It is an old remark that nothing is so stupid as love-letters; and, pretty much in the same spirit, we may affirm that there are few duller topics than festivities. The scenes in which the actor is most interested are, out of compensation, perhaps, those least worthy to record; the very inability of description to render them is disheartening too. One must eternally resort to the effects produced, as evidences of the cause, just as, when we would characterize a climate, we find ourselves obliged to fall back upon the vegetable productions, the fruits and flowers of the seasons, to convey even anything of what we desire. So is it Pleasure has its own atmosphere,—we may breathe, but hardly chronicle it.
These prosings of ours have reference to the gayeties of Tubbermore, which certainly were all that a merry party and an unbounded expenditure could compass. The style of living was princely in its splendor; luxuries fetched from every land,—the rarest wines of every country, the most exquisite flowers,—all that taste can suggest, and gold can buy, were there; and while the order of each day was maintained with undiminished splendor, every little fancy of the guests was studied with a watchful politeness that marks the highest delicacy of hospitality.
If a bachelor's house be wanting in the gracefulness which is the charm of a family reception, there is a freedom, a degree of liberty in all the movements of the guests, which some would accept as a fair compromise; for, while the men assume a full equality With their host, the ladies are supreme in all such establishments. Roland Cashel was, indeed, not the man to dislike this kind of democracy; it spared him trouble; it inflicted no tiresome routine of attentions; he was free as the others to follow the bent of his humor, and he asked for no more.
It was without one particle of vulgar pride of wealth that he delighted in the pleasure he saw around him; it was the mere buoyancy of a high-spirited nature. The cost no more entered into his calculations in a personal than a pecuniary sense. A consciousness that he was the source of all that splendid festivity,—that his will was the motive-power of all that complex machinery of pleasure,—increased, but did not constitute, his enjoyment. To see his guests happy, in the various modes they preferred, was his great delight, and, for once, he felt inclined to think that wealth had great privileges.
The display of all which gratified him most was that which usually took place each day after luncheon; when the great space before the house was thronged with equipages of various kinds and degrees, with saddle-horses and mounted grooms, and amid all the bustle of discussing where to, and with whom, the party issued forth to spend the hours before dinner.
A looker-on would have been amused to watch all the little devices in request, to join this party, to avoid that, to secure a seat in a certain carriage, or to escape from some other; Linton's chief amusement being to thwart as many of these plans as he could, and while he packed a sleepy Chief Justice into the same barouche with the gay Kennyfeck girls, to commit Lady Janet to the care of some dashing dragoon, who did not dare decline the wife of a “Commander of the Forces.”
Cashel always joined the party on horseback, so long as Lady Kilgoff kept the house, which she did for the first week of her stay; but when she announced her intention of driving out, he offered his services to accompany her. By the merest accident it chanced that the very day she fixed on for her first excursion was that on which Cashel had determined to try a new and most splendid equipage which had just arrived; it was a phaeton, built in all the costly splendor of the “Regency of the Duke of Orleans,”—one of those gorgeous toys which even a voluptuous age gazed at with wonder. Two jet-black Arabians, of perfect symmetry, drew it, the whole forming a most beautiful equipage.
Exclamations of astonishment and admiration broke from the whole party as the carriage drove up to the door, where all were now standing.
“Whose can it be? Where did it come from? What a magnificent phaeton! Mr. Cashel, pray tell us all about it. Do, Mr. Linton, give us its history.”
“It has none as yet, my dear Mrs. White; that it may have, one of these days, is quite possible.”
Lady Janet heard the speech, and nodded significantly in assent.
“Mr. Linton, you are coming with us, a'n't you?” said a lady's voice from a britzska close by.
“I really don't know how the arrangement is; Cashel said something about my driving Lady Kilgoff.”
Lady Kilgoff pressed her lips close, and gathered her mantle together as if by some sudden impulse of temper, but never spoke a word. At the same instant Cashel made his appearance from the house.
“Are you to drive me, Mr. Cashel?” said she, calmly.
“If you will honor me so far,” replied he, bowing.
“I fancied you said something to me about being her Ladyship's charioteer,” said Linton.
“You must have been dreaming, man,” cried Cashel, laughing.
“Will you allow my Lady to choose?” rejoined Linton, jokingly, while he stole at her a look of insolent malice.
Cashel stood uncertain what to say or do in the emergency, when, with a firm and determined voice, Lady Kilgoff said,—
“I must own I have no confidence in Mr. Linton's guidance.”
“There, Tom,” said Cashel, gayly, “I 'm glad your vanity came in for that.”
“I have only to hope that you are in safer conduct, my Lady,” said Linton; and he bowed with uncovered head, and then stood gazing after the swift carriage as it hastened down the avenue.
“Is it all true about these Kennyfeck girls having so much tin'?” said Captain Jennings, as he stroked down his moustache complacently.
“They say five-and-twenty thousand each,” said Linton, “and I rather credit the rumor.”
“Eh, aw! one might do worse,” yawned the hussar, languidly; “I wish they hadn't that confounded accent!” And so he moved off to join the party on horseback.
“You are coming with me, Jemima,” said Mr. Downie Meek to his daughter. “I want to pay a visit to those works at Killaloe, we have so much committee talk in the House on inland navigation. Oh, dear! it is very tiresome.”
“Charley says I 'm to go with him, pa; he 's about to try Smasher as a leader, and wants me, if anything goes wrong.”
“Oh, dear! quite impossible.”
“Yes, yes, Jim, I insist,” said Frobisher, in a half-whisper; “never mind the governor.”
