It was a rainy day,—one of those downright pelting, pouring, swooping wet days which Ireland is accustomed to, for nearly one half of every year. All out-of-door occupation was impossible; the most fidgety could only get as far as the stables, to smoke a cigar and “chaff” horse-talk with the grooms; while the more resigned wandered from room to room, and place to place, in that restlessness that defies common philosophy to subdue.
A wet day in a country house is always a severe trial. Sociability will not be coerced, and the greater the necessity for mutual assistance, the less is the disposition to render it; besides, they who habitually contribute least to the enjoyment of their fellows have always great resources of annoyance at such periods,—as the most insignificant instrument in the orchestra can at any moment destroy the harmony of the band.
Scarcely was breakfast over in Tubbermore than the guests were scattered in various directions, it was difficult to say where. Now and then, some one would peep into the drawing-room or the library, and, as if not seeing “the right man,” shut the door noiselessly, and depart. Of the younger men, many were sleeping off the debauch of the previous evening. Downie Meek, who had a theory upon the subject, always kept his bed while it rained. Sir Andrew had, unfortunately, mistaken a lotion containing laudanum for some concoction of bitters, and was obliged to be kept eternally walking up and down stairs, along corridors and passages, lest he should drop asleep; his man, Flint, accompanying him with “the wakeful announcement” of “Hae a care, Sir Andrew; here 's my leddy,”—an antidote to the narcotic worth all the Pharmacopoeia contained.
Lady Janet was meanwhile deep in the formation of a stomachic, which, judging from the maid's face as she tasted it, must needs have been of the pungent order. Mrs. White was letter-writing. Howie was sketching heads of the company, under the title of “Beauties of Ireland,” for a weekly newspaper. Frobisher was instructing Miss Meek in the science of making knee-caps for one of his horses; and so with the remainder, a few only were to be seen below stairs; of these the “Chief” was fast asleep with the “Quarterly” on his knee, and a stray subaltern or two sat conning over the “Army List,” and gazing in stupid wonder at their own names in print! And now we come to the Kennyfecks, at whose door a servant stands knocking for the second or third time. “Come in” is heard, and he enters.
The blinds are drawn, which, adding to the gloom of the day, the vast apartment is in semi-darkness, and it is some time before you can descry the figures. On a sofa sits Mrs. Kennyfeck in a kind of travelling-dress, with her bonnet beside her; fragments of ribbons and stray articles of dress litter the sofa and the table, several trunks are strewn about, and a maid and a man are performing a pas de deux on an “imperial,” which, in its efforts to close at the lock, is giving way simultaneously at the hinges. Miss Kennyfeck stands at the chimney burning notes and letters, of which, as she glances from time to time, her features betray the tenor; and, lastly, Olivia is lying on a sofa, her face concealed between her hands, and only the quick palpitation of her bosom showing that her agitation is not lulled in slumber.
“What does he say? I can't hear him with all that stamping,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck; and her voice was not of the dulcet order.
“He says the post-horses have come, mamma, and wishes to know when he's to come round with the carriage.”
“When I give orders for it; not till then,” said she, imperiously; and the man, abashed in such a presence, departed.
“There, Pearse, leave it so; I cannot bear that noise any longer. Frances, you need n't wait; I 'll send for you if I want you;” and the servants withdrew.
“He's at least two hours away, now,” said she, addressing her eldest daughter.
“Very nearly. It wanted only a few minutes to eleven when Mr. Cashel sent for him.”
“I hope, Caroline, that he will remember what is due, not to himself,—I cannot say that,—but to me, on this occasion. It is impossible that Cashel can avoid the acknowledgment of his attentions; nothing but your father's incompetence could permit of his escape.”
“It's too late, mamma,—altogether too late. When Aunt Fanny—”
“Don't speak of her; don't even mention her name in my presence,” cried Mrs. Kennyfeck, with an accent of bitter anguish.
“I was merely going to observe, mamma, that her conduct has involved us in such ridicule, that reparation of the mischief is out of the question.”
“I wish we were away; I cannot bear to stay another day here,” said Olivia, with a deep sigh.
“If Aunt—”
“Don't call her your aunt, Caroline,—I forbid it; she is no sister of mine; she has been the evil genius of our family all her life long. But for her and her wiles I had never been married to your father! Just fancy what a position you might have had now, but for that cruel mishap.”
The problem, to judge from Miss Kennyfeck's face, seemed difficult to solve; but she prudently held her peace.
“You may rest assured they know it all below stairs. That odious Lady Janet has told it in every dressing-room already.”
“And Linton, mamma,” said Caroline, whose sisterly feelings were merged in most impartial justice,—“only fancy Linton imitating Aunt Fanny's benediction with uplifted hands and eyes. I almost think I see him before me, and hear the insolent shouts of laughter on every side.”
“Give me the aromatic vinegar!” cried Mrs. Kennyfeck, with an accent like suffocation.
“I think there 's some one at the door. Come in,” cried Miss Kennyfeck; and a very smartly dressed groom entered with a note.
“Is there any answer to this?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, listlessly, who thought it one of the habitual invitations to some excursion in a carriage or on horseback.
