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Roland Cashel, Volume I (of II)

by Charles Lever · English · Gutenberg #33468 · 794,138 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Roland Cashel, Volume I (of II)

Author: Charles Lever

Illustrator: Hablot Knight Browne


        
Release date: August 19, 2010 [eBook #33468]
                Most recently updated: February 27, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33468

Credits: Produced by David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROLAND CASHEL, VOLUME I (OF II) ***




Produced by David Widger





ROLAND CASHEL

By Charles James Lever.

With Illustrations By Phiz,

In Two Volumes. Vol. I.

Boston: Little, Brown, And Company. 1907.



To G. P. B. JAMES, Esq.

Dear James,--You, once upon a time, dedicated to me a tale of deep and
thrilling interest Let me now inscribe to you this volume on the plea
of that classic authority who, in the interchange of armour, “gave Brass
for Gold.”

It is, however, far less to repay the obligation of a debt by giving you
a “Roland”--not for your “Oliver,” but your “Stepmother”--than for the
pleasure of recording one “Fact” in a bulky tome of Fiction, that I now
write your name at the head of this page,--that fact being, the warm
memory I cherish of all our pleasant hours of intercourse, and the
sincere value I place upon the honor of your friendship.

Yours, in all esteem and affection,

CHARLES LEVER.

Palazzo Ximenes, Florence, Oct 20, 1849.




PREFACE.

I first thought of this story--I should say I planned it, if the
expression were not misleading--when living at the Lake of Como. There,
in a lovely little villa--the “Cima”--on the border of the lake, with
that glorious blending of Alpine scenery and garden-like luxuriance
around me, and little or none of interruption or intercourse, I had
abundant time to make acquaintance with my characters and follow
them into innumerable situations, and through adventures far more
extraordinary and exciting than I dared afterwards to recount.

I do not know how it may be with other story-tellers, but I have to own
for myself that the personages of a novel gain over at times a degree
of interest very little inferior to that inspired by living and real
people, and that this is especially the case when I have found myself in
some secluded spot and seeing little of the world. To such an ascendancy
has this deception attained, that more than once I have found myself
trying to explain why this person should have done that, and by what
impulse that other was led into something else. In fact, I have
found that there are conditions of the mind in which purely imaginary
creations assume the characters of actual people, and act positively as
though they were independent of the will that invented them.

Of the strange manner in which imagination can thus assume the mastery,
and for a while at least have command over the mind, I cannot give a
stronger instance within my own experience than the mode in which this
story was first conceived.

When I began I intended that the action should be carried on in the
land where the tale opened. The scene on every side of me had shed its
influence, the air was weighty with the perfume of the lime and the
orange. To days of dazzling brilliancy there succeeded nights of
tropical splendor; with stars of almost preternatural magnitude
streaking the calm lake with long lines of light. To people a scene
like this with the sort of characters that might befit it, was rather a
matter of necessity with me than choice, and it was then that Maritaña
revealed herself to me with a charm of loveliness I have never been able
to repicture. It was there I bethought me of those passionate natures
in which climate and soil and vegetation reproduce themselves, glowing,
ardent, and voluptuous as they are. It was there my fancy loved to stray
among the changeful incidents of lives of wild adventure and wilder
passion; and to imagine the strange discords that could be evoked
between the traits of a land that recalled Paradise and the natures that
were only angelic in the fall.

I cannot trust to my memory to remind me of the sort of tale I meaned to
write. I know there was to have been a perfect avalanche of adventure on
land and on sea. I know that through a stormy period of daily peril and
excitement, the traits of the Northern temperament in Roland himself
were to have asserted their superiority over his more impulsive
comrades; I know he was to have won that girl's love against a rivalry
that set life in the issue; and I have a vague impression of how such a
character might come by action and experience to develop such traits as
make men the rulers of their fellows.

Several of the situations occur to me, but not a single clew to the
story. There are even now scenes before me of prairie life and lonely
rides in passes of the Pampas; of homes where the civilized man had
never seen a brother nor heard a native tongue. It is in vain I endeavor
to recall anything like a connected narrative. All that I can well
remember is the great hold the characters had taken in my mind; how they
peopled the landscape around me, and followed me wherever I went.

This was in autumn. As winter drew nigh we moved into an Italian
city, much frequented by foreigners, and especially the resort of our
countrymen. The new life of this place and the interest they excited,
so totally unlike all that I had left at my little villa, effected a
complete revolution in my thoughts, utterly routing the belief I had
indulged in as to the characters of my story, and the incidents in which
they displayed themselves. Up to this all my efforts had been, as it
were, to refresh my mind as to a variety of events and people I had once
known, and to try if I could not recall certain situations which had
interested me. Now the spell was broken, all the charm of the illusion
gone, and I awoke to the dreary consciousness of my creatures being mere
shadows, and their actions as unreal as themselves.

There is a sort of intellectual bankruptcy in such awakenings; and
I know of few things so discouraging as this sudden revulsion from
dream-land to the cold _terra firma_ of unadorned fact.

There was little in the city we now lived in to harmonize with
“romance.” It was, in fact, all that realism could accomplish with the
aids of every taste and passion of modern society. That this life of
present-day dissipation should be enacted in scenes where every palace
and every street, every monument, and indeed every name recalled a
glorious past, may not impossibly have heightened the enjoyment of the
drama, but most unquestionably it vulgarized the actors.

Instead of the Orinoco and its lands of feathery palms, I had now
before me the Arno and its gay crowds of loungers, the endless tide of
equipages, and the strong pulse-beat of an existence that even, in the
highways of life, denotes passion and emotion.

What I had of a plan was lost to me from that hour. I was again in the
whirlpool of active existence, and the world around me was deep--triple
deep--in all cases of loving and hating, and plotting and gambling, of
intriguing, countermining, and betraying, as very polite people would
know how to do: occupations to watch, which inspire an intensity of
interest unknown in any other condition of existence.

Out of these impressions thus enforced came all the characters of my
story. Not one was a portrait, though in each and all were traits taken
from life. If I suffered myself on one single occasion to amass too many
of the characteristics of an individual into a sketch, it was in
the picture of the beau of Drumcondera; but there I was drawing from
recollection and not able to correct, as I should otherwise have done,
what might seem too close adherence to a model. I have been told that in
the character of Linton I have exaggerated wickedness beyond all belief.
I am sorry to reply that I made but a faint copy of him who suggested
that personage, and who lives and walks the stage of life as I write.
One or two persons--not more--who know him whose traits furnished the
picture, are well aware that I have neither overdrawn my sketch, nor
exaggerated my drawing.

The Kennyfeck young ladies--I am anxious to say--are not from life, nor
is Lady Kilgoff, though I have heard surmises to the contrary.

These are all the explanations and excuses that occur to me I have
to make of this story. Its graver faults are not within the pale of
apology; and for these I only ask indulgence,--the same indulgence that
has never been denied me.

CHARLES LEVER.

Trieste, 1872.





ROLAND CASHEL.




CHAPTER I. DON PEDRO'S GUESTS.

     And thus they lived ye merrie yeare,
     For they were a jollie crewe
     Of pleasante laddes that knewe no feare,
     And--as little of honestie too.

                           Ballade of Capt. Pike.


Our tale opens on a gorgeous night of Midsummer, at an era so little
remote that to name the precise year could have no interest for the
reader, and in a region which seemed to combine all that is delightful
in climate with whatever is luxuriant and splendid in vegetation. It
was upon the bank of a small river, a tributary of the Oronoco, not
very distant from the picturesque city of Barcelonetta, that a
beautiful villa stood, the elegance of whose architecture and the lavish
magnificence of whose decorations were alike evidence that neither taste
nor wealth were wanting to its proprietor.

In this land, where Nature had been so prodigal of her gifts, the
luxurious appointments of this princely abode seemed to partake of the
character of a fairy palace; and the admixture of objects of high art,
the treasures of Italian galleries and Spanish collections, with the
more vivid realities of the scene, favored this illusion. The fortunate
owner of this paradise was a certain Pedro Rica, who, for something like
fourteen years, had been a resident of Columbia. A widower, with an
only child, then an infant of scarce a year old, he had arrived in that
country, seeking, as he said, by new scenes and new associations, to
erase, so far as might be, the painful memory of his late bereavement.

While he gave it to be understood that he was a Spaniard by birth, some
averred that he was a Mexican; others, that he was a Texan; and one or
two alleged that he was an American of the States,--an assumption that
the ease and fluency of his English went far to corroborate. Of whatever
nation he came, certain it is that a mystery hung over both his native
land and his history; and as he showed little disposition to enlighten
the world on these subjects, as is usual in such cases, his neighbors
took their revenge by inventing a hundred stories about him, each one
only worse than the other. At one time it was said that his wealth was
acquired by piracy; at another, that he absconded from a Texan city,
with a large sum belonging to the government; forgery, breach of trust,
were among the commonest allegations; and the most charitable only
averred that he made his money in the slave-trade.

It is but fair to say that the sole foundation for these various rumors
lay in the stern distance of his manner, and the cold, almost repulsive,
austerity with which he declined all acquaintance with the neighborhood.
These traits, added to the voluptuous splendor of a retinue and a style
of living infinitely above all around, gradually estranged from him
the few who attempted to form an intimacy, and left him to live--as
it seemed he preferred--a life of solitary magnificence; an object of
affected pity to many, but of real envy to all.

As his daughter grew up, he was accustomed to visit the sea-coast each
summer for some weeks, and from these absences he now usually returned
with one or two acquaintances, for the most part officers of the
Columbian navy, with whom he had formed an intimacy at the seaside. Such
acquaintanceship seemed to increase from year to year, till at last
each autumn saw the “Villa de las Noches Entretenidas,” “of the pleasant
nights” crowded with guests, whose wild orgies were in strange contrast
to the former stillness and quietude within those walls.

A more motley and discordant assemblage it would be hard to conceive,
consisting as they did of adventurers from every land of Europe,--the
wild and reckless outcast of every clime and country, the beggared
speculator, the ruined gambler, the duellist with blood upon his hand,
the defaulter with shame upon his forehead; all that good morals reject,
and the law pursues, mingled with others whose faults went no further
than waste or improvidence, or the more venial sin that they came poor
into the world, and were stamped “Adventurers” from the cradle.

A service that never exercised too nice a scrutiny into the habits of
its followers, and whose buccaneer life had all the freedom of piracy,
with the assumption of a recognized class, offered no mean attraction
to the lover of enterprise; and certainly, if the standard of morals was
low, that of daring, reckless adventure was the very opposite.

Amid this pleasant company we must now ask pardon for introducing our
reader, with this saving assurance, that he shall not have long to
commune with such companionship. It was, as we have said, a summer's
night. A sky all glittering with stars spread its dark blue canopy over
a scene where, amid the banana, the manioc, and the plantain, flowers of
every bright hue were blooming, and fountains gushing; while, through an
atmosphere tremulous with the song of the mocking-bird, fire-flies were
glancing and glittering.

In the deep piazza before the villa was now assembled a numerous party
of men disposed in every attitude of lounging, ease, and abandonment;
they seemed, though perhaps after very different estimates, to be
enjoying the delicious balm and freshness of the night air. They were of
various ages; and although the greater number showed by their dress that
they belonged to the naval service, other signs, not less distinctive,
pronounced that they were drawn from classes of life as varied as they
were numerous; while, here and there, a caballero might be seen attired
in the picturesque costume of the Caraccas, his many colored scarf and
plumed hat aiding, in no inconsiderable degree, the picturesque effect
of a scene Salvator might have painted.

Not only beneath the piazza itself, but on the marble steps, and even
beneath them again, on the close-shaven turf, the party lay, sated as it
were with splendor, and recruiting strength for new dissipations. Some
sat talking in low and whispering voices, as if unwilling, even by a
sound, to break the stilly calm. Others, in perfect silence, seemed to
drink in the soothing influence of that tranquil moment, or smoked
the cigarettos in dreamy indolence; while at intervals, from the leafy
groves, a merry laugh, or the tinkling of a guitar, would mingle with
the bubbling murmur of the fountains, making the very stillness yet more
still as they ceased. Behind the piazza, and opening by several large
windows upon it, could be seen a splendid saloon, resplendent with
wax-lights, and still displaying on the loaded table the remnants of
a sumptuous repast, amid which vessels of gold and vases of flowers
appeared. Here, yet lingered two or three guests,--spirits who set no
store on an entertainment if it did not degenerate into debauch.

A broad alley, flanked by tall hedges of the prickly pear, led from the
villa to a little mound, on which a chestnut-tree stood, the patriarch
of the wood; a splendid tree it was, and worthy of a better destiny than
it now fulfilled, as, lighted up by several lanterns suspended from
the branches, it spread its shade over a large table where a party were
playing at “Monte.”

Even without the suggestive aid of the large heaps of gold beside each
player, and piled in the middle of the table, the grave and steadfast
faces of some, the excited look of others, and the painful intensity of
interest in all, showed that the play was high. Still, although such was
the case, and while the players were men whose hot blood and reckless
lives did but little dispose them to put the curb upon their tempers,
not a word was spoken aloud; nor did a gesture or a look betray the
terrible vacillations of hope and fear the changeful fortune of the game
engendered. Standing near the table, but not mingling in the play, stood
Don Pedro himself, his sallow and melancholy features fixed upon the
game, with an expression that might mean sorrow or deep anxiety, it were
difficult to say which.

Beside him, at a small table littered with papers and writing
materials, sat his steward, or intendant, a German named Geizheimer,
a beetle-browed, white-cheeked, thick-lipped fellow, whose aquiline
features and guttural accents told that lending money at enormous
interest was no uncongenial occupation. Such was his present, and indeed
almost his only duty; for, while Don Pedro seldom or never played,
gaming was the invariable occupation of the guests, whose means to
support it were freely supplied by the steward; the borrowers either
passing a simple note for repayment, or, when the sum was a heavy one,
mortgaging their share in the next prize they should capture. Other
contracts, it was rumored, were occasionally resorted to, but of such we
shall speak anon.

At a short distance from the table, but sufficiently near to observe the
game, stood one on whom nothing short of the passion of play could
have prevented every eye being bent. But so it was; she stood alone and
unmarked, while all the interest was concentrated upon the game. Dressed
in a white tunic, or chemise, fastened round the waist by a gold girdle,
stood Maritaña Rica, her large and lustrous black eyes eagerly turned to
where two youths were standing intensely occupied by the play. Her neck,
arms, and shoulders were bare, in Mexican fashion, and even the mantilla
she wore over her head was less as a protection than as a necessary
accompaniment of a costume which certainly is of the simplest kind.
Except the chemise, she had no other garment, save a jupe of thin
lama-wool, beautifully embroidered and studded with precious stones;
this terminated below the middle of the leg, displaying an ankle and
foot no Grecian statue ever surpassed in beauty.

If the deep brown of her skin almost conveyed the reproach--and such
it is--of Indian blood, a passing glance at the delicate outline of her
features, and, in particular, of her mouth, at once contradicted the
suspicion. The lips were beautifully arched, and, although plump and
rounded, had none of the fulness of the degraded race. These were now
slightly parted, displaying teeth of surprising whiteness, and imparting
in the whole expression a character of speaking animation. Although not
yet sixteen, her figure had all the graceful development of womanhood,
without having entirely lost a certain air of fawn-like elasticity,
which, from time to time, her gestures of impatience displayed.

The two young men on whom her interest seemed fixed, were playing in
partnership, and, in their highly wrought passion, never once looked up
from the board. One, somewhat taller and older by a few years, appeared
to exercise the guidance of their play; and it was easy to see, in the
swollen and knotted veins of his forehead, in the clinched hands, and
in the tremulous lip, the passionate nature of a confirmed gambler. The
younger, whose dress of green velvet, slashed and braided in Mexican
taste, and whose wide-leaved sombrero was decorated with a long sash
of light blue silk, whose deep gold fringe hung upon his shoulder, was
evidently one less enamoured of play, and more than once busied himself
in arranging the details of his costume, of which he seemed somewhat
vain. It was in one of these moments that his eyes met those of Maritaña
fixed steadfastly upon him, and, fascinated by her unmoved stare, he
felt his cheek grow hot, and, whether from a sense of shame or a
still more tender motive, the blush spread over his face and forehead.
Maritaña looked steadily, almost sternly, at him, and then, with a
slight toss of her head, so slight that none save he who had watched her
intently could read its scornful import, she turned away. The youth
did not wait a moment, but, slipping from his place, followed along the
alley he had seen her take.

