is for a penniless fellow, however handsome, to win an heiress, who is at the same time a beauty. The lovely girls with large fortunes, somehow, always contrive to fall in love with men of rank and title. They “esteem” the others, but adore these, even if they be old and ugly. We object to the gentler sex entering our colleges, studying for prizes and undergoing competitive examinations, lest, forsooth, they lose the softness so charming in our eyes. Alas! alas! I fear we are very green for our pains. Competing with each other for prizes in Greek or Latin or Algebra, would not be half so likely to degrade them as the competition going on so perseveringly among them at the present moment. I know the sex pretty well, dear reader, and what their training and dependent position generally make them capable of. My good male friend, have you never felt both disgust and pity when you have watched the simperings, the feverish efforts, the paltry, easily-discovered manœuvres of some poor girl who seizes upon yourself as the only probable way she has of escaping from the misery of becoming a governess, or living in dismal obscurity and in want at home? Oh! sad it is indeed that we can never be quite sure what we may be married for by the women who know perhaps too well what they have married us for, and why they have fawned upon us, and cajoled us, and pretended to love us, when probably we may have only inspired them with feelings akin to disgust all the while. Cold as Miss Barnett was, stately as she seemed, I adored her all the more for it. I knew that if I could succeed in winning her, she would indeed be a prize worth treasuring. That noble, high-souled countenance never could belong to a being who harboured mean or unworthy sentiments in her heart. Yet who was I that I could dare to aspire to her hand? Was I good enough or great enough to presume to tell her my love? The more I dwelt upon her superiority the more I determined not to expose myself to the danger of becoming ridiculous in her eyes. The days were passing away. It was now Wednesday, and I must leave Knockgriffin on Saturday evening. Only three days more to stay in that enchanted spot, and then a long separation—a separation that might last perhaps for ever in this world!
“Why, oh why did I ever see her? Why was I asked to dwell under the same roof?” were the words that often rose to my mind.
“Can nothing be done for me in my despair—nothing?”
Sir Percy Stedmole seemed now to devote himself entirely to Miss Barnett, for, as in my own case, the term of his stay at Knockgriffin was drawing to an end; though he was differently situated from me, inasmuch as I knew he looked forward to meeting the Barnetts at Harrowgate, and had spoken also of accompanying them to Paris; while I should be obliged to vegetate in gloom and wretchedness in some desolate Irish quarter, bereft of every hope.
“Perseverance can do much,” thought I, in bitterness of heart. “Sir Percy will have so many opportunities of seeing Miss Barnett that he may win her yet; and of all men in the world I would like him least to become her husband!”
While still at Knockgriffin I received a note from Travers to this effect:—
“Dear Stapleton,—They say we are to be ordered to Templemore almost immediately, to prepare for going to Limerick, where the regiment, bag and baggage, are to be sent at once. Of course, we can’t expect to be at head-quarters long; so must make up our minds for a sojourn at some place as delightful as this regal city, where the dogs and pigs seem to increase and multiply daily. How are you getting on at yonder Tipperary mansion? It is said your host has very little chance of surviving many weeks, as he is booked for the end of most landlords in this locale. You ought to have been making up to the pretty heiress, Miss Barnett, all this time, as report speaks highly of her thousands; and if you won her you might afford to give up ‘sojerin,’ and settle down into a rational being. You must be here by Saturday without fail, as very likely we will get the rout on Monday. With all good wishes for your success with the heiress, believe me,
“Yours truly,
“George Travers.”
There was also a letter from my mother, running thus:—
“My dear Richard,—If you knew what anxiety I suffer daily about you in that dreadful Tipperary you would write oftener than you do to me. I would like to receive a line, if possible, every day, to be assured that you remain uninjured in the midst of hourly perils among lawless, savage people. I trust sincerely that you will not expose yourself to danger, or gain the ill-will of the peasantry by taking the part of anyone against them. I would by no means wish you to behave in a way unbecoming the character of an officer and a brave man; but, pray, always try to get rid of any duty, such as quelling riots, helping in ejectments, and other matters obnoxious to the barbarians of that unfortunate county; also I hear it is dangerous for persons to be on
