As Roland Cashel strolled along alone, he could not divest himself of a certain feeling of disappointment, that, up to the present, at least, all his wealth had so little contributed to realize those illusions he had so often fancied. The plots, the wiles and cunning schemes by which he had been surrounded, were gradually revealing themselves to his senses, and he was rapidly nearing the fatal “bourne” which separates credulity from distrust.
If we have passed over the events which succeeded the loss of the yacht with some appearance of scant ceremony to our reader, it is because, though in themselves not totally devoid of interest, they formed a species of episode which only in one respect bore reference to the current of our story. It is not necessary, no more than it would be gratifying, to us to inquire with what precise intentions Lady Kilgoff had sought to distinguish Roland by marks of preference. Enough, if we say that he was neither puppy enough to ascribe the feeling to anything but a caprice, nor was he sufficiently hackneyed in the world's ways to suspect it could mean more.
That he was flattered by the notice, and fascinated by the charms of a very lovely and agreeable woman, whose dependence upon him each day increasing drew closer the ties of intimacy, is neither strange nor uncommon, no more than that she, shrewdly remarking the bounds of respectful deference by which he ever governed his acquaintance, should use greater freedoms and less restricted familiarity with him, than had he been one of those fashionable young men about town with whom the repute of a conquest would be a triumph.
It is very difficult to say on what terms they lived in each other's society. It were easier, perhaps, to describe it by negatives, and say that assuredly if it were not love, the feeling between them was just as little that which subsists between brother and sister. There was an almost unbounded confidence—an unlimited trust—much asking of advice, and, in fact, as many of my readers will say, fully as much peril as need be.
From her, Cashel first learned to see the stratagems and schemes by which his daily life was beset. Too proud to bestow more than a mere passing allusion to the Kennyfecks, she directed the whole force of her attack upon that far more dangerous group in whose society Roland had lately lived. For a time she abstained altogether from even a chance reference to Linton; but at length, as their intimacy ripened, she avowed her fear of him in all its fulness. When men will build up the edifice of distrust, it is wonderful with what ingenuity they will gather all the scattered materials of doubt, with what skill arrange and combine them! A hundred little circumstances of a suspicious nature now rushed to Roland's memory, and his own conscience corroborated the history she drew of the possible mode by which Linton acquired an influence over him.
That Linton had been the “evil genius” of many, Cashel had often heard before, but always from the lips of men; and it is astonishing, whether the source be pride, or something less stubborn, but the warning which we reject so cavalierly from our fellows, comes with a wondrous force of conviction from the gentler sex.
For the heavy sums he had lost at play, for all the wasteful outlay of his money, Cashel cared little; but for the humiliating sense of being a “dupe” and a “tool,” his outraged pride suffered deeply; and when Lady Kilgoff drew a picture, half real, half imaginary, of the game which his subtle associate was playing, Roland could scarce restrain himself from openly declaring a rupture, and, if need be, a quarrel with him.
It needed all her persuasions to oppose this course; and, indeed, if she had not made use of one unanswerable argument, could she have succeeded. This was the inevitable injury Linton could inflict upon her, by ascribing the breach to her influence. It would be easy enough, from such materials as late events suggested, to compose a history that would ruin her. Lord Kilgoff's lamentable imbecility, the result of that fatal night of danger; Cashel's assiduous care of her; her own most natural dependence upon him,—all these, touched on with a woman's tact and delicacy, she urged, and at last obtained his pledge that he would leave to time and opportunity the mode of terminating an intimacy he had begun to think of with abhorrence.
If there be certain minds to whom the very air they breathe is doubt, there are others to whom distrust is absolute misery. Of these latter Cashel was one. Nature had made him frank and free-spoken, and the circumstances of his early life had encouraged the habit. To nourish a grudge would have been as repulsive to his sense of honor as it would be opposed to all the habits of his buccaneering life. To settle a dispute with the sword was invariably the appeal among his old comrades; and such arbitraments are those which certainly leave the fewest traces of lingering malice behind them. To cherish and store up a secret wrong, and wait in patience for the day of reckoning, had something of the Indian about it that, in Roland's eyes, augmented its atrocity.
Oppressed with thoughts like these, and associating every vexation he suffered as in some way connected with that wealth whose possession he fancied was to satisfy every wish and every ambition, he sauntered on, little disposed to derive pleasure from the presence of those external objects which fortune had made his own.
“When I was poor,” thought he, “I had warm and attached friends, ready to exult in my successes, and sympathize with me in my sorrows. If I had enemies, they were brave fellows, as willing to defend their cause with the sword as myself. None flattered or frowned on him who was richer than the rest. No subtle schemes lay in wait for him whose unsuspecting frankness exposed him to deception; we were bons camarades, at least,” said he, aloud, “and from what I have seen of the great world, I 've lived to prize the distinction.”
From this revery he was suddenly recalled by observing, directly in front of him, an elderly gentleman, who, in a stooping posture, seemed to seek for something among the dry leaves and branches beside a low wicket.
