“Does this path lead to the house, friend?” said a gentleman whose dress bespoke recent travel, to the haggard, discontented figure of a man who, seated on a stone beside a low and broken wicket, was lazily filling his pipe, and occasionally throwing stealthy glances at the stranger. A. short nod of the head was the reply. “You belong to the place, I suppose?”
“Maybe I do; and what then?”
“Simply that, as I am desirous of going thither, I should be glad of your showing me the way.”
“Troth, an' there's little to see when you get there,” rejoined the other, sarcastically. “What are you by trade, if it's not displeasin' to ye?”
“That's the very question I was about to ask you,” said Linton, for it was himself; “you appear to have a very easy mode of life, whatever it be, since you are so indifferent about earning half-a-crown.”
Tom Keane arose from his seat, and made an awkward attempt at saluting, as he said,—
“'Tis the dusk o'the evening prevented me seeing yer honer, or I wouldn't be so bowld. This is the way to the Hall sure enough.”
“This place has been greatly neglected of late,” said Linton, as they walked along side by side, and endeavoring, by a tone of familiarity, to set his companion at ease.
“Troth, it is neglected, and always was as long as I remember. I was reared in it, and I never knew it other; thistles and docks as big as your leg, everywhere, and the grass choked up with moss.”
“How came it to be so completely left to ruin?”
“Anan!” muttered he, as if not well comprehending the question, but, in reality, a mere device employed to give him more time to scan the stranger, and guess at his probable object.
“I was asking,” said Linton, “how it happened that a fine old place like this was suffered to go to wreck and ruin?”
“Faix, it's ould enough, anyhow,” said the other, with a coarse laugh.
“And large too.”
“Yer honer was here afore?” said Tom, stealthily glancing at him under his brows. “I 'm thinking I remember yer honer's faytures. You would n't be the gentleman that came down with Mr. Duffy?”
“No; this is my first visit to these parts; now, where does this little road lead? It seems to be better cared for than the rest, and the gate, too, is neatly kept.”
“That goes down to the cottage, sir—Tubber-beg, as they call it. Yer honer isn't Mr. Cashel himself?” said Tom, reverentially taking off his tattered hat, and attempting an air of courtesy, which sat marvellously ill upon him.
“I have not that good luck, my friend.”
“'T is good luck ye may call it,” sighed Tom; “a good luck that does n't fall to many; but, maybe, ye don't want it; maybe yer honer—”
“And who lives in the cottage of Tubber-beg?” said Linton, interrupting.
“One Corrigan, sir; an old man and his granddaughter.”
“Good kind of people, are they?”
“Ayeh! there's worse, and there 's betther! They 're as proud as Lucifer, and poor as naygurs.”
“And this is the Hall itself?” exclaimed Linton, as he stopped directly in front of the old dilapidated building, whose deformities were only exaggerated by the patchy effect of a faint moonlight.
“Ay, there it is,” grinned Tom, “and no beauty either; and ugly as it looks without, it's worse within! There 'a cracks in the walls ye could put your hand through, and the windows is rotten, where they stand.”
“It is not very tempting, certainly, as a residence,” said Linton, smiling.
“Ah, but if ye heerd the rats, the way they do be racin' and huntin' each other at night, and the wind bellowsin' down the chimbleys, such screechin' and yellin' as it keeps, and then the slates rattlin', till ye'd think the ould roof was comin' off altogether,—be my soul, there's many a man would n't take the property and sleep a night in that house.”
“One would do a great deal, notwithstanding, for a fine estate like this,” said Linton, dryly.
There was something, either in the words or the accent, that touched Tom Keane's sympathy for the speaker; some strange suspicion perhaps, that he was one whose fortune, like his own, was not beyond the casualties and chances of life, and it was with a species of coarse friendship that he said, “Ah, if we had it between us, we 'd do well.”
“Right well; no need to ask for better,” said Linton, with a heartiness of assent that made the other perfectly at ease. “I'm curious to have a look at the inside of the place; I suppose there is no hindrance?”
“None in life! I live below, and, faix, there's no living anywhere else, for most of the stairs is burned, and, as I towld ye, the rats has upstairs all to themselves. Nancy, give us a light,” cried he, passing into the dark and spacious hall, “I'm going to show a gentleman the curiosities. I ax you honer's pardon, the place is n't so clean as it might be.”
Linton gave one peep into the long and gloomy chamber, where the whole family were huddled together in all the wretchedness and disorder of a cabin, and at once drew back.
“The cows is on the other side,” said the man, “and, beyond, there's four rooms was never plastered; and there, where you see the straw, that's the billiard-room, and inside of it again, there's a place for play-actin', and, more by token, there's a quare thing there.”
“What's that?” asked Linton, whose curiosity was excited by the remark.
“Come, and I 'll show yer honer.”
So saying, he led on through a narrow corridor, and, passing through two or three dilapidated, ruined chambers, they entered a large and spacious apartment, whose sloping floor at once showed Linton that they were standing on the stage of a theatre.