“Yes, my Lady,” said the servant, bowing.
The title sounded pleasantly, and Mrs. K.'s features relaxed as she broke the seal.
Ah, Mrs. Kennyfeck, indolently and carelessly as you hold that small epistle in your fingers, it cost him who wrote it many a puzzling thought, and many a fair sheet of foolscap. Critics assure us that style is no criterion of the labor of composition, and that Johnson's rounded periods ran flippantly off the pen, while the seemingly careless sentences of Rousseau cost days and nights of toil. The note was from Sir Harvey Upton, and neither by its caligraphy nor grammar shed lustre on the literary genius of his corps. It went thus:—
“Shall we write, Cary?” whispered Mrs. Kennyfeck, in the very faintest of tones.
“Better not, mamma; a verbal 'happy to see Sir Harvey,' safer,” was the answer.
Mrs. Kennyfeck yielded to the sager counsel, and the servant departed with the message.
“We may leave the matter entirely with Livy, mamma,” said her sister, half sarcastically; “I opine that innocence, upon the present occasion, will carry the day.”
“I am glad of it,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck; “I am fatigued and out of spirits: I 'd rather not receive visitors.”
“A white frock and a little sentiment,—a sprig of jessamine and a bit of poetry!” said Miss K., as she arranged her hair at the glass; “only don't overdo it, Livy.”
“I 'd much rather you 'd not go!” said Olivia, languidly.
“Of course, my dear, we are perfectly aware of that; but we have our duties also. Mamma must take care that Aunt Fanny does not 'give you away' before you 're asked for; and I must see what the result of papa's interview with Cashel may be, lest you should make a bad market while a good bid is being offered.”
“Clever creature!” murmured Mrs. Kennyfeck, as she rose to leave the room.
“It will seem so odd, mamma, that I'm to receive him, alone!”
“Not at all, Livy; we are packing up to go off: there are the trunks and cap-cases all strewn about. You can be engaged with Frances, and send her to summon us when Sir Harvey comes,” said Miss Kennyfeck.
“Just so, my dear; and then you 'll entreat of him to sit down,—all as if you had heard nothing of his note; you 'll be quite lively and natural in your manner.”
“Ah, mamma, remember what Talleyrand said to the Emperor: 'Give me the instructions, sire, but leave the knavery to myself.' My sweet sister is quite diplomatic enough to re-echo it.”
Livy looked reproachfully at her, but said nothing.
“If I discover, my dear, that the high prize is on your ticket, I 'll wear a handkerchief round my neck. Without you see this emblem, don't discard your baronet.”
“Mamma, is this quite fair?” said Olivia. “Cary speaks as if my heart had no possible concern in the matter.”
“Quite the reverse, my dear; but bear in mind that you have only one heart, and it would not be altogether discreet to give it away to two parties. Cary is always right, my love, in morals as in everything else!”
“And how am I to behave, mamma,” said Olivia, with more courage than before, “if I am neither to refuse nor accept Sir Harvey's proposals?”
“Did you never flirt, Livy dearest? Doesn't every partner with whom you dance twice of the same evening make advances that are neither repelled nor received? The silliest boarding-school miss that ever blushed before her Italian teacher knows how to treat such difficulties, if they deserve the name. But we are delaying too long. Mamma! to your post, while I, in the library, establish a strict blockade over papa.”
With these words Miss Kennyfeck waved her hand affectedly in adieu, and led her mother from the room; while Olivia, after a second's pause, arose and arrayed more smoothly the silky tresses of her hair before the glass.
We have once already, in this veracious narrative, been ungallant enough to peep at this young lady, and coolly watch her strategy before the enemy. We will not repeat the offence, nor linger to mark how, as she walked the room, she stopped from time to time before the mirror to gaze on charms which expectancy had already heightened; in fact, we will quit the chamber with Mrs. Kennyfeck and her elder daughter, and as the choice is permitted which to follow, we select the latter.
“Here 's Miss Kennyfeck, by Jove!” cried Jennings, as she crossed the hall. “We have all been dying to see you; pray come here and give us your counsel.” And he led her into a small drawing-room, where, around a table covered with prints and colored drawings of costume, a considerable number of the guests were assembled.
“For mercy's sake, nothing out of the Waverley novels!” said the blond lady. “I am wearied of seeing the Jewess Rebecca wherever I go.”
“Well, I'll be Diana Vernon, I know that,” said Miss Meek; “you may all choose how you please.”
“But you can't be, my love, if we have the 'Midsummer Night's Dream,'” said Mrs. White.
“Why can't I, if Charley takes Osbaldiston?” said she.
“Because they are not characters of the piece.”
“Nobody cares for character in a masquerade!” said Linton.
“Or if they have any, they put a mask over it,” said Lady Janet
“I vote that we are all Tyrolese peasanths,” lisped the fat and dumpy Mrs. Malone. “It's a most picthuresque costhume.”
“What will you be, Sir Andrew?” cried another, as the old general passed the door in a dog-trot, with Flint behind him.
“By me saul! I thenk I'll be the Wanderin' Jew!” cried he, wiping the perspiration off his forehead.