“This is the first fruit of our gay neighborhood,” said the old man, testily, as he poked the dead leaves with his cane; “we 're lucky if they leave us without more serious inconvenience.”
“Can I assist you in your search?—have you lost something?” said Cashel, approaching.
“There is a key—the key of the wicket—hid somewhere hereabouts, young man,” said the other, who, scarcely bestowing a look upon Roland, continued his investigation as busily as before.
Cashel, undaunted by the somewhat ungracious reception, now aided him in his search, while the other continued: “I 've known this path for nigh forty years, and never remember this wicket to have been locked before. But so it is. My old friend is afraid of the invasion of this noisy neighborhood, and has taken to lock and key to keep them out. The key he promised to hide at the foot of this tree.”
“And here it is,” said Cashel, as he unlocked the wicket and flung it wide.
“Many thanks for your help, but you have a better reward than my gratitude, in eyes some five-and-thirty years younger,” said the old man, with the same half-testy voice as before. “Perhaps you 'd like to see the grounds here, yourself; come along. The place is small, but far better kept than the great demesne, I assure you; just as many an humble household is more orderly than many a proud retinue.”
Roland was rather pleased by the quaint oddity of his new companion, of whom he thought, but could not remember where, he had seen the features before.
“You are a stranger in these parts, I conclude?” said the old man.
“Yes. I only arrived here about an hour ago, and have seen nothing save the path from the Hall to this spot.”
“There 's little more worth the seeing on yonder side of the paling, sir. A great bleak expanse, with stunted trees and a tasteless mansion, full of, I take it, very dubious company; but perhaps you are one of them?”
“I confess as much,” said Roland, laughing; “but as I have not seen them, don't be afraid I 'll take up the cudgels for my associates.”
“Labor lost if you did,” said the other, bluntly. “I only know of them what the newspapers tell us; but their names are enough.”
“Are they all in the same category, then?” asked Cashel, smiling.
“Pigeons or hawks; dupes or swindlers,—an ugly alternative to choose from.”
“You are candid, certainly, friend,” said Cashel, half angrily; “but don't you fancy there is rather too much of frankness in saying this to one who has already said he is of the party?”
“Just as he likes to take it,” said the old man, bluntly. “The wise man takes warning where the fool takes umbrage. There 's a fine view for you—see! there's a glorious bit of landscape,” cried he, enthusiastically, as they came to an opening of the wood and beheld the wide expanse of Lough Deny, with its dotted islands and ruined tower.
Roland stood still, silently gazing on the scene, whose beauty was heightened by all the strong effect of light and shade.
“I see you have an eye for landscape,” said the old man, as he watched the expression of Cashel's features.
“I 've been a lover of scenery in lands where the pursuit was well rewarded,” said Roland, thoughtfully.
“That you may; but never in a country where the contemplation called for more thought than in this before you. See, yonder, where the lazy smoke rises heavily from the mountain side, high up there amid the fern and the tall heath, that is a human dwelling,—there lives some cottier a life of poverty as uncheered and unpitied as though he made no part of the great family of man. For miles and miles of that dreary mountain some small speck may be traced where men live and grow old and die out, unthought of and uncared for by all beside. This misery would seem at its full, if now and then seasons of sickness did not show how fever and ague can augment the sad calamities of daily life. There are men—ay, and old men too—who never have seen bread for years, I say, save when some gamekeeper has broken it to feed the greyhounds in a coursing party.”
“And whose the fault of all this?” said Cashel, eagerly.
“It is easy to see, sir,” said the other, “that you are no landed proprietor, for not only you had not asked the question, but you had not shown so much emotion when putting it So it is,” muttered he to himself. “It is so ever. They have most sympathy with the poor who have least the power to help them.”
“But I ask again, whose the fault of such a system?” cried Cashel.
“Ask your host yonder, and you 'll soon have an answer to your question. You 'll hear enough of landlords' calamities,—wrecking tenantry, people in barbarism, irreclaimably bad, sunk in crime, black in ingratitude. Ask the peasant, and he 'll tell you of clearances,—whole families turned out to starve and die in the highways; the iron pressure of the agent in the dreary season of famine and fever. Ask the priest, and he will say, it is the galling tyranny of the 'rich man's church' establishment consuming the substance, but restoring nothing to the people. Ask the rector, and he 'll prove it is popery,—the debasing slavery of the very blackest of all superstitions; and so on. Each throws upon another the load which he refuses to bear his share of, and the end is, we have a reckless gentry and a ruined people; all the embittering hatred of a controversy, and little of the active working of Christian charity. Good-bye, sir. I ask pardon for inflicting something like a sermon upon you. Good-bye.”
“And yet,” said Cashel, “you have only made me anxious to hear more from you. May I ask if we are likely to meet again, and where?”
“If you should chance to be sick during your visit here, and send for the doctor, it's likely they 'll fetch me, as there is no other here.”