Tom Keane held up the flickering light, that the other might see the torn and tattered remnants of the decorations, and the fragments of scenes, as they flapped to and fro. “It's a dhroll place, anyhow,” said he, “and there's scarce a bit of it hasn't a trap-door, or some other contrivance of the like; but here's one stranger than all; this is what I towld yer honer about.” He walked, as he spoke, to the back wall of the building, where, on the surface of the plaster, a rude scene, representing a wood, was painted, at one side of which a massive pile of rock, overgrown with creepers, stood. “Now, ye 'd never guess what was there,” said Tom, holding the candle in different situations to exhibit the scene; “and, indeed, I found it by chance myself; see this,”—and he pressed a small but scarcely perceptible knob of brass in the wall, and at once, what appeared to be the surface of the rock, slid back, discovering a dark space behind. “Come on, now, after me,” continued he. Linton followed, and they ascended a narrow stair constructed in the substance of the wall, and barely sufficient to admit one person.
Arriving at the top, after a few seconds' delay, Tom opened a small door, and they stood in a large and well-proportioned room, where some worm-eaten bed-furniture yet remained. The door had been once, as a small, fragment of glass showed, the frame of a large mirror, and must have been quite beyond the reach of ordinary powers of detection.
“That was a cunning way to steal down among the play acthers,” said Keane, grinning, while Linton, with the greatest attention, remarked the position of the door and its secret fastening.
“I suppose no one but yourself knows of this stair?” said Linton.
“Sorra one, sir, except, maybe, some of the smugglers that used to come here long ago from the mouth of the Shannon. This was one of their hiding-places.”
“Well, if this old mansion comes ever to be inhabited, one might have rare fun by means of that passage; so be sure, you keep the secret well. Let that be a padlock on your lips.” And, so saying, he took a sovereign from his purse and gave it to him. “Your name is—”
“Tom, yer honer—Tom Keane; and, by this and by that, I'm ready to do yer honer's bidding from this hour out—”
“Well, we shall be good friends, I see,” interrupted Linton; “you may, perhaps, be useful to me, and I can also be able to serve you. Now, which is the regular entrance to this chamber?”
“There, sir; it's the last door as ye see in the long passage. Them is all bedrooms alone there, but it's not safe to walk down, for the floor is rotten.”
Linton noted down in a memory far from defective the circumstances of the chamber, and then followed his guide through the remainder of the house, which in every quarter presented the same picture of ruin and decay.
“The bit of candle is near out,” said Tom, “but sure there is n't much more to be seen; there's rooms there was never opened, and more on the other side, the same. The place is as big as a barrack, and here we are once more on the grand stair.”
For once, the name was not ill applied, as, constructed of Portland stone, and railed with massive banisters of iron, it presented features of solidity and endurance, in marked contrast to the other portions of the edifice. Linton cast one more glance around the gloomy entrance, and sallied forth into the free air. “I 'll see you to-morrow, Tom,” said he, “and we'll have some talk together. Good night.”
“Good night, and good luck to yer honer; but won't you let me see your honer out of the grounds,—as far as the big gate, at least?”
“Thanks; I know the road perfectly already, and I rather like a lonely stroll of a fine night like this.”
Tom, accordingly, reiterated his good wishes, and Linton was suffered to pursue his way unaccompanied. Increasing his speed as he arrived at a turn of the road, he took the path which led off the main approach, and led down by the river-side to the cottage of Tubber-beg. There was a feeling of strong interest which prompted him to see this cottage, which now he might call his own; and as he went, he regarded the little clumps of ornamental planting, the well-kept walks, the neat palings, the quaint benches beneath the trees, with very different feelings from those he had bestowed on the last-visited scene. Nor was he insensible to the landscape beauty which certain vistas opened, and, seen even by the faint light of a new moon, were still rich promises of picturesque situation.
Suddenly, and without any anticipation, he found himself on turning a little copse of evergreens, in front of the cottage, and almost beneath the shadow of its deep porch. Whatever his previous feelings of self-interest in every detail around, they were speedily routed by the scene before him.
In a large and well furnished drawing-room, where a single lamp was shining, sat an old man in an easy-chair, his features, his attitude, and his whole bearing indicating the traces of recent illness. Beside him, on a low stool almost at his feet, was a young girl of singular beauty,—the plastic grace of her figure, the easy motion of the head, as from time to time she raised it to throw upwards a look of affectionate reverence, and the long, loose masses of her hair, which, accidentally unfastened, fell on either shoulder, making rather one of those ideals which a Raphael can conceive than a mere creature of every-day existence. Although late autumn, the windows lay open to the ground, for, as yet, no touch of coming winter had visited this secluded and favored spot. In the still quiet of the night, her voice, for she alone spoke, could be heard; at first, the mere murmur of the accents reached Linton's ears, but even from them he could gather the tone of cheering and encouragement in which she spoke. At length he heard her say, in a voice of almost tremulous enthusiasm, “It was so like you, dear papa, not to tell this Mr. Cashel that you had yourself a claim, and, as many think, a rightful one, to this same estate, and thus not trouble the stream of his munificence.”
“Nay, child, it had been as impolitic as unworthy to do so,” said the old man; “he who stoops to receive a favor should detract nothing from the generous sentiment of the granter.”
“For my part, I would tell him,” said she, eagerly, “that his noble conduct has forever barred my prosecuting such a claim, and that if, to-morrow, the fairest proofs of my right should reach me, I'd throw them in the fire.”