He who remained, unconscious of his friend's departure, continued to
mutter about the chances of the game, and speculate on the amount he
would dare to hazard. “She is against us every time, Roland!” said he,
in a low, half-whispering voice. “Fortune will not smile, woo her how
we may! Speak, _amigo mio_, shall we risk all?” As he spoke, he began
counting the piles of glittering gold before him, but his hand trembled,
and the pieces clung to his moist fingers, so that he was too late for
the deal.

“Sixteen hundred,” muttered he to himself. “Ten--twenty--thirty.”

“The bank loses!” cried the croupier, announcing the game.

“Loses!” screamed the young man, in an accent whose piercing agony
startled the whole board,--“loses! because it was the only time I had
no wager. See, Roland, see how true it is; there is a curse upon us.”
 He seized the arm of the person at his side, and clinched it with a
convulsive energy as he spoke.

“_Saperlote!_ my young friend; you 'll never change luck by tearing
my old uniform,” growled out a rugged-looking German skipper, who,
commanding a small privateer, affected the rank and style of a naval
officer.

“Oh, is it you, Hans?” said the youth, carelessly; “I thought it had
been one of our own fellows. Only think the bank should lose, because I
made no stake; see now, watch this. Halt!” cried he to the dealer, in
a voice that at once arrested his hand. “You give one no time, sir,
to decide upon his game,” said he, with a savage irascibility, which
continued bad luck had carried to the highest pitch. “Players who risk
their two or three crowns may not object; but, if a man desires to make
a heavy stake; it is but common courtesy to wait a moment. A
thousand doubloons, the red queen--fifteen hundred,” added he,
quickly,--“fifteen, and thirty-five--or eight.” So saying, he pushed
with both hands the great heap of gold pieces into the middle of the
table; and then, with eyes bloodshot and glaring, he watched each card
that fell from the banker's fingers. When the first row of cards were
dealt, all was in his favor, and, as the banker took up the second pack,
a long-suppressed sigh broke from the gambler's bosom. It seemed, at
length, as if fortune had grown weary of persecuting him.

“Come, Enrique,” said a handsomely dressed and fine-looking man, who
stood opposite to him, “luck has turned at last; there is nothing but
the queen of spades against you!”

As if by some magic spell he had called the card, the words were not out
when it dropped upon the table. A cry of mingled amazement and horror
burst from the players, whose natures would seem to recognize some
superstitious influence in such marked casualties. As for Enrique, he
stood perfectly still and silent; a horrible smile, the ghastly evidence
of an hysterical effort, sat upon his rigid features, and at length two
or three heavy drops of blood trickled from his nostril and fell upon
his shirt.

“Where's Roland?” said he, in a faint whisper, to a young man behind
him.

“I saw him with Maritaña, walking towards the three fountains.”

Enrique's pallid cheek grew scarlet, and, rudely pushing his way through
the crowd, he disappeared from view.

“There goes a man in a good humor to board a prize,” said one of
the bystanders, coolly, and the play proceeded without a moment's
interruption.

With his broad-leaved hat drawn down upon his brows, and his head sunk
upon his bosom, he traversed the winding walks with the step of one who
knew their every turning; at last he reached a lonely and unfrequented
part of the garden, where the path, leading for some distance along the
margin of a small lake, suddenly turned off towards a flower terrace,
the midst of which “the three fountains” stood.

Instead of taking the shortest way to the spot, Enrique left the walk
and entered a grove of trees, through whose thick shade be proceeded
silently and cautiously. The air was calm and motionless, and none
save one who had received the education of a prairie hunter could have
followed that track so noiselessly. By degrees the wood became open, and
his progress more circumspect, when he suddenly halted.

Directly in front of him, not twenty paces from where he stood, was the
terrace, over which, in the stilly night air, the fountain threw a
light spray-like shower, rustling, as it fell upon the leaves, with a
murmuring sound. Lower down, was a little basin surrounded by a border
of white marble, and beside this two figures were now standing, whom,
by the clear starlight, he could easily recognize to be Roland and
Maritaña.

The former, with folded arms, and head bent down as if in thought,
leaned against a tree, while Maritaña stood beside the fountain,
moving her foot to and fro in the clear water, and, as though entirely
engrossed by her childish pastime, never bestowed a look upon her
companion. At last she ceased suddenly, and turning abruptly round, so
as to stand full in front of him, said, “Well, senhor, am I to hope
our pleasant interview is ended, or am I still to hear more of your
complaints,--those gentle remonstrances which sound, to my ears at
least, more wearisome than words of downright anger?”

“You have not heard me patiently,” said the youth, advancing towards
her, while the slightly shaken tones of his voice contrasted strangely
with the assured and haughty accents in which he spoke.

“Patiently!” echoed she, with a scornful laugh. “And where was this same
goodly gift to be learned? Among the pleasant company we have quitted,
senhor? whose friendships of a night are celebrated by a brawl on
the morrow! From the most exemplary crew of the 'Esmeralda,' and, in
particular, the worthy lieutenant, Don Roland da Castel, who, if report
speaks truly, husbands the virtue so rigidly that he cannot spare the
smallest portion to expend upon his friends?”

“If my thrift had extended to other matters,” said the youth, bitterly,
“mayhap I should not have to listen to language like this?”

“What say you, sir?” cried the girl, passionately, as she stamped upon
the ground with a gesture of violent anger. “Do you affect to say that
it matters to me whether you stood there as loaded with gold as on the
morning you brought back that Mexican prize, and played the hero with
such martial modesty; or as poor--as poor--as bad luck at cards can
make you? If I loved you, I 'd have as little care for one event as the
other!”

“You certainly thought more favorably of me then than now, Maritaña!”
 said Roland, diffidently.

“I know not why you say so!”

“At least you accepted my hand in betrothal--”

“Stay!” cried she, impetuously. “Did I not tell you then, before the
assembled witnesses--before my father--what a mockery this same ceremony
was; that its whole aim and object was to take advantage of that
disgraceful law that can make an unmarried girl a widow, to inherit
the fortune of one she never would have accepted as her husband. Speak,
sir!--and say, did I not tell you this, and more too, that such a bridal
ceremony brought little fortune to the bridegroom; for that already
I had been thrice a widowed bride? Nay, more, you heard me swear as
solemnly, that while I regarded the act as one of deep profanation,
I felt in nowise bound by it. It is idle, then, to speak of our
betrothal!”

“It is true, Maritaña, you said all this; although, perhaps, you had not
now remembered it, had not some other succeeded to that place in your
regard--”

“There, there!” cried she, stopping him impatiently. “I will not listen
again to the bead-roll of your jealousies. People must have loved very
little, or too much, to endure that kind of torture. Besides, why tell
me of these things? You are, they say, a most accomplished hunter, and
can answer me,--if, when in chase of an antelope, a jaguar joins the
sport, you do not turn upon him at once, the worthier and nobler enemy,
and thus, as it were, protect what had been your prey.”

The youth seemed stung to the quick by this pitiless sarcasm; and,
although he made no reply, his hands, convulsively clutched, bespoke
the torrent of agitation within him. “You are right, Maritaña!” said be,
after a pause. “It is idle to talk of our betrothal,--I release you.”

“Release _me!_” said she, laughing contemptuously; “this is a task I
always perform for myself, senhor, and by the shortest method, as
thus.” As she spoke, she struggled to tear from her finger a ring which
resisted all her efforts. At last, by a violent wrench, she succeeded,
and holding it up for a second, till the large diamond glittered like
a star, she threw it into the still fountain at her feet “There, _amigo
mio_, I release you,--never was freedom more willingly accorded!”

“Never was there a slave more weary of his servitude!” said the youth,
bitterly. “If Don Pedro Rica but tear his accursed bond, I should feel
myself my own again.”

“He will scarce refuse you, sir, if the rumor be correct that says
you have lost eleven thousand doubloons at play. The wealthy conqueror
stands on very different ground from _the_ ruined gambler. Go to him
at once! Ask back the paper! Tell him you have neither a heart nor a
fortune to bestow upon his daughter! That, as a gambler, fettered by the
lust for play, you have lost all soul for those hazardous enterprises
that win a girl's love and a father's consent.”

She waited for a moment, that he might reply; and then, impatient,
perhaps, at his silence, added, “I did not think, senhor, you esteemed
yourself so rich a prize! Be of good cheer, however! They who are less
cognizant of your deserts will be more eager to secure them.”

With these slighting words she turned away. Roland advanced as if to
follow her, but with a contemptuous gesture of the hand she waved him
back, and he stood like one spell-bound, gazing after her, till she
disappeared in the dark distance.




CHAPTER II. A CHALLENGE--AND HOW IT ENDED.

     La Diche viene quando no se aguarda.

     --Spanish Proverb.

     (Good lack comes when it is not looked for.)


Roland looked for some minutes in the direction by which Maritaña had
gone, and then, with a sudden start, as if of some newly taken resolve,
took the path towards the villa. He had not gone far when, at the turn
of the way, he came in front of Enrique, who, with hasty steps, was
advancing towards him.

“Lost, everything lost!” exclaimed the latter, with a mournful gesture
of his hands.

“All gone!” cried Roland.

“Every crown in the world!”

“Be it so; there is an end of gambling, at least!”

“You bear your losses nobly, senhor!” said Enrique, sneeringly; “and,
before a fitting audience, might claim the merit of an accomplished
gamester. I am, however, most unworthy to witness such fine philosophy.
I recognize in beggary nothing but disgrace!”

“Bear it, then, and the whole load, too!” said Roland, sneeringly. “To
your solicitations only I yielded in taking my place at that accursed
table. I had neither a passion for play, nor the lust for money-getting;
you thought to teach me both, and, peradventure, you have made me
despise them more than ever.”

“What a moralist!” cried Enrique, laughing insolently, “who discovers
that he has cared neither for his mistress nor his money till he has
lost both.”

“What do you mean?” said Roland, trembling with passion.

“I never speak in riddles,” was the cool reply.

“This, then, is meant as insult,” said Roland, approaching closer,
and speaking in a still lower voice; “or is it merely the passion of a
disappointed gambler?”

“And if it were, _amigo mio_,” retorted the other, “what more fitting
stake to set against the anger of a rejected lover?”

“Be it so!” cried Roland, fiercely; “you never caught up a man more
disposed to indulge your humor. Shall it be now?”

“Could not so much courage keep warm till daylight?” said Enrique,
calmly. “Below the fountains there is a very quiet spot.”

“At sunrise?”

“At sunrise,” echoed Enrique, bowing with affected courtesy, till the
streamers from his hat touched the ground.

“Now for my worthy father-in-law elect,” said Roland; “and to see him
before he may hear of this business, or I may find it difficult to
obtain my divorce.” When the youth arrived at the villa, the party were
assembled at supper. The great saloon, crowded with guests and hurrying
menials, was a scene of joyous but reckless conviviality, the loud
laughter and the louder voices of the company striking on Roland's ear
with a grating discordance he had never experienced before. The sounds
of that festivity he had been wont to recognize as the pleasant evidence
of free and high-souled enjoyment, now jarred heavily on his senses, and
he wondered within himself how long he had lived in such companionship.

Well knowing that the supper-party would not remain long at table, while
high play continued to have its hold upon the guests, he strolled into
one of the shady alleys, watching from time to time for the breaking up
of the entertainment At last some two or three arose, and, preceded by
servants with lighted flambeaux, took the way towards the gaming-table.
They were speedily followed by others, so that in a brief space--except
by the usual group of hard-drinking souls, who ventured upon no stake
save that of health--the room was deserted.

He looked eagerly for Don Pedro, but could not see him, as it was
occasionally his practice to retire to his library long before his
guests sought their repose. Roland made a circuit of the villa, and
soon came to the door of this apartment, which led into a small
flower-garden. Tapping gently here, he received a summons to enter, and
found himself before Don Pedro, who, seated before a table, appeared
deeply immersed in matters of business.

Roland did not need the cold and almost stern reception of his host to
make him feel his intrusion very painfully; and he hastened to express
his extreme regret that he should be compelled by any circumstances
to trespass on leisure so evidently destined for privacy. “But a few
moments' patient hearing,” continued he, “will show that, to me at
least, the object of this visit did not admit of delay.”

“Be seated, senhor; and, if I may ask it without incivility, be brief,
for I have weighty matters before me.”

“I will endeavor to be so,” said Roland, civilly, and resumed: “This
evening, Don Pedro, has seen the last of twenty-eight thousand Spanish
dollars, which, five weeks since, I carried here along with me. They
were my share, as commander of the 'Esmeralda,' when she captured
a Mexican bark, in May last. They were won with hard blows and some
danger; they were squandered in disgrace at the gaming-table.”

“Forgive me,” said Don Pedro: “you can scarcely adhere to your pledge
of brevity if you permit yourself to be led away by moralizing; just say
how this event concerns me, and wherefore the present visit.”

Roland became red with anger and shame, and when he resumed it was in
a voice tremulous with ill-suppressed passion. “I did not come here
for your sympathy, senhor. If the circumstance I have mentioned had no
relation to yourself, you had not seen me here. I say that I have now
lost all that I was possessed of in the world.”

“Again I must interrupt you, Senhor Roland, by saying that these are
details for Geizheimer, not for me. He, as you well know, transacts
all matters of money, and if you desire a loan, or are in want of any
immediate assistance, I 'm sure you 'll find him in every way disposed
to meet your wishes.”

“Thanks, senhor, but I am not inclined for such aid. I will neither
mortgage my blood nor my courage, nor promise three hundred per cent for
the means of a night at the gambling-table.”

“Then pray, sir, how am I to understand your visit? Is it intended for
the sake of retailing to me your want of fortune at play, and charging
me with the results of your want of skill or luck?”

“Far from it, senhor. It is simply to make known that I am ruined; that
I have nothing left me in the world; and that, as one whose fortune has
deserted him, I have come to ask back that bond by which I accepted your
daughter's hand in betrothal.”

A burst of laughter from Don Pedro here stopped the speaker, who, with
flushed cheek and glaring eyeballs, stared at this sudden outbreak. “Do
you know for what you ask me, senhor?” said Rica, smiling insolently.

“Yes, I ask for what you never could think to enforce,--to make me, a
beggar, the husband of your daughter.”

“Most true; I never thought of such an alliance. I believe you were told
that Columbian law gives these contracts the force of a legal claim,
in the event of survivorship; and you flattered yourself, perhaps too
hastily, that other ties more binding still might grow from it. If
Fortune was as fickle with you here as at the card-table, the fault is
not in me.”

“But of what avail is it now?” said Roland, passionately. “If I died
to-morrow, there is not sufficient substance left to buy a suit of
mourning for my poor widow.”

“She could, perhaps, dispense with outward grief,” said Pedro,
sneeringly.

“I say again,” cried Roland, with increased agitation, “this bond is
not worth the paper it is written on. I leave the service; I sail into
another latitude, and it is invalid,--a mere mockery!”

“Not so fast, sir,” said Pedro, slowly: “there is a redeeming clause,
by which you, on paying seventy thousand doubloons, are released of your
contract, with my concurrence. Mark that well,--with my concurrence it
must be. Now, I have the opinion of learned counsel, in countries where
mayhap your adventurous fancy has already carried you, that this clause
embraces the option which side of the contract I should desire to
enforce.”

“Such may be your law here; I can have little doubt that any infamy may
pass for justice in this favored region,” said Roland; “but I 'll never
believe that so base a judgment could be uttered where civilization
prevails. At all events, I 'll try the case. I now tell you frankly,
that, tomorrow, I mean to resign my rank and commission in this service;
I mean to quit this country, with no intention ever to revisit it. If
you still choose to retain a contract whose illegality needs no stronger
proof than that it affects to bind one party only, I 'll not waste
further time by thinking of it.”

“I will keep it, senhor,” interrupted Pedro, calmly. “I knew a youth,
once, who had as humble an opinion of his fortunes as you have now; and
yet he died,--not in this service, indeed, but in these seas,--and his
fortune well requited the trouble of its claimant.”