Cashel started, for he at once remembered that the speaker was Dr. Tiernay, the friend of his tenant, Mr. Corrigan. As the doctor did not recognize him, however, Roland resolved to keep his secret as long as he could.
“There, sir,” said Cashel, “I see some friends accosting you. I 'll say good-bye.”
“Too late to do so now,” said the other, half sulkily. “Mr. Corrigan would feel it a slight if you turned back, when his table was spread for a meal. You 'll have to breakfast here.”
Before Roland could answer, Mr. Corrigan came forward from beneath the porch, and, with a hand to each, bid them welcome.
“I was telling this gentleman,” said Tiernay, “that he is too far within your boundaries for retreat. He was about to turn back.”
“Nay, nay,” said the old man, smiling; “an old fellow like you or me may do a churlish thing, but a young man's nature is fresher and warmer. I tell you, Tiernay, you 're quite wrong; this gentleman will breakfast here.”
“With pleasure,” said Cashel, cordially, and entered the cottage.
Cashel would have devoted more attention to the tasteful arrangement of the drawing-room into which they were ushered, if he had not been struck with the handsome and graceful form of a young girl, who from time to time passed before his eyes in an inner chamber, engaged in the office of preparing breakfast, and whom he at once recognized as the granddaughter of whom Linton wrote.
“We were talking of poor Ireland,” said Tiernay, “and all her sorrows.”
“I'll engage you were,” cried Corrigan, laughing, “and I 'll swear you did not make a mournful topic a whit less gloomy by your way of treating it—And that's what he calls entertaining a stranger, sir,—like a bankrupt merchant amusing a party by a sight of his schedule. Now, I 'll wager a trifle my young friend would rather hear where a brace of cocks was to be found, or the sight of a neat grass country to ride over after the fox-hounds,—and I can do both one and the other. But here comes Mary,—my granddaughter, Miss Leicester, sir.”
Mary saluted the stranger with an easy gracefulness, and she shook the doctor's hand cordially.
“You are a little late, doctor,” said she, as she led the way into the breakfast-room.
“That was in part owing to that rogue Keane, who has taken to locking the gate of the avenue, by way of seeming regular, and some one else has done the same with the wicket here. Now, as for fifty years back all the cows of the country have strayed through the one, and all the beggars through the other, I don't know what 's to come of it.”
“I suppose the great house is filling?” said Mary, to withdraw him from a grumbling theme; “we heard the noise of several arrivals this morning early.”
“This gentleman can inform you best upon all that,” said Tiernay; “he himself is one of the company.”
“But I am ignorant of everything,” said Cashel; “I only arrived here a little after daybreak, and, not caring to sleep, I strolled out, when my good fortune threw me into your way.”
“Your friends are likely to have fine weather, and I am glad of it,” said Corrigan. “This country, pretty enough in sunshine, looks bleak and dreary when the sky is lowering; but I 've no doubt you'd rather have
as the song says, than the brightest morning that ever welcomed a lark. Are you fond of hunting?”
“I like every kind of sport where horse, or gun, or hound can enter; but I 've seen most of such pastimes in distant countries, where the game is different from here, and the character of the people just as unlike.”
“'I have hunted the wild boar myself,” said old Corrigan, proudly, “in the royal forests at Meudon and Fontainebleau.”
“I speak of the antelope and the jaguar, the dark leopard of Guiana, or the brown bison of the Andes.”
“That is indeed a manly pastime!” said Mary, enthusiastically.
“It is so,” said Cashel, warmed by the encouragement of her remark, “more even for the endurance and persevering energy it demands than for its peril. The long days of toil in search of game, the nights of waking watchfulness, and then the strange characters and adventures among which you are thrown, all make up a kind of life so unlike the daily world.”
“There is, as you say, something highly exciting in all that,” said Corrigan; “but, to my thinking, hunting is a royal pastime, and loses half of its prestige when deprived of the pomp and circumstance of its courtly following. When I think of the old forest echoing to the tantarara of the cor de chasse, the scarlet-clad piqueurs with lance and cutlass, the train of courtiers mounted on their high-mettled steeds, displaying all the address of the salon, and all the skill of the chase, to him who was the centre of the group,—the king himself—”
“Are you not forgetting the fairest part of the pageants papa?” broke in Mary.
“No, my dear, that group usually waited to join us as we returned. Then, when the 'Retour de la Chasse' rang out from every horn, and the whole wood re-echoed with the triumphant sounds, then might be seen the queen and her ladies advancing to meet us. I think I see her yet, the fair-haired queen, the noblest and most beautiful in all that lovely circle, mounted on her spotted Arabian, who bore himself proudly beneath his precious burden. Ah! too truly did Burke say, 'the Age of Chivalry was past,' or never had such sorrows gone unavenged. Young gentleman, I know not whether you have already conceived strong opinions upon politics, and whether you incline to one or other of the great parties that divide the kingdom, but one thing I would beseech you,—be a Monarchist. There is a steadfast perseverance in clinging to the legitimate Sovereign. Like the very observance of truth itself, shake the conviction once, and there is no limit to scepticism.”