“Here comes the drag, pa. Oh, how beautiful it looks! There they go, all together; and Smasher, how neatly he carries himself! I say, Charley, he has no fancy for that splinter-bar so near him,—it touches his near hock every instant; would n't it be better to let his trace a hole looser?”
“So it would,” said Frobisher; “but get up and hold the ribbons till I have got my gloves on. I say, Linton, keep Downie in chat one moment, until we 're off.”
This kindly office was, however, anticipated by Lady Janet MacFarline, who, in her brief transit from the door to the carriage, always contrived to drop each of the twenty things she loaded herself with at starting, and thus to press into the service as many of the bystanders as possible, who followed, one with a muff, another with a smelling-bottle, a third with a book, a fourth with her knitting, and so on; while Flint brought up the rear with more air-cushions and hot-water apparatus than ever were seen before for the accommodation of two persons. In fact, if the atmosphere of our dear island, instead of being the mere innocent thing of fog it is, had been surcharged with all the pestilential vapors of the mistral and the typhoon together, she could not have armed herself with stronger precautions against it; while even Sir Andrew, with the constitution of a Russian bear, was compelled to wear blue spectacles in sunshine, and a respirator when it lowered,—leaving him, as he said, to the “domnable alternative o' being blind or dumb.”
“I maun say,” muttered he, behind his barrier of mouth plate, “that Mesther Cashel has his ain notions aboot amusin' his company when he leaves ane o' his guests to drive aboot wi' his ain wife. Ech, sir, it is a pleasure I need na hae come so far to enjoy.”
“Where's Sir Harvey Upton, Sir Andrew?” said my Lady, tartly; “he has never been near me to-day. I hope he 's not making a fool of himself with those Kennyfeck minxes.”
“I dinna ken, and I dinna care,” growled Sir Andrew; and then to himself, he added, “An' if he be, it's aye better fooling wi' young lassies than doited auld women!”
“A place for you, Mr. Linton!” said Mrs. White, as she seated herself in a low drosky, where her companion, Mr. Howie, sat, surrounded with all the details for a sketching-excursion.
“Thanks, but I have nothing so agreeable in prospect.”
“Why, what are you about to do?”
“Alas! I must set out on a canvassing expedition, to court the sweet voices of my interesting constituency. You know that I am a candidate for the borough.”
“That must be very disagreeable.”
“It is, but I could not get off; Cashel is incurably lazy, and I never know how to say 'no.'”
“Well, good-bye, and all fortune to you,” said she; and they drove away.
Mr. Kennyfeck and the Chief Justice, mounted on what are called sure-footed ponies, and a few others, still lingered about the door, but Linton took no notice of them, but at once re-entered the house.
For some time previous he had remarked that Lord Kilgoff seemed, as it were, struggling to emerge from the mist that had shrouded his faculties; his perceptions each day grew quicker and clearer, and even when silent, Linton observed that a shrewd expression of the eye would betoken a degree of apprehension few would have given him credit for. With the keenness of a close observer, too, Linton perceived that he more than once made use of his favorite expression, “It appears to me,” and slight as the remark might seem, there is no more certain evidence of the return to thought and reason than the resumption of any habitual mode of expression.
Resolved to profit by this gleam of coming intelligence, by showing the old peer an attention he knew would be acceptable, Linton sent up a message to ask “If his Lordship would like a visit from him?” A most cordial acceptance was returned; and, a few moments after, Linton entered the room where he sat, with all that delicate caution so becoming a sick chamber.
Motioning his visitor to sit down, by a slight gesture of the finger, while he made a faint effort to smile, in return for the other's salutation, the old man sat, propped up by pillows, and enveloped in shawls, pale, sad, and careworn.
“I was hesitating for two entire days, my Lord,” said Linton, lowering his voice to suit the character of the occasion, “whether I might propose to come and sit an hour with you, and I have only to beg that you will not permit me to trespass a moment longer than you feel disposed to endure me.”
“Very kind of you—most considerate, sir,” said the old peer, bowing with an air of haughty courtesy.
“You seem to gain strength every day, my Lord,” resumed Linton, who well knew there was nothing like a personal topic to awaken a sick man's interest.
“There is something here,” said the old man, slowly, as he placed the tip of his finger on the centre of his forehead.
“Mere debility, nervous debility, my Lord. You are paying the heavy debt an overworked intellect must always acquit; but rest and repose will soon restore you.”
“Yes, sir,” muttered the other, with a weak smile, as though, without fathoming the sentiment, he felt that something agreeable to his feelings had been spoken.
“I have been impatient for your recovery, my Lord, I will confess to you, on personal grounds; I feel now how much I have been indebted to your Lordship's counsel and advice all through life, by the very incertitude that tracks me. In fact, I can resolve on nothing, determine nothing, without your sanction.”
The old man nodded assentingly; the assurance had his most sincere conviction.
“It would seem, my Lord, that I must—whether I will or no—stand for this borough, here; there is no alternative, for you are aware that Cashel is quite unfit for public business. Each day he exhibits more and more of those qualities which bespeak far more goodness of heart than intellectual training or culture. His waywardness and eccentricity might seriously damage his own party,—could he even be taught that he had one,—and become terrible weapons in the hands of the enemy. I was speaking of Cashel, my Lord,” said Linton, as it were answering the look of inquiry in the old man's face.
“I hate him, sir,” said the old peer, with a bitterness of voice and look that well suited the words.
“I really cannot wonder at it,” said Linton, with a deep sigh; “such duplicity is too shocking—far too shocking—to contemplate.”
“Eh! what? What did you say, sir?” cried the old man, impatiently.
