The Golden Vanity

IT was the year of grace 1750, and old Mother Corrigan sat outside her door in Slattern Alley, smoking her pipe with a relish; and ’t was a good day with her, for she had told his fortune that morning for Squire Tyrconnel, on his way to fight a duel in the Phœnix Park with Lawyer Daly; and when it was finished, says she to him: — ‘Let you count the buttons on his body-coat, your Honour, and fix the third from the top in your eye. And when you stand up to him, say a prayer and pink him with your swordeen in that very spot, and the Lord grant him a bed in heaven, the old villain, for he ’ll never be asking one on earth again.’

And as she said, so it was, and old Daly turned up his toes and never spoke more, when the Squire got him in the third button. And an hour after, Squire Tyrconnel sent his purse with five golden guineas in it, and a pound of the best rappee to be found in the Four Courts, and all for Mother Corrigan, and she was a proud woman that day. Her house was stuffed as full of money as an egg of meat; but no one would think it to look at her; for she had it all hid away like an old fairy, so that no one would give a thought to it.

She was sitting at her door at the top of Slattern Alley where it turns into Britain Street, and she in the best of good tempers, when a lady came by with two young daughters beside her — a tall woman, with a fine blossoming colour in her face and an air like a peacock spreading his tail and her eyes as clear as spring water. It would be hard to see a finer woman of her age in a day’s walk, and all the gentlemen going to and from the Castle must turn to have another look at the three of them. Her dress might be handsome at first sight; but, closer, you could see she had it held up with pins and stitches, and a bit of good lace fell over it to hide the wear in the front. Also, she drew her feet under her hoop, that they might not be noticed, though they were as small as a young child’s. And so she minced along with steps like mice, for fear of showing the burst in her shoe.

But for all that she held up her head like the deer in the Lord Lieutenant’s park, and her pride was enough for a queen, and too much for a poor lady walking the Dublin streets and holding her skirt up out of the mud.

But it was the two she had with her that any lady might be proud of. There were never two such out of heaven; and sure it may be believed, for the world has said it often enough since that day, and will say it to the end of time. For the elder was a sweet rogue, with hair like red gold clean out of the fire, and eyes like a blue June morning, and cheeks like May flowers that a rose has kissed, and lips that better than a rose would kneel to kiss one day; and her smile lit up the street, and she tripped along as light as a spring breeze.

But the younger — sure the Lord was well pleased the day he made her face, for ’t was perfection’s self. Her hair was a dark brown veined with gold, and her eyes like purple violets with the rain on them; and when she closed her long lashes ’t was like a cloud over the stars; and her mouth, and the soft smile, and the dimple that dipped when she laughed — a man would stand all day to watch her and not think long. ' T is a strange thing that one girl will be like that, all beauty and shining sweetness, and another perhaps as good, — for better she could not be in her heart, — will be a poor sorrowful little victim that a cat would not look at in the dark!

And old Mother Corrigan saw them coming, and she took her pipe out from between her teeth, and says she: —

‘Halt here, my ladies, the three of you, and hear the fortune that’s waiting you—the way you’ll be ready when it comes.’

‘Fortune!’ says the lady, stopping, a girl in each hand; '’t is the black fortune and the sad fortune that befell me since the day the gold ring was on my finger. And I don’t want to hear any more, so I don’t; for if I had more to bear than I have this minute I would n’t face the morn’s morrow.’

But Mother Corrigan rose up as nimbly as a woman to a dance, and she looked the lady in the eyes as if she was as tall as herself, and, ‘Come in,’ says she, ‘for though ’t is a poor place, the beauty of the three of you will light it like candles, and ’t is here your luck begins.’

So they went in, and the lady said she had not so much as a silver bit to cross her hand with, and indeed would have pulled her daughters back; but the old woman would not have it.

‘Leave it so,’says Mother Corrigan, ‘what matters an empty hand to-day when you ’ll fill the two hands of me with gold when the luck comes that’s coming? Give me your word, my lady, and I ’ll take it for as good as five guineas.’

So she gave her word to fill Mother Corrigan’s hand with golden guineas; and the two young girls were standing by, their cheeks like burning roses for fear and hope, as the old witch caught the lady’s hand, and gabbled something that was not a prayer, and the words came from her like a person talking in their sleep.

‘High blood and poverty. Sure, your father had a crown on his head and no gold to gild it with.’

But the lady pulled her hand away angrily.

‘Then you know who I am. What ’s the good of play-acting? I guessed this would be the way of it!'

‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ says the old woman with a grin. ‘ I in telling you what I see, and till this minute I never laid eye on you or yours. Don’t you be speaking again, for there ’s no sense in that; but harken!’

So she told her her father was poor and proud, an Irish lord with a castle in a bog and an old coach with the cloth hanging off it in flitters and the plough-horses to draw it; and that he never gave her a penny since she married, for he had it not to give. And she told her her husband was no better, but running after the cards and dice all day, so that all the world cried folly on her for taking up with him.

‘But no matter!’ says Mother Corrigan, ‘for you did a good deed for yourself that day you stood up with him in the church.’