“Humph!” muttered Tiernay, half aloud. “Considering how royalty treated your ancestors, your ardor in their favor might be cooled a little.”
“What's Tiernay saying?” said the old man.
“Grumbling, as usual, papa,” said Mary, laughing, and not willing to repeat the remark.
“Trying to give a man a bias in politics,” said the doctor, sarcastically, “is absurd, except you accompany the advice with a place. A man's political opinions are born with him, and he has as much to do with the choice of his own Christian name as whether he 'll be a Whig or a Tory.”
“Never mind him, sir,” said Corrigan to Cashel; “one might travesty the well-known epigram, and say of him that he never said a kind thing, nor did a rude one, in his life.”
“The greater fool he, then,” mattered Tiernay, “for the world likes him best who does the exact opposite; and here comes one to illustrate my theory. There, I see him yonder; so I 'll step into the library and look over the newspaper.”
“He cannot endure a very agreeable neighbor of ours,—a Mr. Linton,” said Corrigan, as the doctor retired,—“and makes so little secret of his dislike that I am always glad when they avoid a meeting.”
“Mr. Linton is certainly more generous,” said Mary, “for he enjoys the doctor's eccentricity without taking offence at his rude humor.”
“Good-breeding can be almost a virtue,” said the old man, with a smile.
“It has this disadvantage, however,” said Cashel: “it deceives men who, like myself, have little knowledge of life, to expect far more from politeness than it is ever meant to imply,—just as on the Lima shore, when we carried off a gold Madonna, we were never satisfied if we missed the diamond eyes of the image.”
The old man and his granddaughter almost started at the strange illustration; but their attention was now called off by the approach of Linton, whom they met as he reached the porch.
“Come here a moment, sir,” said the doctor, addressing Cashel, from the little boudoir; “here are some weapons of very old date found among the ruins beside where we stand.” And Roland had just time to quit the breakfast-room before Linton entered it.
“The menagerie fills fast,” said Linton, as he advanced gayly into the apartment: “some of our principal lions have come; more are expected; and all the small cages have got their occupants.”
“I am dying of curiosity,” said Mary. “Tell us everything about everybody. Who have arrived?”
“We have everything of a household save the host. He is absent; and, stranger than all, no one knows where.”
“How singular!” exclaimed Corrigan.
“Is it not? He arrived this morning with the Kilgoffs, and has not since been heard of. I left his amiable guests at the breakfast-table conversing on his absence, and endeavoring to account for it under every variety of 'shocking accident' one reads of in the morning papers. The more delicately minded were even discussing, in whispers, how long it would be decent to stay in a house if the owner committed suicide.”
“This is too shocking,” said Mary.
“And yet there are men who do these things! Talleyrand it was, I believe, who said that the fellow who shot himself showed a great want of savoir vivre. Well, to come back: we have the Kilgoffs, whom I have not seen as yet; the Meeks, father and daughter; the MacFarlines; Mrs. White and her familiar, a distinguished author; the whole Kennyfeck tribe; Frobisher; some five or six cavalry subalterns; and a large mob of strange-looking people, of both sexes, making up what in racing slang is called the 'ruck' of the party.”
“Will it not tax your ingenuity, Mr. Linton, to amuse, or even to preserve concord among such a heterogeneous multitude?” said Mary.
“I shall amuse them by keeping them at feud with each other, and, when they weary of that, let them have a grand attack of the whole line upon their worthy host and entertainer. Indeed, already signs of rebellious ingratitude have displayed themselves. You must know that there has been a kind of petty scandal going about respecting Lady Kilgoff and Mr. Cashel.”
“My dear sir,” said Mr. Corrigan, gravely, but with much courtesy, “when my granddaughter asked you for the latest news of your gay household, she did so in all the inconsiderate ignorance her habits and age may warrant; but neither she nor I cared to hear more of your guests than they ought to have reported of them, or should be repeated to the ears of a young lady.”
“I accept the rebuke with less pain,” said Linton, smiling easily, “because it is, in part at least, unmerited. If you had permitted me to continue, you should have seen as much.” Then, turning to Miss Leicester, he added: “You spoke of amusement, and you 'll acknowledge we are not idle. Lord Charles Frobisher is already marking out a race-course; Meek is exploring the political leaning of the borough; the Kennyfecks are trying their voices together in every room of the house; and Lady Janet has every casserole in the kitchen engaged in the preparation of various vegetable abominations which she and Sir Andrew take before breakfast; and what with the taking down and putting up of beds, the tuning of pianofortes, sol-fa-ing here, bells ringing there, cracking of tandem whips, firing off percussion-caps, screaming to grooms out of window, and slamming of doors, Babel was a scene of peaceful retirement in comparison. As this, too, is but the beginning, pray forgive me if my visits here be more frequent and enduring than ever.”