“I was remarking, my Lord, that I have no confidence in his sincerity; that he strikes me as capable of playing a double part.”
A look of disappointment succeeded to the excited expression of the old man's face; he had evidently expected some revelation, and now his features became clouded and gloomy.
“We may be unjust, my Lord,” said Linton; “it may be a prejudice on our part: others would seem to have a different estimate of that gentleman. Meek thinks highly of him.”
“Who, sir? I didn't hear you,” asked he, snappishly.
“Meek,—Downie Meek, my Lord.”
“Pshaw!” said the old man, with a shrewd twinkle of the eye that made Linton fear the mind behind it was clearer than he suspected.
“I know, my Lord,” said he, hastily, “that you always held the worthy secretary cheap; but you weighed him in a balance too nice for the majority of people—”
“What does that old woman say? Tell me her opinion of Cashel,” said Lord Kilgoff, rallying into something like his accustomed manner. “You know whom I mean!” cried he, impatient at Linton's delay in answering. “The old woman one sees everywhere,—she married that Scotch sergeant—”
“Lady Janet MacFarline—”
“Exactly, sir.”
“She thinks precisely with your Lordship.”
“I'm sure of it; I told my Lady so,” muttered he to himself.
Linton caught the words with eagerness, and his dark eyes kindled; for at last were they nearing the territory he wanted to occupy.
“Lady Kilgoff,” said he, slowly, “does not need any aid to appreciate him; she reads him thoroughly, the heartless, selfish, unprincipled spendthrift that he is.”
“She does not, sir,” rejoined the old man, with a loud voice, and a stroke of his cane upon the floor that echoed through the room; “you never were more mistaken in your life. His insufferable puppyism, his reckless effrontery, his underbred familiarity, are precisely the very qualities she is pleased with,—'They are so different,' as she says, 'from the tiresome routine of fashionable manners.'”
“Unquestionably they are, my Lord,” said Linton, with a smile.
“Exactly, sir; they differ as do her Ladyship's own habits from those of every lady in the peerage. I told her so; I begged to set her right on that subject, at least.”
“Your Lordship's refinement is a most severe standard,” said Linton, bowing low.
“It should be an example, sir, as well as a chastisement. Indeed, I believe few would have failed to profit by it.” The air of insolent pride in which he spoke seemed for an instant to have brought back the wonted look to his features, and he sat up, with his lips compressed, and his chin pro-traded, as in his days of yore.
“I would entreat your Lordship to remember,” said Linton, “how few have studied in the same school you have; how few have enjoyed the intimacy of 'the most perfect gentleman of all Europe;' and of that small circle, who is there could have derived the same advantage from the privilege?”
“Your remark is very Just, sir. I owe much—very much—to his Royal Highness.”
The tone of humility in which he said this was a high treat to the sardonic spirit of his listener.
“And what a penance to you must be a visit in such a house as this!” said Linton, with a sigh.
“True, sir; but who induced me to make it? Answer me that.”
Linton started with amazement, for he was very far from supposing that his Lordship's memory was clear enough to retain the events of an interview that occurred some months before.
“I never anticipated that it would cost you so dearly, my Lord,” said he, cautiously, and prepared to give his words any turn events might warrant. For once, however, the ingenuity was wasted; Lord Kilgoff, wearied and exhausted by the increased effort of his intellect, had fallen back in his chair, and, with drooping lips and fallen jaw, sat the very picture of helpless fatuity.
“So, then,” said Linton, as on tiptoe he stole noiselessly away, “if your memory was inopportune, it was, at least, very short-lived. And now, adieu, my Lord, till we want you for another act of the drama.”
If we should appear, of late, to have forgotten some of those friends with whom we first made our readers acquainted in this veracious history, we beg to plead against any charge of caprice or neglect. The cause is simply this: a story, like a stream, has one main current; and he who would follow the broad river must eschew being led away by every rivulet which may separate from the great flood to follow its own vagrant fancy elsewhere. Now, the Kennyfecks had been meandering after this fashion for some time back. The elder had commenced a very vigorous flirtation with the dashing Captain Jennings, while the younger sister was coyly dallying under the attentions of his brother hussar,—less, be it remembered, with any direct intention of surrender, than with the faint hope that Cashel, perceiving the siege, should think fit to rescue the fortress; “Aunt Fanny” hovering near, as “an army of observation,” and ready, like the Prussians in the last war, to take part with the victorious side, whichever that might be.
And now, we ask in shame and sorrow, is it not humiliating to think, that of a party of some thirty or more, met together to enjoy in careless freedom the hospitality of a country house, all should have been animated with the same spirit of intrigue,—each bent on his own deep game, and, in some one guise or other of deceitfulness, each following out some scheme of selfish advantage?
Some may say these things are forced and unnatural; that pleasure proclaims a truce in the great war of life, where combatants lay down their weapons, and mix like friends and allies. We fear this is not the case; our own brief experiences would certainly tend to a different conclusion. Less a player than a looker-on in the great game, we have seen, through all the excitements of dissipation, all the fascinating pleasures of the most brilliant circles, the steady onward pursuit of self-interest; and, instead of the occasions of social enjoyment being like the palm-shaded wells in the desert, where men meet to taste the peacefulness of perfect rest, they are rather the arena where, in all the glitter of the most splendid armor, the combatants have come to tilt, with more than life upon the issue.