‘ A good deed!' says the lady, very angry. ‘ Don’t you be a foolish old woman, and you so near your end. For I got nothing out of it but care and crying and pinching poverty and five children that I don’t know how to put the bread in their mouths; and this minute I’m as lonesome as a widow, for my husband is off and away in the country, and here am I in Dublin ; and if I know how to get bit or sup for them it’s as much as I do know.’

But the old woman shook her head till her teeth rattled.

‘ Let you be easy and take what’s coming. I see you sitting in a king’s house, and the walls all gilded gold, and the carpets like moss that your foot would sink into, and riches and grandeur, and everyone bowing down to the mother of the beauties.’

‘Well, if the half of it’s true,’ says the lady, ‘the first news should come to me is that I’m a widow; for ’t is impossible it should happen as you say with a husband that has n’t one pennypiece to rattle on a tombstone.'

‘You ’ll not be a widow for many a day, and ’t is your husband’s name brings the luck.’

‘You don’t know what his name is. You couldn’t! If you’ll tell me his name, I’ll engage to believe any mortal thing you tell me.'

So the three looked at the old woman; but she took another look at the hand as she might be reading a book, and: —

‘Good-day to you, Mrs Gunning, and good-day to his Lordship’s daughter, emdash; my Lord Mayo, — and good-day to the mother of the two beauties that’ll sweep the world.’

And she clucked and chuckled to herself, highly diverted with their astonishment. How did she know it? What that old woman did not know would make but a short story. ‘T was said she had informants over the whole countryside, like a Minister of the Crown.

They stared, for they were new come to Dublin, running from their debts in Roscommon and taking the chance to pick up husbands in the city, and there was not one there who knew them.

So she took the youngest girl’s hands in hers and says she: —

‘You ’ll marry the highest man, bar one or two, in England. And you ’ll not be content with that; for when you bury him, you ’ll marry the highest man in Scotland; and if I sat here till to-morrow, I could n’t tell you the half of the riches and glory that’s waiting for you. You ’ll have to crawl through the black mud to get the first; but after that ’t is a clear course, and the mud won’t stick to a duchess’s gown, young Miss Elizabeth Gunning!’

A duchess! Elizabeth’s eyes were like winter stars, they so sparkled — they would put out the light of diamonds. She held herself like a young poplar and says she —

‘And if you ’re right, old woman, or anything like it, I ’ll come and see you when I gel promotion, and my Lord Duke shall fill your pockets with gold.’

But Mother Corrigan grinned like a dog.

‘I haven’t a pocket, my Lady’s Honour. My hand’s good enough; but I ’ll not be here when you come riding back to poor old Dublin in yer coach and six — and now for the fairy of the world!' — And she took the hand of the eldest, who was shaking like a leaf and expecting to hear of a prince and his blue ribbon at the least, and her eyes fixed on the old witch like two blue lakes with the stars dipping in them.

But she shook her head.

‘A great man, but not so big a man as your sister’s.’ (The girl looked jealous daggers at Elizabeth.) ‘ A fine man, and the gold lace on him, and velvet and silk stockings, and gold buckles shining in the shoes of him, and a big house to live in, and fine clothes for your back, and — ’

She stopped dead, like a horse pulled up on his haunches; but the young Maria twitched her by the raggedy sleeve.

‘Go on. What is it? I want to hear.’

Don’t ask me, and you so beautiful!’

‘I do ask, and I ’ll have it out of you. I suppose you mean I ’ll get old and ugly like yourself.’

‘You’ll never be old and ugly. Them that remembers you will remember the loveliest thing God ever made when he took clay in his two hands.’

‘I don’t know what she means,’says Maria fretfully. ‘But sure some women are handsome till they die. Tell us when will the luck come, and how?’

‘With the Golden Vanity and a woman with a man’s name. And now leave me, my three queens, and I ’ll have a drop to warm me old bones and a whiff of the pipe to put the life in me. But don’t forget the old woman when the great lords is kneeling before you and pouring the diamonds out of baskets before ye—and send the golden guineas, and — ’

So she went on mumbling and muttering, and that was the first and last time the old hag told a fortune for love and not for money. She had not long to tell any, for she died next May, and not a soul to cry for her.

They stepped out into the sunshine, their heads high, and scarce a word to say to each other; for all three were thinking of the promises as light and glittering as soap bubbles. And Maria would not spare a word to Elizabeth, for not a woman but must walk after the heels of a duchess, and she was all for leading.

‘The Golden Vanity!’ says Elizabeth. ‘Mama, what should that be? When I’m a duchess —’

‘I don’t know, and most likely ’t is not worth knowing.’ Mrs Gunning was angry. Her fine brows were drawn together. ‘Leave talking of duchesses, you silly fools, and go get the herrings for tea. I have left the children too long as it is.’

So she marched down Britain Street like a queen, for all her burst shoe, — a shabby street it was for such ladies, — and the two walked off to Fishmonger’s Alley, and not a head but turned to look at them.

‘Faith, they’re goddesses and no mistake!’ says gay Mr Councillor Egan, on the way from the Law Courts, with his mulberry face and his mulberry velvet coat. ’T was to Lawyer Curran he said it, and in a small city like Dublin the name held, and the two were called the Goddesses from that time.