“Your picture of the company is certainly not flattering,” said Mary.
“Up to their merits, notwithstanding; but how could it be otherwise? To make a house pleasant, to bring agreeable people together,—to assemble those particles whose aggregate solidifies into that compact mass called society,—is far harder than is generally believed; vulgar folk attempt it by getting some celebrity to visit them. But what a failure that is! One lion will no more make a party than one swallow a summer. New people, like our friend Cashel, try it by asking everybody. They hope, by firing a heavy charge, that some of the shot will hit. Another mistake! He little knows how many jealousies, rivalries, and small animosities are now at breakfast together at his house, and how ready they are, when no other game offers, to make him the object of all their apite and scandal.”
“But why?” said Mary. “Is not his hospitality as princely as it is generously offered? Can they cavil with anything in either the reception itself or the manner of it?”
“As that part of the entertainment entered into my functions, Miss Leicester, I should say, certainly not. The whole has been well 'got up.' I can answer for everything save Cashel himself; as Curran said, 'I can elevate all save the host.' He is irreclaimably en arrière,—half dandy, half Delaware, affecting the man of fashion, but, at heart, a prairie hunter.”
“Hold, sir!” cried Cashel, entering suddenly, his face crimson with passion. “By what right do you presume to speak of me in this wise?”
“Ha! ha! ha!” broke out Linton, as he fell into a chair in a burst of admirably feigned laughter. “I told you, Miss Leicester, how it would be; did I not say I should unearth the fox? Ah! Roland, confess it; you were completely taken in.”
Cashel stared around for an explanation, and in the astonishment of each countenance he fancied he read a condemnation of his conduct All his impulses were quick as thought, and so he blushed deeply for his passionate outbreak, as he said,—
“I ask pardon of you, sir, and this lady for my unseemly anger. This gentleman certainly deserves no apology from me. Confound it, Master Tom, but assuredly you don't fire blank cartridge to startle your game.”
“No use to tickle lions with straws,” said Linton; and the insinuated flattery succeeded.
“Let me now bid you welcome to my cottage, Mr. Cashel,” said Corrigan; “although this incognito visit was an accident, I feel happy to see you here.”
“Thank you, thank you,” replied Cashel. “I shall be even more grateful still if you permit me to join in Linton's petition, and occasionally escape from the noisy festivities of the Hall, and come here.”
While Corrigan and Cashel continued to interchange mutual assurances of esteem and regard, Linton walked to a window with Miss Leicester.
“We had no conception that our guest was Mr. Cashel,” said Mary; “he met Dr. Tiernay accidentally in the park, and came along with him to breakfast.”
“And did not the doctor remember him?” said Linton, shrewdly.
“Oh, no; he may probably recollect something of having met him before, three weeks hence, but he is so absent!”
“I thought Roland would have taken the quizzing better,” said Linton, thoughtfully. “There 's no knowing any man, or—woman either. You perceived what I was at, certainly.”
“No, indeed. I was as much deceived as Mr. Cashel. I thought, to be sure, that you were unusually severe, but I never suspected the object.”
“How droll! Well, I am a better actor than I fancied,” said Linton, laughing; then added, in a lower tone, “Not that the lesson should be lost upon him; for, in sober earnest, there was much truth in it.”
“We were greatly pleased with him,” said Mary, “and now, knowing who he is, and what temptations such a young man has to over-estimate himself, are even more struck by his unassuming quietude.”
Linton only smiled, but it was a smile of most compassionate pity.
“I conclude that you mean to show yourself to your company, then, Mr. Cashel?” said he, turning suddenly about.
“I'm ready,” said Roland. “I'd go, however, with an easier conscience if Mr. Corrigan would only promise me to come and see us there sometimes.”
“I'm a very old fellow, Mr. Cashel, and have almost outlived the habits of society; but if any one's invitation shall bring me beyond these walls, it shall be yours.”
“I must be content with that,” said Roland, as he shook the proffered hand; and then, with a cordial farewell to Miss Leicester, took Linton's arm, and retired.
Cashel's was not a nature to dwell upon a grievance, and he would have, at once and forever, forgotten the late scene with Linton if it were not coupled in his mind with suspicions derived from various different sources. This made him silent and reserved as he walked along, and so palpably inattentive to all his companion's efforts at agreeability that Linton at last said, “Well, Cashel, if you can dispense with sleep, you certainly seem to take the compensation in dreaming. Here have I been retailing for you the choicest bits of gossip and small-talk, not only without the slightest gratitude, but even without common attention on your part!”
“Very true,” said Cashel; “the reproach is quite just, and no man can be more agreeable at the expense of his friends than yourself.”
“Still harping on my daughter, eh?” cried Linton. “I never thought you the man to misconstrue a jest; but if you really are offended with my folly—”
“If I really were offended,” said Cashel, almost sternly, “I should not leave it to be inferred from my manner.”