For this, the beauty wreathes herself in all the winning smiles of loveliness; for this, the courtier puts forth his most captivating address and his most seductive manner; for this, the wit sharpens the keen edge of his fancy, and the statesman matures the deep resolve of his judgment. The diamond coronets that deck the hair and add lustre to the eyes; the war-won medals that glitter on the coat of some hardy veteran; the proud insignia of merit that a sovereign's favor grants,—all are worn to this end! Each brings to the game whatever he may possess of superiority, for the contest is ever a severe one.
And now to go back to our company. From Lady Janet, intent upon everything which might minister to her own comfort or mortify her neighbor, to the smooth and soft-voiced Downie Meek,—with the kindest of wishes and the coldest of hearts,—they were, we grieve to own it, far more imposing to look at, full dressed at dinner, than to investigate by the searching anatomy that discloses the vices and foibles of humanity; and it is, therefore, with less regret we turn from the great house, in all the pomp of its splendor, to the humble cottage where Mr. Corrigan dwelt with his granddaughter.
In wide contrast to the magnificence and profusion of the costly household, where each seemed bent on giving way to every caprice that extravagance could suggest, was the simple quietude of that unpretending family. The efforts by which Corrigan had overcome his difficulties not only cost him all the little capital he possessed in the world, but had also necessitated a mode of living more restricted than he had ever known before. The little luxuries that his station, as well as his age and long use, had made necessaries, the refinements that adorn even the very simplest lives, had all to be, one by one, surrendered. Some of these he gave up manfully, others cost him deeply; and when the day came that he had to take leave of his old gray pony, the faithful companion of so many a lonely ramble, the creature he had reared and petted like a dog, the struggle was almost too much for him.
He walked along beside the man who led the beast to the gate, telling him to be sure and seek out some one who would treat her kindly. “Some there are would do so for my sake; but she deserves it better for her own.—Yes, Nora, I 'm speaking of you,” said he, caressing her, as she laid her nose over his arm. “I'm sure I never thought we'd have to part.”
“She's good as goold this minit,” said the man; “an' it'll go hard but 'll get six pounds for her, any way.”
“Tell whoever buys her that Mr. Corrigan will give him a crown-piece every Christmas-day that he sees her looking well and in good heart. To be sure, it's no great bribe, we're both so old,” said he, smiling; “but my blessing goes with the man that's a friend to her.” He sat down as he said this, and held his hand over his face till she was gone. “God forgive me, if I set my heart too much on such things, but it's like parting with an old friend. Poor Mary's harp must go next. But here comes Tiernay. Well, doctor, what news?”
The doctor shook his head twice or thrice despondingly, but said nothing; at last, he muttered, in a grumbling voice,—
“I was twice at the Hall, but there's no seeing Cashel himself; an insolent puppy of a valet turned away contemptuously as I asked for him, and said,—
“Mr. Linton, perhaps, might hear what you have to say.'”
“Is Kennyfeck to be found?”
“Yes, I saw him for a few minutes; but he's like the rest of them. The old fool fancies he 's a man of fashion here, and told me he had left 'the attorney' behind, in Merrion Square. He half confessed to me, however, what I feared. Cashel has either given a promise to give this farm of yours to Linton—”
“Well, the new landlord will not be less kind than the old one.”
“You think so,” said Tiernay, sternly. “Is your knowledge of life no better than this? Have you lived till now without being able to read that man? Come, come, Corrigan, don't treat this as a prejudice of mine; I have watched him closely, and he sees it. I tell you again, the fellow is a villain.”
“Ay, ay,” said Corrigan, laughing; “your doctor's craft has made you always on the look-out for some hidden mischief.”
“My doctor's craft has taught me to know that symptoms are never without a meaning. But enough of him. The question is simply this: we have, then, merely to propose to Cashel the purchase of your interest in the cottage, on which you will cede the possession.”
“Yes; and give up, besides, all claim at law; for you know we are supported by the highest opinions.”
“Pooh! nonsense, man; don't embarrass the case by a pretension they 're sure to sneer at. The cottage and the little fields behind it are tangible and palpable; don't weaken your case by a plea you could not press.”
“Have your own way, then,” said the old man, mildly.
“It is an annuity, you say, you 'd wish?”
“On Mary's life, not on mine, doctor.”
“It will be a poor thing,” said Tiernay, with a sigh.
“They say we could live in some of the towns in Flanders very cheaply,” said Corrigan, cheerfully.
“You don't know how to live cheaply,” rejoined Tiernay, crankily. “You think, if you don't see a man in black behind your chair, and that you eat off delf instead of silver, that you are a miracle of simplicity. I saw you last Sunday put by the decanter with half a glass of sherry at the bottom of it, and you were as proud of your thrift as if you had reformed your whole household.”
“Everything is not learned in a moment, Tiernay,” said Corrigan, mildly.
“You are too old to begin, Con Corrigan,” said the other, gravely. “Such men as you, who have not been educated to narrow fortunes, never learn thrift; they can endure great privations well enough, but it is the little, petty, dropping ones that break down the spirit,—these they cannot meet.”
“A good conscience and a strong will can do a great deal, Tiernay. One thing is certain,—that we shall escape persecution from him. He will scarcely discover us in our humble retreat.”
“I've thought of that too,” said Tiernay; “it is the greatest advantage the plan possesses. Now, the next point is, how to see this same Cashel; from all that I can learn, his life is one of dissipation from morning till night. Those fashionable sharpers by whom he is surrounded are making him pay dearly for his admission into the honorable guild.”
“The greater the pity,” sighed Corrigan; “he appeared to me deserving of a different fate. An easy, complying temper—”
“The devil a worse fault I 'd with my enemy,” broke in Tiernay, passionately. “A field without a fence,—a house without a door to it! And there, if I am not mistaken, I hear his voice; yes, he 's coming along the path, and some one with him too.”