Old Corrigan’s words gave them courage for a while; but what can hold up against a diet of herrings day in and day out ? And that was all the poor lady could give her family. What was she to do? Mr Gunning had took himself off to Castle Coote, his beggarly place in the country, where he could dice and drink in peace with the neighboring squireens, and live off claret and the skinny fowls that pecked about the avenue; and she had the weight of the children on her spare shoulders.

’T was about this time that young Harry Lepel, the first man they met, in a way of speaking, fell in love with Elizabeth, the younger. The way it happened was this. She was walking down Mount Street with Maria, and she let fall her purse, and nothing in it but a pocket-piece to save her gentility. Harry was strolling off to my Lord Cappoquin’s, from mounting guard at the Castle (for at that time his Lordship lived in Merrion Square); and indeed Mr Lepel was as fine a figure of a young man as a girl could wish to see, in his regimentals all laced with gold and his handsome head above them — a brown man with dark eyes. And seeing a young madam drop her purse, he stooped for it and, coming up behind them, saluted very stiff and offered it, and the two turned and looked him in the face.

’T is certain a man might come up a thousand times behind a woman’s back and not be startled as Harry Lepel was when he saw them; for there never was, nor will be, two such sisters. ’T was like a battery suddenly unmasked; and what chance had the poor devil that was marching up to it like an innocent? The only thing he could do was to surrender at discretion — but to which lady? That was the trouble. Elizabeth Gunning settled it for him.

‘ I thank you, Sir,’ says she, with a smile that had ruined St Anthony, for she was one that smiled with her eyes as well as her mouth — a golden sunshine that the heart opened to naturally.

He was stuttering and stammering. ‘Madam, I thank you for the happiness of touching anything your hand hath blessed.’

’T was sudden, I allow; but then, so too was her beauty. At all events, he dared no more, not having the courage, though all the will, to linger, and was turning off when a queer thing happened. But ’t was to be.

A drunken poltroon of a bargeman was coming up from Liffey-side, lurching and yawing like a Dutch hooker in a gale; and seeing them in a little bunch on the cobblestones, he took an anger at them in his wooden head, and, whether purposely or not I know not, but he elbowed up against Miss Maria and drove her into the dirty kennel; and she gave a faint scream, for her shoes were destroyed with the mud, and it was the only pair she had to her name. So what does Mr Lepel do but let drive straight from the shoulder at the offender, and in a minute the shoes and the lady were out of the kennel and the bargeman lying there as snug as snug, and the oaths he let out of him blackening the air like a flight of crows. So Mr Lepel, smiling with set lips like a picture, says to the girls: —

‘Ladies, permit me to escort you to your home. ’T is much to be regretted the streets are not safe for beauty unattended, though to be sure I have the happiness to profit by the circumstance. I trust☺ it hath been no shock to your sensibility?’

And, indeed, tears had gathered in Elizabeth’s eyes; but Maria was laughing like a Hebe, and looking up in his face — the blue-eyed lovely rogue!

‘We thank you, Sir. ’T is what our own brother had done had he been more than five. But while he is in the nursery, we must be obliged to kind strangers for protection.'

‘Madam, I would not willingly remain a stranger,’ says Mr Harry, very eager, and touching his cocked hat. ‘ Permit me to present myself for want of a better introducer. My name is Harry Lepel.'

‘I thank you, Sir. ’T will be remembered with gratitude. May we now bid you farewell?’

Miss Maria sank down, in a curtsey so well devised that it showed the littlest foot in the world, save only Elizabeth’s. A fortunate bootmaker later was to make five guineas an afternoon by showing their shoes at a penny a head to the mob that gathered to stare at them; but that time was not yet come. Mr Lepel spoke earnestly: —

‘Madam, you can’t suppose — ’t is not possible I can permit you to return alone after such an adventure. The sun sinks and the streets are mighty ill lit. If my company is disagreeable, I can walk ten paces behind; but otherwise — ’

Here Elizabeth interposed, with a fine colour in her cheek: —

‘The company of our protector can’t be disagreeable — ’t is a favour. But, Sir, I will be frank with you: we are in Dublin incognita; our lodging is not equal to our pretensions to birth; and in short — ’

She hesitated, with her eyes dropped and the lashes like night upon her cheek. The crimson bow of her upper lip trembled — a seductive picture of troubled beauty. Anyhow it did Mr Harry’s business for him. He could no more have tore himself away at that moment than he could have embraced the bargeman swearing blue murder at his feet.

‘Madam, these are misfortunes that may happen to the greatest, and ’t is easy seen that in your case breeding and birth combine with — beauty. Is it indiscreet to ask the name of the ladies I have the honour to address?’

‘’T is very indiscreet,’says Miss Maria, with one of her bright side-glances; ‘but yet — should we withhold it, sister?’

‘Surely not from so kind a friend.’ Elizabeth spoke eagerly. ‘Our name, Sir, is Gunning, and we are granddaughters to the late Viscount Mayo and nieces to his present Lordship. And when I add that our parents have fallen into poverty, you will comprehend — ’

Her voice paused on a silver note, which had the beginning of a sob; and when Elizabeth saddened, the world must sadden with her, so lovely were her long eyes and the drooping head. Pity poor Mr Harry! Talk of Scylla and Charybdis — he stood between the Sirens, and could he have halved his heart (and many men have that power), one half had gone to either charmer.