“That I am sure of,” cried Linton, assuming an air of frankness; “and now, since all that silly affair is forgotten—”
“I did not say so much,” interrupted Cashel. “I cannot forget it; and that is the very reason I am annoyed with myself, with you, and with all the world.”
“Pooh! nonsense, man; you were not used to be so thin-skinned. Let us talk of something else. Here are all our gay friends assembled: how are we to occupy and amuse them?”
Cashel made no reply, but walked on, seemingly lost in thought.
“By the way,” said Linton, “you've told me nothing of your adventures. Haven't you had something very like a shipwreck?”
“The yacht is lost,” said Cashel, dryly.
“Actually lost!” echoed the other, with well-assumed astonishment. “How fortunate not to have had the Kennyfeck party on board, as I believe you expected.”
“I had the Kilgoffs, however,” rejoined Roland.
“The Kilgoffs! you amaze me. How did my Lord ever consent to trust his most precious self on such an enterprise?”
Cashel shrugged his shoulders, without uttering a word in reply.
“But come, do condescend to be a little more communicative. How, and when, and where did the mishap occur?”
“She foundered on the southern coast some time after midnight on the 15th. The crew and passengers escaped by the boats, and the craft went to pieces.”
“And the Kilgoffs, how did they behave in the moment of peril?”
“My Lord seemed insensible to all around; Lady Kilgoff with a dignified courage quite admirable.”
“Indeed!” said Linton, slowly, while he fixed his eyes on Cashel's face, where an expression of increased animation now displayed itself.
“She has a fine generous nature,” continued Cashel, not heeding the remark. “It is one of the saddest things to think of, how she has been mated.”
“She is a peeress,” said Linton, curtly.
“And what of that? Do your aristocratic distinctions close the heart against every high and noble sentiment, or can they compensate for the absence of every tie that attaches one to life? Is not some poor Indian girl who follows her wild ranchero husband through the dark valleys of Guiana, not only a happier, but a better wife than your proud peeress?”
Linton shook his head and smiled, but did not reply.
“I see how my old prejudices shock you,” said Cashel. “I only grieve to think how many of them have left me; for I am sick—sick at heart—of your gay and polished world. I am weary of its double-dealing, and tired of its gilded falsehood. Since I have been a rich man, I have seen nothing but the servile flattery of sycophancy, or the insidious snares of deeper iniquity. There is no equality for one like myself. The high-born wealthy would treat me as a parvenu, the vulgar rich only reflect back my own errors in broader deformity. I have known no other use of wealth than to squander it to please others; I have played high, and lost deeply; I have purchased a hundred things simply because some others wished to sell them; I have entertained and sat among my company, waiting to catch and resent the covert insult that men pass upon such as me; and will you tell me—you, who know the world well—that such a life repays one?”
“Now, let me write the credit side of the account,” said Linton, laughing, and affecting a manner of easy jocularity. “You are young, healthy, and high-spirited, with courage for anything, and more money than even recklessness can get rid of; you are the most popular fellow among men, and the greatest favorite of the other sex, going; you get credit for everything you do, and a hundred others that men know you could, but have not done; you have warm, attached friends,—I can answer for one, at least, who 'll lay down his life for you.” He paused, expecting some recognition, but Cashel made no sign, and he resumed: “You have only to propose some object to your ambition, whether it be rank, place, or a high alliance, to feel that you are a favorite with fortune.”
“And is it by knowing beforehand that one is sure to win that gambling fascinates?” said Roland, slowly.
“If you only knew how the dark presage of failure deters the unlucky man, you 'd scarce ask the question!” rejoined Linton, with an accent of sorrow, by which he hoped to awaken sympathy. The stroke failed, however, for Cashel took no notice of it.
“There goes one whose philosophy of life is simple enough,” said Linton, as he stopped at a break in the holly hedge, beside which they were walking, and pointed to Lord Charles, who, mounted on a blood-horse, was leading the way for a lady, equally well carried, over some sporting-looking fences.
“I say, Jim,” cried Frobisher, “let her go a little free at them; she 's always too hot when you hold her back.”
“You don't know, perhaps, that Jim is the lady,” whispered Linton, and withdrawing for secrecy behind the cover of the hedge. “Jim,” continued Linton, “is the familiar for Jemima. She's Meek's daughter, and the wildest romp—”
“By Jove! how well she cleared it. Here she comes back again,” cried Cashel, in all the excitement of a favorite sport.
“That 's all very pretty, Jim,” called out Frobisher, “but let me observe it's a very Brummagem style of thing, after all. I want you to ride up to your fence with your mare in hand, touch her lightly on the flank, and pop her over quietly.”
“She is too fiery for all that,” said the girl, as she held in the mettlesome animal, and endeavored to calm her by patting her neck.