“I 'll leave you to talk to him, Tiernay, for you seem in 'the vein.'” And with these words the old man turned into a by-path, just as Cashel, with Lady Kilgoff on his arm, advanced up the avenue.
Nothing is more remarkable than the unconscious homage tendered to female beauty and elegance by men whose mould of mind, as well as habit, would seem to render them insensible to such fascinations, nor is their instinctive admiration a tribute which beauty ever despises.
The change which came over the rough doctor's expression as the party came nearer exemplified this truth strongly. The look of stern determination with which he was preparing to meet Cashel changed to one of astonishment, and, at last, to undisguised admiration, as he surveyed the graceful mien and brilliant beauty before him. They had left the phaeton at the little wicket, and the exercise on foot had slightly colored her cheek, and added animation to her features,—the only aid necessary to make her loveliness perfect.
“I have taken a great liberty with my neighbor, Doctor Tiernay,” said Cashel, as he came near. “Let me present you, however, first,—Doctor Tiernay, Lady Kilgoff. I had been telling her Ladyship that the only picturesque portion of this country lies within this holly enclosure, and is the property of my friend Mr. Corrigan, who, although he will not visit me, will not, I 'm sure, deny me the pleasure of showing his tasteful grounds to my friends.”
“My old friend would be but too proud of such a visitor,” said Tiernay, bowing low to Lady Kilgoff.
“Mr. Cashel has not confessed all our object, Mr. Tiernay,” said she, assuming her most gracious manner. “Our visit has in prospect the hope of making Miss Leicester's acquaintance; as I know you are the intimate friend of the family, will you kindly say if this be a suitable hour, or, indeed, if our presence here at all would not be deemed an intrusion?”
The doctor colored deeply, and his eye sparkled with pleasure; for strange enough as it may appear, while sneering at the dissipations of the great house, he felt a degree of indignant anger at the thought of Mary sitting alone and neglected, with gayeties around her on every side.
“It was a most thoughtful kindness of your Ladyship,” replied he, “for my friend is too old and too infirm to seek society; and so the poor child has no other companionship than two old men, only fit to weary each other.”
“You make me hope that our mission will succeed, sir,” said Lady Kilgoff, still employing her most fascinating look and voice; “we may reckon you as an ally, I trust.”
“I am your Ladyship's most devoted,” said the old man, courteously; “how can I be of service?”
“Our object is to induce Miss Leicester to pass some days with us,” said she. “We are plotting various amusements that might interest her,—private theatricals among the rest.”
“Here she comes, my Lady,” said Tiernay, with animation; “I am proud to be the means of introducing her.”
Just at this instant Mary Leicester had caught sight of the party, and, uncertain whether to advance or retire, was standing for a moment undecided, when Tiernay called out:
“Stay a minute, Miss Mary; Lady Kilgoff is anxious to make your acquaintance.”
“This is a very informal mode of opening an intimacy, Miss Leicester,” said Lady Kilgoff; “pray let it have the merit of sincerity, for I have long desired to know one of whom I have heard so much.”
Mary replied courteously to the speech, and looked pleasedly towards Cashel, to whom she justly attributed the compliment insinuated.
As the two ladies moved on side by side, engaged in conversation, Tiernay slackened his pace slightly, and, in a voice of low but earnest import, said,—
“Will Mr. Cashel consider it an intrusion if I take this opportunity of speaking to him on a matter of business?”
“Not in the least, doctor,” said Cashel, gayly; “but it's right I should mention that I am most lamentably ignorant of everything that deserves that name. My agent has always saved me from the confession, but the truth will out at last.”
“So much the worse, sir,—for others as well as for yourself,” replied Tiernay, bluntly. “The trust a large fortune imposes—But I shall forget myself if I touch on such a theme. My business is this, sir,—and, in mercy to you, I 'll make it very brief. My old friend, Mr. Corrigan, deems it expedient to leave this country, and, in consequence, to dispose of the interest he possesses in these grounds, so long embellished by his taste and culture. He is well aware that much of what he has expended here has not added substantial value to the property; that, purely ornamental, it has, in great part, repaid himself by the many years of enjoyment it has afforded him. Still, he hopes, or, rather, I do for him,—for, to speak candidly, sir, he has neither courage nor hardihood for these kind of transactions,—I hope, sir, that you, desirous of uniting this farm to the large demesne, as I understand to be the case, will not deem this an unfitting occasion to treat liberally with one whose position is no longer what it once was. I must take care, Mr. Cashel, that I say nothing which looks like solicitation here; the confidence my friend has placed in me would be ill requited by such an error.”
“Is there no means of securing Mr. Corrigan's residence here?” said Cashel. “Can I not accommodate his wishes in some other way, and which should not deprive me of a neighbor I prize so highly?”
“I fear not. The circumstances which induce him to go abroad are imperative.”
“Would it not be better to reflect on this?” said Cashel. “I do not seek to pry into concerns which are not mine, but I would earnestly ask if some other arrangement be not possible?”
Tiernay shook his head dubiously.
“If this be so, then I can oppose no longer. It only remains for Mr. Corrigan to put his own value on the property, and I accept it.”
“Nay, sir; this generosity will but raise new difficulties. You are about to deal with a man as high-hearted as yourself, and with the punctilious delicacy that a narrow fortune suggests, besides.”
“Do you, then, doctor, who know both of us, be arbitrator. Let it not be a thing for parchments and lawyers' clerks; let it be an honorable understanding between two gentlemen, and so, no more of it.”
