all; or, if any thing, it illustrated his delicacy, and so helped to raise him in her estimation, if that were possible. It struck her, however, that she might as well tempt him a little on the point; so, one evening, when, as usual, she had stolen out to meet him by the river's side, Esther, after expressing her tremors at the idea of being missed and asked after by her father, added, "but our little uneasiness on that head, dear Tony, will soon be removed,—I mean, when you propose for me at home."
"Propose for you, at home, dearest Esther?" he repeated, staring at her with great simplicity, and, a disinterested observer might have added, something like quandary, or stupidity. In truth, it was the first time the idea had presented itself to his mind. And here we again express ourselves posed, and unable to make out the peculiar mental economy of our hero. Such as we have found him, however, we give him to the world; and that's all can be said on the subject.
A quick flash from Esther's dark eyes met his strange stare; and she demanded, sharply, "Why do you repeat my words?"
"Repeat your words, Esther?—oh, ay; yes, to be sure—what a blockhead I am—! ha! ha! don't be angry with me, gra-ma-chree—" here he slightly interrupted his speech by a little act—"but, as I over and over told you, my darling,—looking straight into your beautiful face" (it was not beautiful, only deeply interesting) "always makes me forget what I am saying—ay, or doing, either,"—and here he repeated the little act before alluded to.
Esther echoed his laugh; and, though nothing more distinct was said on the subject, all seemed well. On their way homeward, however, she thought Tony a shade graver, or more reflective than usual; and she lay down that night with the germ of something disagreeable in her mind.
The next evening, Tony sent her a message, as usual, and they were again alone, in a convenient, lover-like place. Esther came out, determined to watch him; and having made this resolution, she, doubtless, would have found in his words, looks, and manner, something she suspected him of, had he been as innocent as a babe. Truth must be told, however. Tony really was a changed, or, at least, a changing man. Why? He no more knew, at present, than he had known, on similar occasions, many a time and oft, before. Once, only, during the evening, did he appear much interested; but the occasion for his alteration of demeanour was no comfort to Esther's heart.
"When my cousin Mary comes to see me, dear Tony, we must, at once, make her a confidant," said Esther.
"Certainly, Esther.—Does she come soon?"
"To-morrow—some time of the day."
"Indeed? and that is soon;"—his handsome eyes beamed brightly,—though, alas! for poor Esther, they turned away, with a kind of a happy, speculative expression. "I'm so glad;—for your sake, I mean. Your cousin will be such company to you!"
"Thank you, Tony."—Esther was quite put out; she could make nothing of him.
"Is she older or younger than you, Esther?" demanded Tony, still in a calculating way.
"About my own age."
"And like you?—any family resemblance?"
"Not the least:—I am not very tall; she is tall: I am a brown girl; she is a fair one—"—"With blue eyes, light hair, and a good complexion?" interrupted Tony, vivaciously. "Yes, as is usual, with very fair women,"—"Very fair, you say?" again interrupted her waning, waning lover,—bewitched with the novelty of the contrast between his late mistress and his future one.
"Yes, Tony Nugent, very fair, as fair as heart can wish," answered Esther, now just beginning to apprehend.
"And only about nineteen, like yourself," cried Tony, not noticing Esther's expressive manner, in the anticipating joy of his simple heart; "and a bounding, bouncing, charming girl, I'll warrant; all smiles and laughter, and pleasant conversation! Yes, I remember you hinted as much to me before; didn't you, Esther?"
"Perhaps—why do you keep rubbing the palms of your hands together, Mr. Tony Nugent? I don't find the evening so cold."