“How gracefully she sits her saddle,” muttered Cashel; and the praise might have been forgiven from even a less ardent admirer of equestrianism, for she was a young, fresh-looking girl, with large hazel eyes, and a profusion of bright auburn hair which floated and flaunted in every graceful wave around her neck and shoulders. She possessed, besides, that inestimable advantage as a rider which perfect fearlessness supplies, and seemed to be inspired with every eager impulse of the bounding animal beneath her.
As Cashel continued to look, she had taken the mare a canter round a large grass field, and was evidently endeavoring, by a light hand and a soothing, caressing voice, to calm down her temper; stooping, as she went, in the saddle to pat the animal's shoulder, and almost bending her own auburn curls to the counter.
“She is perfect!” cried Roland, in a very ecstasy. “See that, Linton! Mark how she sways herself in her saddle!”
“That comes of wearing no stays,” said Linton, dryly, as he proceeded to light a cigar.
“Now she's at it. Here she comes!” cried Cashel almost breathless with anxiety; for the mare, chafed by the delay, no sooner was turned towards the fence once more, than she stretched out and dashed wildly at it.
It was a moment of intense interest, for the speed was far too great to clear a high leap with safety; the fear was, however, but momentary, for, with a tremendous bound, the mare cleared the fence, and, after a couple of minutes' cantering, stood with heaving flanks and swelling nostril beside the other horse.
“You see my misfortune, I suppose?” said the girl, addressing Frobisher.
“No. She 's not cut about the legs?” said he, as he bent down in his saddle and took a most searching survey of the animal.
“No, the hack is all right But don't you perceive that bit of blue cloth flaunting yonder on the hedge?—that is part of my habit. See what a tremendous rent is here; I declare, Charley, it is scarcely decent” And to illustrate the remark, she wheeled her horse round so as to show the fringed and jagged end of her riding-habit, beneath which a very finely turned ankle and foot were now seen.
“Then why don't you wear trousers, like everybody else?” said Frobisher, gruffly, and scarce bestowing even a passing glance at the well-arched instep.
“Because I never get time to dress like any one else. You order me out like one of your Newmarket boys,” replied she, pettishly.
“By Jove! I wish any one of them had got your hand.”
“To say nothing of the foot, Charley,” said she, roguishly, and endeavoring to arrange her torn drapery to the best advantage.
“No; that may do to astonish our friend Cashel, and make 'my lady' jealous. By the way, Jim, I don't see why you should n't 'enter for the plate' as well as the Kennyfeck girls.”
“I like you better, Charley,” said she, curveting her horse, and passaging him alternately from side to side.
“This is the second time to-day I have played the eavesdropper unconsciously,” said Roland, in a whisper, “and with the proverbial fortune of the listener in both cases.” And with these words he moved on, leaving Linton still standing opposite the opening of the hedge.
Cashel had not advanced many paces beneath the shelter of the tall hollies, when Frobisher accidentally caught sight of Linton, and called out, “Ha, Tom,—found you at last! Where have you been hiding the whole morning?—you that should, at least, represent our host here.”
Linton muttered something, while, by a gesture, he endeavored to caution Frobisher, and apprise him of Cashel's vicinity. The fretful motion of hie horse, however, prevented his seeing the signal, and he resumed,—
“One of my people tells me that Cashel came with the Kilgoffs this morning. I say, Tom, you'll have to look sharp in that quarter. Son, there—quiet, Gustave—gently, man!”
“He's too fat, I think. You always have your cattle too heavy,” said Linton, hoping to change the topic.
“He carries flesh well. But what is it I had to tell you? Oh, I remember now,—about the yacht club. I have just got a letter from Derwent, in which he says the thing is impossible. His remark is more true than courteous. He says, 'It's all very well in such a place as Ireland to know such people, but that it won't do in England; besides that, if Cashel does wish to get among men of the world, he ought to join some light cavalry corps for a year or so, and stand plucking by Stanhope, and Dashfield, and the rest of them. They 'll bring him out if he 'll only pay handsomely.'—Soh, there, man,—do be quiet, will you?—The end of it is, that Derwent will not put his name up. I must say it's a disappointment to me; but, as a younger brother, I have only to smile and submit.”
While Lord Charles was retailing this piece of information in no very measured tone, and only interrupted by the occasional impatience of his horse, Linton's eyes were fixed on Cashel, who, at the first mention of his own name, increased his speed, so as to suggest the fond hope that some, at least, of this unwelcome intelligence might have escaped him.
“You'll have to break the thing to him, Tom,” resumed Lord Charles. “You know him better than any of us, and how the matter can be best touched upon.”
“Not the slightest necessity for that, now,” said Linton, with a low, deliberate voice.
“Why so?”
“Because you have just done so yourself. If you had only paid the least attention to my signal, you 'd have seen that Cashel was only a few yards in front of me during the entire of your agreeable revelations.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Frobisher, as his head dropped forward in overwhelming confusion; “what is to be done?”
“Rather difficult to say, if he heard all,” said Linton, coolly.