‘ Madam,’says he tenderly, ‘ I feel for your sorrows more than I can express. Might I but have the happiness to be presented to your mama; for ’t is the most prodigious circumstance — I am the son of Sir Francis Lepel of Tarrington in Yorkshire, and I have heard him speak of my Lord Mayo many a time. His Lordship stood second to my grandfather in his famous duel with Lord Ayrshire thirty year since. My name will not be unknown. Permit me —'

And again he saluted, very gallant, and the three proceeded down the street, the girls on thorns for thinking of the dingy rooms, and their mother downat-heel, and the everlasting herrings sizzling on the grate, and Lucy and Kitty screaming for their supper. ’T was thinking thus that Maria touched Elizabeth’s arm, as much as to say: ‘Shall we let him go?’ For indeed these girls had a perfect language of signs between them, elaborated in the shifts and devices of their life; and Miss Maria, at least, was an accomplished little schemer. But Elizabeth responded not to the pinch.

‘Why, Sir,’ says she sweetly, ‘the name is indeed familiar. Sitting on his Lordship’s knee, often have I heard him discourse of Sir Francis. You are no stranger. Yet truth is best. We are poor, Mr Lepel. My sister and I are debarred from all the pleasures of our rank, and our only concern is how to lighten our mama’s burden if we could. ’T is this makes us hesitate, for we can’t offer you the hospitality we would.’

‘Name it not, Madam, I entreat,’ says Mr Harry, trying to look into those too seductive eyes. ‘God forbid I should add to your anxieties. But had I the happiness to know your mama, whose beauty half Ireland knows by repute, sure I might be permitted to open the way to some pleasures. There is, for instance, a Birthnight ball to be celebrated at the Castle —'

‘Sir, you are all goodness, but gentlemen understand little of the difficulties of poor young ladies of quality. How should they? We have no dresses fit for the eyes of his Excellency. Even shoes —’

She permitted a foot to appear beneath the edge of her petticoat and ambushed it again. But it had done its work.

‘You tear my heart, Madam. But since that little marvel of a foot recalls Cinderella’s, permit me to say that a fairy godmother smoothed the way for that young lady to a certain ball, and there she met the prince whose throne she afterwards shared.'

‘There are no fairies in Dublin, Sir.’ Her voice was like flowing honey, while the little foot so commended was bestowing a sharp kick upon the fair Maria, and thus it said: —

‘Run ahead. Turn the corner and run like a lamp-lighter, and let mama know what is toward. Hide the herrings. Bundle the children to bed. Fling mama’s Irish lace over her head. I can hold him fifteen minutes. Speed!’

’T is much to be said in one kick, and it takes a woman to say and a woman to hear; but Miss Maria was a woman, though but eighteen. She smiled like Truth’s self.

‘Sister, if’t is not disagreeable to you to spare me, I have the message to leave at Mrs Flaherty’s, and will go forward and meet with you at our door. Excuse me, Mr Lepel. My sister is a slow walker and I a swift. I knew not’t was so late.’

Off went Miss Maria. Turning the corner, she picked up her petticoats and legged it along like a hare at dawn.

It may be thought that the acquaintance ripened in those fifteen minutes, which doubled into thirty. Elizabeth’s step was slower, her voice more musical, even as a nightingale sings her sweetest to the moon. The shade of my Lord Mayo might hover about them to safeguard propriety, but Mr Harry drew as near as the rampart of the lady’s hoop would permit, bending his head to catch her murmurs, and his nostrils inhaling the faint perfume of silken hair rolled back from the whitest brow in the world. They made a pair that many would have remarked, but for the ill-lit streets.

Maria awaited them at the shabby door in Britain Street.

‘I would not go in, sister, lest mama should scold me for leaving you; and indeed I am but just arrived,’ says she demurely. And since she had not entered, ’t was singular how neat was the appearance of that dingy room; for ’t was dingy, do what you would.

The fire burned brightly, and if there was a delicate odour of herrings and onions, ’t was the worst could be said, for none were to be seen. Indeed, a rich perfume fought with it, as if a hasty hand had dashed the odours of Araby here and there to discourage the herrings. A large velvet cloak, the worse for wear, disguised the rents of the sofa, whereon sat Mrs Gunning, majestic in another of faded purple satin, beneath which her dress remained conjectural. A noble square of Limerick point was flung over her head and hung veil-like by each ear; and, indeed, with the little cherub Lucy at her feet, she might have sat for an aging Madonna.

Kitty was bundled off to the campbed in the back room; and sure the picture was homelike, if you studied the handsome lady rather than the ragged chairs. ’T was the best they could do, poor souls, in fifteen minutes, and wonderful in the time. ’T is women for quick thinking and quick acting where men are concerned; and, indeed, the look of astonishment Mrs Gunning gave as the three entered was inimitable, though already she had every particular set down in her mind. She swept the stateliest curtsey, and cast a rebuking maternal eye on her daughters ere she addressed Mr Lepel.