No use in continuing the scene between the lovers, on this occasion; Tony arrived at home to rave as much about Esther's cousin, as he had done about Esther's self, before her arrival at Upper Court. Esther locked herself up in her chamber to hate the merry-hearted Mary, whom she had loved, during their first acquaintance in Dublin, on her way from England, to her father's house, and ever since, till this evening; and, even towards her beau-ideal of lover, and of constant lover, Tony Nugent, her heart began to change, and change badly. Unamiable ingredients had naturally mixed themselves up with the whole of Esther's character; and the course of her education and experience had not since worked them out of it. As a child, she was self-willed, almost daring in the attainment of whatever she had set her heart on, and resentful, if thwarted in gaining her object: Nay, worse, she could brood over her disappointment, and unrelentingly nurse a spirit of retaliation towards its author. Judicious direction of her mind and feelings, might, doubtless, have done much towards subduing, if not eradicating these infirmities, during her growth from child into girl; or the really good portions of her mind and heart, their generosity, and even romance, might have been cultivated and enlarged so as to weigh down their dangerous tendencies. Such, we repeat, had not however been the case; and, now, at nineteen, she was, therefore, a passive victim to the unamiable temptations of her nature; at the impulse, too, of the greatest disappointment any woman can feel, and which Esther Neville felt to an intensity of which few women are capable. In fact, before the summer morning's sun danced dazzlingly through her window, on her sleepless eyes, Esther had vowed a vengeance upon the unconscious Tony Nugent, for his buoyant spirits, the previous evening; nay, she had planned it, and only waited to receive full proof of his delinquency, with a fit opportunity, in order to carry it into execution.
And Tony did not keep her long waiting. He was in Mr. Neville's house when Mary O'Neil entered it, and scarce stirred from her side the whole evening. Esther had to suffer the scene of a laughing, witty, hilarious flirtation between her cousin and her quondam lover, while she sat neglected, looking out at the beauties of nature, through the old bow-window of the sombre drawing-room. She did suffer it, however, silently, and, to all appearance, contentedly; and, at length, she left them alone,—to reconnoitre, however, from an adjacent room; at the door of which she had not stood a long while, till her ears heard the words of perfidy from Tony's importunate lips, and then something else from them, with the aid of those of the laughing, almost scoffing Mary O'Neil, which sounded to Esther like a poisonous reptile's hiss.
And, now, she took her measures, her first ones, at least. She wrote to Mary's brother, a brave, though fierce old campaigner, quartered with his regiment in a town near at hand. She sought her father, in his library, and conversed with him some time. Then she had to adapt her manner and looks to her purposes, before re-entering the drawing-room, where the new lovers still sat in happy twilight—"Does she laugh at him still?" thought Esther, again eaves-dropping at the door. "No—now her voice is gentle enough, and if she does continue to reject his quickly conceived, and as quickly told love, 'tis in maiden murmurs only.—Good! very good!—Mary O'Neil, he shall be mine yet—mine, though it were but to shew him how I loathe him, when he is so!"—And, so meditating, Esther tripped into the room, in seemingly high spirits, rallying the happy pair, and congratulating herself on having been the means of making them known to each other. Mary laughed, and protested, and remonstrated, and asked "How could such nonsense enter into her dear Esther's head?"—And Master Tony, what did he say or do? Was there no appearance of disconcertion in his manner? no consciousness of being, at the least, a very gay deceiver? no awkwardness in the presence of the woman to whom, a few hours before, he had been swearing, in good round oaths, (as became his rank and bearing in those good old times,) entranced adoration and immortal fidelity? Not a trace of anything like all this: and for a very sufficient reason—namely, because he did not feel it. His heart accused him of nothing at all. He stood quite self-acquitted to his own conscience, or rather he had never been at its bar for an instant. He was but following his nature, his vocation. In a word, the matter did not, could not trouble his mind, had never done so, and was very unlikely ever to do so. And hence, upon Esther's re-appearance, he only joined in Mary O'Neil's laugh, and chuckled, and rubbed the palms of his hands together, in the way Esther scarce liked, (if he would recollect himself a little;) and really and truly thought it all exceedingly pleasant and natural, and just as it ought to be.