“To get credit for such self-sacrifice, Mary, one must be independent of all hypothesis; one must do, and not merely promise. Now, it would be hard to expect Mr. Cashel to feel the same conviction I do, that this confiscation was repealed by letters under the hand of Majesty itself. The Brownes, through whom Cashel inherits, were the stewards of my ancestors, entrusted with all their secret affairs, and cognizant of all their family matters. From the humble position of dependents, they suddenly sprang into wealth and fortune, and ended by purchasing the very estate they once lived on as day-laborers,—sold as it was, like all confiscated estates, for a mere fraction of its value.”
“Oh, base ingratitude!”
“Worse still; it is said, and with great reason to believe it true, that Hammond Browne, who was sent over to London by my great grandfather to negotiate with the Government, actually received the free pardon and the release of the confiscation, but concealed and made away with both, and, to prevent my grandfather being driven to further pursuit, gave him the lease of this cottage on the low terms we continue to hold it.”
A low, faint cough from the old man warned his granddaughter of the dangers of the night air, and she arose and closed the windows. They still continued their conversation, but Linton, unable to hear more, returned to his inn, deeply reflecting over the strange disclosures he had overheard.
“Who can Mr. Linton be, my dear?” said old Mr. Corrigan, as he sat at breakfast the next day, and pondered oyer the card which, with a polite request for an interview, the servant had just delivered. “I cannot remember the name, if I ever heard it before; but should we not invite him to join us at breakfast?”
“Where is he, Simon?” asked Miss Leicester.
“At the door, miss, and a very nice-looking gentleman as ever I saw.”
“Say that I have been ill, Simon, and cannot walk to the door, and beg he'll be kind enough to come in to breakfast.”
With a manner where ease and deference were admirably blended, Linton entered the room, and apologizing for his intrusion, said, “I have come down here, sir, on a little business matter for my friend Roland Cashel, and I could not think of returning to town without making the acquaintance of one for whom my friend has already conceived the strongest feeling of interest and regard. It will be the first question I shall hear when I get back, 'Well, what of Mr. Corrigan, and how is he?'”
While making this speech, which he delivered in a tone of perfect frankness, he seemed never to have noticed the presence of Miss Leicester, who had retired a little as he entered the room, and now, on being introduced to her, made his acknowledgments with a grave courtesy.
“And so our young landlord is thinking of taking up his residence amongst us?” said Corrigan, as Linton assumed his place at the breakfast-table.
“For a few weeks he purposes to do so, but I question greatly if the tranquil pleasures and homely duties of a country life will continue long to attract him; he is very young, and the world so new to him, that he will scarcely settle down anywhere, or to anything, for some time to come.”
“Experience is a capital thing, no doubt, Mr. Linton; but I 'd rather trust the generous impulses of a good-hearted youth in a country like this, long neglected by its gentry. Let him once take an interest in the place and the people, and I'll vouch for the rest. Is he a sportsman?”
“He was, when in Mexico; but buffalo and antelope hunting are very different from what this country offers.”
“Does he read?—is he studious?” said Mary.
“Not even a newspaper, Miss Leicester. He is a fine, high-spirited, dashing fellow, and if good-nature and honorable intentions could compensate for defective education and training, he would be perfect.”
“They'll go very far, depend on it, Mr. Linton. In these days, a man of wealth can buy almost anything. Good sense, judgment, skill, are all in the market; but a generous nature and a warm heart are God's gifts, and can neither be grafted nor transplanted.”
“You'll like him, I'm certain, Mr. Corrigan.”
“I know I shall. I have reason for the anticipation; Tiernay told me the handsome words he used when according me a favor—and here comes the doctor himself.” And as he spoke, Dr. Tiernay entered the room, his flushed face and hurried breathing bespeaking a hasty walk. “Good-morrow, Tiernay. Mr. Linton, let me present our doctor; not the least among our local advantages, as you can tell your friend Mr. Cashel.”
“We've met before, sir,” said Tiernay, scanning, with a steady gaze, the countenance which, wreathed in smiles, seemed to invite rather than dread recognition.
“I am happy to be remembered, Dr. Tiernay,” said Linton, “although I fancy our meeting was too brief for much acquaintance; but we'll know each other better, I trust, hereafter.”
“No need, sir,” whispered Tiernay, as he passed close to his side; “I believe we read each other perfectly already.”
Linton smiled, and bowed, as though accepting the speech in some complimentary sense, and turned toward Miss Leicester, who was busily arranging some dried plants in a volume.
“These are not specimens of this neighborhood?” said Linton, taking up some heaths which are seldom found save in Alpine regions.
“Yes, sir,” interrupted Tiernay, “you 'll be surprised to find here productions which would not seem native to these wilds.”
“If you take an interest in such things,” said old Corrigan, “you can't have a better guide than my granddaughter and Tiernay; they know every crag and glen for twenty miles round; all I bargain for is, don't be late back for dinner. You 'll give us your company, I hope, sir, at six?”
Linton assented, with a cordial pleasure that delighted his inviter; and Mary, so happy to see the gratified expression of her grandfather's face, looked gratefully at the stranger for his polite compliance.