“I have no right to trespass longer on you, sir,” said Roland, bowing.
“I wish I could thank you for all your hospitality to me with a more
fitting courtesy; I must confess myself your debtor without hope of
repayment.”

“Have you signified to Don Gomez Noronja your intention to resign?”

“I shall do it within half an hour.”

“You forget that your resignation must be accepted by the Minister; that
no peremptory permission can be accorded by a captain in commission,
save under a guarantee of ten thousand crowns for a captain, and seven
for a lieutenant, the sum to be estreated if the individual quit the
service without leave. This, at least, is law you cannot dispute.”

Roland hung down his head, thunderstruck by an announcement which,
at one swoop, dashed away all his hopes. As he stood silent and
overwhelmed, Don Pedro continued, “You see, sir, that the service
knows how to value its officers, even when they set little store by the
service. Knowing that young men are fickle and fanciful, with caprices
that carry them faster than sound judgment, they have made the enactment
I speak of. And, even were you to give the preliminary notice, where
will you be when the time expires? In what parallel south of Cape Horn?
Among the islands of the Southern Pacific; perhaps upon the coast of
Africa? No, no; take my advice: do not abandon your career; it is one
in which you have already won distinction. Losses at play are easily
repaired in these seas. Our navy--”

“Is nothing better than a system of piracy!” broke in Roland, savagely.
“So long as, in ignorance of its real character, I walked beneath your
flag, the heaviest crime which could be imputed to me was but the folly
of a rash-brained boy. I feel that I know better now; I'll serve under
it no more.”

“Dangerous words, these, senhor, if reported in the quarter where they
would be noticed.”

Roland turned an indignant glance at him as he uttered this threat,
and with an expression so full of passion that Rica, for a few seconds,
seemed to feel that he had gone too far. “I did but suggest caution,
senhor,” said he, timidly.

“Take care that you practise as well as preach the habit,” muttered
Roland, “or you'll find that you have exploded your own mine.”

This, which he uttered as he left the room, was in reality nothing more
than a vague menace; but it was understood in a very different sense by
Pedro, who stood pale and trembling with agitation, gazing at the door
by which the youth departed. At last he moved forward, and opening
it, called out, “Senhor Roland! Roland, come back! Let me speak to you
again.” But already he was far beyond hearing, as with all his speed he
hastened down the alley.

Don Pedro's resolves were soon formed; he rang his bell at once, and,
summoning a servant, asked if Don Gomez Noronja was still at table?

“He has retired to his room, senhor,” was the reply.

A few momenta after, Rica entered the chamber of his guest, where he
remained in close conversation till nigh daybreak. As he reached his own
apartment the sound of horses' feet and carriage wheels was heard upon
the gravel, and, throwing up the window, Rica called out,--

“Is that Don Enrique?”

“Yes, senhor, taking French leave, as you would call it. A bad return
for a Spanish welcome; but duty leaves no alternative.”

“Are you for the coast, then?”

“With all speed. Our captain received important despatches in the night
We shall be afloat before forty hours. Adios!”

The farewell was cordially re-echoed by Rica, who closed the window,
muttering to himself, “So! all will go well at last.”

While Enrique was making all the speed towards the seashore a light
calèche and four horses could accomplish, Roland was pacing with
impatient steps the little plot of grass where so soon he expected to
find himself in deadly conflict with his enemy.

Never was a man's mind more suited to the purpose for which he waited.
Dejected, insulted, and ruined in one night, he had little to live for,
and felt far less eager to be revenged of his adversary, than to rid
himself of a hated existence. It was to no purpose that he could say,
and say truly, that he had never cared for any of these things, of which
he now saw himself stripped. His liking for Maritaña had never gone
beyond great admiration for her beauty, and a certain spiteful pleasure
in exciting those bursts of passion over which she exercised not the
slightest control. It was caprice, not love; the delight of a schoolboy
in the power to torment, without the wish to retain. His self-love,
then, it was, was wounded on finding that she, with whose temper he had
sported, could turn so terribly upon himself. The same feeling was
outraged by Enrique, who seemed to know and exult over his defeat. These
sources of bitterness, being all aggravated by the insulting manner of
Don Pedro, made up a mass of indignant and angry feelings which warred
and goaded him almost to madness.

The long-expected dawn broke slowly, and although, a few moments after
sunrise, the whole sky became of a rich rose color, these few moments
seemed like an age to the impatient thoughts of him who thirsted for his
vengeance.

He walked hastily up and down the space, waiting now and again to
listen, and then, disappointed, resumed his path, with some gesture of
impatience. At last he heard footsteps approaching. They came nearer and
nearer; and now he could hear the branches of the trees bend and crack,
as some one forced a passage through them. A swelling feeling about the
heart bespoke the anxiety with which he listened, when a figure
appeared which even at a glance he knew to be not Enrique's. As the man
approached be took off his hat respectfully and presented a letter.

“From Don Enrique?” said Roland, and then, tearing open the paper, he
read,--

     Amigo Mio,--Not mine the fault that I do not stand before
     you now instead of these few lines; but Noronja has
     received news of these Chilian fellows, and sent me to get
     the craft ready for sea at once. We shall meet, then, in a
     few hours; and, if so, let it be as comrades. The service
     and our own rules forbid a duel so long as we are afloat and
     on duty. Whatever be your humor when next we touch shore
     again, rely upon finding me ready to meet it, either as an
     enemy or as

     Your friend,

     Enrique da Cordova.

A single exclamation of disappointment broke from Roland, but the moment
after all former anger was gone. The old spirit of comrade-affection
began to seek its accustomed channels, and he left the spot, happy to
think how different had been his feeling than if he were quitting it
with the blood of his shipmate on his hands.

Although he now saw that his continuance in the service for the present
was inevitable, he had fully made up his mind to leave it, and, with it,
habits of life whose low excesses had now become intolerable. So long as
the spirit of adventure and daring sustained him, so long the respite of
a few months' shore life was a season of pleasure and delight; but as by
degrees the real character of his associates became clearer, and he saw
in them men who cared for enterprise no further than for its gain, and
calculated each hazardous exploit by its profit, he felt that he was
now following the career of a bravo who hires out his arm and sells
his courage. This revolted every sentiment of his mind, and, come what
would, he resolved to abandon it. In these day-dreams of a new existence
the memory of two years passed in the Pampas constantly mingled, and he
could not help contrasting the happy and healthful contentment of the
simple hunter with the voluptuous but cankered pleasures of the wealthy
buccaneer. Once more beneath the wooded shades of the tall banana, he
thought how free and peaceful his days would glide by, free from the
rude conflicts he now witnessed, and the miserable jealousies of these
ill-assorted companionships. For some hours he wandered, revolving
thoughts like these; and at length turned his steps towards the villa,
determined, so long as his captain remained, that he would take up his
quarters at Barcelonetta, nor in future accept of the hospitality of Don
Rica's house. With this intention he was returning to arrange for the
removal of his luggage, when his attention was excited by the loud
cracking of whips, and the shrill cries that accompanied the sounds of
“The post! the post!”

In a moment every window of the villa was thrown open, and beads, in
every species of night-gear, and every stage of sleepy astonishment,
thrust out; for the post, be it observed, was but a monthly phenomenon,
and the arrival of letters was very often the signal for a total
break-up of the whole household.

The long wagon, drawn by four black mules, and driven by a fellow whose
wide-tasselled sombrero and long moustaches seemed to savor more of
the character of a melodrama than real life, stopped before the chief
entrance of the villa, and was immediately surrounded by the guests,
whose hurried wardrobe could only be excused in so mild a climate.

“Anything for me, Truxillo?” cried one, holding up a dollar temptingly
between finger and thumb.

“Where are my cigarettes?”

“And my mantle?”

“And my gun?”

“And the senhora's embroidered slippers?” cried a maid, as she ransacked
every corner where the packages lay.

The driver, however, paid little attention to these various demands,
but, loosening the bridles of his beasts, he proceeded to wash their
mouths with some water fetched from the fountain, coolly telling the
applicants that they might help themselves, only to spare something for
the people of Barcelonetta, for he knew there was a letter or two for
that place.

“What have we here?” cried one of the guests, as a mass of something
enveloped in a horse-sheet lay rolled up in the foot of the calèche,
where the driver sat.

“Ah, par Dios!” cried the man, laughing, “I had nearly forgotten that
fellow. He is asleep, poor devil! He nearly died of cold in the night!”

“Who is he--what is he?”

“A traveller from beyond San Luis in search of Don Pedro.”

“Of me?” said Don Pedro, whose agitation became, in spite of all his
efforts, visible to every one; at the same instant that, pulling back
the cloak rudely, he gazed at the sleeping stranger,--“I never saw him
before.”

“Come, awake--stir up, senhor!” said the driver, poking the passenger
very unceremoniously with his whip. “We are arrived; this is the Villa
de las Noches Entretenidas; here is Don Pedro himself!”

“The Lord be praised!” said a short, round-faced little man, who, with a
nightcap drawn over his ears, and a huge cravat enveloping his chin, now
struggled to look around him. “At last!” sighed he; “I 'm sure I almost
gave up all hope of it.” These words were spoken in English; but even
that evidence was not necessary to show that the little plump figure in
drab gaiters and shorts was not a Spaniard.

“Are you Don Peter, sir,--are you really Don Peter?” said he, rubbing
his eyes, and looking hurriedly around to assure himself he was not
dreaming.

“What is your business with me--or have you any?” said Rica, in a voice
barely above a whisper.

“Have I!--Did I come six thousand miles in search of you? Oh, dear! oh,
dear! I can scarcely think it all over, even now. But still there may be
nothing done if he isn't here.”

“What do you mean?” said Rica, impatiently.

“Mr. Roland Cashel; Roland Cashel, Esq., I should call him now, sir.”

“That 's my name!” said the youth, forcing his way through the crowd,
and standing in front of the traveller.

The little man put his hand into a breast-pocket, and drew out a little
book, opening which he began to read, comparing the detail, as he went
on, with the object before him:--

“Six foot and an inch in height, at least, olive-brown complexion, dark
eyes and hair, straight nose, short upper lip, frowns slightly when he
speaks;--just talk a little, will you?”

Cashel could not help smiling at the request; when the other added,
“Shows his teeth greatly when he laughs.”

“Am I a runaway negro from New Orleans that you have taken my portrait
so accurately, sir?”

“Got that at Demerara,” said the little man, putting up the book, “and
must say it was very near indeed!”

“I have been at Demerara,” said Cashel, hoping by the admission to
obtain some further insight into the traveller's intentions.

“I know that,” said the little man. “I tracked you thence to St Kitts,
then to Antigua. I lost you there, but I got up the scent again in
Honduras, but only for a short time, and had to try Demerara again;
then I dodged down the coast by Pernambuco, but lost you entirely in
June,--some damned Indian expedition, I believe. But I met a fellow
at New Orleans who had seen you at St. Louis, and so I tracked away
south--”

“And, in one word, having found me, what was the cause of so much
solicitude, sir?” said Cashel, who felt by no means comfortable at such
a hot and unwearied pursuit.

“This can all be better said in the house,” interposed Don Rica, who,
relieved of any uneasiness on his own account, had suddenly resumed his
habitual quiet demeanor.

“So I 'm thinking too!” said the traveller; “but let me first land my
portmanteau; all the papers are there. I have not lost sight of it since
I started.”

The parcels were carefully removed under his own inspection, and,
accompanied by Don Pedro Rica and Roland, the little man entered the
villa.

There could be no greater contrast than that between the calm and
placid bearing Don Pedro had now assumed, and the agitated and anxious
appearance which Cashel exhibited. The very last interview he had
sustained in that same spot still dwelt upon his mind; and when he
declined Don Pedro's polite request to be seated, and stood with folded
arms before the table, which the traveller had now covered with his
papers, a prisoner awaiting the words of his judgment could not have
endured a more intense feeling of anxiety.

“'Roland Cashel, born in York, a. d. 18--, son of Godfrey Cashel and
Sarah, his wife,'” read the little man; then murmured to himself,
“Certificate of baptism, signed by Joshua Gorgeous, Prebendary of the
Cathedral; all right, so far. Now we come to the wanderings. Your father
was quartered at Port-au-Prince, in the year 18--, I believe?”

“He was. I was then nine years old,” said Cashel.

“Quite correct; he died there, I understand?”

Cashel assented by a nod.

“Upon which event you joined, or was supposed to join, the 'Brown Peg,'
a sloop in the African trade, wrecked off Fernando Po same winter?”

“Yes; she was scuttled by the second mate, in a mutiny. But what has
all this secret history of me to mean? Did you come here, sir, to glean
particulars to write my life and adventures?”

“I crave your pardon most humbly, Mr. Cashel,” said the little man, in
a perfect agony of humiliation. “I was only recapitulating a
few collateral circumstances, by way of proof. I was, so to say,
testing--that is, I was--”

“Satisfying yourself as to this gentleman's identity,” added Don Pedro.

“Exactly so, sir; the very words upon the tip of my tongue,--satisfying
myself that you were the individual alluded to here”--as he spoke,
he drew forth a copy of the “Times” newspaper, whose well-worn and
much-thumbed edges bespoke frequent reference--“in this advertisement,”
 said he, handing the paper to Don Pedro, who at once read aloud,--

     “Reward of £500.--Any person giving such information as may
     lead to the discovery of a young gentleman named Roland
     Cashel, who served for some years on board of various
     merchant vessels in the Levant, the African, and the West
     India trade, and was seen in New Orleans in the autumn of
     18--, will receive the above reward. He was last heard of in
     Mexico, but it is believed that he has since entered the
     Chilian or Columbian service. He is well known in the
     Spanish Main, and in many of the cities on the coast, as the
     Caballero.”

Cashel's face was one burning surface of scarlet as he heard the words
of an advertisement which, in his ideas, at once associated him with
runaway negroes and escaped felons; and it was with something like
suffocation that he restrained his temper as he asked why, and by whose
authority, he was thus described?

The little man looked amazed and confounded at a question which, it
would seem, he believed his information had long since anticipated.

“Mr. Cashel wishes to know the object of this inquiry,--who sent you
hither, in fact,” said Don Rica, beginning himself to lose patience at
the slowness of the stranger's apprehension.

“Mr. Kennyfeck, of Dublin, the law agent, sent me.”

“Upon what grounds,--with what purpose?”

“To tell him that the suit is gained; that he is now the rightful owner
of the whole of the Godfrey and Godfrey Browne estates, and lands of Ben
Currig, Tulough Callaghan, Knock Swinery, Kildallooran, Tullimeoran,
Ballycanderigan, with all the manorial rights, privileges, and
perquisites appertaining to,--in a word, sir, for I see your impatience,
to something, a mere trifle, under seventeen thousand per annum, not to
speak of a sum, at present not exactly known, in bank, besides foreign
bonds and securities to a large amount.”

While Mr. Simms recited this, with the practised volubility of one who
had often gone over the same catalogue before, Cashel stood amazed, and
almost stupefied, unable to grasp in his mind the full extent of his
good fortune, but catching, here and there, glimpses of the truth, in
the few circumstances of family history alluded to. Not so, Don Rica;
neither confusion nor hesitation troubled the free working of his acute
faculties, but he sat still, patiently watching the effect of this
intelligence on the youth before him. At length, perceiving that he did
not speak, he himself turned towards the stranger, and said,--

“You are, doubtless, a man of the world, sir, and need no apologies for
my remarking that good news demands a scrutiny not less searching than
its opposite. As the _friend_ of Senhor Cashel,”--here he turned a
glance beneath his heavy brows at the youth, who, however, seemed not
to notice the word,--“as his friend, I repeat, deeply interested in
whatever affects him, I may, perhaps, be permitted to ask the details of
this very remarkable event.”

“If you mean the trial, sir,--or rather the trials, for there were three
at bar, not to mention a suit in equity and a bill of discovery--”

“No, I should be sorry to trespass so far upon you,” interrupted Rica.
“What I meant was something in the shape of an assurance,--something
like satisfactory proof that this narrative, so agreeable to believe,
should have all the foundation we wish it.”