About three evenings after, Tony and Mary O'Neil were seated in a very nice little place, out of doors, doing their very best to be mutually amiable. It was a miniature, a fairy valley, abruptly entered, at one point, very near to that where they had chosen to repose themselves after their romping walk, by a zig-zag path, down one of its sides—the side, too, opposite to where they sat. A little wailing brook—so little that it fretted itself in wailing against the mere pebbles which obstructed the would-be perfectly even course of its insignificant existence—was at their feet; their couch was one of the inland sweeps of its mossy, and daisied, and butter-cupped bank; and the sky-lark was bravuraing his last evening song for his wife, over their heads. Could there be a better boudoir for two lovers? They thought not.
"But can I believe you?" murmured Mary, as Tony's doomed head rested on her shoulder, and his arm encircled her waist;—this time, your first time?"
"I vow and swear it, dearest, dearest darling, by the round world, and the blue sky over it!—by your two eyes!—and by this—and this—."
"Stop, stop!" whispered Mary, struggling; "there's some one looking at you."
Tony followed her glance with his own. On the top line of the sweeping ground opposite to them stood three figures. Esther Neville, leaning her right arm on her father's, and her left on a dragoon officer of about forty. "My brother Peter!" half shrieked Mary, starting up.
The new comers stood a moment, observantly; during which Esther, turning her face alternately, from one to another of her supporters, pointed expressively towards the lovers. "What do they want here?" asked Tony, rising. Esther, her father, and Captain O'Neil, descended the zig-zag path to the brook, crossed the tiny stream by stepping-stones, and were soon with their friends.
"Hope you're well, Miss Mary O'Neil, since I saw you last," said the militaire. Mary could only run to him, and embrace him. "Good evening, Mr. Tony Nugent, began Esther." "A kind good evening, Esther," answered Tony, "though I thought we wished each other that before." "I want to make you acquainted with Miss O'Neil's brother, Captain O'Neil," continued Esther. "Thank you kindly," responded Tony.
"My service to you, sir," said the Captain, bowing low, while the broad skirts of his braided buff coat stuck out at either side. "And mine to you, Captain," answered Tony, quite cheerfully.
"I may as well make you a little better known to one another, gentlemen," resumed Esther, haughtily taking her father's arm, while her bridled passion made her brown cheeks pallid, and her slight lips ashy-coloured. "This, Mr. Antony Nugent, is a brave and distinguished officer, who, as yet, cannot count a stain on the honour of one member of his family, male or female, and who is determined he never shall. And this, Captain O'Neil, is the young gentleman who has been trifling with the affections of two of your relations, in the short space of a few weeks; the presumptuous beggar, who began by swearing himself my admirer, and who prevailed on me to conceal the dishonour from you, dearest father; and who, the very hour Mary O'Neil came to see me, repeated the same oaths to her—(Mary shrieked out at these words)—and repeated them, again and again, until at last she allowed him the degree of intimacy we have witnessed from the top of that height yonder."
"A bad kind of business, Mr. Antony Nugent," remarked the grave and gruff Captain. "I protest—I declare, Captain, I don't know, I can't see what all this means," said Tony. "Then we must only try and clear your eyesight, sir—You wish to have nothing to say further in the matter, cousin Esther?" "Me!" repeated Esther, scoffingly, "I scorn the poor adventurer as I do the dust of the road I have come to find him for you." "Very well," rejoined the Captain, "you need be in no passion, my dear; I only asked you to declare your mind to his face—just to give him a hint that, although my own sister is second in the case, I should have seen you righted, before her, if such was your will, taking into account that you were first in the case. Very well. And so, Mr. Antony, 'tis with Miss O'Neil's help you are carrying on the war at present?"
"Sir? what do you say, Captain?" asked Tony.
"That is, in plain words, you are very much devoted to my sister."
"Devoted! I adore her on the knees of my heart! and have told her as much, no doubt, a thousand times!" assented Tony, joyously.
"Indeed; and any one might have guessed as much who had seen you together here in the open country, and in the broad day-light, as I did, a few moments ago. Very well, sir. You do my sister and me a great honour."
"Delighted to hear you say so!" cried Tony, pouncing on his hand, and shaking it.
"Very well, Mr. Antony. All very well so far; and of course you agree that, particularly after the scene here between you this evening, which any common peasant may have witnessed before your friends came up, the sooner such matters are brought to an end, the better for all parties concerned."