“You hear that, Lady Janet?” said Linton, roguishly. “Sir Andrew intends to live forever.”
“So that I don't, sir, I can't complain,” said she, with a tartness quite electric.
“I incline to leave the choice of each free,” said Miss Kennyfeck, as she tossed over the drawings. “When you select a story, there are always a certain number of characters nobody likes to take.”
“I'll be Henri Quatre,” said an infantry captain. “I wish you 'd be Gabrielle, Miss Kennyfeck?”
“Thanks; but I 've a fancy for that Cephalonian costume.”
“Egad! you can always pick up a 'Greek' or two, here, to keep you company,” said a hussar; but no one joined his laugh.
“I'll be Don Belianis!” said a tall, melancholy subaltern.
“What were you at Bellingden's last year, Fillymore?”
“I went as 'Chiffney;' but they turned me out. The whole was mediaeval, and they said I was all wrong.”
“Try that turban, my dear Miss Kennyfeck,” said Mrs. White, who, suspecting the young lady wore false ringlets, made a vigorous effort to expose the cheat.
“By Jove! how becoming!” exclaimed Jennings. “Now, put on the mantle,—not over the right shoulder, but so,—crossed a little.”
“You ought to have this scarf round your neck,” said another; “blue and gold have such an excellent effect.”
“I vote for your wearing that,” said the hussar, quite smitten with her beauty. “What do they call the dress?”
“Costume of Leopoldine of Eschingen, who defended the 'Irongate' against the Turks, in 1662.”
“Where was that?” asked one.
“In somebody's avenue, I suppose,” lisped out the tall sub.
“No, no; it 's on some river or other. There's a cataract they call the Irongate,—I forget where.”
“The Lethe, perhaps,” said Miss Kennyfeck, slyly.
“Is not that a pace! by Jove! Cashel 's in a hurry. This way,” said Jennings; and they all rushed to the window in time to see Roland flit past at a full gallop.
Miss Kennyfeck did not wait for more; but, throwing off the turban and mantle, hastened out to catch her father, who, at the same instant, was issuing from the library..
“Now, pa,” said she, slipping her arm within his, “how is it to be? Pray, now, don't affect the mysterious, but say at once,—has he proposed?”
“Who? has who proposed?”
“Mr. Cashel, of course. How could I mean any other?”
“For you, my dear?” said he, for once venturing upon a bit of raillery.
“Pshaw, pa; for Olivia!”
“Nothing of the kind, my dear. Such a subject has never been alluded to between us.”
“Poor thing! she has been badly treated, then, that's all! It would, however, have saved us all a world of misconception if you had only said so at first; you must own that.”
“But you forget, Miss Kennyfeck, that I never supposed you entertained this impression. Mr. Cashel's conversation with me related exclusively to the affairs of his property.”
“Poor Livy!” said Miss Kennyfeck, letting go his arm and ascending the stairs. As Miss Kennyfeck drew near the door of the drawing room, she began to sing sufficiently loud to be heard by those within, and thus, judiciously heralding her approach, she opened the door and entered. Sir Harvey had been standing beside the chimney-piece with Olivia, but turned hastily round, his countenance exhibiting that state of mingled doubt, fear, and satisfaction, which vouched for the cleverness of the young lady's tactics. Nothing, in truth, could have been more adroit than her management; performing a feat which among naval men is known as “backing and filling,” she succeeded in manoeuvring for nigh an hour, without ever advancing or retiring. We should be unwilling to deny our reader the value of a lesson, did we not feel how the fairer portion of our audience would weary over a recital, in every detail of which they could instruct our ignorance.
The late Lord Londonderry was famed for being able to occupy “the house” for any given time without ever communicating a fact, raising a question, solving a difficulty, or, what is harder than all, committing himself. But how humbly does this dexterity appear beside the young-lady-like tact that, opposed by all the importunity of a lover, can play the game in such wise that after fifty-odd minutes the “pieces” should stand upon the board precisely as they did at the beginning!
“How do you do, Sir Harvey? Why are you not on that committee of costume in the little drawing-room where the great question at issue is between the time of the crusades and the swell mob?”
“I have been far more agreeably occupied, in a manner that my feelings”—here Olivia looked disappointed,—“my heart, I mean,” said he—and the young lady looked dignified—“my feelings and my heart, too,” resumed be, horribly puzzled which tack to sail upon, “assure me must nearly concern my future happiness.”
“How pleasant!” said Cary, laughingly, as if she accepted the speech as some high-flown compliment; “you are so fortunate to know what to do on a dreary wet day like this.”
Olivia, whose eyes were bent upon her sister, changed color more than once. “The signal was flying,” “Stop firing,” just at the moment when the enemy had all but “struck;” in less figurative phrase, Miss Kennyfeck's throat was encircled by the scarf which she had forgotten to lay aside on leaving the drawing-room.
The object was too remarkable to escape notice, and Olivia's face grew scarlet as she thought of her triumph.
Miss Kennyfeck saw this, but attributed the agitation to anything but its true cause.
“I 'm in search of mamma,” said she, and with a very peculiar glance at Olivia, left the room.
