Lord Clonbrony declared that, for his own part, he was ready to return to Ireland next morning, and to promise to reside on his estate all the rest of his days; that there was nothing he desired more, provided Lady Clonbrony would consent to it; but that he could not promise for her; that she was as obstinate as a mule on that point; that he had often tried, but that there was no moving her; and that, in short, he could not promise on her part.

But it was on this condition, Lord Colambre said, he must insist.  Without this condition was granted, he would not engage to do anything.

’Well, we must only see how it will be when she comes to town; she will come up from Buxton the day you’re of age to sign some papers,’ said Lord Clonbrony; ‘but,’ added he, with a very dejected look and voice, ’if all’s to depend on my Lady Clonbrony’s consenting to return to Ireland, I’m as far from all hope of being at ease as ever.’

‘Upon my conscience, we’re all at sea again,’ said Sir Terence.

Lord Colambre was silent:  but in his silence there was such an air of firmness, that both Lord Clonbrony and Sir Terence were convinced entreaties would on this point be fruitless—­Lord Clonbrony sighed deeply.

’But when it’s ruin or safety, and her husband and all belonging to her at stake, the woman can’t persist in being a mule,’ said Sir Terence.

‘Of whom are you talking?’ said Lord Colambre.

’Of whom?  Oh, I beg your lordship’s pardon—­I thought I was talking to my lord; but, in other words, as you are her son, I’m persuaded her ladyship, your mother, will prove herself a reasonable woman—­when she sees she can’t help it.  So, my Lord Clonbrony, cheer up; a great deal may be done by the fear of Mordicai, and an execution, especially now the prior creditor.  Since there’s no reserve between you and I now, my Lord Colambre,’ said Sir Terence, ’I must tell you all, and how we shambled on those months while you were in Ireland.  First, Mordicai went to law, to prove I was in a conspiracy with your father, pretending to be prior creditor, to keep him off and out of his own; which, after a world of swearing and law—–­law always takes time to do justice, that’s one comfort—­the villain proved at last to be true enough, and so cast us; and I was forced to be paid off last week.  So there’s no prior creditor, or any shield of pretence that way.  Then his execution was coming down upon us, and nothing to stay it till I thought of a monthly annuity to Mordicai, in the shape of a wager.  So, the morning after he cast us, I went to him:  “Mr. Mordicai,” says I, “you must be plased to see a man you’ve beaten so handsomely; and though I’m sore, both for myself and my friend, yet you see I can laugh still; though an execution is no laughing matter, and I’m sinsible you’ve one in petto in your sleeve for my friend Lord Clonbrony.  But I’ll lay you a wager of a hundred guineas in paper that a marriage of his son with a certain heiress, before next Lady-day, will set all to rights, and pay you with a compliment too."’