"I—I must really say," stammered Tony, "that I should be very, very sorry to bring things to an end so soon between me and my darling Mary—." His heart merely failed him at the thought of giving her up so exceedingly soon; "but, if you afford me a little more time, and let me look about me a little, perhaps, with good opportunity, I may soon be able to oblige you."
"I can spare but very little time, sir," replied the Captain, looking dangerous. "My leave of absence extends but to three days."
"Well, Captain, well, even in three days a good many things may happen."
"But the business ought to be completed, sir, before I go back to my regiment."
"Well, and perhaps it may,—who knows?" assented Tony cheerfully, and with great self-reliance.
"Come, come, sir—I don't understand you at all, nor your foolish manner either. In one word, Mr. Antony Nugent, are you prepared to marry Miss O'Neil this evening, under Mr. Neville's roof?"
"Marry!" ejaculated Tony, in unfeigned surprise. But he was soon made more familiar with the new-formed idea, on having the Captain's alternative suggested to him. Not, indeed, that he was as much a coward as he was a half-witted country gentleman. Had he disliked Mary, it is probable he would have stood and fired his four or five shots for a chance of escaping her; but, on the contrary, his passion for her still remained as strong as any he had ever felt for any other woman, chiefly, perhaps, because as yet she had not quite fully avowed her adoration of himself, and he wanted that habitual gratification, at any risk. In short, with the nature or extent of his new engagement only very vaguely established in his mind, and while poor Mary, notwithstanding a growing preference, objected on the score of Tony's perfidy to her cousin, as well as on account of the rapidity of the proceeding, married they were that evening, in Mr. Neville's house,—her brother emphatically bullying her into compliance by threats of a foreign convent, to hide, as he said, the disgrace she had brought on her family. It should before now have been said that Mary O'Neil was an orphan, her father and her mother both dead, and therefore that she stood greatly in awe of a brother so much her elder.
"I wish you joy, Mary Nugent," whispered Esther, directly the marriage ceremony had been performed. Mary half started at the emphasis with which her cousin spoke; it seemed to hide a dangerous meaning. Then she began to wonder at Esther's zeal in so precipitately providing her with a husband, in the person of the very man whom, but a few days before, she had permitted to pay attentions to herself. And the reader's surprise may also be aroused on this point, recollecting Esther's mental resolve, while meanly eaves-drooping at the drawing-room door. Marrying Tony to another woman seemed, indeed, a strange step towards making him her own property. But we shall soon hear her explain the crooked and unique workings of her imperfected mind and unrefined heart.
How Tony was to support a wife, now that he had got one, together with some other little human beings who might follow the event, to say nothing of himself, dogs, horses, cocks, ferrets, and two or three servants, at least, to look after his whole menage; this was a question which occupied his brother-in-law the captain, his host, Mr. Neville, and (in a very slight degree) himself, to a late hour the night of his marriage.
"As for me," said Tony, laughing gaily, "every body knows that, since my last Dublin trip, I have been living on Divine Providence, like my friends the archbishops."
"Your brother may assist you," observed Mr. Neville.
"Roger has not a sod that isn't mortgaged twice over," answered Tony; "and I believe I helped him, the first time, my own self," he added, again laughing—not a false, forced laugh, but a very sincere hearty one.
"I live on my pay alone," said Captain O'Neil, "having been a little improvident, like yourself, brother Tony, in my younger days, with the wreck of the paternal property which my dear father's tastes, as a country gentleman, properly supporting the family consequence, left me to take care of. Your wife's little fortune remains untouched, however; and, with it, suppose we purchase and stock a snug farm for you? Care and prudence might soon make you and Mary rich, and cut out something for the little ones; and 'tis no disgrace to a gentleman to farm his own lands."