“Nothing easier,” said Mr. Simms, producing an enormous black leather
pocket-book from the breast of his coat, and opening it leisurely on
the table before him. “Here are, I fancy, documents quite sufficient to
answer all your inquiries. This is the memorandum of the verdict taken
at Bath, with the note of the Attorney-General, and the point reserved,
in which motion for a new trial was made.”

“What is this?” asked Cashel, now speaking for the first time, as he
took up a small book of strange shape, and looked curiously at it.

“Check-book of the bank of Fordyce and Grange, Lombard Street,” replied
Simms; “and here, the authority by which you are at liberty to draw on
the firm for the balance already in their hands, amounting to--let me
see “--here he rapidly set down certain figures on the corner of a
piece of paper, and with the speed of lightning performed a sum in
arithmetic--“the sum of one hundred and twenty-three thousand pounds
seven and elevenpence, errors excepted.”

“This sum is mine!” cried Cashel, as his eyes flashed fire, and his dark
cheek grew darker with excitement.

“It is only a moiety of your funded property,” said Simms. “Castellan
and Biggen, the notaries, certify to a much larger amount in the Three
per Cents.”

“And I am at liberty to draw at once for whatever amount I require?”

“Within that sum, certainly. Though, if you desire more, I 'm sure they
'll not refuse your order.”

“Leave us for a moment, sir,” said Cashel, in an accent whose trembling
eagerness bespoke the agitation he labored under. “I have something of
importance to tell this gentleman.”

“If you will step this way, sir,” said Don Rica, politely. “I have
ordered some refreshment in this room, and I believe you will find it
awaiting you.”

Mr. Simms gladly accepted the offered hospitality, and retired. The door
was not well closed, when Don Rica Advanced with extended hands towards
Cashel, and said:

“With all my heart I give you joy; such good fortune as this may,
indeed, obliterate every little cloud that has passed between us, and
make us once more the friends we have ever been.”

Cashel crossed his arms on his breast, and coldly replied, “I thank you.
But a few hours back, and one-half as much kindness would have made a
child of me in feeling. Now it serves only to arouse my indignation and
my Anger.”

“Are you indeed so unjust, so ungenerous as this!” exclaimed Rica, in a
tone whose anguish seemed wrung from the very heart.

“Unjust,--ungenerous! how?” cried Cashel, passionately.

“Both, sir,” said Rica, in a voice of almost commanding severity.
“Unjust to suppose that in thwarting your last resolve to leave a
service in which you have already won fame and honor, I was not your
best and truest friend; that in offering every opposition in my power to
such a hot-headed resolution, I was not consulting your best interests;
ungenerous to imagine that I could feel any other sentiment than delight
at your altered fortunes, I, who gave you all that was dearest and
nearest to me on earth, my child,--my Maritaña.”

Had it not been for the passionate emotion of the last few words,
Cashel's anger would have suggested a reply not less indignant than his
question; but the sight of the hard, the stern, the unflinching Pedro
Rica, as he now stood,--his face covered by his hands, while his strong
chest heaved and throbbed with convulsive energy,--this was more than
he felt prepared to look on. It was then only by a great effort he could
say, “You seem to forget, Senhor Rica, how differently you interpreted
this same contract but a few hours ago. You told me then--I think I hear
the words still ringing in my ears--that you never thought of such an
alliance; that your calculation took a less flattering estimate of my
relationship.”

“I spoke in anger, Roland,--anger caused by your passionate resolve.
Remember, too, that I preferred holding you to your contract, in
preference to allowing you to redeem it by paying the penalty.”

“Easy alternative,” said Cashel, with a scornful laugh; “you scarcely
expected a beggar, a ruined gambler, could pay seventy thousand
doubloons. But times are changed, sir. I am rich now,--rich enough to
double the sum you stipulated for. Although I well know the contract is
not worth the pen that wrote it, I am willing to recognize it, at least
so far as the forfeit is concerned.”

“My poor child, my darling Maritaña,” said Pedro, but in a voice barely
audible. The words seemed the feeble utterance of a breaking heart.

“Sorrow not for her, senhor,” said Cashel, hastily. “She has no griefs
herself on such a score. It is but a few hours since she told me so.”

Don Pedro was silent; but a mournful shake of the head and a still more
mournful smile seemed to intimate his dissent.

“I tell you, sir, that your own scorn of my alliance was inferior to
hers!” cried Cashel, in a voice of deep exasperation. “She even went so
far as to say that she was a party to the contract only on the condition
of its utter worthlessness. Do not, then, let me hear of regrets for
_her_.”

“And you believe this?”

“I believe what I have myself witnessed.”

“What, then, if you be a witness to the very opposite? What if your ears
reveal to you the evidence as strongly against, as now you deem it in
favor of, your opinion?”

“I do not catch your meaning.”

“I would say, what if from Maritaña's own lips you heard an avowal of her
affection, would you conceive yourself at liberty to redeem a contract
to which you were only one party, and by mere money--I care not how
large you call the sum--to reject the heart you have made your own?”

“No, no, this cannot be,” cried Cashel, struggling in a conflict of
uncertainty and fear.

“I know my daughter, sir,” said Pedro, with an air of pride he well knew
when and how to assume.

“If I but thought so,” muttered Cashel to himself; and low as the words
were, Rica heard them.

“I ask you for nothing short of your own conviction,--the conviction of
your own ears and eyes. You shall, if you please, remain concealed in
her apartment while I question her on the subject of this attachment. If
you ever supposed me base enough to coerce her judgment, you know _her_
too well to believe it to be possible. But I will not insult myself by
either supposition. I offer you this test of what I have said: accept
it if you will, and with this condition, that you shall then be free to
tear this contract, if you like, but never believe that I can barter the
acknowledged affection of my child, and take money for her misery.”

Cashel was moved by the truth-like energy of the words he heard; the
very aspect of emotion in one he had never seen save calm, cold, and
self-possessed, had its influence on him, and he replied, “I consent.”
 So faintly, however, were the words uttered that he was obliged to
repeat them ere they reached Don Pedro's ears.

“I will come for you after supper this evening,” said Rica. “Let me find
you in the arbor at the end of the 'hacienda.' Till then, _adios_.” So
saying, he motioned to Cashel to follow the stranger. Roland obeyed the
suggestion, and they parted.




CHAPTER III. MR. SIMMS ON LIFE AT THE VILLA

     He told them of men that cared not a d--n
     For the law or the new police,
     And had very few scruples for killing a lamb,
     If they fancied they wanted the fleece.

     Sir Peter's Lament


When Roland Cashel rejoined Mr. Simms, he found that worthy individual
solacing himself for the privations of prairie travel, by such a
breakfast as only Don Pedro's larder would produce. Surrounded by
various dishes whose appetizing qualities might have suffered some
impairment from a more accurate knowledge of their contents,--sucking
monkeys and young squirrels among the number,--he tasted and sipped, and
sipped again, till between the seductions of sangaree and Curaçoa punch,
he had produced that pleasing frame of mind when even a less gorgeous
scene than the windows of the villa displayed before him would have
appeared delightful. Whether poor Mr. Simms's excess--and such we are
compelled to confess it was--could be excused on the score of long
fasting, or the consciousness that he had a right to some indulgence in
the hour of victory, he assuredly revelled in the fullest enjoyment of
this luxurious banquet, and, as Cashel entered the room, had reached the
delicious dreamland of misty consciousness, where his late adventures
and his former life became most pleasingly commingled, and jaguars,
alligators, gambusinos, and rancheros, danced through his brain in
company with Barons of the Exchequer and Masters in Chancery.

Elevated by the scenes of danger he had passed through,--some real, the
far greater number imaginary,--into the dignity of a hero, he preferred
rather to discuss prairie life and scenes in the Havannah, to dwelling
on the topics so nearly interesting to Cashel. Nor was Roland a very
patient listener to digressions, which, at every moment, left the
high-road, and wandered into every absurd by-path of personal history.

“I always thought, sir,” said Simms, “and used to say it everywhere,
too, what a splendid change for you this piece of good fortune would be,
springing at a bound, as a body might say, from a powder-monkey into the
wealth of a peer of the realm; but, egad, when I see the glorious life
you lead hereabouts, such grog, such tipple, capital house, magnificent
country, and, if I may pronounce from the view beneath my window, no
lack of company, too! I begin to feel doubts about it.”

If Cashel was scarcely pleased at the allusions to himself in this
speech, he speedily forgave them in his amusement at the commentary
Simms passed on life at the villa; but yet would willingly have turned
from either theme to that most engrossing one,--the circumstances of
his altered fortune. Simms, however, was above such grovelling subjects;
and, as he sat, glass in hand, gazing out upon the garden, where
strolling parties came and went, and loitering groups lingered in the
shade, he really fancied the scene a perfect paradise.

“Very hard to leave this, you'll find it!” exclaimed Simms. “I can well
imagine life here must be rare fun. How jolly they do seem down there!”
 said he, with a half-longing look at the strange figures, who now and
then favored him with a salute or a gesture of the hand, as they passed.

“Come, let us join them,” said Cashel, who, despairing of recalling him
to the wished-for topic, was fain to consent to indulge the stranger's
humor.

“All naval men?” asked Simms, as they issued forth into the lawn.

“Most of them are sailors!” said Cashel, equivocating.

“That's a fine-looking old fellow beneath the beech-tree, with the long
Turkish pipe in his mouth. He's captain of a seventy-four, I take it.”

“He's a Greek merchantman,” whispered Cashel; “don't look so hard at
him, for he observes you, and is somewhat irascible in temper, if stared
at.”

“Indeed! I should n't have thought--”

“No matter, do as I tell you; he stabbed a travelling artist the other
day, who fancied he was a fine study, and wished to make a drawing of
his head.”

Simms's jaw dropped suddenly, and a sickly faintness stole over him,
that even all his late potations could not supply courage enough to hear
such a story unmoved.

“And who is he, sir, yonder?” asked he, as a youth, with no other
clothing than a shirt and trousers, was fencing against a tree,
practising, by bounds and springs, every imaginable species of attack
and assault.

“A young Spaniard from the Basque,” said Cashel, coolly; “he has a duel
to-morrow with some fellow in Barcelonetta, and he 's getting his wrist
into play.” Then calling out, he said, “Ah, José, you mean to let blood,
I see!”

“He's only a student,” said the youth, with an insolent toss of his
head. “But who have we here?”

“A friend and countryman of mine, Mr. Simms,” said Cashel, introducing
the little man, who performed a whole circuit round the young Spaniard
in salutations.

“Come to join us?” asked the youth, surveying him with cool
impertinence. “What in the devil's name hast thou done that thou
shouldst leave the Old World at thy time of life? Virtuous living or
hypocrisy ought to have become a habit with thee ere now, old boy, eh?”

“He's only on a visit,” said Cashel, laughing; “he can return to good
society, not like all of us here.”

“Would you infer from that, sir--”

“Keep your temper, José,” said Cashel, with an indescribable assumption
of insolent superiority; “or, if you cannot, keep your courage for the
students, whose broils best suit you.”

“You presume somewhat too far on your skill with the rapier, Senhor
Cashel,” said the other, but in a voice far less elevated than before.

“You can test the presumption at any moment,” said Cashel, insolently;
“now, if you like it.”

“Oh, Mr. Cashel! oh, Mr. Roland! for mercy's sake, don't!” exclaimed
Simms.

“Never fear,” interposed Cashel; “that excellent young man has better
principles than you fancy, and never neglects, though he sometimes
forgets, himself.”

So saying, he leisurely passed his arm beneath Simms's, and led him
forward.

“Good day, Senhor Cashel,” said a tall and well-dressed man, who made
his salutations with a certain air of distinction that induced Simms to
inquire who and what he was.

“A general in the service of one of the minor States of Germany,” said
Cashel; “a man of great professional skill, and, it is said, of great
personal bravery.”

“And in what capacity is he here?”

“A refugee. His sentence to be shot was commuted to imprisonment for
life. He made his escape from Spandau, and came here.”

“What was his crime?”

“Treachery,--the very basest one can well conceive; he commanded the
fort of Bergstein, which the French attacked on their advance in the
second Austrian campaign. The assailants had no heavy artillery, nor
any material for escalade; but they had money, and gold proved a
better battering-train than lead. Plittersdorf--that's the general's
name--fired over their heads till he had expended all his ammunition,
and then surrendered, with the garrison, as prisoners of war. The
French, however, exchanged him afterwards, and he very nearly paid the
penalty of his false faith.”

“And now is he shunned,--do people avoid him?”

“How should they? How many here are privileged to look down on a
traitor? Is it the runaway merchant, the defaulting bank clerk, the
filching commissary, that can say shame to one whose crime stands higher
in the scale of offence? The best we can know of any one here is, that
his rascality took an aspiring turn; and yet there are some fellows
one would not like to think ill of. Here comes one such; and as I have
something like business to treat of with him, I 'll ask you to wait for
me, on this bench, till I join you.”

Without waiting for any reply, Cashel hastened forward, and taking off
his hat, saluted a sallow-looking man of some eight-and-forty or fifty
years of age, who, in a loose morning-gown, and with a book in his hand,
was strolling along in one of the alleys.

“Ha, lieutenant,” said the other, as, lifting up his eyes, he recognized
Cashel,--“making the most of these short hours of pleasure, eh? You 've
heard the news, I suppose; we shall be soon afloat again.”

“So I've heard, captain!” replied Cashel; “but I believe we have taken
our last cruise together.”

“How so, lad? _You_ look well, and in spirits; and as for myself, I
never felt in better humor than to try a bout with our friends on the
western coast.”

“You have no friend, captain, can better like to hear you say so; and as
for me, the chances of fortune have changed. I have discovered that I
need neither risk head nor limbs for gold; a worthy man has arrived here
to-day with tidings that I am the owner of a large estate, and more
money than I shall well know how to squander, and so--”

“And so you 'll leave us for the land where men have learned that art?
Quite right, Cashel. At your age a man can accustom himself to any and
everything; at mine--a little later--at mine, for instance, the task is
harder. I remember myself, some years ago, fancying that I should enjoy
prodigiously that life of voluptuous civilization they possess in
the Old World, where men's wants are met ere they are well felt, and
hundreds--ay, thousands--are toiling and thinking to minister to the
rich man's pleasures. It so chanced that I took a prize a few weeks
after; she was a Portuguese barque with specie, broad doubloons and gold
bars for the mint at Lisbon, and so I threw up my command and went
over to France and to Paris. The first dash was glorious; all was
new, glittering, and splendid; every sense steeped in a voluptuous
entrancement; thought was out of the question, and one only could wonder
at the barbarism that before seemed to represent life, and sorrow for
years lost and wasted in grosser enjoyment. Then came a reaction, at
first slight, but each day stronger; the headache of the debauch,
the doubt of your mistress's fidelity, your friend's truth, your own
enduring good fortune,--all these lie in wait together, and spring out
on you in some gloomy hour, like Malays boarding a vessel at night, and
crowding down from maintop and mizen! There is no withstanding; you must
strike or fly. I took the last alternative, and, leaving my splendid
quarters one morning at daybreak, hastened to Havre. Not a thought of
regret crossed me; so quiet a life seemed to sap my very courage, and
prey upon my vitals; that same night I swung once more in a hammock,
with the rushing water beside my ear, and never again tried those
dissipations that pall from their very excess; for, after all, no
pleasure is lasting which is not dashed with the sense of danger.”

While he was yet speaking, a female figure, closely veiled, passed close
to where they stood, and, without attracting any notice, slipped into
Cashel's hand a slip of paper. Few as the words it contained were, they
seemed to excite his very deepest emotion, and it was with a faltering
voice he asked the captain by what step he could most speedily obtain
his release from the service?

A tiresome statement of official forms was the answer; but Roland's
impatience did not hear it out, as he said,--

“And is there no other way,--by gold, for instance?”

A cold shrug of the shoulders met this sally, and the captain said,--

“To corrupt the officials of the Government is called treason by our
laws, and is punishable by death, just like desertion.” \

“Therefore is desertion the better course, as it involves none but one,”
 said Cashel, laughing, as he turned away.




CHAPTER IV. THE KENNYFECK HOUSEHOLD

     Man, being reasonable, must dine out;
     The best of life is but a dinner-party.

