The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook. Фредерик Марриет
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jewel; there’s not such a broth of a boy to be picked up every day in the week. Widows might bid for you, for without flattery, I think you a moral of a man, and an honour to Old Ireland. But O’Donahue, begging your pardon, if it’s not a secret, who may have been this lady who appears to have bothered your brains not a little, since she could you forget somebody else?”
“I met her at the Lakes of Cumberland, and being acquainted with some of the party, was invited to join them. I was ten days in her company at Windermere, Ambleside, Derwentwater, and other places. She was a foreigner, and titled.”
“Murder and Irish! you don’t say so?”
“Yes; and moreover, as I was informed by those who were with her, has large property in Poland. She was, in fact, everything that I could desire—handsome, witty, speaking English and several other languages, and about two or three and twenty years old.”
“And her name, if it’s no offence to ask it?”
“Princess Czartorinski.”
“And a princess in the bargain? And did you really pretend to make love to a princess?”
“Am not I an Irishman, McShane? and is a princess anything but a woman, after all? By the powers! I’d make love to, and run away with, the Pope himself; if he were made of the same materials as Pope Joan is said to have been.”
“Then, upon my faith, O’Donahue, I believe you—so now go on.”
“I not only made love to her, but in making love to her, I got most terribly singed myself; and I felt, before I quitted her, that if I had ten thousand a-year, and she was as poor as my dear Judith was, that she should have taken her place—that’s the truth. I thought that I never could love again, and that my heart was as flinty as a pawnbroker’s; but I found out my mistake when it was too late.”
“And did she return you the compliment?”
“That I was not indifferent to her, I may without vanity believe. I had a five minutes alone with her just before we parted, and I took that opportunity of saying how much pain it was to part with her, and for once I told the truth, for I was almost choking when I said it. I’m convinced that there was sincerity in my face, and that she saw that it was there; so she replied, ‘If what you say is true, we shall meet at Saint Petersburg next winter; good-bye, I shall expect you.’”
“Well, that was as much as to say, come, at all events.”
“It was; I stammered out my determination so to do, if possible; but I felt at the time that my finances rendered it impossible—so there was an end of that affair. By my hopes of salvation, I’d not only go to Saint Petersburg, but round the whole world, and to the north pole afterwards, if I had the means only to see her once more.”
“You’re in a bad way, O’Donahue; your heart’s gone and your money too. Upon my soul, I pity you; but it’s always the case in this world. When I was a boy, the best and ripest fruit was always on the top of the wall, and out of my reach. Shall I call to-morrow, and then, if you please, I’ll introduce you to Mrs McShane?”
“I will be happy to see you and your good wife, McShane; health and happiness to you. Stop, while I ring for my little factotum to let you out.”
“By the bye, a sharp boy that, O’Donahue, with an eye as bright as a hawk. Where did you pick him up?”
“In Saint James’s Park.”
“Well, that’s an odd place to hire a servant in.”
“Do you recollect Rushbrook in my company?”
“To be sure I do—your best soldier, and a famous caterer he was at all times.”
“It is his son.”
“And, now I think of it, he’s very like him, only somewhat better-looking.”
O’Donahue then acquainted McShane with the circumstances attending his meeting with Joey, and they separated.
The next day, about the same time, McShane came to see his friend, and found O’Donahue dressed, and ready to go out with him.
“Now, O’Donahue, you mustn’t be in such a hurry to see Mrs McShane, for I have something to tell you which will make her look more pretty in your eyes than she otherwise might have done upon first introduction. Take your chair again, and don’t be putting on your gloves yet, while you listen to a little conversation which took place between us last night, just before we dropped into the arms of Murfy. I’ll pass over all the questions she asked about you, and all the compliments I paid you behind your back: because, if I didn’t, it would make you blush, Irishman as you are; but this she did say,—that it was great kindness on your part to lend me that money, and that she loved you for it; upon which I replied, I was sorry you were not easy in your mind, and so very unhappy: upon which she, in course, like every woman, asked me why; and then I told her merely that it was a love-affair, and a long story, as if I wished to go to sleep. This made her more curious, so, to oblige her, I stayed awake, and told her just what you told me, and how the winter was coming on and you not able to keep your appointment. And what d’ye think the good soul said? ‘Now,’ says she, ‘McShane, if you love me, and have any gratitude to your friend for his former kindness, you will to-morrow take him money enough, and more than enough, to do as he wishes, and if he gains his wife he can repay you; if not, the money is not an object.’ ‘That’s very kind of you, dearest,’ said I; ‘but then will you consent to another thing? for this may prove a difficult affair, and he may want me with him; and would you have any objection to that, dearest?’ for you see, O’Donahue, I took it into my head that I might be of the greatest use to you: and, moreover, I should like the trip, just by way of a little change. ‘Couldn’t he do without you?’ replied she, gravely. ‘I’m afraid not; and although I thought I was in barracks for life, and never to leave you again, yet still for his sake, poor fellow, who has been such a generous fellow to me—’ ‘An’ how long would you be away?’ said she. ‘Why, it might be two months at the most,’ replied I; ‘but who can tell it to a day?’ ‘Well,’ said she, ‘I don’t like that part of the concern at all; but still, if it is necessary, as you say, things shouldn’t be done by halves,’ and then she sighed, poor soul. ‘Then I won’t go,’ says I. ‘Yes,’ says she, after a pause; ‘I think it’s your duty, and therefore you must.’ ‘I’ll do just what you wish, my soul,’ replied I; ‘but let’s talk more about it to-morrow.’ This morning she brought up the subject, and said that she had made up her mind, and that it should be as we had said last night; and she went to the drawer and took out three hundred pounds in gold and notes, and said that if it was not enough, we had only to write for more. Now ain’t she a jewel, O’Donahue? and here’s the money.”
“McShane, she is a jewel, not because she has given me money, but because her heart’s in the right place, and always will be. But I really do not like taking you away with me.”
“Perhaps you don’t think I’d be of any use?”
“Yes; I do not doubt but that you will be, although at present I do not know how.”
“But I do, for I’ve thought upon it, and I shall take it very unkind if you don’t let me go with you. I want a little divarsion; for you see, O’Donahue, one must settle down to domestic happiness by degrees.”
“Be it so, then; all I fear is, I shall occasion pain to your excellent wife.”
“She has plenty to do, and that drives care away; besides, only consider the pleasure you’ll occasion to her when I come back.”
“I forgot that. Now, if you please, I’ll call and pay my respects, and also return my grateful thanks.”
“Then, come along.”
Captain O’Donahue found Mrs McShane very busily employed supplying her customers. She was, as McShane had said, a very good-looking woman, although somewhat corpulent: and there was an amiability, frankness, and kindness of disposition so expressed in her countenance, that it was impossible not to feel interested with her. They dined together. O’Donahue completely established himself in her good graces, and it was agreed