But, when explanations were made, how did her brow clear and a fair-weather smile efface the frost! She welcomed him with cordial kindness, with such reminiscences of his family as warmed his heart; and though no hospitality was offered save one, — a bottle of generous claret in a silver cup enriched with the Mayo arms, — ’t was given with such good-will, and served by so lovely a cup-bearer, the fair Maria, that the man does not breathe but must feel it worthy of the three ladies who tendered it. He toasted them one and all in turn, and if his bow to Elizabeth was a little lower, that circumstance did not displease Mrs Gunning.

‘I leave you to judge, Mr Lepel,’says she, ‘what it costs a mother to see her dear ones exiled from all the little gay scenes where it would become them to appear. But what can I do? My father’s grandchildren, Mr Gunning’s daughters, can’t appear except with propriety; and why should I hesitate to tell so kind a friend that’t is beyond my power?’

’T was discussed between them all for an hour as to the Birthnight ball; but Mrs Gunning was resolute, nor could Mr Harry dare to make the offers that trembled on his lips. He could have groaned aloud to think on the sums he wasted nightly on gaming — one half of which would have adorned these beauties and set them free to flutter their wings in the sunshine of fashion. Later Maria, half-smiling, half-sad, told how they were promised luck by the old witch of Dublin, though she gave not all the particulars. She built not on it, she declared, nor yet did Elizabeth; and she, a soft sigh parting her lips, confirmed her sister: ‘the more so,’ says she, ‘that none of us can imagine what is the Golden Vanity. Is there such a ship, to be the ship of our fortunes? ’T is that it sounds most like.'

He shook his head. Mrs Gunning softly remonstrated: —

‘My dears, be not giddy, nor let your heads run on such follies. There is no such name and no such thing and ’t is impossible —’

More she would have said, but a man came crying somewhat down the street, and beside him went another with a flambeau, that he might read a paper in his hand, and what the man cried was this: —

‘Let the fashion of Dublin, both ladies and gentlemen, take notice that there comes presently to the theatre in Aungier Street the dramatic company which Mr Sheridan presents to his patrons in a new and luscious play, by name — ’

But here was the speaker’s voice drowned by a wagon passing on the cobblestones.

‘What is it?' cries Mrs Gunning, running to the window; for indeed she loved the play as well as did her girls. And, as if the question had reached him, the man turned towards her and bellowed like the bull of Bashan: ‘The Golden Vanity!’

The little company within stared transfixed upon one another.

For the next fortnight did the three live in a kind of rapture; and ’t is not to be wondered at, the name coming so pat on the prophecy. And sure, Mr Lepel was no less moved; for he took a deeper than brotherly interest in all that touched them, his heart being caught that day in Dublin streets; and if he then thought Elizabeth a beauty, it took not a week to rank her an angel. Before the week was out, he laid his heart and the reversion of the baronetcy at her foot, not regarding the worn little shoe that cased it. For, indeed, the sisters wore the same size, and Elizabeth being the better mistress of her wardrobe, ’t is to be feared she sought often for her own, to find them gadding abroad on Miss Maria’s feet and herself left to luck. ’T was mortifying, and her heavenly blush was as much owing to this circumstance as to the gentleman’s ardour.

However, taken by Mr Harry’s fine person and clothes (and which was the most potent is not known), she accepted the heart, and he set about to inform his father of his good fortune, for mother he had none. ’T was with inward quakings, for beauty, were it Helen’s own, is but a blunted arrow against a seasoned heart of seventy: and Sir Francis Lepel had reached that discreet age. ’T was vain to tell him of celestial eyes and roseate bloom. God help us! ’t is little he cared for the like. The baronetcy was poor and Mr Harry expensive, and what Sir Francis looked to was a fat balance at Child’s the banker’s. Was the lady a fortune? And when Mr Harry, trembling, avowed that a single doit could not be hoped in that quarter, the old gentleman, his temper as well as his foot highly inflamed with gout, swore to disinherit him if the matter went further.

Poor Harry was in a sad quandary. He slept and ate ill, and ’t was provoking that Elizabeth bloomed like a rose and troubled not her fair head about Sir Francis. Her mind seemed possessed with but the one thought — to attend the Birthnight ball and, like the planet Venus, shine in her rightful heaven. And indeed Mr Harry could not fancy her heart so deeply engaged as he might wish; for he could scarce get a word in while the two peered into the mercers’ shops, gloating on satin and muslin. Mrs Gunning, as improvident, was almost drawn in by them, when word came of a card debt that their papa owed to Sir Horatius Blake, and the unfortunate lady received not even the pittance that provided herrings for six hungry mouths; so that they were like to come down to dry bread, which event fairly ended all talk of the ball.

’T is not to be supposed that Mr Harry did not offer to set all the mantua-makers in Dublin to work, though in his heart he knew his own credit did not stand immaculate. He stormed up and down the room, protesting, vowing, exclaiming; but Mrs Gunning would have none of it. Says she: —

‘I do all justice to your kind heart, Mr Lepel, but ’t is not, because we are unfortunate, that we have no pride, and’t is impossible Miss Gunning should accept garments from the gentleman she honours with her hand.’

And Elizabeth, lovelier than ever in grief, confirmed her mother, Maria stamping her foot like an angry goddess. ’T will be admitted’t was a hard case. And since misfortunes don’t come alone, arrived a furious letter from Sir Francis, demanding instantly to see Mr Harry, and acquainting him that his appointment in the Guards was cancelled, and he must join his new regiment in London at a day’s notice. Sir Francis had good interest with the lady whose interest with His Majesty was unquestioned, and’t is to be thought this event did not come by chance.