“You 'd say it was a quiz, Tom. You 'd pretend that you saw him all the while, and only did the thing for joke's sake, eh?”
“Possibly enough I might,” replied Linton; “but you could n't.”
“How very awkward, to be sure!” exclaimed Frobisher. “I say, Jim, I wish you 'd make up to Cashel a bit, and get us out of this scrape. There's Tom ready to aid and abet you, if only to take him out of the Kilgoffs' way.”
“There never was a more propitious moment, Miss Meek,'” said Linton, passing through the hedge, and approaching close to her. “He's a great prize,—the best estate in Ireland.”
“The nicest stable of horses in the whole country,” echoed Frobisher.
“A good-looking fellow, too; only wanting a little training to make presentable anywhere.”
“That white barb, with the flea-bitten flank, would carry you to perfection, Jim.”
“He 'll be a peer one of these days, if he is only patient enough not to commit himself in politics.”
“And such a hunting country for you,” said Frobisher, in ecstasy.
“I tell you I don't care for him; I never did,” said the girl, as a flush of half-angry meaning colored her almost childish features.
“But don't you care to be mistress of fifteen thousand a year, and the finest stud in Ireland?”
“Mayhap a countess,” said Linton, quietly. “Your papa would soon manage that.”
“I 'd rather be mistress of myself, and this brown mare, Joan, here,—that's all I know; and I'll have nothing to do with any of your plots and schemes,” said she, in a voice whose utterance was that of emotion.
“That's it,” said Frobisher, in a low tone to Linton; “there's no getting them, at that age, with a particle of brains.”
“They make up surprisingly for it afterwards,” replied Linton, dryly.
“So you 'll not consent, Jim?” said Frobisher, in a half-coaxing manner to the young girl, who, with averted head, sat in mingled sorrow and displeasure. “Well, don't be pettish about it; I 'm sure I thought it very generous in me, considering—”
She looked round at this moment, and her large eyes were bent upon him with a look which their very tears made passionately meaning.
“Considering what a neat finger you have on a young horse,” said he. And she turned abruptly away, and, as if to hide her emotion, spurred her mare into a bounding canter.
“Take care, Charley, take care what you 're doing,” said Linton, with a look of consummate shrewdness.
Frobisher looked after her for a minute or two, and then seemed to drop into a revery, for he made no reply whatever.
“Let the matter stop where it is,” said Linton, quietly, as if replying to some acknowledgment of the other; “let it stop there, I say, and one of these days, when she marries,—as she unquestionably will do, through papa Downie's means,—somebody of influence, she 'll be a steadfast, warm friend, never forgetting, nor ever wishing to forget, her childhood's companion. Go a little further, however, and you 'll just have an equally determined enemy. I know a little of both sides of the question,” added he, meditatively, “and it needs slight reflection which to prefer.”
“How are you going to amuse us here, Mr. Linton?” said she, cantering up at this moment; “for it seems to me, as old Lord Kilgoff says, that we are like to have a very dull house. People are ordering dinner for their own small parties as unsocially as though they were at the Crown Inn, at Brighton.”
“Yes, by the by,” said Frobisher, “I want to ask you about that. Don't you think it were better to dash a little bit of 'communism' through your administration?”
“I intend to send in my resignation as premier, now that the head of the State has arrived,” said Linton, smiling dubiously.
“I perceive,” said Frobisher, shrewdly, “you expect that the Government will go to pieces, if you leave it.”
“The truth is, Charley,” said he, dropping his voice to a low whisper, and leaning his hand on the horse's mane, “our friend Roland is rather too far in the category 'savage' for long endurance; he grows capricious and self-opinionated. The thin plating comes off, and shows the buccaneer at every slight abrasion.”
“What of that?” said Frobisher, languidly; “his book on Coutts' is unexceptionable. Come, Tom, you are the only man here who has a head for these things. Do exert yourself and set something a-going.”
“Well, what shall it be?” said he, gayly. “Shall we get the country people together, and have hack races? Shall we assemble the squires, and have a ball? Shall we start private theatricals? What says Miss Meek?”
“I vote for all three. Pray do, Mr. Linton,—you, who are so clever, and can do everything,—make us gay. If we only go on as we have begun, the house will be like a model prison,—on the separate and silent system.”
“As you wish it,” said Linton, bowing with assumed gallantry; “and now to work at once.” So saying, he turned towards the house, the others riding at either side of him.
“What shall we do about Derwent's letter, Tom?” asked Frobisher.
“Never speak of it; the chances are that he has heard enough to satisfy the most gluttonous curiosity. Besides, he has lost his yacht.” Here he dropped his voice to a low muttering, as he said, “And may soon have a heavier loss!”
“Is his pace too fast?” said Frobisher, who caught up the meaning, although not the words.
Linton made no reply, for his thoughts were on another track; then, suddenly catching himself, he said, “Come, and let us have a look at the stables; I've not seen our stud yet.” And they turned off from the main approach and entered the wood once more.
END OF VOL. I.