"Done!" cried Tony, striking the table with his knuckles. "Disgrace? not a bit; 'tis a most honourable occupation,—and that's the worst can be said of it. And as to care and prudence between my darling Mary and me, now that we are to be turned out on our own accounts; never fear, Captain; never fear, Mr. Neville. But now I want to go look after her, and ask what she's doing; so good night,—and here's our own noble healths. Good night—hurra!" And, bounding like a stag over the backs of chairs which stood in his way, Tony sallied forth on his self-imposed mission of discovery.
Two days after, the new-married couple, accompanied by the Captain, left Mr. Neville's house to take possession of their own. Esther Neville did not appear to wish them good bye,—her father said she was indisposed. Nor had she appeared to them since the moment after their marriage, when she wished Mary joy in rather a remarkable manner. And her father all along gave the same account of her absence; but it was not the true one. Esther did not stay in the house ten minutes after leaving the drawing-room that evening. Ordering her carriage, she departed in it for the abode of a lady, a relation, in the neighbourhood; and home she did not return till Tony Nugent and his wife had quitted her father's house.
Let us jump over about a year-and-a-half, and visit farmer Tony in his own house, just to see what "care and prudence" had done for him in the mean time. He and Mary are sitting to a good turf fire, facing each other; and that's one feature of comfort, certainly. Tony has a huge jug of strong beer before him,—and that's another. But he is ill dressed, and so is poor Mary; and he looks five years older than when last we saw him, and not so handsome, to say nothing of respectable; and she looks delicate, and worn, and drooping; in fact, she is but lately risen from her lying-in bed, with the premature loss of her baby. Glance round the room. Fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, nets, and other weapons and implements of field sport, irregularly placed over the chimney, hint that Tony is yet able, or recently has been, to follow some of his old pastimes; nay, a fox-hound rolled up before the fire, and a fresh brush stuck into the muzzle of a fowling-piece, proclaim, that, if his hunter is not yet in the stable, he very lately might have been found there. But what shall we say of the torn, and worn, and crumpled carpet on the floor? and of the rickety, almost shivered deal table before him; and of the one mean, thin, gauky tallow-candle which flickers on it? and of the broken chairs, and the damp white mould which in many places covers the paper on the walls of Tony's parlour?
A few words of the conversation between him and his wife may assist us to answer:—"Never mind, Mary duck; keep never minding, and all will go right in the long run; and if you would just stop talking to me, in that way, about this woman and that woman, and this girl and that girl, you would leave me more heart to look about me, and keep things together."
"Very well, dear Tony, very well; only I'm told you had a fine time of it while I was up stairs, the last three weeks. But no matter. What we are now to do for common food, or even the old leaky house over our heads—that's the question."
"Well, and so it is, darling," assented Tony.
"You take it very quietly, Tony dear."
"And to be sure I do, Mary pet."
"But what do you mean to do? There is not a shilling left of the thirteen hundred spared out of my little fortune, after purchasing the farm, to help us on—is there?"
"Not a stiver, my love."
"And our stock is driven, almost to the last cow, for debts incurred in the meantime?"
"You speak the blessed truth, duck."
"And we owe more than they have sold for."
"Indeed and we do, sure enough."
"And no one will give us a loaf on credit any longer."
"So they say, darling."
"Then where are we to get the loaf?"
"Buy it—out of that, my dear:" and, to Mary's utter astonishment, Tony emptied a goodly-sized leathern bag of golden guineas on the table.
"In the name of goodness, Tony, how have you come by that?"
"Esther Neville's attorney gave it to me."
Esther Neville's attorney," repeated Mary, in consternation.
"Yes, love. You know since the old man's death she has all his great riches at her own disposal."
"Yes. Well, she lends it to you?"
"No such thing; but, as I was talking of mortgaging our little purchase, she heard of it, and so sent the attorney to me, and the business was soon settled."
"Soon, indeed," replied Mary. Then she added to herself: "Well might you wish me joy, Esther;" and dismal and fearful, though vague forebodings pressed on Mary's mind. "How soon must you repay Esther Neville, Tony?" she resumed, after a pause, during which her tranquil husband was whistling a hunting-air, and playing with the heap of gold on the table.