Sir Harvey's visit lasted full twenty minutes longer; and although no record has been preserved of what passed on the occasion, they who met him descending the stairs all agreed in describing his appearance as most gloomy and despondent. As for Olivia, she saw the door close after him with a something very like sorrow. There was no love in the case, nor anything within a day's journey of it; but he was good-looking, fashionable, well-mannered, and mustachioed. She would have been “my lady,” too; and though this is but a “brevet nobility” after all, it has all “the sound of the true metal.” She thought over all these things; and she thought, besides, how very sad he looked when she said “No;” and, how much sadder, when asked the usual question about “time, and proved devotion, and all that sort of thing,” she said “No,” again; and how, saddest of all, when she made the stereotyped little speech about “sisterly affection, and seeing him happy with another!” Oh dear! oh dear! is it not very wearisome and depressing to think that chess can have some hundred thousand combinations, and love-making but its two or three “gambits,”—the “fool's-mate” the chief of them? We have said she was sorry for what had occurred; but she consoled herself by remembering it was not her fault that Sir Harvey was not as rich as Cashel, and nephew to a live uncle!
As Sir Harvey's “lady”—Heaven forgive me, I had almost written “wife”—she would have been the envy of a very large circle of her Dublin acquaintance; and then she knew that these dragoon people have a way of making their money go so much further than civilians; and in all that regards horses, equipage, and outward show, the smartest “mufti” is a seedy affair beside the frogs of the new regulation pelisse! She actually began to feel misgivings about her choice. A high drag at the Howth races, a crowd of whiskered fellows of “ours,” and the band of the regiment in Merrion Square, came home to her “dear Dublin” imagination with irresistible fascination. In her mind's eye, she had already cut the “bar,” and been coldly distant with the infantry. It was a little revery of small triumphs, but the sum of them mounted up to something considerable.
“Is he gone, Livy?” said Cary, as, entering noiselessly, she stole behind her sister's chair.
“Yes, dear, he is gone!” said she, sighing slightly.
“My poor forlorn damsel, don't take his absence so much to heart! You 're certain to see him at dinner!”
“He said he'd leave this afternoon,” said she, gravely; “that he could n't bear to meet me after what had passed.”
“And what has passed, child?”
“You know, of course, Cary; I refused him!”
“Refused him!—refused him!—what possessed you to do so?”
“This!” said Olivia, gasping with terror at the unknown danger; and she caught hold of the fringe of her sister's scarf. Miss Kennyfeck started, and put her hand to her neck, and, suddenly letting it fall again, she leaned against the wall for support.
“This was a mistake, Livy,” said she, in a voice barely above a whisper; “I was trying on some costumes below stairs, and they tied this round my neck, where I utterly forgot it.”
“And there is nothing—” She could not go on, but, hanging her head, burst into tears.
“My poor dear Livy, don't give way so; the fault, I know, was all mine. Let me try if I cannot repair it Have you positively refused him?”
She nodded, but could not speak.
“Did you say that there was no hope,—that your sentiments could never change?”
“I did.”
“Come, that's not so bad; men never believe that. You did n't say that your affections were engaged?”
“No!”
“There 's a dear child,” said she, kissing her neck; “I knew you 'd not be guilty of such folly. And how did you part, Livy,—coldly, or in affectionate sorrow?”
“Coldly; we did not shake hands.”
“That's right; all as it ought to be. It is a sad blunder, but I hope not irreparable. Cheer up, child; depend upon it, my scarf is not so fatal as Aunt Fanny's blessing.”
“Ah, then, my dear, I don't see much difference in the end,” said that redoubtable lady herself, who issued from a small conservatory off the drawing-room, where she had lain in wait for the last half hour. “I heard it, my dears, and a nice hash you made of it between you, with your signals and telescopes,”—we believe she meant telegraphs; “you threw out the dirty water, now, in earnest!” And so saying, she proceeded to disentangle herself from a prickly creeper which had a most pertinacious hold of what Linton called her “scalp-lock.”
“Aunt Fanny's blessing indeed!” said she, for her temper knew no bounds when she saw the enemy silenced. “'T is little harm that would have done, if ye did n't take to screaming about it; as if any man could bear that! You drove him away, my dear, just the way your own mother did poor Major Cohlhayne,—with hard crying,—till he said, 'he 'd as soon go to a wake as take tay in the house.' And sure enough, she had to take up with your poor father, after! Just so. I never knew luck come of signals and signs. When the good thing 's before you, help yourself. My poor father used to say, 'Don't pass “the spirits” because there 's claret at the head of the table; who knows if it 'll ever come down to you?' And there you are, now! and glad enough you 'd be to take that curate I saw in Dublin, with the smooth face, this minute. I don't blame you as much as your poor foolish mother; she has you as she reared you. Bad luck to you for a plant!” cried she, as the ingenious creeper insinuated itself among the meshes of her Limerick lace collar. “Cary, just take this out for me;” but Cary was gone, and her sister with her. Nor did Aunt Fanny know how long her eloquence had been purely soliloquy.
She looked around her for a moment at the deserted battle-field, and then slowly retired.
