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that six hours previous I would as soon have thought of burning the
house down as calling for a bottle of claret on my own account; but
I felt I was a man now, and had a right to command; and my mother
felt this too, for she turned to the fellow and said, sharply,
'Don't you hear, you rascal, what YOUR MASTER says! Go, get the
wine, and the cakes and glasses, directly.' Then (for you may be
sure she did not give Tim the keys of our little cellar) she went
and got the liquor herself; and Tim brought it in, on the silver
tray, in due form. My dear mother poured out the wine, and drank the
Captain welcome; but I observed her hand shook very much as she
performed this courteous duty, and the bottle went clink, clink,
against the glass. When she had tasted her glass, she said she had a
headache, and would go to bed; and so I asked her blessing, as
becomes a dutiful son--(the modern BLOODS have given up the
respectful ceremonies which distinguished a gentleman in my time)--
and she left me and Captain Fagan to talk over our important
business.
'Indeed,' said the Captain,' I see now no other way out of the
scrape than a meeting. The fact is, there was a talk of it at Castle
Brady, after your attack upon Quin this afternoon, and he vowed that
he would cut you in pieces: but the tears and supplications of Miss
Honoria induced him, though very unwillingly, to relent. Now,
however, matters have gone too far. No officer, bearing His
Majesty's commission, can receive a glass of wine on his nose--this
claret of yours is very good, by the way, and by your leave we'll
ring for another bottle--without resenting the affront. Fight you
must; and Quin is a huge strong fellow.'
'He'll give the better mark,' said I. 'I am not afraid of him.'
'In faith,' said the Captain,' I believe you are not; for a lad, I
never saw more game in my life.'
'Look at that sword, sir,' says I, pointing to an elegant silver-
mounted one, in a white shagreen case, that hung on the mantelpiece,
under the picture of my father, Harry Barry. 'It was with that
sword, sir, that my father pinked Mohawk O'Driscol, in Dublin, in
the year 1740; with that sword, sir, he met Sir Huddlestone
Fuddlestone, the Hampshire baronet, and ran him through the neck.
They met on horseback, with sword and pistol, on Hounslow Heath, as
I dare say you have heard tell of, and those are the pistols' (they
hung on each side of the picture) 'which the gallant Barry used. He
was quite in the wrong, having insulted Lady Fuddlestone, when in
liquor, at the Brentford assembly. But, like a gentleman, he scorned
to apologise, and Sir Huddlestone received a ball through his hat,
before they engaged with the sword. I am Harry Barry's son, sir, and
will act as becomes my name and my quality.'
'Give me a kiss, my dear boy,' said Fagan, with tears in his eyes.
'You're after my own soul. As long as Jack Fagan lives you shall
never want a friend or a second.'
Poor fellow! he was shot six months afterwards, carrying orders to
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