Oh, then were wailings and passionate embraces on the part of Mr Lepel, Miss Elizabeth receiving them with wondering eyes. ’For London is not so far but we shall meet again, Harry,”says she, with her angelical smile.

He had preferred tears, no doubt; but a man must take what comes his way, and be thankful. He, who had never before been guilty of the like, now composed a set of verses of atrocious demerit. Indeed, the first two lines will suffice: —

‘’T is very pretty!’ says Chloe. ‘O Harry, I would you did not love me so! A girl’s affections are cool and temperate, I think — at least ’ t is so with me. Forget me a little, — though not too much, child, — and be happy.’

It might have been her mother who spoke. ’T is certain no person ever had the appearance of sweet simplicity more than Elizabeth Gunning; but whether ’t was wholly devoid of art — Ah, well, shall we dissect the rose? ’T is sometimes best to enjoy and ask no questions.

The day of parting he came to Britain Street, and solemnly renewed his vows in the presence of Mrs Gunning and Maria.

‘And, O my Elizabeth,’ cries he, ‘pledge me once more that hand which is all my joy. Swear that neither raging seas’ (’t was a day calm as milk and the Irish sea like a mirror) ‘nor the brutish tyranny of man shall divide us, and that our constant hearts shall never change!'

Miss Elizabeth raises heavenly eyes, a glittering moisture enhancing their brilliance.

‘Have I not pledged my word, Harry; and if you believe not that, what will serve? Sure ’t is you that rove and will see fairer faces’ (frantic protestations from Mr Lepel) ‘yet I don’t doubt you. Farewell, dear Harry, and remember us when you are in the glitter of London.’

She covered her face with a handkerchief, and he took the last embrace, kissed Mrs Gunning’s hand and Maria’s, and hurried madly from the room. Elizabeth unveiled her face and folded the handkerchief for future use.

‘He’s gone,’ says poor Mrs Gunning, seeking her own; ‘and if I know where to-morrow’s dinner is to come from, for you all, I’m — a Dutchman!’

They mingled their tears, and Elizabeth’s were real enough now. ‘T is possible, could the matter be sifted, that many more tears have been shed for absent dinners than absent lovers; and certainly, though beauty may survive without the last, it cannot without the first. There was so much of gloomy and terrible in their mama’s aspect, that Maria wept also; and Kitty and Lucy, with the little John, who had all been secreted in the bedroom during the adieux, dashed in screaming at the tops of their voices, as if the heavens were falling; and so sat the poor unfortunate family drowned in tears. ’T was not balls they thought of then, nor departing lovers, but simply bread and herrings.

A lady came down the street, picking her way through the garbage that adorned it. Her dress was hooped in the mode, and of a showy brocade, with much tinsel interwoven and very glittering, so that the ragged children in the gutter stood, finger in mouth, to see. She had a muslin cross-over upon an expansive bosom, and ’t was finely laced with Mechlin, not too clean, and set of with a black velvet ribbon about the throat, graced with a clasp of paste. A large tilted hat tied beneath her chin shaded an arch and sparkling pair of eyes, which, though not in their first youth, lighted up a face with striking features and an air of easy good-humour. If her critics had accused this lady of being somewhat too good-humoured with the other sex, why’t was perhaps natural to her circumstances and needs no further excuse. Her worst detractors never denied her a good heart, and an car open to the lament of misery. In her hand she carried a cane of fine ebony, and altogether appeared a radiant vision of a fine woman in the purlieus of Britain Street. She paused and looked about her, bewildered.

‘ I declare I know not where I am got to!’ says she, half aloud. ‘And these barbarians — ’t is hard to be understood or to understand their gibberish. If now — ’

And even as the words left her lips, arose a piercing wail from across the street, in which three lusty young throats united — Lucy, Kitty, and John, each outscreaming the other.

‘Crimini!’ says Madam, ‘what’s this? Is Herod abroad in Dublin?’

The screams redoubled. She added: ' ’T is almost to be wished he was! ’ And stood half-laughing, half-unwilling to pass on.

‘I will!’ says she; and more doubtfully, ‘I won’t! ’T is not my business. Sure I have enough stage tears and sobs to make me distrust all I hear.’

She turned resolutely away, and halted again.

‘Poor lady! ’T is a lady soothing them, and weeping herself. I will! She can but bid me exit.’

And so marched to the open door, and into the narrow passage, and rapped smartly with her cane on the door of the parlour, bringing all her natural assurance to bear.

Dead silence. The screams halted, as if a tap was turned off: whoever was inside was all ears. She rapped again. And now a scuffling; and Maria opened the door, and six pairs of astonished eyes gloated on the stranger. And no less did hers on the party within; for there sat Mrs Gunning, beautiful and maternal, with the little John’s curly pate on her bosom; Elizabeth, lovely as the day, leaning on one shoulder of her mother; Kitty and Lucy, golden-curled cherubs, clinging to her gown; and Maria, like a sorrowful wood-nymph, holding the door. Sure, never was such a family, and these children seemed made of some more exquisite clay than ordinary.