Bad as the weather is,—and certainly even in Ireland a more drenching, driving-down, pouring rain never fell,—we must ask of our readers to follow Cashel, who at a slapping gallop rode on, over grass and tillage, now careering lightly over the smooth sward, now sweltering along heavily through deep ground, regardless of the pelting storm, and scarcely noticing the strong fences which at every instant tried the stride and strength of his noble horse.
If his speed was headlong, his seat was easy, and his hand as steady as if lounging along some public promenade; his features, however, were flushed, partly from the beating rain, but more from a feverish excitement that showed itself in his flashing eye and closely compressed lip. More than once, in crossing a difficult leap, his horse nearly fell, and although half on the ground, and only recovering by a scramble, he seemed not to heed the accident. At last he arrived at the tall oak paling which fenced the grounds of the cottage, and where it was his wont to halt and fasten his horse. Now, however, he rode fiercely at it, clearing the high leap with a tremendous spring, and alighting on the trimly kept grass-plat before the door.
A slight faint shriek was heard as the horse dashed past the window, and, pale with terror, Mary Leicester stood in the porch.
Cashel had meanwhile dismounted, and given his horse to the old gardener.
“Not hurt, Mr. Cashel?” said she, trying to seem composed, while she trembled in every limb.
“Not in the least. I never intended to have alarmed you, however.”
“Then it was no runaway?” said she, essaying a smile.
“I 'm ashamed to say I have not that excuse for so rudely trampling over your neat sward. Will Mr. Corrigan forgive me?”
“Of course he will, if he even ever knows that he has anything to forgive; but it so happens that he has gone into the village to-day,—an excursion he has not made for nigh a year. He wished to consult our friend the doctor on some matter of importance, and I half suspect he may have stayed to share his dinner.”
As Miss Leicester continued to make this explanation, they had reached the drawing-room, which, to Cashel's amazement, exhibited tokens of intended departure. Patches here and there on the walls showed where pictures had stood. The bookshelves were empty, the tables displayed none of those little trifling objects which denote daily life and its occupations, and his eye wandered over the sad-looking scene till it came back to her, as she stood reading his glances, and seeming to re-echo the sentiment they conveyed. “All this would seem to speak of leave-taking,” said Cashel, in a voice that agitation made thick and guttural.
“It is so,” said she, with a sigh; “we are going away.”
“Going away!” Simple as the words are, we have no sadder sounds in our language; they have the sorrowful cadence that bespeaks desertion; they ring through the heart like a knell over long-past happiness; they are the requiem over “friends no more,” and of times that never can come back again.
“Going away!” How dreary does it sound,—as if life had no fixed destination in future, but that we were to drift over its bleak ocean, the “waifs” of what we once had been!
“Going away!” cried Cashel. “But surely you have not heard—” He stopped himself; another word, and his secret had been revealed,—the secret he had so imperatively enjoined Tiernay to keep; for it was his intention to have left Ireland forever ere Mr. Corrigan should have learned the debt of gratitude he owed him. It is true, indeed, that one night of sleepless reflection had suggested another counsel, but had altered not his desire that the mystery should be preserved.
He was confused, therefore, at the peril he had so narrowly escaped, and for a moment was silent; at length he resumed, in a tone of assumed ease,—
“'Going away!' sounds to one like me, who have lived a life of wandering, so like pleasure that I always associate it with new scenes of enjoyment; I think all the sorrow is reserved for those who remain behind,—the deserted.”
“So it may,” said she, “with those who, like yourself, have roamed the world in the excitement of ardent youth, glorying in enterprise, thirsting for adventure; but there are others—ourselves, for instance—whose humble fortunes have linked them with one class of scenes and objects till they have grown part of our very natures; so that we only know the world as it is associated with things familiar to daily use. There are, doubtless, plants of more gorgeous foliage and fairer flowers in other countries, but we shall never learn to look at them as we do upon these that speak to us of home, of spring and summer, when they gladdened us, of autumn and winter, when our culture cared for them. There are sunsets more rich and glowing, but if we see them, it will be to think of that sinking orb which sent its last rays over that wide river, and lit up in a golden glory this little chamber. There 's not a charm the fairest clime can own but will have its highest merit in recalling some humble scene that tells of 'home.'”
“I never could leave a spot so dear to me as this were!” cried Cashel, who watched with ecstasy the impassioned beauty of her features.
“Do not say that,” said she, seriously. “We can all of us do what we ought, however it may try our courage. Yes, I say courage,” said she, smiling, “since I fancy it is a property you have a due respect for. If we leave scenes so dear to us as these, it is because we feel it a duty; and a duty fulfilled is a buckler against most sorrows. But we are wandering into a very sad theme,—at least, to judge from your grave looks. What news have you of your gay company?”
“I see but little of them,” said Cashel, abruptly.
“What a strange host!—and how do they amuse themselves?”
“As they fancy, I believe. I only know I never interfere with them, and they are kind enough to reciprocate the civility; and so we get on admirably.”
“I must say this scarcely speaks well for either party,” said she, laughing.
“I fear not; but it is true, notwithstanding.”
“You have a most accomplished friend, I believe?”
“Linton. Do you mean Linton?”
“Yes. He must be an excellent counsellor in all difficulties.”