"Esther offered me my own time, darling; so, to make sure, I named this day twelvemonths; and there's what the little attorney called a special deed of agreement between us, that the land and house are Esther's if we are not quite punctual. But little fear of that: 'care and prudence' will enable us to meet the debt in six months, not to talk of twelve."
A stout, comely serving-wench here bustled into the parlour, much agitated, and bawled out: "Misther Antony, there's Kitty Larissy, the smith's daughter, from the other side o' the river, is afther sendin' in a little brat of a gorsoon, to ax you to step out to spake to her. I wondher what makes her ashamed or afeard to come up to our dour her ownself, instid o' snakin' about the house in that way."
"Divvle's in the little fool, what can she want of me?" demanded Tony, bundling out of the room with a very bad grace.
"You're the best judge o' that, yourself, sir," answered the serving-wench, stumping after him in evident dudgeon,—and dudgeon of that peculiar kind which might have had its source in outraged though tender feelings.
"Twelve months are soon passed over;" and again, with permission, we approach Tony's house upon the day appointed for the re-payment of Esther's loan to him.
Something unusual occurs within. The road, as we come near, is covered with country-people; groups of them also recline on sheiving ground over it; and all are grave, and converse in whispers. Looking to the humble mansion, we see its window-shutters closed. Entering its little court-yard, Sir Roger Nugent's old lumbering carriage appears at the door, with, behind it, those of some of the neighbouring gentry, and Sir Roger's servants wear long white hatbands and scarfs. Immediately before the door two chairs confront each other at some distance; and at either side of it stand two mutes in black cloaks, holding long black poles in their hands, surmounted by folds of white linen.—Death is in the house! The country people have flocked in to attend the funeral—a duty considered almost sacred among them—and to vie with each other in bearing the coffin on their shoulders to the church-yard. And now they know they have not to wait long, for the two chairs have just been placed before the door to receive the coffin in a few moments, while the clergyman prays over it before it is lifted up and borne to its destination.
The pause, though short, is intensely awful. The country-people crowd up to the house, scarce uttering a breath. Hush! hark! that wild low wailing of women within the house announces the closing of the coffin-lid. Do not the hoarse moans of men mingle with it? Again hush! The corpse is brought out. Two clergymen, an old and a young man, issue through the door bareheaded, and murmuring prayers; white scarfs across their shoulders, and white flowing bands on their hats. Then, carried upon men's arms, who confront each other, appears the coffin—poor Tony Nugent and his brother following it as chief mourners, their eyes reddened and cast down, and their lower features hid in the collars of their black cloaks; other mourners, friends and neighbours, also appear in black cloaks, and, for the present, the procession is ended by women in close white mantles, with hoods gathered round their faces, whose wild lament now swells higher and higher on the ear, and is answered, suddenly, by the ejaculations and cries of the hitherto hushed crowd before the house. The coffin rests awhile upon the chairs; every head is uncovered, and every knee bent, while the clergymen pray over it. Then four strong men place it on their shoulders; the clergymen still precede it; the widower and his brother still follow it; Sir Roger's carriage and servants come after; then the friends and their carriages; then the women in white,—and all pass through the country-people, abroad, who form irregularly in their train, to the amount of perhaps a thousand souls, men, women, and children; and in this order the procession moves on, near the bank of a shining placid river, and through the windings and inequalities of a road running almost by chance between sweeping hills at either hand; the continued wail of the women echoing from height to height, and along the surface of the water.