‘Lord, am I got into heaven, for I see the angels about me!’ says Madam, advancing with a reverence lower than the paltry room demanded. ‘Forgive an intruder, Madam, and confer a benefit. For being newly come to Dublin, I’ve lost my way returning from Smock Alley, and while I called up courage to enter and ask it from any other than these savages, I heard a cry that hastened my steps. Be pleased to pardon me, and say if I can be of service to yourself and your sweet family; for ’t is the plain truth — I’m dazzled as I stand, by the beauty of your olive branches.’

’T is not possible to mistake the voice of sympathy, and Mrs Gunning, rising from her chair, curtseyed in her turn, and begged the visitor to be seated. ‘Lord, Madam,’ says she, ‘you catch us very unfit for company; but so kind a heart needs no excuse, and I will be candid with you. We are of birth and breeding like yourself.’ (’T was a skilful compliment, and the lady simpered.) ’And therefore, as a gentlewoman of quality, you shall understand my grief when I present myself as my Lord Viscount Mayo’s daughter, and add that I have not the wherewithal to clothe or feed these innocents! You are yourself too young to be a mother, Madam, yet will comprehend a mother’s anguish. I am Mrs Gunning of Castle Coote, and such is my condition!’

She wept again. The lady applied a laced kerchief to either eye.

‘Madam, a heart of marble must feel for you, and mine is not marble — far from it. But sure such beauty must open all doors. Marriage — ’

‘Alas, Madam, in these days of money-grubbing avarice, what is beauty? My second’ —she indicated Elizabeth — ‘is cruelly rejected by the father of a gentleman of birth not near so high as our own, because she has no estates pinned to her petticoat.’

‘Alonster!’ cries the lady with spirit.

Mrs Gunning proceeded: ‘And, O Madam, were you in want, as a lady of quality sometimes is, of a young lady to write letters, to keep accounts, and all those little useful arts such as mending lace and the like, I can truly say that in my Elizabeth you would find solid worth. She is graver than my Maria. Sure we cannot have had the happiness to meet you for nothing. ’T was ordained you should walk in upon us. Permit me to ask the name of our benefactress.’

The lady hummed and hawed a little; but not being easily daunted, she tossed up her head bravely enough ere she replied: —

‘Gemini, Madam! We can’t all be ladies of quality; and if we could, I see not who could provide the wants and amusements of the fashionable. To be plain with you, I am an actress—’

‘An actress!’ screams Maria, all rapture. ‘Sister, do you hear? Was it not this very day I said, would I could go on the stage like the famous Mrs Woffington, and other beauties such as this lady. And then should I be happy and pour all the gold I made into my mama’s lap.’

The lady shook her head, a little melancholy.

‘Gold? Not much of that on the stage, young miss. ’Tis found there — true; but — but — indirectly. However, this concerns you not. Madam, I am in no need of such an attendant as you describe, having my dresser and —'

‘I might have guessed it! When did luck ever come our way? Farewell, Madam. Return to your own happiness and abandon us to our misery.’

Heartrending! The lady drew nearer.

‘Gemini, Madam! You misjudge me. A woman can but offer what’s in her power. A good word from me to our manager, Mr Sheridan, and with such faces I doubt not small parts can be found for your daughters in one of the plays to be produced here. We even now rehearse it, and the parts of Susan and Peggy Careless go begging. But dare I mention such a proposal?’

‘Madam, you are all goodness and beauty!’ cries Elizabeth. And Maria fell on her knees like one distraught and kissed the pretty hand in its black mitten. ’T was known to them that Mr Sheridan’s company was from London and would return there; and indeed this came like a sunburst through the cloud, for ’t was food, clothes, admiration, money, hope—and many other charming things that set them dreaming on worlds to conquer. They swept their mama away on the wave of their delight; and indeed that poor lady was always prone to take gilding for gold so long as it glittered sufficiently.

‘And what, Madam, is this play in which Susan and Peggy appear?’

‘Child, ’t is “The Golden Vanity” — a play of a poor girl that weds a rich lord and —’

Heavens and earth! She could not continue, for how describe the joy and wonder of the family! Reserve fled away. Prudence borrowed the wings of Hope, and dressed her face with rainbows. Crowding around the stranger, they entreated her name, that it might grace their prayers; and she, radiant with the sunshine she dispensed, calls out: —

‘Why, girls, sure you have heard it. ’T is I am the leading lady in all Mr Sheridan produces at present. I am George Anne Bellamy.’

‘George!’ screams Mrs G. ‘A woman with a man’s name, said old Mother Corrigan. Girls, your luck’s come!' And with that falls into strong hysterics and frights them all to death.

But joy is a strong cordial, and ’t was not long ere she sat up, with George Anne’s hand in hers, telling her the story of Mother Corrigan. ’T is to be supposed Mrs G. had heard that Mrs Bellamy’s heart was not marble; but what was the lady to do? For my Lord Mayo spent his rents five years ahead, and though his good nature would give the coat off his back, that would neither clothe nor feed her family; while, as for Mr Gunning, that gentleman regarded his wife and children no more than the cuckoo that leaves her offspring to chance.