Cashel did not look as if he concurred in the sentiment, but he said nothing; and Mary, half fearing that she had unwittingly given pain, was silent also. She was the first to speak.
“Do you know, Mr. Cashel, how I passed the morning? You 'd scarcely guess. It was in writing a long letter,—so long, indeed, that I began to fear, like many efforts of over-zeal, it might defeat itself, and never get read; and that letter was—to you.”
“To me! where is it, then?”
“There!” said she, pointing to some charred leaves beneath the grate. “I see your curiosity, and I have no pretension to trifle with it. But last night, late, papa dictated to me a long sermon on your account, premising that the impertinence was from one you should never see again, and one who, however indiscreet in his friendship, was assuredly sincere in it. Were the document in existence, I should probably not have to utter so many apologies; for, on the whole, it was very flattering to you.”
“And why is it not so?” cried Cashel, eagerly.
“I cannot tell you why.”
“Do you mean that you do not wish to tell, or do not know the reason?”
“I do not know the reason,” said she, firmly. “I was ill, slightly ill, this morning, and could not breakfast with papa. It was late when I arose, and he was on the very brink of starting for Dunkeeran; he seemed agitated and excited, and, after a few words of inquiry about my health, he said,—
“'That letter, Mary, have you written it? Well, burn it Throw it into the fire at once.'
“I did so; but I cannot conceal from you the deep interest he has taken in your fortunes,—a feeling which the dread of offending has possibly sentenced him to cherish in secret. At least, so I read his change of intention.”
“I had hoped he knew me better,” said Cashel, in whose voice a feeling of disappointment might be traced. “It is the misfortune of men like myself to make the most unfavorable impression, where alone they are anxious for the opposite. Now, it may seem very uncourteous, but I am less than indifferent what the fair company yonder think of me; and yet I would give much to stand high in Mr. Corrigan's esteem.”
“And you do so, believe me,” cried she, her eagerness moved by the evident despondency of his manner; “he speaks of you with all the interest of a father.”
“Do not say so,” cried Cashel, in a voice tremulous with anxiety; “do not say so, if you mean not to encourage hopes I scarcely dare to cherish.”
His look and manner, even more than his words, startled her, and she stared at him, uncertain what reply to make.
“I never knew a father, nor have I ever tasted a mother's affection. I have been one of whom fortune makes a plaything, as if to show how much worldly prosperity can consort with a desolate condition, and a heart for which none have sympathy. I had hoped, however, to attach others to me. I had joined in pursuits that were not mine, to endeavor to render myself companionable. I fell in with habits that were uncongenial, and tastes that I ever disliked; but without success. I might be 'the dupe.' but never 'the friend.' I could have borne much—I did bear much—to win something that resembled cordiality and esteem; but all in vain! When I lived the wild life of a Columbian sailor, I deemed that such men as I now associate with must be the very types of chivalry, and I longed to be of them, and among them. Still, the reproach lies not at their door. They stepped not out of their sphere to act a part,—I did; mine was all the sycophancy of imitation. The miserable cant of fashion formed all my code. But for this, I might have won good men's esteem; but for this, I might have learned what duties attach to fortune and station such as mine; and now I see the only one, from whom I hoped to gain the knowledge, about to leave me!”
“This despondency is ill-judging and unfair,” said Mary, in a kind tone. “You did, perhaps, choose your friends unwisely, but you judge them unjustly too. They never dreamed of friendship in their intercourse with you; they only thought of that companionship which men of the same age and fortune expect to meet in each other. If less worldly wise, or more generous than themselves, they deemed that they once had paid for their skill and cleverness; and so should you. Remember, that you put a value upon their intimacy which it never laid claim to, and that they were less false than were you self-deceived.”
“Be it so,” said Cashel, hastily. “I care little where the delusion began. I meant honestly, and if they played not on the square with me, the fault be theirs; but that is not what I would speak of, nor what brought me here to-day. I came to throw my last stake for happiness.” He paused, and took her hand in his. “I came,” said he,—and his lips trembled as he spoke,—“I came to ask you to be my wife!”
Mary withdrew her hand, which he had scarcely dared to press, and leaned upon the chimney-piece without speaking. It rarely happens that such an announcement is made to a young lady quite unexpectedly; such was, however, the case here: for nothing was she less prepared! Cashel, it is true, had long ceased to be indifferent to her; the evenings of his visits at the cottage were sure to be her very happiest; his absences made dreary blanks. The inartificial traits of his character had at first inspired interest; his generous nature, and his manly leaning to right, had created esteem of him. There were passages of romantic interest in his former life which seemed so well to suit his bold and dashing independence; and there was also an implicit deference, an almost humility, in the obedience he tendered to her grandfather which spoke much for one whom sudden wealth and prosperity might be supposed to have corrupted. Yet, all this while, had she never thought of what impression she herself was making.
“I have but one duty,” said she at last, in a faint whisper.
“Might I not share it with you, Mary?” said he, again taking her hand between his own; “you would not grudge me some part of his affection?”
“Who crossed the window there?” cried she, starting; “did you not see a figure pass?”
“No, I saw no one,—I thought of none, save you.”