“If the world were made up of men like yourself and my old friend, this would be, doubtless, the readiest and the best solution of the difficulty,” said Tiernay; “but what would be said if we consented to such an arrangement? What would not be said? Ay, faith, there's not a scandalous rumor that malice could forge would not be rife upon us.”
“And do you think such calumnies have any terror for me?” cried Cashel.
“When you've lived to my age, sir, you'll reason differently.”
“It shall be all as you wish, then,” said Cashel. “But stay!” cried he, after a moment's thought; “there is a difficulty I had almost forgotten. I must look that it may not interfere with our plans. When can I see you again? Would it suit you to come and breakfast with me tomorrow? I 'll have my man of business, and we 'll arrange everything.”
“Agreed, sir; I'll not fail. I like your promptitude. A favor is a double benefit when speedily granted.”
“Now I shall ask one from you, doctor. If I can persuade my kind friends here to visit us, will you too be of the party sometimes?”
“Not a bit of it. Why should I, sir, expose you to the insolent criticism my unpolished manners and rude address would bring upon you—or myself to the disdain that fashionable folk would show me? I am proud—too proud, perhaps—at the confidence you would repose in my honor; I don't wish to blush for my breeding by way of recompense. There, sir,—there is one yonder in every way worthy all the distinction rank and wealth can give her. I feel happy to think that she is to move amongst those who, if they cannot prize her worth, will at least appreciate her fascinations.”
“Will Mr. Corrigan consent?”
“He must,—he shall,” broke in Tiernay; “I'll insist upon it But come along with me into the cottage, while the ladies are cementing their acquaintance; we'll see him, and talk him over.”
So saying, he led Cashel into the little library, where, deep sunk in his thoughts, the old man was seated, with an open book before him, but of which he had not read a line.
“Con!” cried Tiernay, “Mr. Cashel has come to bring you and Miss Mary up to the Hall to dinner. There, sir, look at the face he puts on,—an excuse in every wrinkle of it!”
“But, my dear friend—my worthy doctor—you know perfectly—-”
“I 'll know perfectly that you must go,—no help for it I have told Mr. Cashel that you 'd make fifty apologies—pretend age—Ill-health—want of habit, and so on; the valid reason being that you think his company a set of raffs, and—”
“Oh, Tiernay, I beg you 'll not ascribe such sentiments to me.”
“Well, I thought so myself, t' other day,—ay, half-an-hour ago; but there is a lady yonder, walking up and down the grass-plot, has made me change my mind. Come out and see her, man, and then say as many 'No's' as you please.” And, half-dragging, half-leading the old man out, Tiernay went on:—
“You 'll see, Mr. Cashel, how polite he 'll grow when he sees the bright eyes and the fair cheek. You 'll not hear of any more refusals then, I promise you.”
Meanwhile, so far had Lady Kilgoff advanced in the favorable opinion of Miss Leicester that the young girl was already eager to accept the proffered invitation. Old Mr. Corrigan, however, could not be induced to leave his home, and so it was arranged that Lady Kilgoff should drive over on the following day to fetch her; with which understanding they parted, each looking forward with pleasure to their next meeting.
Amid all the plans for pleasure which engaged the attention of the great house, two subjects now divided the interest between them. One was the expected arrival of the beautiful Miss Leicester,—“Mr. Cashel's babe in the wood,” as-Lady Janet called her,—the other, the reading of a little one-act piece which Mr. Linton had written for the company. Although both were, in their several ways, “events,” the degree of interest they excited was very disproportioned to their intrinsic consequence, and can only be explained by dwelling on the various intrigues and schemes by which that little world was agitated.
Lady Janet, whose natural spitefulness was a most catholic feeling, began to fear that Lady Kilgoff had acquired such an influence over Cashel that she could mould him to any course she pleased,—even a marriage. She suspected, therefore, that this rustic beauty had been selected by her Ladyship as one very unlikely to compete with herself in Roland's regard, and that she was thus securing a lasting ascendancy over him.
Mrs. Leicester White, who saw, or believed she saw, herself neglected by Roland, took an indignant view of the matter, and threw out dubious and shadowy suspicions about “who this young lady might be, who seemed so opportunely to have sprung up in the neighborhood,” and expressed, in confidence, her great surprise “how Lady Kilgoff could lend herself to such an arrangement.”
Mrs. Kennyfeck was outraged at the entrance of a new competitor into the field, where her daughter was no longer a “favorite.” In fact, the new visitor's arrival was heralded by no signs of welcome, save from the young men of the party, who naturally were pleased to hear that a very handsome and attractive girl was expected.
As for Aunt Fanny, her indignation knew no bounds; indeed, ever since she had set foot in the house her state had been one little short of insanity. In her own very graphic phrase, “She was fit to be tied at all she saw.” Now, when an elderly maiden lady thus comprehensively sums up the cause of her anger, without descending to “a bill of particulars,” the chances are that some personal wrong—real or imaginary—is more in fault than anything reprehensible in the case she is so severe upon. So was it here. Aunt Fanny literally saw nothing, although she heard a great deal. Daily, hourly, were the accusations of the whole Kennyfeck family directed against her for the loss of Cashel. But for her, and her absurd credulity on the statement of an anonymous letter, and there had been no yacht voyage with Lady Kilgoff—no shipwreck—no life in a cabin on the coast—no——In a word, all these events had either not happened at all, or only occurred with Livy Kennyfeck for their heroine.