“A word with you, sir,” whispered Tiernay in Linton's ear; and he passed out into the little flower-garden, saying, as he went, “I 'll show Mr. Linton the grounds, Miss Mary, and you shall not have to neglect your household cares.”
Linton followed him without speaking, nor was a word interchanged between them till they had left the cottage a considerable distance behind them. “Well, sir,” said Linton, coming to a halt, and speaking in a voice of cold and steadfast purpose, “how far do you propose that I am to bear you company?”
“Only till we are beyond the danger of being overheard,” said Tiernay, turning round. “Here will do perfectly. You will doubtless say, sir, that in asking you for an explanation of why I see you in this cottage, that I am exceeding the bounds of what right and duty alone impose.”
“You anticipate me precisely,” said Linton, sarcastically, “and to save you the embarrassment of so obviously impertinent a proceeding, I beg to say that I shall neither afford you the slightest satisfaction on this or any other subject of inquiry. Now, sir, what next?”
“Do you forget the occasion of our first meeting?” said the doctor, who actually was abashed beneath the practised effrontery of his adversary.
“Not in the least, sir. You permitted yourself on that occasion to take a liberty, which from your age and other circumstances I consented to pass unnoticed. I shall not always vouch for the same patient endurance on my part; and so pray be cautious how you provoke it.”
“It was at that meeting,” said the doctor, with passionate earnestness, “that I heard you endeavor to dissuade your friend from a favorable consideration of that man's claim, whose hospitality you now accept of. It was with an insolent sneer at Mr. Cashers simplicity—”
“Pray stop, sir; not too far, I beseech you. The whole affair, into which by some extraordinary self-delusion you consider yourself privileged to obtrude, is very simple. This cottage and the grounds appertaining to it are mine. This old gentleman, for whom I entertain the highest respect, is my tenant. The legal proof of what I say, I promise to submit to you within the week; and it was to rescue Mr. Cashel from the inconsistency of pledging himself to what was beyond his powers of performance, that I interfered. Your very ill-advised zeal prevented this; and rather than increase the awkwardness of a painful situation, I endured a very unprovoked and impertinent remark. Now, sir, you have the full explanation of my conduct, and my opinion of yours; and I see no reason to continue the interview.” So saying, Linton touched his hat and turned back towards the cottage.
To save our reader the tedious task of following Mr. Linton's movements, however necessary to our story some insight into them may be, we take the shorter, and therefore pleasanter course, of submitting one of his own brief notes to Roland Cashel, written some three days after his arrival at Tubbermore:—
There was no erasure but one, and that very slight, and seeming unimportant; he had written Tubber-beg at the top of the letter, and, perceiving it, had changed it to Tubber-more, the fact being that he had already established himself as an inmate of the “Cottage,” and a guest of Mr. Corrigan. We need not dwell on the arts by which Linton accomplished this object, to which, indeed, Mr. Corrigan's hospitable habits contributed no difficulty. The “doctor” alone could have interposed any obstacle; and he, knowing the extent of Linton's power, did not dare to do so, contenting himself to watch narrowly all his proceedings, and warn his friend whenever warning could no longer be delayed.
Without enjoying the advantages of a careful education, Linton's natural quickness counterfeited knowledge so well that few, in every-day intercourse, could detect the imposition. He never read a book through, but he skimmed some thousands, and was thoroughly familiar with that process so popular in our Universities, and technically termed “cramming” an author. In this way, there were few subjects on which he could not speak fairly,—a faculty to which considerable fluency and an easy play of fancy lent great assistance. His great craft, however, was—and whatever may be said on the subject, it would seem the peculiar gift of certain organizations—that he was able, in an inconceivably short time, to worm himself into the confidence of almost all with whom he came in contact. His natural good sense, his singularly clear views, his ever ready sympathy, but, more than all, the dexterity with which he could affect acquaintance with topics he was all but totally ignorant of, pointed him out as the very person to hear the secrets of a family.
Mr. Corrigan was not one to exact any great efforts of Linton's tact in this walk; his long isolation from the world, Joined to a character naturally frank, made him communicative and open; and before Linton had passed a week under his roof, he had heard all the circumstances of the old forfeiture, and the traditionary belief of the family that it had been withdrawn under a special order of the King in council.
“You are quite right,” said Linton, one night, as this theme bad been discussed for some hours, “never to have alluded to this in any correspondence with Cashel. His hasty and excitable temper would have construed the whole into a threat; and there is no saying how he might have resented it.”
“I did not speak of it for a very different reason,” said old Corrigan, proudly; “I had just accepted a favor—and a great one—at his hands, and I would not tarnish the lustre of his noble conduct by even the possibility of self-interest.”
Linton was silent; a struggle of some kind seemed working within him, but he did not speak, and at last sauntered from the room, and passed out into the little garden in front.
He had not gone far, when he heard a light footstep on the gravel behind him. He turned, and saw Mary Leicester.
“I have followed you, Mr. Linton,” said she, in a voice whose agitation was perceptible, “because I thought it possible that some time or other, in your close intimacy with Mr. Cashel, you might allude to this topic, and I know what distress such a communication would occasion to my grandfather. Our claim—if the word be not inapplicable—can never be revived; for myself, there is no condition of privation I would not rather meet, than encounter the harassing vicissitudes of a struggle which should embitter my poor dear grandfather's few years on earth. The very mention of the theme is sure to render him irritable and unhappy. Promise me, then, to avoid the subject as much as possible here, and never to advert to it elsewhere.”