     Amphytrion, Canto IV.


It was about half-past six of an autumn evening, just as the gray
twilight was darkening into the gloom that precedes night, that a
servant, dressed in the most decorous black, drew down the window-blinds
of a large and splendidly furnished drawing-room of a house in Merrion
Square, Dublin.

Having arranged certain portly deep-cushioned chairs into the orderly
disorder that invites social groupings, and having disposed various
other articles of furniture according to those notions of domestic
landscape so popular at the present day, he stirred the fire and
withdrew,--all these motions being performed with the noiseless decorum
of a church.

A glance at the apartment, even by the fitful light of the coal-fire,
showed that it was richly, even magnificently, furnished. The
looking-glasses were immense in size, and framed with all that the most
lavish art of the carver could display. The hangings were costly Lyons
silk, the sofas, tables, and cabinets were all exquisite specimens of
modern skill and elegance, while the carpet almost rose above the foot
in the delicate softness of its velvet pile. A harp, a grand pianoforte,
and several richly-bound and gilded volumes strewed about gave evidence
of tastes above the mere voluptuous enjoyment of ease, and in one window
stood an embroidery-frame, with its unfinished labor, from which the
threads depended in that fashion, that showed it had lately occupied the
fair hands of the artist.

This very enviable apartment belonged to Mr. Mountjoy Kennyfeck, the
leading solicitor of Dublin, a man who, for something more than thirty
years, had stood at the head of his walk in the capital, and was reputed
to be one of its most respected and richest citizens. Mrs. Mountjoy
Kennyfeck--neither for our own nor our reader's convenience dare we omit
the “prénom”--was of a western family considerably above that of her
liege lord and master in matter of genealogy, but whose quarterings had
so far survived the family acres that she was fain to accept the hand
of a wealthy attorney, after having for some years been the belle of her
county, and the admired beauty of Castle balls and drawing-rooms.

It had been at first, indeed, a very hard struggle for the O'Haras to
adopt the style and title of Kennyfeck, and poor Matilda was pitied in
all the moods and tenses for exchanging the riotous feudalism of Mayo
for the decorous quietude and wealthy _insouciance_ of a Dublin mansion;
and the various scions of the house did not scruple to express very
unqualified opinions on the subject of her fall; but Time--that heals
so much--Time and Mr. Kennyfeck's claret, of which they all drank
most liberally during the visits to town, assuaged the rancor of these
prejudices, and “Matty,” it was hinted, might have done worse; while
some hardy spirit averred that “Kennyfeck, though not one of ourselves,
has a great deal of the gentleman about him, notwithstanding.”

A word of Mr. Kennyfeck himself, and even a word will almost suffice. He
was a very tall, pompous-looking personage, with a retiring forehead
and a large prominent nose; he wore a profusion of powder, and always
dressed in the most scrupulous black; he spoke little, and that slowly;
he laughed never. It was not that he was melancholy or depressed; it
seemed rather that his nature had been fashioned in conformity with the
onerous responsibilities of his pursuit, and that he would have deemed
any exhibition of mirthful emotion unseemly and unbecoming one who, so
to say, was a kind of high priest in the temple of equity. Next to the
Chancellor's he venerated the decisions of Mrs. Kennyfeck; after Mrs.
Kennyfeck came the Master of the Rolls. This was his brief and simple
faith, and it is astonishing in what simple rules of guidance men amass
vast fortunes, and obtain the highest suffrages of civic honor and
respect!

Mr. Kennyfeck's family consisted of two daughters: the eldest had been a
beauty for some years, and, even at the period our tale opens, had lost
few of her attractions. She was tall, dark-haired, and dark-eyed, with
an air of what in the Irish capital is called “decided fashion” about
her, but in less competent circles might have been called almost
effrontery. She looked strangers very steadily in the face, spoke with a
voice full, firm, and unabashed,--no matter what the subject, or who the
audience,--and gave her opinions on people and events with a careless
indifference to consequences that many mistook for high genius
rebellious against control.

Olivia, three years younger than her sister, had just come out; and
whether that her beauty--and she was very handsome--required a different
style, or that she saw more clearly “the mistake” in Miss Kennyfeck's
manner, but she took a path perfectly her own. She was tenderness
itself; a delicacy too susceptible for this work-a-day world pervaded
all she said and did,--a retiring sensitiveness that she knew, as she
plaintively said, would never “let her be loved,” overlaid her nature,
and made her the victim of her own feelings. Her sketches, everlasting
Madonnas dissolved in tears; her music, the most mournful of the
melodies; her reading, the most disastrously ending of modern
poems,--all accorded with this tone, which, after all, scarcely
consorted well with a very blooming cheek, bright hazel eyes, and an air
and carriage that showed a full consciousness of her captivations, and
no small reliance on her capacity to exercise them.

A brief interval after the servant left the room, the door opened, and
Mrs. Kennyfeck entered. She was dressed for dinner, and if not exactly
attired for the reception of a large company, exhibited, in various
details of her costume, unequivocal signs of more than common care. A
massive diamond brooch fastened the front of her dark velvet dress, and
on her fingers several rings of great value glittered. Miss Kennyfeck,
too, who followed her, was, though simply, most becomingly dressed; the
light and floating material of her robe contrasting well with the more
stately folds of the matronly costume of her mother.

“I am surprised they are not here before this,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck,
lying back in the deep recess of a luxurious chair, and placing a screen
between herself and the fire. “Your father said positively on the 5th,
and as the weather has been most favorable, I cannot understand the
delay. The packets arrive at four, I think?”

“Yes, at four, and the carriage left this at three to fetch them.”

“Read the note again,--he writes so very briefly always. I 'm sure I
wish the dear man would understand that I am not a client, and that a
letter is not exactly all it might be, because it can be charged its
thirteen-and-fourpence, or six-and-eightpence, whatever it is.”

Miss Kennyfeck took an open note from the chimney, and read:--

     Dear Mrs. Kennyfeck,--We have made all the necessary
     arrangements in London, and shall leave on the 2nd,  so as
     to arrive at Merrion Square by the 5th.    Mr. C---- would,
     I believe, rather have remained another day in town; but
     there was no possibility of doing so, as the “Chancellor”
      will sit on Tuesday. Love to the girls, and believe me,
     yours very truly,

     M. Kennyfeck.

Invite Jones and Softly to meet us at dinner.

The clock on the mantelpiece now struck seven; and scarcely had the last
chime died away as a carriage drove up to the door.

“Here they come, I suppose,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, with a half-sigh.

“No, mamma; it is a hackney-coach. Mr. Jones, or Mr. Softly, perhaps.”

“Oh, dear! I had forgotten them. How absurd it was to ask these people,
and your father not here.”

The door opened, and the servant announced the Rev. Mr. Knox Softly. A
very tall, handsome young man entered, and made a most respectful but
cordial salutation to the ladies. He was in look and mien the _beau
idéal_ of health, strength, and activity, with bright, full blue eyes,
and cheeks rosy as the May. His voice, however, was subdued to the
dulcet accent of a low whisper, and his step, as he crossed the room,
had the stealthy noiselessness of a cat's approach.

“Mr. Kennyfeck quite restored, I hope, from the fatigue of his journey?”

“We 've not seen him yet,” replied his lady, almost tartly. “He ought to
have been here at four o'clock, and yet it's past seven.”

“I think I hear a carriage.”

“Another ------,” hackney, Miss Kennyfeck was about to say, when she
stopped herself, and, at the instant, Counsellor Clare Jones was
announced.

This gentleman was a rising light of the Irish bar, who had the
good fortune to attract Mr. Kennyfeck's attention, and was suddenly
transferred from the dull duties of civil bills and declarations to
business of a more profitable kind. He had been somewhat successful in
his college career,--carried off some minor honors; was a noisy member
of a debating society; wrote leaders for some provincial papers; and
with overbearing powers of impudence, and a good memory, was a very
likely candidate for high forensic honor.

Unlike the first arrival, the Counsellor had few, if any, of the
forms of good society in his manner or address. His costume, too, was
singularly negligent; and as he ran a very dubious hand through a mass
of thick and tangled hair on entering, it was easy to see that the
greatest part of his toilet was then and there performed. The splashed
appearance of his nether garments, and of shoes that might have done
honor to snipe-shooting, also showed that the carriage which brought him
was a mere ceremonial observance, and, as he would himself say, “the act
of conveyance was a surplusage.”

Those who saw him in court pronounced him the most unabashed and cool of
men; but there was certainly a somewhat of haste and impetuosity in his
drawing-room manner that even a weak observer would have ascribed to
awkwardness.

“How do you do, Mrs. Kennyfeck?--how do you do, Miss Kennyfeck?--glad to
see you. Ah! Mr. Softly,--well, I hope? Is he come--has he arrived?”
 A shake of the head replied in the negative. “Very strange; I can't
understand it. We have a consultation with the Solicitor-General
to-morrow, and a meeting in chambers at four.”

“I should n't wonder if Mr. Cashel detained papa; he is very young, you
know, and London must be so new and strange to him, poor lad!”

“Yes; but your father would scarce permit it,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck,
smartly. “I rather think it must have been some accidental circumstance;
coaches are constantly upsetting, and post-horses cannot always be had.”

Mr. Knox Softly smiled benignly, as though to say in these suggestions
Mrs. Kennyfeck was displaying a very laudable spirit of uncertainty as
to the course of human events.

“Here 's Olivia,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, as her younger daughter entered.
“Let us hear her impressions,--full of forebodings, I don't doubt.”

Miss Olivia Kennyfeck performed her salutations to the guests with the
most faultless grace, throwing into her courtesy to the curate a
certain air of filial reverence very pretty to behold, and only a
little objectionable on the score of the gentleman's youth and personal
attractions; and then, turning to her mother said,--

“You are not uneasy, mamma, I hope? Though, after all, this is about the
period of the equinox.”

“Nonsense, child! packets are never lost nowadays in the Irish Channel.
It's merely some sudden freak of gayety,--some London distraction
detains them. Will you touch that bell, Mr. Clare Jones? It is better to
order dinner.”

There was something peremptory in the lady's tone and manner that rather
damped the efforts at small-talk,--never very vigorous or well-sustained
at these ante-dinner moments; nor were any of the party very sorry when
the servant announced that the soup was served.




CHAPTER V. HOW ROLAND BECAME ENTITLED TO THE GODFREY BROWNE PROPERTY.

     The sherry iced,--the company still colder.

     Bell:  Images.


The party who now took their seats at table were not made of those
ingredients whose admixture accomplishes a social meeting. Their
natures, pursuits, and tastes were only sufficiently unlike to suggest
want of agreement, without possessing the broad contrasts that invite
conversation by their own contrariety. Besides this, there was a sense
of constraint over every one, from the absence of the host and his
expected guest; and lastly, the very aspect of a gorgeously decorated
table, with vacant places, has always a chilling influence over those
who sit around. A certain amount of propinquity is as essential to
conversation as good roads and easy distances are a necessary condition
to a visiting neighborhood. If you cannot address him or her who sits
beside you without attracting the attention of the whole table to your
remark, you are equally debarred from the commonplaces that induce
table-talk, or the smart thing that cannot well be said too publicly.

The dinner here proceeded in very stately quietude, nor were the efforts
of Mr. Jones to introduce a conversational spirit at all successful;
indeed, that gifted gentleman would have willingly exchanged the
unexceptionable cookery and admirably conditioned wine before him for
the riotous freedom of a bar mess,--where sour sherry and nisi-prius
jokes abounded, and Father Somebody's song was sure to give the scene
a conviviality that only yielded its fascination to blind hookey or
spoiled five.

Far otherwise the curate. The angelic smile that sat upon his features
mechanically; his low, soft, liquid voice; his gentle gestures; and even
his little sallies of pleasantry, were in perfect accordance with the
decorous solemnity of a scene where the chink of a cut decanter, or the
tingling sound of a silver dish-cover, were heard above the stillness of
the company.

If, then, Mr. Knox Softly accompanied the ladies to the door, and
followed them out with his eyes with an expression beaming regretfulness
at their departure, the Counsellor, very differently minded, surrounded
himself with an array of the dessert-dishes and decanters, and prepared
to discuss his wine and walnuts to his perfect contentment.

“You have never met this Mr. Roland Cashel, I believe?” said Mr. Softly,
as he filled a very large claret glass and tasted it enjoyably.

“Never,” replied Jones, whose teeth were busily engaged in smashing
almonds and filberts, in open defiance of a tray of silver nutcrackers
before him. “I don't think he has been in Ireland since a mere child,
and very little in England.”

“Then his recovery of the estate was quite unexpected?”

“Mere accident Kennyfeck came upon the proofs when making some searches
for a collateral claim. The story is very short. This lad's father,
whose name was Godfrey Cashel, was a poor lieutenant in the 81st, and
quartered at Bath, when he chanced to discover that a rich old bachelor
there, a certain Godfrey Browne, was a distant relation of his
mother. He lost no time in making his acquaintance and explaining the
relationship, which, however, brought him no more substantial benefit
than certain invitations to dinner and whist parties, where the
unfortunate lieutenant lost his half-crowns.

“At length a note came one morning inviting him to breakfast and to
'transact a little matter of business.' Poor Godfrey read the words with
every commentary that could flatter his hopes, and set out in better
spirits than he had known for many a year before. What, then, was
his dismay to discover that he was only wanted to witness the old
gentleman's will!--a very significant proof that he was not to benefit
by its provisions.

“With a very ill-repressed sigh, the poor lieutenant threw a glance over
the half-opened leaves, where leasehold, and copyhold, and freehold, and
every other 'hold' figured among funded property, consols, and reduced
annuities,--with money lent on mortgages, shares in various companies,
and What not,--a list only to be equalled by the long catalogue of
those 'next of kin,' who, to the number of seventeen, were mentioned as
reversionary heirs.

“'You are to sign your name here, Mr. Cashel,' said the solicitor,
pointing to a carefully-scratched portion of the parchment, where
already the initials were pencilled for his guidance.

“'Faith! and it's at the other side of the book I'd rather see it,' said
the lieutenant, with a sigh.

“'Not, surely, after seventeen others!' exclaimed the astonished
attorney.

“'Even so,--a chance is better than nothing.'

“'What's that he's saying?' interposed the old man, who sat reading his
newspaper at the fire. The matter was soon explained by the attorney,
and when he finished, Cashel added: 'That's just it; and I'm to sail for
the Cape on the 4th of next month, and if you 'll put me down among the
rest of the fellows, I 'll send you the best pipe of Constantia you
ever tasted, as sure as my name is Godfrey Cashel.'

“The old man threw his spectacles up on his forehead, wiped his eyes,
and then, replacing his glasses, took a deliberate survey of the poor
lieutenant who had proposed such a very 'soft' bargain. 'Eh! Clinchet,'
said he to the attorney, 'can we do this for him?'

“'Nothing easier, sir; let the gentleman come in last, as residuary
legatee, and it alters nothing.'

“'I suppose you count on your good luck,' said old Browne, grinning.

“'Oh, then, it's not from my great experience that way.' said Cashel.
'I 've been on the “Duke's list” for promotion seventeen years already,
and, for all I see, not a bit nearer than the first day; but there's no
reason my poor boy should be such an unfortunate devil. Who knows but
fortune may make amends to him one of these days? Come, sir, is it a
bargain?'

“'To be sure. I 'm quite willing; only don't forget the Constantia. It's
a wine I like a glass of very well indeed, after my dinner.'

“The remainder is easily told; the lieutenant sailed for the Cape,
and kept his word, even though it cost him a debt that mortgaged his
commission. Old Browne gave a great dinner when the wine arrived, and
the very first name on the list of legatees, his nephew, caught a fever
on his way home from it, and died in three weeks.

“Kennyfeck could tell us, if he were here, what became of each of them
in succession; four were lost, out yachting, at once; but, singular as
it may seem, in nineteen years from the day of that will, every life
lapsed, and, stranger still, without heirs; and the fortune has now
descended to poor Godfrey Cashel's boy, the lieutenant himself having
died in the West Indies, where he exchanged into a native regiment. That
is the whole story; and probably in a romance one would say that the
thing was exaggerated, so much more strange is truth than fiction.”