“I am too much frightened to speak. I saw someone stop before the window and make a gesture, as if threatening,—I saw it in the glass.”
Cashel immediately hurried from the room, and, passing out, searched through the shrubberies on either side of the cottage, but without success. On examining closely, however, he could detect the trace of recent footsteps on the wet grass, but lost the direction on the gravel-walk; and it was in a frame of mind far from tranquil that be reentered the room.
“You saw no one?” said she, eagerly.
“Not one.”
“Nor any appearance of footsteps?”
“Yes, I did, or fancied I did, detect such before the window; but why should this alarm you, or turn your mind from what we spoke of? Let me once more—”
“Not now—not now, I beg of you; a secret misgiving is over me, and I am not generally a coward; but I have not the collectedness to speak to you as I ought. I would not wish to be unkind, nor would I yet deceive you. This cannot be.”
“Cannot be, Mary?”
“Do not ask me more now. You are too generous to give pain: spare me, then, the suffering of inflicting it on you. I will tell you my reasons, you shall own them to be sufficient.”
“When are we to meet again?” said Roland, as he moved slowly towards the door.
“There it is again!” cried she, in a voice of actual terror; and Cashel opened the window and sprang out; but even the slight delay in unfastening the sash prevented his overtaking the intruder, whoever he might be, while, in the abundance of evergreens about, search was certain to prove fruitless.
“Good-bye,” said she, endeavoring to smile; “you are too proud and high of spirit, if I read you aright, to return to a theme like this.”
“I am humble enough to sue it out,—a very suppliant,” said he, passionately.
“I thought otherwise of you,” said she, affecting a look of disappointment.
“Think of me how you will, so that you know I love you,” cried he, pressing his lips to her hand; and then, half-maddened by the conflict in his mind, he hastened out, and, mounting his horse, rode off, not, indeed, at the mad speed of his coming, but slowly, and with bent-down head.
Let a man be ever so little of a coxcomb, the chances are that he will always explain a refusal of this kind on any ground rather than upon that of his own unworthiness. It is either a case “of pre-engaged affection” or some secret influence on the score of family and fortune; and even this sophistry lends its balm to wounded self-love. Cashel, unhappily for his peace of mind, had not studied in this school, and went his way in deep despondency. Like many men who indulge but seldom in self-examination, he never knew how much his affections were involved till his proffer of them was refused. Now, for the first time, he felt that; now recognized what store he placed on her esteem, and how naturally he had turned from the wearisome dissipations of his own house to the cheerful happiness of “the cottage.” Neither could he divest himself of the thought that had Mary known him in his early and his only true character, she might not have refused him, and that he owed his failure to that mongrel thing which wealth had made him.
“I never was intended for this kind of life,” thought he. “I am driven to absurdities and extravagances to give it any character of interest in my eyes, and then I feel ashamed of such triviality. To live among the rich, a man should be born among them,—should have the habits, the tastes, and the traditions. These are to be imbibed from infancy, but not acquired in manhood,—at least, I will not begin the study.”
He turned homeward, still slowly. The bell was ringing which called the guests to dress for dinner, as he reached a large open lawn before the house, and for a moment he halted, muttering to himself, “How would it be, now, were I to turn my horse's head, and never re-enter that house? How many are there, of all my 'dear friends,' who would ever ask what befell me?”
Arrived at the door, he passed upstairs to his dressing-room, upon a table of which he perceived a very small note, sealed with Lady Kilgoff's initials. It was written in pencil, and merely contained one line: “Come over to me, before dinner, for one minute.—L. K.”
He had not seen her since the day before, when he had in vain sought to overtake her in the wood; and her absence from the dinner-table had seemed to him in pique at his breach of engagement. Was this an endeavor, then, to revive that strange relationship between them, which took every form save love-making, but was all the more dangerous on that account? Or was it merely to take up some commonplace plan of amusement and pleasure,—that mock importance given to trifles which as frequently makes them cease to be trifles?
Half careless as to what the invitation portended, and still pondering over his failure, he reached her door and knocked.
“Come in,” said she; and he entered.
Dressed for dinner with unusual taste and splendor, he had never seen her look so beautiful. For some time back she had observed an almost studied simplicity of dress, rarely wearing an ornament, and distinguishing herself rather by a half Puritanism of style. The sudden change to all the blaze of diamonds, and the softening influence of deep folds of lace, gave a brilliancy to her appearance quite magicial; nor was Cashel's breeding proof against a stare of amazement and admiration.
A deeper flush on her cheek acknowledged how she felt his confusion, and, hastening to relieve it, she said,—
“I have but a moment to speak to you. It is almost seven o'clock. You were at 'the cottage' to-day?”
“Yes,” said Roland, his cheek growing scarlet as he spoke.
“And, doubtless, your visit had some object of importance. Nay, no confessions. This is not curiosity on my part, but to let you know that you were followed. Scarcely had you left this, when Linton set out also, making a circuit by the wood, but at a speed which must have soon overtaken you. He returned some time before you, at the same speed, and entered by the back gate of the stables. From this window I could see him each time.”
“Indeed,” said Roland, remembering the figure Mary had seen before the window.
