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Updated: May 15, 2025
Where the living scions of the noble stock held their land, and went forth over their acres from under the ancestral portcullis, was more than even Mrs. Rowe had been able, with all her penetrating power in scandal, to ascertain. But the young nobleman was Mr. Mohun's friend and that was enough. There had been reverses in the family.
Rowe regularly took to her room for the day, leaving the accounts and the keys wholly to Lucy, and the kitchen to Jane with strict injunctions to look after the Reverend Horace Mohun's tea and his round of toast if he called and let him see the Times before it went up to the general sitting-room.
As Willis saw his confession consigned to Mohun's pocket-book, his avarice gave him courage to try one last effort to gain something by the transaction a salve to his bruises a set-off against the relicta non bene parmula. "I hope you will consider I have done all I can, sir," he said, looking wistfully at the bank-note, which still lay on the table. "I shall be ruined if this becomes known."
Fritz, Mohun's old Austrian servant, went down to see what was up, and, on opening the door, was instantly borne down by the tumultuous rush of Michael Kelly, gentleman, agent to half a dozen estates, and attorney at law.
He knew how much reason Cyril had for hating him above all living men, and he did not wish to risk a meeting. Mohun's warning shot across his mind, and he felt it was rightly founded. Brandon looked out for some minutes without moving, then he dropped his head suddenly on his arms with a heavy groan.
"I'll stake the young gentleman a crown," says the Lord Mohun's captain. "I thought crowns were rather scarce with the gentlemen of the army," says Harry. "Do they birch at College?" says the Captain. "They birch fools," says Harry, "and they cane bullies, and they fling puppies into the water."
With her my lord talked of reform, of settling into quiet life, quitting the court and town, and buying some land in the neighborhood though it must be owned that, when the two lords were together over their Burgundy after dinner, their talk was very different, and there was very little question of conversion on my Lord Mohun's part.
Mohun had driven his sword's point through the Federal officer's throat the blood spouted around the blade a moment afterward the two adversaries had clutched, dragged each other from their rearing horses, and were tearing each other with hands and teeth on the ground, wet with their blood. One of Mohun's men leaped from horseback and tore them apart.
It was young Frank who spied out Lord Mohun's scarlet coat as he lay on the ground, and the party made up to that unfortunate gentleman and Esmond, who was now standing over him. His large periwig and feathered hat had fallen off, and he was bleeding profusely from a wound on the forehead, and looking, and being, indeed, a corpse. "Great God! he's dead!" says my lord.
"My lord," says Harry Esmond, after they were got into the country, and pointing to my Lord Mohun's foot, which was swathed in flannel, and put up rather ostentatiously on a cushion "my lord, I studied medicine at Cambridge." "Indeed, Parson Harry," says he; "and are you going to take out a diploma: and cure your fellow-students of the "
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