“And what kind of education did the young man get?”

“I suppose very little, if any. So long as his father lived, he of
course held the position of an officer's son,--poor, but in the rank of
gentleman. After that, without parents,--his mother died when he was an
infant,--he was thrown upon the world, and, after various vicissitudes,
became a cabin boy on board of a merchantman; then he was said to be a
mate of a vessel in the African trade employed on the Gold Coast,--just
as probably a slaver; and, last of all, he was lieutenant in the
Columbian navy,--which, I take it, is a very good name for piracy. It
was in the Havannah we got a trace of him, and I assure you, strange as
it may sound, Kennyfeck's agent had no small difficulty in persuading
him to abandon that very free-and-easy service, to assume the rights and
immunities of a very large property.

“Kennyfeck was to meet him on his arrival in England, about ten days
ago, and they spent a few days in London, and were--But hark! there
comes a carriage now,--yes, I know the step of his horses; here they
are!”




CHAPTER VI. A FRACAS IN THE BETTING-RING.

     Ne'er mind his torn, ill-fashioned doublet,
     Beshrew me! if he 's not a pretty man.

     Don Lopez.

The movement and bustle in the hall showed that Mr. Jones's surmise was
correct; for scarcely had the carriage stopped than the street-door
was flung wide open, and Mr. Pearse, the butler, followed by a strong
detachment of bright-liveried menials, stood bowing their respectful
compliments to their master and his guest. As Mr. Kennyfeck entered the
house, he walked slowly and with difficulty, endeavoring at the same
time to avoid all scrutiny of his appearance as he passed through the
crowded hall; but, although his hat was pressed firmly over his brows,
it could not entirely conceal a very suspiciously tinted margin around
one eye; while the care with which he defended his left arm, and which
he carried in his waistcoat, looked like injury there also.

He, however, made an attempt at a little sprightliness of manner, as,
shaking his companion's hand with cordial warmth, he said,--

“Welcome to Ireland, Mr. Cashel. I hope I shall very often experience
the happiness of seeing you under this roof.”

The person addressed was a remarkably handsome young man, whose air and
carriage bespoke, however, much more the confidence that results from a
sense of personal gifts, and a bold, daring temperament, than that more
tempered ease which is the consequence of fashionable breeding.

Mr. Kennyfeck's felicitations on their arrival were scarce uttered ere
Cashel had sufficiently recovered from his surprise at the unexpected
magnificence of the house to make any reply; for, although as yet
advanced no further than the hall, a marble group by Canova, a centre
lamp of costly Sèvres, and some chairs of carved ebony served to
indicate the expensive style of the remainder of the mansion.

While Cashel, then, muttered his acknowledgments, he added to himself,
but in a voice scarcely less loud,--

“Devilish good crib, this, Master Kennyfeck.”

“Pearse,” said the host, “is dinner ready?”

“My mistress and the young ladies have dined, sir; but Mr. Jones and Mr.
Softly are in the parlor.”

“Well, let us have something at once; or, would you prefer, Mr. Cashel,
making any change in your dress first?”

“I say dinner above all things,” said the youth, disencumbering himself
of a great Mexican mantle.

“Perfectly right; quite agree with you,” said Kennyfeck, endeavoring to
assume a little of his guest's dash; “and here we are. Ah, Jones, how
d'ye do? Mr. Cashel, this is my friend Mr. Jones. Mr. Softly, very
glad to see you. Mr. Softly.--Mr. Cashel. Don't stir, I beg; keep your
places. We 'll have a bit of dinner here, and join you at your wine
afterwards. Meanwhile, I 'll just step upstairs, and be back again in a
moment; you'll excuse me, I 'm sure.”

“Oh, certainly,” replied Cashel, who appeared as if he could excuse
anything with a better grace than the ceremonious slowness of the
butler's arrangements.

There was a pause of a few seconds as Mr. Kennyfeck left the room,
broken, at last, by Mr. Jones asking if they had not been detained by
contrary winds.

“No, I think not; I fancy the weather was pretty average kind of
weather. Had we been expected here earlier?”

“Yes; Mrs. Kennyfeck mentioned to me Monday, and afterwards Tuesday, as
the very latest day for your arrival.”

Cashel made no remark; and, soon after, Mr. Pearse's entrance with the
soup put an end to the conversation. “Mr. Kennyfeck desired me to say,
sir, not to wait for him; he'll be down presently.”

“What do you call this soup?”

“Mock-turtle, sir.”

“Rather too much Madeira in it for my taste; but that sha' n't prevent
my having a glass of wine. Will you permit me, gentlemen?”

The parties bowed policy; but still the intercourse did not progress;
and in the exchanged glances of those at the large table, and the
sidelong looks Cashel occasionally threw towards them, it was easy to
see that neither party had made way with the other.

“I fear Kennyfeck is not going to make his appearance,” said Cashel, as
he seemed to hesitate about proceeding with his dinner.

“I should n't advise you waiting,” cried Jones; “the fish is growing
cold.”

“I suspect Mr. Kennyfeck is fatigued by his journey, sir,” said Mr.
Softly, in his most bland of voices; “I thought I remarked it by his
face.”

“Oh, did you?” said Cashel, with a very peculiar look of knowingness.

“Yes; you are aware, Mr. Cashel,” interrupted Jones, “our friend is n't
much used to that kind of thing. I suppose it's some years since he has
had so much knocking about as in these last few days.”

“I fancy so,” said Cashel, with a significant smile that puzzled the
lawyer exceedingly, and he ate on without making a further remark.

The two or three efforts made by Jones and Softly to converse
together were, like nearly all similar attempts at perfect ease and
self-possession, complete failures, and gradually slided down into
monosyllables, and then to silence; when Cashel, who seemed to be
enjoying his venison and Bordeaux with perfect zest, leaned back in his
chair and said, “What kind of place is this same good city of Dublin?
What goes forward here?”

As this question was more directly addressed to Jones, that gentleman
prepared himself, not unwillingly, for an elaborate reply.

“Dublin, Mr. Cashel,” said he, pretty much in the same tone he would
have used in opening an address to a jury,--

“Dublin is a city which, from a great variety of causes, will always
be exposed to every variable and opposing criticism. To begin: it is
provincial--”

“Is it slow?” interrupted Cashel, who had listened to this exordium with
palpable signs of impatience.

“If you mean, has it its share of those habits of dissipation, those
excesses so detrimental alike to health and fortune--”

“No, no; I merely ask what goes on here,--how do people amuse
themselves?” said Cashel, fencing to avoid any very lengthened exposure
of the other's views.

“They dine, dance, drink tea, talk politics and scandal, like other
folk; but if you ask, what are the distinguishing features of the
society--”

“What kind of sport does the country afford?” interrupted Roland,
somewhat unceremoniously.

“Hunting, shooting, fishing, coursing--”

“What do you mean by hunting,--a fox, is it?”

“Yes, fox-hunting and hare-hunting, too.”

A very insolent laugh was Cashel's answer, as, turning to Mr. Softly, he
said, “Well, I own, all this does strike me as a very tiresome kind of
life. Do you like Ireland, sir?”

“I feel a deep interest in it,” said the curate, with a most solemn
manner.

“Yes, that's all very well; but do you like it?”

“Were it not for its darkness,” said Mr. Softly, sighing, “I should say
I liked it.”

“Darkness,” echoed Cashel,--“darkness; why, hang it, you are pretty far
north here. What is the darkness you speak of?”

“I alluded to popery, sir,--to the obscuring mists of superstition and
ignorance,” replied Mr. Softly, with a kind of energetic timidity that
made himself blush.

“Oh--I perceive--yes--I understand,” muttered Cashel, who certainly felt
all the awkwardness of a man caught in a lie.

“We have a very agreeable society among the bar men,” said Jones,
returning to the charge in a new direction; “a great deal of pleasantry
and fun goes on at our messes.”

“Droll fellows, I suppose,” said Cashel, carelessly. “I remember I
knew a lawyer once; he was a mate of a small clipper in the African
trade,--mischievous kind of devil he was too,--always setting the slaves
by the ears, and getting money for settling the differences. They played
him a good trick at last.” Here he laughed heartily at the recollection
for several minutes.

“What was it?” asked Jones, in some curiosity to learn how the bar was
respected on the banks of the Niger.

“They painted him black and sold him at Cuba,” said Cashel, who once
more broke out into laughter at the excellence of the jest.

Jones's and Softly's eyes met with a most complete accordance in the
glances exchanged. Meanwhile, Cashel, drawing his chair towards the
larger table, filled his glass and proceeded to smash his walnuts with
all the easy contentment of a man who had dined well.

“I perceive Mr. Kennyfeck is not likely to join us,” said Softly, with a
half suggestive look towards the door.

“Tired, perhaps,” said Jones, affecting what he opined to be the cool
indifference of the highest fashion.

“More than that, I suspect,” said Cashel, with a most unfeigned
carelessness. “Did you remark his eye?”

“Yes!” exclaimed both together. “What could that mean?”

“A slight bit of a scrimmage we had on the way from town; a--”

“Mr. Kennyfeck engaged in a row!” cried Softly, almost incredible at the
tidings.

“Yes. I fancy that is about the best word for it,” said Cashel, sipping
his wine. “I suppose one ought not to mention these kind of things;
but of course they are safe with you. They 'll never go further, I am
certain.”

“Oh, never,--not a syllable,” chimed in the two.

“Well, then, on our way here, I learned that there were to be races a
few miles from Coventry, and as I saw our friend Kennyfeck had no fancy
for the sight, I just slipped a few half-crowns into the postboy's hand,
and told him to drive there instead of taking the Liverpool road. Away
we went at a good pace, and in less than an hour reached the course. I
wish you saw the old gentleman's face when he awoke from a sound nap,
and saw the grand stand, with its thousand faces, all in a row, and the
cords, the betting-ring, and the whole circumstance of a race-ground. By
good luck, too, the sharp jerk of our pull-up smashed a spring, and so
we had nothing for it but to leave the chaise and wait till it could be
repaired. While my servant was away in search of some kind of a drag or
other, to go about the field,--there was no walking, what with the crowd
and the press of horses, not to speak of the mud that rose over the
ankles,--we pushed on,--that is, I did, with a stout grip of Kennyfeck's
arm, lest he should escape,--we pushed on, into the ring. Here there was
rare fun going forward, every fellow screaming out his bets, and booking
them as fast as he could. At first, of course, the whole was all ancient
Greek to me. I neither knew what they meant by the 'favorite,' or
'the odds,' or 'the field;' but one somehow always can pick up a thing
quickly, if it be but 'game,' and so, by watching here, and listening
there, I managed to get a kind of inkling of the whole affair, and by
dint of some pushing and elbowing, I reached the very centre of the
ring, where the great dons of the course were betting together.

“'Taurus even against the field,' cried one.

“'Taurus against the field,' shouted another.

“And this same cry was heard on every side.

“'Give it in fifties,--hundreds if you like better,' said a young fellow
mounted on a smart-looking pony, to his friend, who appeared to reflect
on the offer. 'Come, hurry on, man. Let's have a bet, just to give one
an interest in the race.' The other shook his head, and the first went
on, 'What a slow set, to be sure! Is no one willing to back the field,
even? Come, then, here 's a hundred pound to any man who 'll take the
field against Taurus, for two thousand.'

“'Let me have your cob,' said I, 'and I 'll take the bet.'

“He turned round in his saddle, and stared at me as if I were something
more or less than human, while a very general roar of laughing ran
around the entire circle.

“'Come away, come away at once,' whispered Kennyfeck, trembling with
fright.

“'Yes, you had better move off, my friend,' said a thickset,
rough-looking fellow, in a white coat.

“'What say you to five thousand, sir; does that suit your book?' cried
the young fellow to me, in a most insolent tone.

“'Oh, let him alone, my Lord,' said another. 'Take no notice of him.'

“'I say, Grindle,' cried a tall thin man with moustaches, 'who let these
people inside the ring?'

“'They forces their way, my Lud,' said a little knocker-kneed creature,
in a coat four times too big for him, 'and I says to Bill, de--pend upon
it, Bill, them's the swell mob.'

“The words were scarcely out of the fellow's mouth when a general cry
of the 'swell mob' resounded on every side, and at once they closed upon
us, some pushing, others elbowing, driving, and forcing, so that what
with the dense crowd, and the tight hold Kennyfeck now kept of me, I was
pinioned, and could do nothing. At last, by a vigorous twist, I shook
them off from me, and laid two of the foremost at my feet. This I did
with a Mexican trick I saw they knew nothing about. You first make a
feint at the face, and then, dropping on the knee, seize the fellow by
both legs, and hurl him back on his head,--just stand up, I 'll not hurt
you.”

“Thank you,--I understand the description perfectly,” said Mr. Softly,
pale with terror at the proposed experiment.

“Well, the remainder is soon told. They now got in upon us, and of
course I need n't say we got confoundedly thrashed. Kennyfeck was
tumbled about like a football; every one that had nothing else to do had
a kick at him, and there 's no saying how it might have ended had not a
certain Sir George Somebody recognized our poor friend, and rescued him.
I 'm not quite sure that I was quite myself about this time; Kennyfeck
has some story of my getting on some one's horse, and riding about the
course in search of the originators of the fray. The end of it, however,
was, we reached Liverpool with sorer bones than was altogether pleasant,
and although, when Kennyfeck went to bed, I went to the theatre, the
noise only increased my headache, and it needed a good night's sleep to
set me all right again.”

“Mr. Kennyfeck taken for one of the swell mob!” exclaimed Softly, with
a sort of holy horror that seemed to sum up his whole opinion of the
narrative.

“Very bad, was n't it?” said Cashel, pushing the wine past; “but he's a
capital fellow,--took the whole thing in such good part, and seems
only anxious that the story should n't get abroad. Of course I need n't
repeat my caution on that subject?”

“Oh, certainly not! Shall we join the ladies?” said Mr. Jones, as he
surveyed his whiskers and arranged the tie of his cravat before the
glass.

“I'm quite ready,” said Cashel, who had quietly set down in his own mind
that the ladies of the Kennyfeck family were a kind of female fac-simile
of the stiff-looking old attorney, and, therefore, felt very few qualms
on the subject of his disordered and slovenly appearance.

Scarcely had Cashel entered the drawing-room than he found his hand
grasped in Mr. Kennyfeck's, when, with a most dulcet acccent, he said,--

“I knew you 'd forgive me,--I told Mrs. Kennyfeck you'd excuse me
for not joining you at dinner; but I was really so fatigued. Mrs.
Kennyfeck--Mr. Cashel. My daughter, Mr. Cashel. My daughter Olivia.
Well, now, have you dined heartily?--I hope my friends here took care of
you.”

“I thank you. I never dined better,--only sorry not to, have had your
company. We have our apologies to make, Mrs. Kennyfeck, for not being
earlier; but, of course, you 've heard that we did our very utmost.”

“Oh, yes, yes! I explained everything,” interrupted Kennyfeck, most
eager to stop a possible exposure. “Mrs. Kennyfeck knows it all.”

Although Cashel's manner and address were of a kind to subject him to
the most severe criticism of the ladies of the Kennyfeck family, they
evinced the most laudable spirit in their hospitable and even cordial
reception of him, Mrs. Kennyfeck making room for him to sit on the sofa
beside her,--a post of honor that even the Castle aides-de-camp only
enjoyed by great favor; while the daughters listened with an attention
as flattering to _him_ as it was galling to the other two guests.

Mr. Softly, however, resigned himself to this neglect as to a passing
cloud of forgetfulness, and betook himself to the columns of the
“Morning Post” for consolation, occasionally glancing over the margin
to watch the laughing group around the fire. As for Jones; Mr. Kennyfeck
had withdrawn with that gentleman into a window, where the tactics of
some bill in equity engaged their attention,--manifestly, however, to
the young barrister's discontent, as his frequent stolen looks towards
the ladies evidenced.