It was late of an October day when the funeral left the house. But the church-yard could soon be gained; it was not a quarter of a mile distant. Before arriving at it, however, the weather suddenly changed, as if to try the sincerity of the multitude of voluntary mourners. Hail, rain, sleet, and wind burst and blustered around them;—no creature of the assembly turned back.—The coffin was carried into Sir Roger's family vault, the mouth of which, in the middle of the uninclosed churchyard, was always covered over by a little oblong building of brick and mortar, surmounted by a marble slab, except when a tenant approached it; and then the slab was removed, and one side of the oblong broken down, to afford free passage for the descent of the corpse, down a few narrow stone steps. These circumstances it is advisable to mention: and notice is also invited to the closing events of the evening in the church-yard. The deluges of rain and sleet, and the roaring of the wind, increased rather than diminished at the moment, when, in the somewhat premature gloom of the hour, the coffin was being conveyed down the steps into the tomb. There was bustle, and confusion, and anxiety, and uncertainty. The steps were slippery from the sleet; the bearers of the sad burden missed their footing; they and it were precipitated into the depths of the vault: and the results of the accident soon appeared to be some dislocation of their limbs, and a giving way of the screws of the coffin-lid, For the men, help was at hand; for the other mishap, persons were to be sought after; the evening grew darker and blacker; the storm augmented its rage; and, at the advice of all friends present, Tony Nugent consented to return home, and wait until morning to have the coffin screwed down again, and the mouth of the vault re-built.
We now rapidly approach the close of our true history. Sir Roger and the elder of the clergymen accompanied Tony to his house, to stay the night, and console him in his bereft situation. They found the doors closed; and this the servants, who had all gone with the funeral, pronounced strange, inasmuch as they had been left open, and, indeed, the house empty, after the departure of the body for the church-yard. Tony knocked; the door was opened by Esther Neville's attorney. The widower started, stared, and turned pale. The attorney drew him aside and said.—"Miss Neville, herself, sir, is in the parlour, and wishes to peak with you alone—quite alone.—I am not sure if her head is right; and what she exactly means to do I cannot guess; but she insists on seeing you without a witness."
Tony looked still more confounded for a moment; but a happy thought seemed to relieve him a little; he whispered to his brother and the clergyman what was going on, and stept into the parlour.
Esther Neville was seated at the fire in the riding dress of the day, A solitary candle scarce gave light to the apartment. To Tony's great comfort she smiled when he appeared, and held out her hand to him—saying.—"I am glad to see you in my house, Tony Nugent."
"In your house, Esther?"
"Don't you remember what day of the month it is to-day?"
"Yes," muttered Tony; "and now I guess what you mean, Esther Neville."
"Perhaps you do not. Can you redeem your land and house?"
"No, not if one gold guinea could redeem them for me."
"Then they are mine, you know; and, as the weather is bad, I intend sleeping here, to-night, with some servants, and my attorney. They will contrive a bed for you, at Upper Court, I suppose; or perhaps your friend the clergyman may oblige you."
"Thank you, Esther; I'll go and see."
"Stop a moment, dear Tony:" he started, and turned round, she was again smiling at him: "sit down, and let us have a little chat, something like old times." He did as he was bid; she drew her chair closer to him.
"Ah, those old times, Tony! when you vowed and swore you loved me dearly!"
"And I did, Esther!" gasped Tony, his happy suspicion before entering the parlour now growing into almost a reality. "I did! as truly as ever man loved woman!"
"'Twas for a short time, however. You soon gave me up for another."
"Ah, dear Esther, a foolish frolic; did not mean giving you up; and you were to blame, yourself, for separating us, really."
"And perhaps I was, dear Tony. But that can't be helped now, you know. Let us go on, instead of looking back. Whatever attracted you to me, a few years ago, is still in me; and I am still a very young woman, not yet two-and-twenty."
"To be sure you are, my dear Esther! and improved, if possible, every way! and more worthy of true love than ever!"
Did Tony mean and feel what he said? He did. Esther again was a contrast to all other women he had adored since their angry parting; and—with the tomb unclosed over Mary O'Neil—and worse—her coffin unscrewed—he did mean and feel what he said.
They continued their conversation together for more than an hour. Esther's revenge over the paltry mind and heart of Tony Nugent lay within her grasp. She sent him to call in his brother, the clergyman, and the attorney. She invited them to be seated, and spoke as follows.