Roland's cold, almost distant politeness to the young ladies, was marked enough to appear intentional; nor could all the little by-play of flirtation with others excite in him the slightest evidence of displeasure. If the family were outraged at this change, poor Livy herself bore up admirably; and while playing a hundred little attractive devices for Cashel, succeeded in making a very deep impression on the well-whiskered Sir Harvey Upton, of the—th. Indeed, as Linton, who saw everything, shrewdly remarked, “She may not pocket the ball she intended, but, rely on't, she 'll make a 'hazard' somewhere.”
Of all that great company, but one alone found no place in her heart for some secret wile; this was Miss Meek, who, sadly disappointed at the little influence of her royalty, had ceased to care much for in-door affairs, and spent her mornings “schooling” with Charley, and her evenings listening to sporting talk whenever two or three “fast men” got together in the drawing-room.
The evening that preceded Miss Leicester's intended arrival had been fixed for the reading of Mr. Linton's comedy,—a little dramatic piece, which, whether he had stolen wholesale from the French, or only borrowed in part, none knew; but various were the rumors that it would turn out to be a very satirical composition, with allusions to many of those who were to sit in judgment over it. How this supposition originated, or with whom, there is no saying, nor if well-founded in any respect, for Linton had never shown his sketch to any one, nor alluded to it, save in the most vague manner.
Each, however, looked to see his neighbor “shown up;” and while one said, “What a character could be made of old Sir Andrew, with his vulgarity, his deafness, and his gluttony!” another thought that Downie Meek, in his oily smoothness, his sighings, and his “dear me's,” would be admirable,—all the ladies averring that Lady Kilgoff would be a perfect embodiment of Lady Teazle as Sir Peter suspected and Joseph intended her to be.
Fears for individual safety were merged in hopes of seeing others assailed, and it was in something like a flutter of expectancy that the party assembled in the drawing-room before dinner. Great was their surprise to find that Mr. Linton did not make his appearance. The dinner was announced, but he never came, and his place vacant at the foot of the table was the continual suggester of every possible reason for his absence. If Lady Kilgoff could not divest herself of a certain terror,—vague and meaningless, it is true,—the dread she felt proceeded from knowing him to be one whose every act had some deep purpose; while others were then canvassing his absence in easy freedom, she took the first opportunity of asking Cashel whether he were in the secret, or if it were really true that Linton had not communicated, even with him, about his departure.
“I am no better informed than my friends here,” said Roland; “and, to say truth, I have given little thought about the matter. We have not, as you are aware, of late seen so much of each other as we used once; he has himself rather drawn off me, and I have left the interval between us to widen, without much regret.”
“Remember, however, what I told you: he can be a terrible enemy.”
Cashel smiled calmly as he said, “I have consorted with men whose vengeance never took longer to acquit than the time occupied in drawing a knife from the sleeve or a pistol from the girdle. I care very little for him whose weapon is mere subtlety.”
“It is this over-confidence makes me fear for you,” said she, anxiously; “for, I say again, you do not know him.”
“I wish I never had,” said Cashel, with an earnestness of voice and accent. “He has involved me in a hundred pursuits for which I feel neither taste nor enjoyment. To him I owe it that pleasure is always associated in my mind with mere debauch; and the only generosity he has taught me has been the spendthrift waste of the gaming-table.”
“Could you not find out something of him,—when he went, and in what direction?” said she, anxiously. “I cannot tell you why, but my heart misgives me about his departure.”
More in compliance with her scruples than that he deemed the matter worth a thought, Cashel left the room to make inquiries from the servants; but all he could learn was, that Mr. Linton arose before daybreak and left the house on foot, his own servant not knowing in what direction, nor having heard anything of his master's previous intention.
His intimacy with the family at the cottage left it possible that they might know something of his movements and Cashel accordingly despatched a messenger thither to ask; but with the same fruitless result as every previous inquiry.
While Cashel was following up this search with a degree of interest that increased as the difficulty augmented, he little knew how watchfully his every word and gesture was noted down by one who stood at his side. This was Mr. Phillis, who, while seeming to participate in his master's astonishment, threw out from time to time certain strange, vague hints, less suggestive of his own opinions than as baits to attract those of his master.
“Very odd, indeed, sir,—very strange; so regular a gentleman, too,—always rising at the same hour. His man says, he 's like the clock. To be sure,” added he, after a pause, “his manner is changed of late.”
“How do you mean?” asked Cashel, hurriedly.
“He seems anxious, sir,—uneasy, as one might say.”
“I have not perceived it.”
“His man says—”
“What care I for that?” said Cashel, impatiently. “It is not to pry into Mr. Linton's habits that I am here, it is to assure myself that no accident has happened to him, and that if he stand in need of my assistance, I shall not be neglecting him. Tell two of the grooms to take horses and ride down to Killaloe and Dunkeeran, and ask at the inns there if he has been seen. Let them make inquiry, too, along the road.” With these directions, hastily given, he returned to the drawing-room, his mind far more interested in the event than he knew how to account for.
“No tidings of Tom?” said Lord Charles Frobisher, lounging carelessly in a well-cushioned chair.
Cashel made a sign in the negative.
“Well, it's always a satisfaction to his friends to know that he 'll not come to harm,” said he, with an ambiguous smile.
“The country is much disturbed at this moment,” said the Chief Justice; “the calendar was a very heavy one last assize. I trust no marauding party may have laid hold of him.”
“Ah, yes, that would be very sad indeed,” sighed Meek; “mistaking him for a spy.”
“No great blunder, after all,” said Lady Janet, almost loud enough for other ears than her next neighbor's.
“If the night were moonlight,” said Miss Meek, as she opened a shutter and peeped out into the darkness, “I 'd say he was trying those fences we have laid out for the hurdle-race.”