It was the first time that the Kennyfecks had ever deigned to listen
to any one whose claims to a hearing rested on higher grounds than
the light gossip and small-talk of the capital, the small fashionable
chit-chat of a provincial city, and which bears the same resemblance to
the table-talk of the greater metropolis as do larks to ortolans, when
disguised in the same kind of sauce; only those accustomed to the higher
flavor being able to detect the difference. It was, then, with as
much surprise as pleasure that they found themselves listening to the
narratives in which not a single noble or lordly personage figured, nor
one singular incident occurred reflecting on the taste, the wealth, or
the morals of their acquaintance. It was no less a novelty, too, for
Cashel to find any one a listener to descriptions of scenes and habits
in whose familiarity he saw nothing strange or remarkable; so that when
the young ladies, at first attracted by mere curiosity, became gradually
more and more interested in his stories, his flattered vanity gave new
warmth to an enthusiasm always ardent, and he spoke of prairie life
and adventure with a degree of eloquence and power that might have
captivated even less indulgent auditors.

It was, besides, the first time that they ever had seen great wealth
unallied with immense pretension. Cashel, perhaps from character,
or that his accession to fortune was too recent, and his consequent
ignorance of all that money can do, whichever of these the cause, was
certainly the most unassuming young man they had ever met. In comparison
with him, the aides-de-camp were princes of the blood; even Mr. Jones
put forth a degree of pretension on the score of his abilities, which
stood in strong contrast with the unaffected and simple modesty of
Roland Cashel.

It is but fair to all parties to add that dark and flashing eyes, shaded
by long and drooping lashes, a high and massive forehead; a brown,
almost Spanish complexion, whose character was increased by a pair of
short coal-black moustaches,--did not detract from the merit of tales,
which, as they chiefly related to feats of personal daring and
address, were well corroborated by the admirable symmetry and handsome
proportions of the relater.

Story followed story. Now the scene lay in the low and misty swamps
of the Niger, where night resounds with the dull roar of the beasts of
prey, and the heavy plash of the sluggish alligator on the muddy shore;
now, it was in the green wood of the Spice Islands, amid an atmosphere
scented with perfume, and glittering with every gorgeous hue of plumage
and verdure. At one moment he would describe a chase at sea, with all
its high and maddening excitement, as each new vicissitude of success
or failure arose; and then he would present some little quiet picture
of shore life in a land where the boundless resources of Nature supply,
even anticipate, the wants and luxuries of man.

Whatever the interest, and occasionally it rose to a high pitch, that
attended his narratives of danger and daring, the little sketches he
gave from time to time of the domestic life of these far-away people,
seemed to attract the most delighted attention of his fair hearers,
particularly where his narrative touched upon the traits, whether of
beauty, dress, or demeanor, that distinguish the belles of New Spain.

“How difficult,” said Miss Kennyfeck, “I could almost say, how
impossible, to leave a land so abounding in the romance of life, for all
the dull and commonplace realities of European existence.”

“How hard to do so without leaving behind the heart that could feel such
ecstasies,” murmured Olivia, with a half-raised eyelid, and a glance
that made Cashel flush with delight.

“How shall we ever make Ireland compensate you for quitting so lovely a
country!” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, with a smile rarely accorded to anything
lower than a viscount.

“We have a Mexican proverb, madam,” said Cashel, gayly, “which says,
'Wherever the sun shines, bright eyes shine also.' But enough of these
tiresome memories, in which my egotism will always involve me. Shall we
have a fandango?”

“I don't know it; I never saw it danced.”

“Well, the manolo, then.”

“Nor that either,” said both girls, laughing.

“Well, will you learn? I'll teach you the manolo. It's very simple. If
you 'll play the air, Miss Kennyfeck,--it runs thus.” Here he opened the
pianoforte, and, after a few chords, struck with a masterly finger, he
played a little Spanish dance; but with a spirit of execution, and
in such an exciting character of time and measure, that a general
exclamation of delight broke from the whole room, Mr. Jones himself
forgetting all rivalry, and Mr. Softly laying down his newspaper
to listen, and for a moment carried away by the fascination of the
spirit-stirring melody.

“That is the manolo; come, now, and let me teach you, first the air, and
then the dance.”

“Oh, I never could succeed to give it that character of bold and haughty
defiance it breathes from you,” said Miss Kennyfeck.

“Nay, nay, a man's hand is always so rude and heavy, it needs the taper
finger of a lady,”--here Cashel bent, and kissed the hand he held,
but with such a deference and respect in the salute, that deprived the
action, so novel to our eyes, of any appearance of a liberty,--“of
a lady,” he resumed, “to impart the ringing brilliancy of the saucy
manolo.”

“Then play it over once more, and I 'll try,” said Miss Kennyfeck, who
was a most accomplished musician, and had even already caught up the
greater part of the air.

Cashel obeyed, and again the plaudits followed even more
enthusiastically than the first time. With a precision that called forth
many a hearty “bravo” from Roland, Miss Kennyfeck played over the air,
catching up all the spirit of its transitions from gay to plaintive, and
from tender to a strain bold, daring, and energetic.

“Now for the dance,” exclaimed Cashel, eagerly, as he busied himself
in removing chairs and pushing back sofas. “Will you be kind enough to
assist me with this table?”

Mr. Softly, the gentleman thus addressed, rose to comply, his face
exhibiting a very amusing struggle between shame and astonishment at the
position he occupied. The space cleared, Roland took Olivia's hand, and
led her forward with an air of exceeding deference.

“Now, Miss Kenny feck, the step is the easiest thing in the world. It
goes so,--one--two; one--two--three; and then change--Exactly, quite
right; you have it perfectly. This is, as it were, an introduction to
the dance; but the same step is preserved throughout, merely changing
its time with the measure.”

It would be as impossible to follow as it would be unfair to weary the
reader with the lesson which now began; and yet we would like to linger
on the theme, as our memory brings up every graceful gesture and every
proud attitude of the fascinating manolo. Representing, as it does, by
pantomimic action a little episode of devotion, in which pursuit and
flight, entreaty, rejection, seductive softness, haughty defiance, timid
fear, and an even insolent boldness alternate and succeed each other,
all the movements which expressive action can command, whether of
figure or feature, are called forth. Now, it is the retiring delicacy of
shrinking, timid loveliness, half hoping, halt fearing, to be pursued;
now the stately defiance of haughty beauty, demanding homage as its due.
At one moment the winning seductiveness that invites pursuit, and then,
sudden as the lightning, the disdain that repels advance.

Not the least interesting part of the present scene was to watch how
Olivia, who at first made each step and gesture with diffidence and
fear, as she went on, became, as it were, seized with the characteristic
spirit of the measure; her features varying with each motive of the
music, her eyes at one instant half closed in dreamy languor, and at the
next flashing in all the brilliancy of conscious beauty. As for Roland,
forgetting, as well he might, all his functions as teacher, he
moved with the enthusiastic spirit of the dance,--his rapturous gaze
displaying the admiration that fettered him; and when at last, as it
were, yielding to long-proved devotion, she gave her hand, it needed
the explanation of its being a Mexican fashion to excuse the ardor with
which he pressed it to his lips.

Mrs. Kennyfeck's applause, however, was none the less warm; and if
any of the company disapproved, they prudently said nothing,--even Mr.
Softly, who only evidenced his feeling by a somewhat hasty resumption
of the “Morning Post,” while the elder sister, rising from the piano,
whispered, as she passed her sister, “Bad jockey-ship, Livy, dear, to
make fast running so early.”

“And that is the--What d'ye call it, Mr. Cashel?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck.

“The manolo, madam. It is of Italian origin, rather than
Spanish,--Calabrian, I fancy; but, in Mexico, it has become national,
and well suits the changeful temper of our Spanish belles, and the style
of their light and floating costume.”

“Yes, I suspect it has a better effect with short drapery than with the
sweeping folds of our less picturesque dress,” said Miss Kennyfeck,
who, for reasons we must not inquire, took a pleasure in qualifying her
approval.

“I never saw it appear more graceful,” said Cashel, with a blunt
abruptness far more flattering than a studied compliment.

Olivia blushed; Mrs. Kennyfeck looked happy, and the elder sister
bit her lips, and threw up her eyebrows, with an expression we cannot
attempt to render in words.

“May I not have the honor of introducing you to the manolo?” said
Cashel, presenting himself before her with a deep bow.

“Thank you, I prefer being a spectator; besides, we could have no
music,--my sister does not play.”

Olivia blushed; and, in her hasty look, there was an expression of
gently conveyed reproach, as though to say, “This is unfair.”

“Do you like music, Mr. Cashel?” continued Miss Kennyfeck, who saw the
slight cloud of disappointment that crossed Roland's features. “Oh, I 'm
certain you do, and I know you sing!”

“Yes,” said Cashel, carelessly, “as every one sings in that merry land
I come from; but I fear the wild carol-lings of a ranchero would scarce
find acceptance in the polished ears of Europe.”

“What are the melodies like, then?” asked Miss Kennyfeck, throwing into
the question a most eager interest.

“You shall hear, if you like,” said Roland, taking up a guitar, and
striking a few full chords with a practised hand. “This is one of the
war-songs;” and without further preface he began. Had he even been less
gifted than he was as to voice and musical taste, there was enough in
the bold and manly energy of his manner, in the fiery daring of his dark
eyes, and the expressive earnestness of his whole bearing, to attract
the admiration of his hearers. But, besides these advantages, he was not
unskilled in the science of music, and even made so poor an instrument a
full and masterly accompaniment, imitating, as few but Spaniards can do,
the distant sound of drums, the dropping fire of cannon, the wild abrupt
changes of battle, and the low plaintive sounds of suffering and defeat;
so that, as he concluded, the whole character of the performance had
ceased to be regarded as a mere musical display, but had the absolute
effect of a powerfully told story.

The Kennyfecks had often been called on in society to award their
praises to amateur performances, in whose applause, be it said, _en
passant_, a grateful sense of their being concluded always contributes
the enthusiasm; but real admiration and pleasure now made them silent,
and as their eyes first turned on the singer and then met, there was a
world of intelligence in that one quiet, fleeting glance that revealed
more of secret thought and feeling than we, as mere chroniclers of
events, dare inquire into.

Whether it was that this silence, prolonged for some seconds, suggested
the move, or that Mr. Jones began to feel how ignoble a part he had been
cast for in the whole evening's entertainment, but he rose to take
his leave at once, throwing into his manner a certain air of easy
self-sufficiency, with which in the “courts” he had often dismissed
a witness under cross-examination, and by a mere look and gesture
contrived to disparage his testimony.

None, save Miss Kennyfeck, perceived his tactic. She saw it, however,
and, with a readiness all her own, replied by a slight elevation of the
eyebrow. Jones saw his “signal acknowledged,” and went home contented.
Poor man, he was not the first who has been taken into partnership
because his small resources were all “ready,” and who is ejected from
the firm when wider and grander speculations are entered on. I am not
certain either that he will be the last!

Mr. Softly next withdrew, his leave-taking having all the blended
humility and cordiality of his first arrival; and now Mr. Kennyfeck was
awakened out of a very sound nap by his wife saying in his ear, “Will
you ask Mr. Cashel if he 'll take a biscuit and a glass of wine before
he retires?”

The proposition was politely declined, and after a very cordial
hand-shaking with all the members of the family, Cashel said his
good-night and retired.




CHAPTER VII. PEEPS BEHIND THE CURTAIN.

     Ich möchte ihn im Schlafrock sehen.

     Der Reisende Teufel.

     (I 'd like to see him in his robe-de-chambre.)

     (The Travelling Devil.)


There has always appeared to us something of treachery, not to speak of
indelicacy, in the privileges authors are wont to assume in following
their characters into their most secret retirement, watching there
their every movement and gesture, overhearing their confidential
whisperings,--nay, sometimes sapping their very thoughts, for the mere
indulgence of a prying, intrusive curiosity.

For this reason, highly appreciating, as we must do, the admirable wit
of the “Diable Boiteux,” and the pleasant familiar humor of the “Hermite
de la Chaussée d'Antin,” we never could entirely reconcile ourselves to
the means by which such amusing views of life were obtained, while we
entertain grave doubts if we,--that is, the world at large,--have any
right to form our judgments of people from any other evidence than what
is before the public. It appears to us somewhat as if, that following
Romeo or Desdemona into the Green-room, we should be severe upon the
want of keeping which suggested the indulgence of a cigar or a pot of
porter, and angry at the high-flown illusions so grossly routed and
dispelled.

“Act well your part; there all the honour lies,” said the poet moralist;
but it's rather hard to say that you are to “act” it off as well as on
the stage; and if it be true that no man is a hero to his valet, the
valet should say nothing about it; and this is the very offence we think
novel-writers commit, everlastingly stripping off the decorations and
destroying the illusions they take such trouble to create, for little
else than the vain boastfulness of saying, See, upon what flimsy
materials I can move you to sentiments of grief, laughter, pity, or
contempt. Behold of what vulgar ingredients are made up the highest
aspirations of genius,--the most graceful fascinations of beauty.

Having denounced, by this recorded protest, the practice, and
disclaiming, as we must do, all desire to benefit by its enjoyment, we
desire our reader, particularly if he be of the less worthy gender, to
feel a due sense of the obligation he owes us, if we claim his company
for half an hour on such a voyage of discovery. Step softly, there is no
excuse for noise, as the stair-carpet is thick, and not a sound need be
heard. Gently, as you pass that green door,--that is the bedroom of Mr.
and Mrs. Kennyfeck. We will not linger there, nor invade the sanctity of
those precincts, within which the monotonous tones of Mrs. K. are heard,
revelling in that species of domestic eloquence which, like the liberty
of the press, is oftener pleasant to those who employ, than to those
who receive its judgments. Here for a few minutes let us stay. This is
Roland Cashel's apartment; and, strange enough, instead of sleeping, he
is up at his table, writing, too,--he, of all men the least epistolary.
There may be no great indication of character in mere handwriting, but
the manner, the gesture, the degree of rapidity of the writer, as seen
at the moment, are all full of individuality. Mark, then, with what
speed his pen moves; not the daisy-cutting sling of the accomplished
rider, but the slashing gallop of the heavy charger. Many a blot, never
an erasure,--so, there it goes,--“Yours ever, Roland Cashel.” And now,
he begins another.

Come, these are no times for squeamishness. Let us anticipate “Sir
James,” and read before he seals it.

     Dublin. My dear Comrade,--We are neither of us very gifted
     letter-writers, but events are always enough to tell, even
     when style be wanting; and here am I, so overwhelmed by the
     rush of new sensations that I know not where to begin, or
     how to tell what has really happened since we parted, nor
     distinguish actual stubborn facts from my own fancies. My
     brief note from Porto Giacomo told you that I had succeeded
     to something like fifteen thousand pounds a year. I believe
     it is rather more, with a good round sum, I don't know how
     much, in bank; and now, here I am,' just arrived, but
     marvellously at home, in the house of the worthy fellow that
     has established my claim.

     If I only knew so much of my good luck, I 'd say it was no
     bad thing to be pleasantly domesticated in a capital
     mansion, with every refinement and luxury at hand, and two
     such girls, the daughters! Oh, _amigo mio_, you'd think
     wondrous little of the Barcelonetta belles, if I could show
     you these damsels! Such tempting shyness; such shrinking,
     playful modesty; and then so frank, without that slap-dash
     abruptness! Never mind,--I own freely that Maritaña is
     lovely; there is not such a mouth--as to a foot--well,
     well. I wish I could take a peep at you all again, just as
     night closes, and she comes out to take her walk upon the
     grass, and hear her singing as she went, or watch her as she
     danced the manolo, which--by the way--one of the girls here
     caught up wonderfully, and in almost an instant too. But the
     manolo, with a long, sweeping, flounced, and furbelowed
     petticoat! Only think of the absurdity! Not but she looked
     exceedingly pretty the while, but how much better had she,
     if one could only have cut half a yard off her drapery!

     Have you received the pistols I sent from London? I hope you
     'll think them handsome,--I know they are true, having tried
     them at thirty-five, and even fifty paces. The yataghan I 'm
     certain you 'll admire; it has the peculiar handle and hilt
     you 're fond of. Pray let our friends on the Chilian side
     learn something of the qualities of the blade itself. I have
     been thinking since about the emeralds--and perhaps Maritaña
     may refuse them. If so, do what you will with them so that I
     hear no more of the matter. And now for the bond: release
     me from that tie by all means. It is not that I really feel
     it in the light of a contract,--Maritaña never did; but I
     have it ever on my mind, like a debt. I give you full powers:
     draw upon me for the sum you please, and I promise not to
     dishonor the check. Pedro likes a good bargain, and don't
     balk him!