“Should I not be doing you a gross injustice by such a pledge?” said Linton, mildly.
“I can endure that; I cannot support the alternative. Make me this promise.”
“I make it, truly and solemnly; would it were in my power to pledge myself to aught of real service to Miss. Leicester.”
“There is one such,” said Mary, after a pause, “and yet I am ashamed to ask it,—ashamed of the presumption it would imply,—and yet I feel acquitted to my own heart.”
“What is it?—only tell me how I can serve you,” said Linton, passionately.
“I have scarce courage for the avowal,” said she, in a low, faint voice. “It is not that my self-love can be wounded by any judgment that may be pronounced; it is rather that I dread failure for itself. In a word, Mr. Linton, certain circumstances of fortune have pressed upon my grandfather's resources, some of which I am aware of—of others ignorant. So much, however, do I know, that the comforts, so necessary to his age and habits, have diminished one by one, each year seeing some new privations, where increasing infirmity would demand more ease. In this emergency, I have thought of an effort—you will smile at the folly, perhaps, but be lenient for the motive—I have endeavored to make some of the many reminiscences of his own early years contribute to his old age, and have written certain short sketches of the time when, as a youth, he served as a soldier of the body-guard of Louis XVI. I know how utterly valueless they are in a literary point of view, but I have thought that, as true pictures of a time now probably passed away never to return again, they might have their interest Such is my secret. My entreaty is, to ask of you to look at them, and, if not utterly unworthy, to assist me regarding their publication.”
“I not only promise this, but I can pledge myself to the success,” said Linton; “such recitals of life and manners as I have listened to from Mr. Corrigan would be invaluable; we know so little in England—”
“Nay, let me stop you; they are written in French. My hope is to procure their insertion in some French journal, as is the custom now-a-days. Here they are,” said she, handing him a packet with a trembling hand. “I have but to say, that if they be all I fear them, you will be too true a friend to peril me by a rejection.” And without waiting for a reply, she hurried back to the house.
Many minutes had not elapsed ere Linton found himself in his room, with the open manuscript before him. It was quite true, he had not in anticipation conceived a very high idea of Miss Leicester's efforts, because his habit, like that of a great number of shrewd people, was to regard all amateur performances as very inferior, and that only they who give themselves wholly up to any pursuit attain even mediocrity. He had not, however, read many pages ere he was struck by the evidence of high ability. The style was everywhere simple, chaste, and elegant; the illustrations natural and graceful; and the dialogue, when, occurring, marked by all the epigrammatic smartness which characterized the era.
The sketches also had the merit of life-pictures,—real characters of the day, being drawn with a vigor that only actual knowledge could impart. All these excellences Linton could perceive and estimate; but there were many very far above his power of appreciation. As it was, he read on, fascinated by the interest the scenes inspired, nor ceased till the last page was completed, when, throwing himself on his bed, he fell soon asleep, and dreamed of Mary Leicester.
His very first care, on waking, was to resume the manuscript, and see how far the impression first made might be corroborated by afterthought. It was while reading, that the post had just arrived, bringing, among other letters, one in Phillis's hand, which was, though brief, significant:—
The same day which brought this secret despatch saw one from Linton to Cashel, saying, that by the aid of four hundred workmen in various crafts, unceasing toil, and unwearied zeal, Tubbermore would be ready to receive his guests by the following Wednesday. A steamer, hired specially, had brought over from London nearly everything which constitutes the internal arrangement of a house; and as money had been spent without control, difficulties melted away into mere momentary embarrassments,—impossibilities, there were none. The letter contained a long list of commissions for Cashel to execute, given, however, with no other object than to occupy his time for the remaining few days in town as much as possible. This written and sent off, Linton addressed himself to his task of preparation with an energy few could surpass, and while the trades-people were stimulated by increased pay to greater efforts, and the work was carried on through the night by torchlight; the whole demesne swarmed with laborers by whom roads were cut, paths gravelled, fences levelled, flower-plots devised; even the garden—that labyrinth of giant weeds—was reduced to order, till in the hourly changing aspect of the place it was hard not to recognize the wand of enchantment It was, indeed, like magic to see how fountains sprang up, and threw their sprayey showers over the new-planted shrubs; new paths led away into dense groves of trees; windows, so late half walled up, now opened upon smooth, shaven turf, or disclosed a reach of swelling landscape; and chambers, that a few days back were the gloomy abode of the bat and the night-owl, became of a sudden cheerful and lightsome.