“You know my opinion of this man already. He never moves without a plan; and a plan, with him, is ever a treachery.”
“He avoids me strangely; we rarely meet now,—never by any chance alone. And even before others there is a forced gayety in his manner that all his artifice cannot pass off for real.”
“Have you thwarted him in anything?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Have you refused him any favor that he sought for?”
“Never.”
“Is he your debtor for what he ought, but never means, to pay?”
“Not even that. What I may have given him has been always without any reserve or thought of restitution.”
“Are your affections directed towards the same object?”
As she said this, the ease in which she commenced gradually left her, and her cheek grew flushed ere she finished.
“I cannot tell. There are no confidences between us; besides, a very bankrupt in love could not envy my solvency. Mine is a heart that cannot threaten dangerous rivalry!”
“You cannot be certain of that!” said she, as if thinking aloud.
Fortunately, Cashel did not hear the words, but stood in deep revery for some seconds.
“There! the second bell has rung; I must leave you. My Lord comes down to dinner to-day. It is by his orders that I am thus showily dressed. Linton has been filling his mind with stories of some embassy he is to have, and we are already rehearsing 'our excellencies!' I have but time to say, Be on your guard; Linton is no common enemy, nor does it need an injury to make him one.”
“It is very rude of me, I know, to interrupt so interesting a tête-à-tête, but Mr. Cashel's cook has feelings also at stake.”
These words were spoken by Lord Kilgoff, who, in a tone of no small irritation, now joined them.
“I was speaking of your mission, my Lord.”
“Which you forgot, of course, was not to be mentioned,—even to so sincere a well-wisher as Mr. Cashel.”
“In any case, my Lord, it remains safe in my keeping.”
“Very possibly, sir; but it is a poor earnest Lady Kilgoff gives of her fitness as the wife of a 'diplomatist.'”
Cashel gave his arm to Lady Kilgoff, without speaking, and sis Lordship followed them slowly towards the dining-room. Linton stood at the door as they entered, and his wan features grew flushed as the haughty beauty moved past him with the very coldest of recognitions.
“What an admirable taste is your Lordship's!” said he to the old peer; “Lady Kilgoff's diamonds are disposed with an elegance that bespeaks the guiding skill of a consummate artist.”
“Ha! you perceive it, then!” said he, smiling. “I own to you, the festooning the robe with bouquets of brilliants was a fancy of mine, and has, I think, a very pretty effect.”
“Storr told me that he had not one person in his employment could equal your Lordship in the harmonious arrangement of gems. He mentioned a bracelet, if I remember aright, made from your own designs, as the most beautifully chaste ornament he had ever seen.”
“You must pronounce for yourself, sir,” said the old lord, with a smile of elated vanity; and so, taking Linton's arm, he approached where Lady Kilgoff was seated in a group of ladies.
“Will you oblige me, madam,” said he, with a courteous bow, “by showing Mr. Linton your ruby and opal bracelet, which I had the poor merit of designing?”
“I am unfortunate enough not to have it here,” replied she, with a confusion which made the blood mount to her temples.
“I am grieved, madam, it should not enjoy the honor of your preference,” said Lord Kilgoff, with an air of pique. “Will you order your maid to fetch it?”
“I 've not got it, my Lord,” said she, coloring still deeper.
“Not got it, madam! You do not mean to imply—”
“Only that it is slightly broken,—a few stones have fallen out, and I have sent it to be repaired.”
“To be repaired, madam; and without my knowledge I To whom, pray?”
“That man in Dublin; I forget his name.”
“Your Ladyship means Leonard, I presume,” interposed Linton, with an air of courtesy, while, plainer than any words, his glance said, “My revenge is coming!”
“Leonard!” exclaimed Lord Kilgoff, with a look of horror. “Give Leonard that bracelet! the mould of which I refused to the Princess of Hohenhoffingen, and which I made Storr destroy in my own presence!”
“You perceive, my Lord,” cried Lady Janet, “her Ladyship is less exclusive than you are.”
“And generous enough to admire what may belong to another,” added Linton, but in a tone only audible by Lady Kilgoff.
“We have got a few minutes before dinner, madam. I must beg you will employ them in writing to Mr. Leonard to return the bracelet at once. Say it was a mistake on your part,—an inadvertence,—and done without my knowledge. Caution the man, too, about appropriating any portion of the design, and remind him that articles of virtu are protected by the Act of copyright.”
“We had better delay the postboy, my Lord,” said Linton; “he starts at seven precisely.”
“Do so, sir.”
“Dinner!” cried the butler, flinging wide the folding-doors.
“Could we delay that pleasant summons a few minutes, Mr. Cashel?” said Lord Kilgoff.
“It will not be necessary on my account, sir; I 'll write to-morrow.” And this she said with an air of haughty defiance that never failed to subdue the old peer's petulance; and then, accepting Cashel's arm, moved on without a word.
“Where is it? that's the question!” whispered Mrs. White to Lady Janet.
“Take you two to one it's not at Leonard's,” said Frobisher.
“Give you an even fifty, Linton knows all about it,” replied Upton.
“And ten to two that he 'll never tell!” chimed in Miss Meek; and so they took their places at the table.