“By Jove, Jim, that is a shrewd thought!” said Lord Charles, forgetting that he was addressing her by a familiar sobriquet he never used before company.
“You have a bet with him, Charley?” said Upton.
“Yes, we have all manner of bets on the race, and I 'll have one with you, if you like it,—an even fifty that Tom turns up 'all right and no accident,' after this bolt.”
“Ah, my Lord, you 're in the secret, then!” said Aunt Fanny, whose experiences of sporting transactions, derived from “the West,” induced her to suspect that a wager contained a trap-fall.
A very cool stare was the only acknowledgment he deigned to return to this speech, while Mrs. Kennyfeck looked unutterable reproaches at her unhappy relative.
“I call the present company to witness,” said Sir Harvey Upton, “that if Tom has to come to an untimely end, he has bequeathed to me his brown cob pony, Batter.”
“I protest against the gift,” said Miss Kennyfeck; “Mr. Linton told me, if he were killed in the steeplechase on Tuesday next, I should have Batter.”
“That was a special reservation, Miss Kennyfeck,” said the Chief Justice; “so that if his death did not occur in the manner specified, the deed or gift became null and void.”
“I only know,” said Miss Meek, “that Mr. Linton said, as we came back from the hurdle-field,—'Remember, Batter is yours if—if—'” She hesitated and grew red, and then stopped speaking, in evident shame and confusion.
“If what? Tell us the condition; you are bound to be candid,” said several voices together.
“I'll tell you but I'll not tell any one else,” said the young girl, turning to Lady Kilgoff; and at the same instant she whispered in her ear, “if I were to be married to Mr. Cashel.”
“Well,” said her Ladyship, laughing, “and was the bribe sufficient?”
“I should think not!” replied she, with a scornful toss of the head, as she walked back to her seat.
“I winna say,” said Sir Andrew, “but I ha' a bit claim mysel to that bonnie snuff-box he ca'd a Louis-Quatorze; if ye mind, leddies, I asked him to mak' me a present o' it, and he replied, 'In my weell, Sir Andrew; I'll leave it ye in my weell.'”
“I foresee there will be abundance of litigation,” said the Chief Justice, “for the claims are both numerous and conflicting.”
“You 'll not be troubled with the next of kin, I believe,” said Lady Janet, in her most spiteful of voices.
“I say, my Lord Chief Justice,” said Frobisher, “let me have a travelling opinion from you, on a legal point. Wouldn't Linton's heirs, or representatives, or whatever they 're called, be bound to 'book up' if Ramekin is beaten in the handicap?”
“The law expressly declares such transactions without its pale, my Lord,” said the judge, rebukingly.
“Well, I can only say,” interrupted Upton, “that when we were in cantonments at Sickmabund, Jack Faris 'of ours' had a heavy stake in a game of piquet with the major, and just as he was going to count his point, he gave a tremendous yell, and jumped up from the table. It was a cobra capella had bitten him in the calf of the leg. Everything was done for him at once, but all in vain; he swelled up to the size of four, and died in about two hours. It was rather hard on old Cox, the major, who had two hundred pounds on it, and a capital hand; and so he made a representation to the mess, showing that he had seven cards to his point, with a quint in hearts; that, taking in the ace of clubs, he should count a quatorze, and, therefore, unquestionably win the game. The thing was clear as day, and so they awarded him the stakes. Cox behaved very handsomely, too; for he said, 'If Faris's widow likes to play the game out, I 'll give her the opportunity when we get back to England, and back myself, two to one.'”
“The Chevalier Bayard himself could not have done more,” said Miss Kennyfeck, with admirable gravity.
“I must say,” resumed the dragoon, “we thought it handsome, for old Cox was always hard up for money.”
“And what is to become of our theatricals, if Mr. Linton should have been so ill-natured as to drown himself?” said Mrs. White, in a most disconsolate tone; for she had already made terrible havoc in her wardrobe to accomplish a Turkish costume.
“Such a disappointment as it will be,” sighed Olivia Kennyfeck, who had speculated on a last effort upon Cashel in a Mexican dress, where, certes, superfluity should not be the fault.
“You can always make some compensation for the disappointment,” said Lady Kilgoff, “by a fancy ball.”
“Oh, delightful! the very thing!” exclaimed several together. “When shall it be, Mr. Cashel?”
“I am entirely at your orders,” said he, bowing courteously.
“Shall we say Tuesday, then?”
“Not Tuesday; we have the race on that morning,” said Frobisher; “and some of us, at least, will be too tired for a ball afterwards.”
“Well, Wednesday,—is Wednesday open?”
“Wednesday was fixed for a boat excursion to Holy Island,” said Cashel.
“You can't have Thursday, then,” exclaimed Lady Janet; “that is the only evening we ever have our rubber. I'll not give you Thursday.”
“Friday we are to have some people at dinner,” said Cashel; “and Saturday was to have been some piece of electioneering festivity for Linton's constituents.”
“What matter now?” said Mrs. White; “perhaps the poor dear man is in a better place. A very sad thought,” sighed she; “but such things are happening every day.”
“Ah, yes, very sad,” responded Meek, who never failed to perform echo to any one's lamentation.
“Ah, indeed!” chimed in Aunt Fanny, “cut off like a daisy.” And she wiped her eyes and looked solemn, for she believed she was quoting Scripture.
At last it was decided that the ball should come off on the earliest evening possible, irrespective of all other arrangements; and now the company formed in a great circle, discussing dresses and characters and costumes with an eager interest that showed how little Linton's fate had thrown a shadow over the bright picture of anticipated pleasure.