Stuccoed ceilings, mirror-panelled windows, gilded cornices, and carved architraves—all of which would imply time and long labor—were there at once and on the moment, for the good fairy who did these things knows not failure,—the banker's check-book. From the great hall to the uppermost chamber the aspect of all bespoke comfort. The elegances of life, Linton well knew, are like all other refinements,—not capable of being “improvised,” but the daily comforts are. The meaner objects which make up the sum of hourly want,—the lazy ottoman, the downy-pillowed fauteuils, the little squabs that sit in windows to provoke flirtations and inspire confidences; the tempting little writing-tables that suggest pen and ink; the billiard-table, opening on the flower-garden, so redolent of sweet odors that you feel exonerated for the shame of an in-door occupation; the pianos and guitars and harps scattered about in various places, as though to be ever ready to the touch; the books and prints and portfolios that give excuse to the lounging mood, and text for that indolent chitchat so pleasant of a morning,—all these, and a thousand other things, seen through the long perspective of a handsome suite of rooms, do make up that sum, for which our own dear epithet, “comfort,” has no foreign equivalent.
We have been often compelled, in this veracious history, to reflect with harshness on certain traits of Mr. Linton's morality. Let us make him the small amende in our power to say, that in his present functions he was unsurpassable; and here, for the moment, we leave him.
Great was the excitement and bustle in the Kennyfeck family on the arrival of a brief note from Roland Cashel, setting forth that the house at Tubbermore was at length in a state to receive his guests, who were invited for the following Wednesday.
Although this visit had rarely been alluded to in Cashel's presence, it was a very frequent topic of the family in secret committee, and many were the fears inspired by long postponement that the event would never come off. Each, indeed, looked forward to it with very different feelings. Independent of all more purely personal views, Mrs. Kennyfeck speculated on the immense increase of importance she should obtain socially, in the fact of being domesticated in the same house with a commander of the forces and his lady, not to speak of secretaries, aides-de-camp, and Heaven knows what other functionaries. The young ladies had prospective visions of another order; and poor Kennyfeck fancied himself a kind of agricultural Metternich, who was about, at the mere suggestion of his will, to lay down new territorial limits on the estate, and cut and carve the boundaries at his pleasure.
Aunt Fanny, alone, was not warmed by the enthusiasm around her; first of all, there were grave doubts if she could accompany the others, as no precise invitation had ever been accorded to her; and although Mrs. Kennyfeck stoutly averred “she was as good as asked,” the elder daughter plainly hinted at the possible awkwardness of such a step, Olivia preserving between the two a docile neutrality.
“I 'm sorry for your sake, my dear,” said Miss O'Hara to Olivia, with an accent almost tart, “because I thought I might be useful.”
“It is very provoking for all our sakes,” said Miss Kennyfeck, as though quietly suffering the judgment to be pronounced; “we should have been so happy all together.”
“If your father was any good, he 'd manage it at once,” said Mrs. K., with a resentful glance towards poor Mr. Kennyfeck, who, with spectacles on his forehead, and the newspaper on his knee, fancied he was thinking.
“We should have some very impertinent remark upon it, I'm certain,” said Miss K., who, for reasons we must leave to the reader's own acuteness, was greatly averse to her aunt accompanying them, “so many of one family! I know how Linton will speak of it.”
“Let him, if he dare; I wonder whose exertions placed Cashel himself in the position he enjoys,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, angrily, and darting a look of profound contempt at her husband, recognizing, doubtless, the axiom of the ignoble means through which Providence occasionally effects our destinies.
“I can remain here, mamma, for that matter,” said Olivia, in a voice of angelic innocence.
“Sweet—artless creature,” whispered her sister, “not to know how all our devices are exercised for her.”
“It 's really too provoking, Fanny,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck; “you were just beginning to acquire that kind of influence over him which would be so serviceable, and once in the country, where so many opportunities for joining him in his walks would occur, I calculated immensely on your assistance.”
“Well, my dear, it can't be helped,” sighed Aunt Fanny.
“Could n't we allude to it to-day, when Cashel calls, and say something about your going away to the country and our regrets at parting, and so on? Olivia, you might do that very easily.”
“It wouldn't do for Olivia,” said Aunt Fanny, very sententiously.
“Quite right, aunt,” chimed in Miss Kennyfeck; “that would be like old Admiral Martin, who shot away all his ammunition firing salutes.”
“Mr. Kennyfeck!” said his spouse, with a voice of command; “I vow he is deafer every day—Mr. Kennyfeck, you must call on Mr. Cashel this morning, and say that we really cannot think of inflicting him with an entire family; that you and I alone—or you and Olivia—”
“No—no, Mr. Kennyfeck and Caroline,” interposed Aunt Fanny, “say that.”
“Thanks for the preference,” said Miss Kennyfeck, with a short nod, “I am to play lightning-conductor; isn't it so?”
“Or shall I propose going alone?” interposed Mr. Kennyfeck, in all the solemnity of self-importance.
“Is n't he too bad?” exclaimed his wife, turning to the others; “did you ever conceive there could be anything as dull as that man? We cannot trust you with any part of the transaction.”
“Here comes Mr. Cashel himself,” said Miss Kennyfeck; as a phaeton drove rapidly to the door, and Cashel, accompanied by a friend, descended.
“Not a word of what we were speaking, Mr. Kennyfeck!” said his wife, sternly, for she reposed slight reliance on his tact.
“Who is with him?” whispered Olivia to her sister; but not heeding the question, Miss Kennyfeck said,—
“Take my advice, Livy, and get rid of your duenna. You 'll play your own game better.”
Before there was time for rejoinder, Lord Charles Frobisher and Cashel entered the drawing-room.