"Mr. Attorney—whatever I say, do not interrupt me. You have assured me there are no means of staying your proceedings against Mr. Tony Nugent, and that his house and lands must pass out of his possession, and he once more become a pauper. But 1 have found means, I do not scruple to say, gentleman all, that he and I were once sincerely attached to each other, and that an old love is now renewed, and as truly as ever. That being the case, there can be nothing very extraordinary in our becoming man and wife, and, for his sake, as soon as possible. Should we delay a single day—a single evening and night, I mean—I must become the possessor of his only earthly property; and, sudden—and, perhaps, something else—as the resolution may appear, I have consented to marry him, this instant, to save him from the humiliation of offering himself to me as a mere beggar."
Tony winced at the tone of her address. It was a little unlike (though he could not exactly say how or where) her honied words to him, a few moments before. And so was the expression of her face, though he could not define that either. Esther paused a moment, being interrupted by loud shouts and cries, seemingly of deadly terror, which passed by the house. They subsided, and she continued.
"Yes, Gentlemen, there he stands, Tony Nugent, my old lover; Tony Nugent, who, partly out of a return of pure, disinterested affection for me, partly from a very natural desire of keeping a roof over his head, presses me" (there, again, thought Tony, why, 'twas she pressed me!) "to marry him this instant—in this house—the house of death—death's taint, and almost smell in it,—pah! and while the late wife of his bosom is scarce yet cold in the grave! But these facts should only increase my love and gratitude, since they only show how great is the ardour of his passion. Here I stand up, then, dear Tony; and when I am your wife, you and your friends shall hear a few more of my opinions about you."
They stood hand in hand before the clergyman; every one but Esther, even Tony, looking stunned and confused. She afterwards declared her plan of revenge;—to have married him, in order to prove to the world the base folly and littleness of his nature, which, under the circumstances she had herself enumerated, could permit him to accept any woman's hand, either for whim, or self-interest, or both;—and then Esther would have spurned him to her feet, drawn his own picture to his face, and cast him off for ever. But the sweet cup of revenge was fearfully snatched from her lips, even while they touched it. All in the parlour were suddenly startled by a very low hoarse moaning at one of the windows, of which the shutters fastened inside. They listened, and feeble fingers seemed scratching at the glass; and then the weak, inarticulate voice passed round to the back of the house, accompanied by a trailing noise. A moment after, shrieks and howls of utter terror arose in the kitchen, and Tim Ryan, Tony's man-of-all-work, clasped round the waist by a stout serving-wench before mentioned, broke into the parlour, as mad for the time as any two poor creatures in Bedlam. "Thonomonduoul!" began Tim; and he only was able to speak, or rather stutter, "God forgive us for cursin'!—bud—here it's afther us, hot fut!"
His master and friends rapidly questioned him; he took little notice.
"And the duoul's in me, for a born fool, to run and open the back-dour, to let it in! only that you heard it Winny, and was afeard, and made me go out to see—Murther!—don't ye all hear it!" The trailing noise remarked outside the house, was now more distinct, coming along the passage from the kitchen. "Murther! and do ye mane to stay here!—Let me go, Winny; and help a hand to pull open this windee!" He began to unfasten the shutters,—"Oh, your reverence, won't you thry an' lay it, Sir!—Let me go, Winny, I tell you!"
But Winny did not let him go; and they emerged together through the now fully open window.
Almost at the same moment, Mary Nugent, clad in her grave-clothes rent and soiled, and with her hands and feet bleeding, dragged herself on her knees to the threshold of the parlour door; and there, after half raising herself to give one corpse-like look at the group within, fainted and fell across it, "a weary weight."
Our story is told. Esther Neville had only half her revenge; and when recovered from the terrors of that night, she made amends for having ever wished to wreak any. She shared her fortune with Mary and Tony, who lived together, a tolerably happy couple, during more than twenty years after—thanks to a false step and bad screws—the father and mother of sons and daughters—all as much alive all over their little bodies, as if their mamma had never been waked and buried beforehand,—all over their little bodies, except in their lower extremities,—a deficiency transmitted to them by Mary Nugent, who, in that respect, never was able wholly to rewarm herself out of the chill of the tomb, and who thus became the founder of "The Family of the Cold Feet."