Mrs Bellamy was all ears. ’T was prodigious, ’t was vastly astonishing, she vowed. Maria was sent out with half a guinea, and they had a comfortable dish of tea, with currant bread and what not; and she told them tales of the stage and the fine matches made by Mrs This and Signorina That, and, by the time the candles were lit, they were all sworn friends. They parted with embraces; for Mrs G. was as easy as George Anne, and the girls must needs follow the example set.

She had her way with Mr Sheridan, and she returned next day to announce her success, triumphing and rattling on like a girl herself, so pleased was she with their pleasure. All was joy and gladness, and she named the hour of the first rehearsal and their introduction to Mr Sheridan, when Maria, turning archly upon her, says: —

‘ Look you here, dearest Mrs Bellamy! Think what it will cost us to refuse this.’ And so holds up a splendid card, thick as boards and embellished with a gilt edge and the Royal Arms and the Irish Harp, and Heaven knows what braveries, inviting the Honourable Mrs Gunning, Miss Gunning, and Miss Elizabeth Gunning to the Birthnight ball at the Castle, on the part of his Excellency, the Earl of Harrington. Diamonds were never so bright as the eyes that sparkled above it; for the charming new prospect of the stage had quite effaced the ball, and poor Mr Harry’s trouble in securing the invitation was like to go for nothing.

‘I care nothing now for it!’ cries Maria, and Elizabeth echoed her; while George Anne looked thoughtfully at the Lion and Unicorn guarding a Paradise she could not hope to enter. Maria made to tear the card across; but Mrs Bellamy caught it from her hand and did not smile.

‘Children,’ says she at last, ‘you know not what you talk of. I would have a word alone with your mama. Take the little ones in your hand, and go out a while in the sunshine.’ She thrust some cream-cakes upon them, and they did so, looking doubtfully at her cloudy eyes; and when the door shut, she turned to Mrs Gunning.

‘Madam, you know well’t is my wish to serve you and yours. But seeing this invitation, there’s thoughts comes into my head that I must needs speak out. This’ (she flicked the card) ‘is the life for the Miss Gunnings, and not the stage. ’T would scarce become me to tell a lady like yourself what must be faced there, but — but — ’t is much! Ask Peg Woffington — ask Kitty Clive — ask George Anne Bellamy!’

There was silence. Mrs G. stared at her, all aghast.

‘Why, yesterday, all your talk was of pleasure and success. Sure, dear Mrs Bellamy, ’t was not like your kindness to draw on the poor things till they can think of naught else, and now so far otherwise.’

‘ Why, Madam, I thought there was no other way. But seeing this, my mind misgives me and I falter. I m a plaindealer, Madam, with all my faults, and ’t is easy to be seen your daughters are a world’s wonder. That being so, ’t is certain the dangers are tenfold for them. They ’ll see the glories and grandeurs — but not through a wedding ring.’

‘If you mean, Madam, that my daughters—’ Mrs Gunning flamed out, furious; but George Anne was not to be turned from her purpose. She raised her hand in a fine stage attitude.

‘ Madam, I wish vastly to serve you. Hear my proposal. Accept this invitation.’

‘ Impossible. We have no dresses, no shoes, no equipage, and no means to get them. ’T is absurd!’

‘ ’T is not absurd. Hear me. In the theatre properties is a fine dress for Lady Modish and two more for Peggy and Susan Careless. Not perhaps what such ladies might expect, but — I know men. There’s not a man will look at their gowns for looking at their faces, though the suits are well enough when all’s said. I vow, Madam, you have so long lived beside the two that you forget what beauties they are. I wager my next benefit to a China orange that you '11 have no more care once they are seen. Indeed, your young madams are what one reads of in romances. Give them this chance, and if it fails, I’m good for my offer; but I’m much mistook if you hold me to it. Madam, use your wits! Would you have them what I won’t name, when they may be what your old witch foretold?’

She smiled her charming smile, and pressed Mrs G.’s hand. The lady pondered. ’T was disagreeable to owe such a thing to a mere actress, and one, too, whose reputation was a trifle flyblown. The stage she might have swallowed, but an entry to the world where she and her daughters had a birthright — Fie! ’t was a very different pair of shoes. But George Anne had that in her eye that would be obeyed; and seeing it, Mrs G. dropped her high tone and returned the pressure with an air of sensibility.

‘’Twas said by old Corrigan that ’t was you to bring us luck, dearest Madam, and ’t is certain you are prudence itself. If you will ensure us the dresses, I accept; and, indeed, my Lord Harrington’s father was a friend of my own revered father in happier days. ’T is possible—’

‘ ’T is certain,’ cries George Anne gaily. ‘Not a word will I drop to Mr Sheridan who is a perfect Israelite where theatre matters are in hand.’

She was gone ere the girls returned, and ’t is needless to tell their wonder. They preferred the stage, yet condescended to say they would favour the ball, since Mrs Bellamy counselled it. ‘But, never, never will it turn my heart from the charming footlights!’ says Maria. ‘What say you, sister?'

‘I know not. My taste is quieter than yours. I will tell you my mind the day after the ball. Poor Harry — ’t is he has given us this.’

She would say no more, but sat thoughtful.

(In the Atlantic for October, the Gunnings will find their fortunes.)