“You received my note, I hope, Mrs. Kennyfeck,” said Roland, as he accepted her cordially offered hand. “I only this morning got Linton's last bulletin, and immediately wrote off to tell you.”
“That is significant,” whispered Miss Kennyfeck to Olivia. “To give us the earliest intelligence.”
“I trust the announcement is not too abrupt.”
“Of course not,—our only scruple is, the largeness of our party. We are really shocked at the notion of inflicting an entire family upon you.”
“Beware the Bear,” whispered Lord C., in a very adroit undertone,—“don't invite the aunt.”
“My poor house will only be the more honored,” said Cashel, bowing, and sorely puzzled how to act.
“You'll have a very numerous muster, Cashel, I fancy,” said Lord Charles, aloud; “not to speak of the invited, but those 'Umbræ,' as the Romans call them, who follow in the suite of such fascinating people as Mrs. White.”
“Not one too many, if there be but room for them; my anxiety is, that my personal friends should not be worst off, and I have come to beg, if not inconvenient, that you would start from this on Tuesday.”
“Do you contract to bring us all down?” said Frobisher. “I really think you ought; the geography of that district is not very familiar to most of us. What says Miss Kennyfeck?”
“I like everything that promises pleasure and amusement.”
“What says her sister?” whispered Cashel to Olivia.
“How do you mean to travel, Mr. Cashel?” said she, in a tone which might be construed into perfect artlessness or the most intense interest.
“With you—if you permit,” said Cashel, in a low voice. “I have been thinking of asking Mrs. Kennyfeck if she would like to go down by sea, and sail up the Shannon. My yacht has just arrived.”
“Mamma cannot bear the water, or it would be delightful,” said Olivia.
“Cannot we manage a lady patroness, then?” said Cashel; “would Miss O'Hara kindly consent?”
“Aunt Fanny, Mr. Cashel wishes to speak to you.”
“Gare la tante!” said Frobisher, between his teeth.
“We were speaking—or rather, I was expressing a hope,” said Cashel, diffidently, “that a yacht excursion round the southern coast, and so up the Shannon, might not be an inappropriate way of reaching Tubbermore. Would Miss O'Hara feel any objection to be of the party?”
“With Caroline and me,” said Olivia, innocently.
Miss O'Hara smiled, and shook her head doubtfully.
“It is very tempting, Mr. Cashel,—too tempting, indeed; but it requires consideration. May I speak a word with you?” And so saying, she withdrew with Cashel into a window recess.
The interview was brief; but as they returned to the circle, Cashel was heard to say,—
“I am really the worst man in the world to solve such difficulties, for in my ignorance of all forms, I incur the risk of undervaluing them; but if you thought by my inviting Lord and Lady Kilgoff—”
“Oh, by no means. My sister would never consent to that. But I will just confer with her for an instant.”
“If the Kilgoff s are asked, it spoils all,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, in reply to a whispered communication of her sister.
“I'll manage that,” said Aunt Fanny; “I half hinted you did n't like the companionship for the girls.”
“He'll invite Mrs. Leicester White, or Lady Janet, perhaps.”
“He sha'n't. I 'll take the whole upon myself.”
“You have done it, I see,” said Frobisher, coming close to Cashel, and affecting to examine his watch-guard; “and I warned you, notwithstanding.”
“What could I do?” said Cashel, hopelessly.
“What you must do later on,” said Lord Charles, coolly; “cut the whole concern altogether.”
“Have you invited the Dean, Mr. Cashel?” interposed Mrs. Kennyfeck.
“I really cannot inform you, madam. There has been so much confusion—Linton promising to do everything, and ask everybody; but the omission—if such—”
“Should be left where it is,” muttered Frobisher.
“How long should we probably be on the voyage, Mr. Cashel?” asked Miss O'Hara.
“Three—four—or five days—perhaps more.”
“I 'll give you a month's sail, and back 'Time' after all,” said Lord Charles.
“Oh, that is out of the question; we couldn't think of such an excursion,” said Aunt Fanny.
Olivia cast a most imploring look on her aunt, and was silent.
“Another point, Mr. Cashel,” said Miss O'Hara, speaking in a very low whisper; “my sister, who is so particular about her girls,—you know how they have been brought up, so rigidly, and so carefully,—she is afraid of that kind of intimacy that might possibly grow up between them and—and—” Here she came to a full stop. “Did n't I hear you speak of Lady Kilgoff?”
“Yes; I thought her exactly the kind of person you 'd like to have.”
“Oh, she is charming—most delightful; but she is a woman of the world, Mr. Cashel.” said Aunt Fanny, shaking her head.
“Indeed!” muttered Roland, not in the least guessing the drift of the remark.
“No, no, Mr. Cashel, that would never do. These sweet children have no knowledge of such people, further than the common intercourse of society. Lady Kilgoff and Mrs. White—”
“Is she another?”
“She is another, Mr. Cashel,” said Aunt Fanny oracularly.
“Then I see nothing for it but limiting the party to myself and my yacht commander,—Lieutenant Sickleton of the Navy,—and I believe we have as little of the world about us as any one could desire.”
It was full a minute or two before Miss O'Hara could satisfy herself that this speech was not uttered ironically; but the good-natured and frank look of the speaker at last dispelled the fear, and she said,—
“Well, if you really ask my opinion, I'd say, you are right. For our parts—that is, for the girls and myself, I mean—we should like it all the better, and if you would n't find us too tiresome companions—”
Miss O'Hara was interrupted here by Mrs. Kennyfeck, who, with considerable agitation in her manner said, “I must beg pardon for disturbing your agreeable tête-à-tête, Mr. Cashel, but I wish to say one word to my sister.”
As they retired together, Frobisher came up, and, drawing his arm within Roland's, led him to a window: “I say, old fellow, you are going too fast here; hold in a bit, I advise you.”
“How do you mean?—what have I done?”
“It's no affair of mine, you know, and you may say I'm devilish impertinent to mix myself up in it, but I don't like to see a fellow 'sold,' notwithstanding.”
“Pray be explicit and frank; what is it?”
“Well, if you 'll not take it ill—”
“I promise I shall not—go on.”
“Do you mean to marry that little girl yonder, with the blue flower in her hair?”
“I cannot say that I do, or that I do not,” said Roland, getting very red.
“Then, you 're making a very bad book, that's all.”
“Oh, you 're quite mistaken; I don't suspect her of the slightest feeling towards me—”
“What has that to say to it, my dear fellow?” interrupted Frobisher. “I did n't imply that she was in love with you! I wanted to warn you about the mess you 're getting into,—the family fracas; the explanation asking; the sermonizing; the letter-writing; the tears, reproaches, distractions,—ay, and the damages, too!—devilish heavy they'd be against one like you, with plenty of 'ready.' Hush! they 're coming.”
Miss O'Hara advanced towards Cashel, and Frobisher retired; her mien and carriage were, however, statelier and more imposing, with less of cordiality than before. “We cannot agree upon the details of this excursion, I find, sir; my sister's scruples, Mr. Kennyfeck's doubts,—the difficulties, in short, of every kind, are such, that I fear we must relinquish it.”
Cashel bowed deeply, without uttering a word; the insinuations of Frobisher were added in his mind to the suspicion that some secret game was being played against him, and his manly nature was insulted by the doubt.
Aunt Fanny, perhaps, perceived she had gone too far, for, reassuming her former smile, she said, “Not that we despair of one day or other taking a pleasure-trip in your beautiful vessel.”
“You do me too much honor by expressing such a hope,” said Cashel, gravely; and then turning to Frobisher, added, “Will you drive me down to Kingstown? I want to go on board for a few minutes.”
“We see you at seven o'clock I hope?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, in a whisper.
“I regret to have made an engagement for to-day, madam,” replied Cashel, stiffly. “Good-morning, ladies. Very sorry, Miss O'Hara, our sea intentions have been a failure. Let me hope for better luck on land.”
“Will you not be here this evening?” said Olivia, as he passed close to her, and there was in the swimming eye and tremulous voice enough to have melted a harder heart than Roland's; but this time he was proof against all blandishments, and with a very cold negative, he departed.
“There is hope for you yet, old fellow,” said Lord Charles, as he walked downstairs beside him; “you did that extremely well.”
Now, although Roland was far from knowing what he had done, or how to merit the praises, he was too well pleased with the momentary repose the flattery afforded to question further. Meanwhile, a very excited scene took place in the house they had just quitted, and to which, for a brief space, we must return.
On a sofa in one corner of the room sat Olivia Kennyfeck, pale and trembling, her eyes tearful, and her whole air bespeaking grief and agitation. At the window close by stood Miss Kennyfeck, the calm composure of her face, the ease of her attitude, the very types of internal quiet. She looked out, up the square, and playing on the woodwork of the window an imaginary pianoforte air, while in the back drawing-room sat Mrs. Kennyfeck and Miss O'Hara, side by side on a sofa, their excited looks and heightened complexions attesting the animation of the controversy, for such in reality it was.
“I thought you would go too far—I knew you would,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, with an angry gesture of the hand.
“What do you mean by too far?” rejoined her sister. “Is it in the face of a letter like this that you would permit him to continue his attentions, and, worse still, let the girls go off for an excursion of maybe a week or two? Read that.”
“The letter is anonymous, and may be untrue from end to end.”
“Then why not let me test its truth by some allusion to its contents?”
“And banish him from the house ever after,” rejoined Mrs. Kennyfeck, bitterly. “No, no, Fanny, you mistake him very much; he isn't like one of your old County Clare admirers, that can be huffed to-day, and asked to dinner to-morrow,—not that, indeed, you showed much judgment in your management even of them.”
This allusion to Aunt Fanny's spinsterhood was too palpable to pass unnoticed, and she arose from the sofa with a face of outraged temper.
“It might be a question, my dear, between us, which had the least success,—I, who never got a husband, or you, who married that one.”
If Mr. Kennyfeck had intended by a tableau to have pointed the moral of this allusion, he could not have succeeded better, as he sat bolt upright in his chair, endeavoring through the murky cloud of his crude ideas to catch one ray of light upon all he witnessed; he looked the very ideal of hopeless stupidity. Miss O'Hara, like a skilful general, left the field under the smoke of her last fire, and Mrs. Kennyfeck sat alone, with what Homer would call “a heart-consuming rage,” to meditate on the past.