     I don't know what your own views are in that quarter, but I
     tell you frankly that Maritaña has higher and bolder
     aspirations than either you or I were likely to aid her in
     attaining. She is a proud girl, Enrique, and will never care
     for any man that is not able and willing to elevate her into
     a very different sphere from that she moves in. I never
     actually loved her,--I certainly do not do so now,--and yet
     I cannot get her out of my head.

     Before I forget it, let me ask you to pay Ruy Dias two
     hundred doubloons for me. The horse I killed was not worth
     forty; but, these are not times for bargaining, and the
     fellow didn't want to part with the beast Alconetti--the
     Italian in the Plaza--has something against me,--pay it too;
     and now that I am on the subject of debts, whenever you
     next cruise off Ventillanos, send a party on shore to catch
     the dean, and give him four-and-twenty with a rope's end,--
     say it is from me; he 'll know why, and so shall you, when
     you inform me that it has been cleverly effected.

     Above all, my dear boy, write; I so long to hear about you
     all, and to know all that has happened since I left you.
     Send the old trunks with my uniform to the agents in the
     Havannah; I 'd like to see them once more. François may
     keep anything else of mine, except what you would like to
     select as a “souvenir.” Don't let Rica write to me. I feel I
     should have no chance in a correspondence with him; nor
     need I have any, because whatever you say, I agree to,--
     remember that.

     If you can manage about the emeralds, it would be the most
     gratifying news to me. You might tell her that we are so
     certain of never meeting again, and that all is now over
     forever, and so on,--it would have an air of unkindness to
     reject them. Besides, I see no reason why she should! No
     matter; I needn't multiply reasons, where, if one will not
     suffice, a thousand must fail, and the chances are, if she
     suspect my anxiety on the subject, it will decide her
     against me.    Do it, then, all in your own way.

     Have I said all I wanted? Heaven knows! My head is full; my
     heart, too, is not without its load. I wish you were here. I
     wish it for many reasons. I already begin to suspect you are
     right about the sudden effect a spring into wealth may
     produce; but I hope that all you said on that score may not
     be true. If I thought so, I 'd--No matter, I 'll endeavor to
     show that you are unjust, and that is better.   Yours ever,

     Roland Cashel.

     Don Enrique da Cordova,

     Lieutenant of the Columbian frigate “Esmeralda.” Care of
     Messrs. Eustache et Le Moine, merchants, Havannah.

The next epistle which followed was far more brief. It was thus:--

     Messrs. Vanderhaeghen und Droek, Antwerp.

     Enclosed is an order on Hamerton for seventeen thousand four
     hundred and forty-eight gulden, principal and interest for
     three years, of an unjust demand made by you on me before
     the tribunal of Bruges.

     You failed, even with all the aid of your knavish laws and
     more knavish countrymen, to establish this iniquitous claim,
     and only succeeded in exhibiting yourselves as rogues and
     swindlers,--good burgher-like qualities in your commercial
     city.

     I have now paid what I never owed; but there still remains
     between us an unsettled score. Let my present punctuality
     guarantee the honorable intentions I entertain of settling
     it one day; till when, as you have shown yourselves my
     enemy,

     Believe me to be yours, Roland Cashel.

The order on the banker ran as follows:--

Pay to Vanderhaeghen und Droek, two of the greatest knaves alive,
seventeen thousand four hundred and forty-eight gulden, being the
principal and interest for three years of a dishonest claim made upon
Roland Cashel. To Hamerton and Co., Cheapside.

With all that soothing consciousness we hear is the result of good
actions, Cashel lay down on his bed immediately on concluding this last
epistle, and was fast asleep almost before the superscription was dried.

And now, worthy reader, another peep, and we have done. Ascending
cautiously the stairs, you pass through a little conservatory, at the
end of which a heavy cloth curtain conceals a door. It is that of a
dressing-room, off which, at opposite sides, two bedrooms lie. This same
dressing-room, with its rose-colored curtains and ottoman, its little
toilet-tables of satin-wood, its mirrors framed in alabaster, its
cabinets of buhl, and the book-shelves so coquettishly curtained with
Malines lace, is the common property of the two sisters whom we so
lately introduced to your notice.

There were they wont to sit for hours after the return from a ball,
discussing the people they had met, their dress, their manner, their
foibles and flirtations; criticising with no mean acuteness all the
varied games of match-making mammas and intriguing aunts, and
canvassing the schemes and snares so rife around them. And oh, ye
simple worshippers of muslin-robed innocence! oh, ye devoted slaves
of ringleted loveliness and blooming freshness! bethink ye what wily
projects lie crouching in hearts that would seem the very homes of
careless happiness; what calculations; what devices; how many subtleties
that only beauty wields, or simple man is vanquished by!

It was considerably past midnight as the two girls sat at the fire,
their dressing-gowns and slippered feet showing that they had prepared
for bed; but the long luxuriant hair, as yet uncurled, flowed in heavy
masses on their neck and shoulders. They did not, as usual, converse
freely together; a silence and a kind of constraint sat upon each, and
although Olivia held a book before her, it was less for the purpose of
reading than as a screen against the fire, while her sister sat with
folded arms and gently drooping head, apparently lost in thought. It was
after a very lengthened silence, and in a voice which showed that the
speaker was following up some train of thought, Miss Kennyfeck said,--

“And do you really think him handsome, Olivia?”

“Of whom are you speaking, dear?” said Olivia, with the very softest
accent.

Miss Kennyfeck started; her pale cheeks became slightly red as, with a
most keen irony, she replied, “Could you not guess? Can I mean any one
but Mr. Clare Jones?”

“Oh, he's a downright fright,” answered the other; “but what could have
made you think of him?”

“I was not thinking of him, nor were you either, sister dear,” said Miss
Kennyfeck, fixing her eyes full upon her; “we were both thinking of the
same person. Come, what use in such subterfuges? Honesty, Livy, may not
be the 'best policy,' but it has one great advantage,--it saves a deal
of time; and so I repeat my question, do you think him handsome?”

“If you mean Mr. Cashel, dearest,” said the younger, half bashfully, “I
rather incline to say he is. His eyes are very good; his forehead and
brow--”

“There,--no inventory, I beg,--the man is very well-looking, I dare say,
but I own he strikes me as _tant soit peu sauvage_. Don't you think so?”

“True, his manners--”

“Why, he has none; the man has a certain rakish, free-and-easy demeanor
that, with somewhat more breeding, would rise as high as 'tigerism,' but
now is detestable vulgarity.”

“Oh, dearest, you are severe.”

“I rather suspect that you are partial.”

“I, my dear! not I, in the least. He is not, by any means, the style
of person I like. He can be very amusing, perhaps; he certainly is very
odd, very original.”

“He is very rich, Livy,” said the elder sister, with a most dry gravity.

“That can scarcely be called a fault, still less a misfortune,” replied
Olivia, slyly.

“Well, well, let us have done with aphorisms, and speak openly. If you
are really pleased with his manner and address, say so at once, and I
'll promise never to criticise too closely a demeanor which, I vow, does
not impress me highly,--only be candid.”

“But I do not see any occasion for such candor, my dear. He is no more
to me than he is to _you_. I ask no protestations from _you_ about this
Mr. Roland Cashel.”

Miss Kennyfeck bit her lip and seemed to repress a rising temptation to
reply, but was silent for a moment, when she said, in a careless, easy
tone,--

“Do you know, Livy dearest, that this same manolo you danced this
evening is not by any means a graceful performance to look at, at least
when danced with long, sweeping drapery, flapping here and flouncing
there. It may suit those half-dressed Mexican damsels who want to
display a high arched instep and a rounded ankle, and who know that they
are not transgressing the ordinary limits of decorum in the display; but
certainly your friend Mr. Softly did not accord all his approval. Did
you remark him?”

“I did not; I was too much engaged in learning the figure: but Mr.
Softly disapproves of all dancing.”

“Oh, I know he does,” yawned Miss Kennyfeck, as if the very mention
of his name suggested sleep; “the dear man has his own notions of
pleasantry,--little holy jokes about Adam and Eve. There is nothing
so intolerable to me as the insipid playfulness of your young parson,
except, perhaps, the coarse fun of your rising barrister. How I hate Mr.
Clare Jones!”

“He is very underbred.”

“He is worse; the rudest person I ever met,--so familiar.”

“Why will he always insist on shaking hands?”

“Why will he not at least wash his own, occasionally?”

“And then his jests from the Queen's Bench,--the last _mot_--I'm sure I
often wished it were so literally--of some stupid Chief Justice. Well,
really, in comparison, your savage friend is a mirror of good looks and
good manners.”

“Good night, my dear,” said Olivia, rising, as though to decline a
renewal of the combat.

“Good night,” echoed her sister, bluntly, “and pleasant dreams of
'Roland the brave, Roland the true;' the latter quality being the one
more in request at this moment.” And so, humming the well-known air, she
took her candle and retired.




CHAPTER VIII. LOVE v. LAW

     Ay! marry--they have wiles,
     Compared to which, our schemes are honesty.

     The Lawyer's Daughter.


Notwithstanding all that we hear said against castle-building, how few
among the unbought pleasures of life are so amusing, nor are we certain
that these shadowy speculations--these “white lies” that we tell to our
own conscience--are not so many incentives to noble deeds and generous
actions. These “imaginary conversations” lift us out of the jog-trot
path of daily intercourse, and call up hopes and aspirations that lie
buried under the heavy load of wearisome commonplaces of which life is
made up, and thus permit a man, immersed as he may be in the fatigues
of a profession, or a counting-house, harassed by law, or worried by
the Three per Cents, to be a hero to his own heart at least for a few
minutes once a week.

But if “castle-building” be so pleasurable when a mere visionary scheme,
what is it when it comes associated with all the necessary conditions
for accomplishment,--when not alone the plan and elevation of the
edifice are there, but all the materials and every appliance to realize
the conception?

Just fancy yourself “two or three and twenty,” waking out of a sound and
dreamless sleep, to see the mellow sun of an autumnal morning straining
its rays through the curtains of your bedroom. Conceive the short and
easy struggle by which, banishing all load of cares and duties in which
you were once immersed, you spring, as by a bound, to the joyous fact
that you are the owner of a princely fortune, with health and ardent
spirit, a temper capable of, nay, eager for engagement, a fearless
courage, and a heart unchilled. Think of this, and say, Is not the
first waking half-hour of such thoughts the brightest spot of a whole
existence? Such was the frame of mind in which our hero awoke, and lay
for some time to revel in! We could not, if we would, follow the
complex tissue of day-dreams that wandered over every clime, and in the
luxuriant rapture of power created scenes of pleasure, of ingredients
the most far-fetched and remote. The “actual” demands our attention
more urgently than the “ideal,” so that we are constrained to follow the
unpoetical steps of so ignoble a personage as Mr. Phillis,--Cashel's new
valet,--who now broke in upon his master's reveries as he entered with
hot water and the morning papers.

“What have you got there?” cried Cashel, not altogether pleased at the
intrusion.

“The morning papers! Lord Ettlecombe “--his former master, and his
universal type--“always read the 'Post,' sir, before he got out of bed.”

“Well, let me see it,” said Cashel, who, already impressed with the
necessity of conforming to a new code, was satisfied to take the law
even from so humble an authority as his own man.

“Yes, sir. Our arrival is announced very handsomely among the
fashionable intelligence, and the 'Dublin Mail' has copied the paragraph
stating that we are speedily about to visit our Irish estates.”

“Ah, indeed,” said Cashel, somewhat flattered at his newborn notoriety;
“where is all this?”

“Here, sir, under 'Movements in High Life': 'The Duke of Uxoter to Lord
Debbington's beautiful villa at Maulish; Sir Harry and Lady Emeline
Morpas, etc.; Rosenorris; Lord Fetcherton--'No, here we have it,
sir,--'Mr. Roland Cashel and suite'--Kennyfeck and self, sir--'from
Mivart's, for Ireland. We understand that this millionnaire proprietor
is now about to visit his estates in this country, preparatory to taking
up a residence finally amongst us. If report speak truly, he is as
accomplished as wealthy, and will be a very welcome accession to the
ranks of our country gentry.'”

“How strange that these worthy people should affect to know or care
anything about me or my future intentions,” said Cashel, innocently.

“Oh, sir, they really know nothing,--that little thing is mine.”

“Yours,--how yours?”

“Why, I wrote it, sir. When I lived with Sir Giles Heathcote, we always
fired off a certain number of these signal-guns when we came to a new
place. Once the thing was set a-going, the newspaper fellows followed
up the lead themselves. They look upon a well-known name as of the same
value as a fire or a case of larceny. I have known a case of seduction
by a marquis to take the 'pas' of the last murder in the Edgware Road.”

“I have no fancy for this species of publicity,” said Cashel, seriously.

“Believe me, sir, there is nothing to be done without it. The Press,
sir, is the fourth estate. They can ignore anything nowadays, from a
speech in Parliament to the last novel; from the young beauty just come
out, to the newly-launched line-of-battle ship. A friend of mine, some
time back, tried the thing to his cost, sir. He invented an admirable
moustache-paste; he even paid a guinea to an Oxford man for a Greek name
for it; well, sir, he would not advertise in the dailies, but only in
bills. Mark the consequence. One of the morning journals, in announcing
the arrival of the Prince of Koemundkuttingen on a visit to Colonel
Sibthorp, mentioned that in the fraternal embrace of these two
distinguished personages their moustaches, anointed with the new patent
adhesive Eukautherostickostecon, became actually so fastened together
(as the fellow said, like two clothes-brushes) that after a quarter of
an hour's vain struggle they had to be cut asunder. From that moment,
sir, the paste was done up; he sold it as harness stuff the week after,
and left the hair and beard line altogether.”

As Cashel's dressing proceeded, Mr. Phillis continued to impose upon him
those various hints and suggestions respecting costume for which that
accomplished gentleman's gentleman was renowned.

“Excuse me, but you are not going to wear that coat, I hope. A morning
dress should always incline to what artists call 'neutral tints;' there
should also be nothing striking, nothing that would particularly catch
the eye, except in those peculiar cases where the wearer, adopting a
certain color, not usually seen, adheres strictly to it, Just as we
see my Lord Blenneville with his old coffee-colored cut-away, and Sir
Francis Heming with his light-blue frock; Colonel Mordaunt's Hessians
are the same kind of thing.”

“This is all mere trifling,” said Casbel, impatiently; “I don't intend
to dress like the show-figure in a tailor's shop, to be stared at.”

“Exactly so, sir; that is what I have been saying: any notoriety is
to be avoided where a gentleman has a real position. Now, with a dark
frock, gray trousers, and this plain single-breasted vest, your costume
is correct.”

If Cashel appeared to submit to these dictations with impatience, he
really received them as laws to which he was, in virtue of his station,
to be bound. He had taken Mr. Phillis exactly as he had engaged the
services of a celebrated French cook, as a person to whom a “department”
 was to be intrusted; and feeling that he was about to enter on a world
whose habits of thinking and prejudices were all strange, he resolved
to accept of guidance, with the implicitness that he would have shown in
taking a pilot to navigate him through a newly visited channel. Between
the sense of submission, and a certain feeling of shame at the mock
importance of these considerations, Casbel exhibited many symptoms of
impatience, as Mr. Phillis continued his revelations on dress, and was
sincerely happy when that refined individual, having slowly surveyed
him, pronounced a faint, “Yes, very near it,” and withdrew.

There was a half glimmering suspicion, like a struggling ray of sunlight
stealing through a torn and ragged cloud, breaking on Roland's mind that
if wealth were to entail a great many requirements, no matter how small
each, of obedience to the world's prescription, that he, for one, would
prefer his untrammelled freedom to any amount of riches. This was but a
fleeting doubt, which he had no time to dwell upon, for already he was
informed by the butler that Mrs. Kennyfeck was waiting breakfast for
him.

Descending the stairs rapidly, he had just reached the landing opposite
the drawing-room, when he heard the sounds of a guitar accompaniment,
and the sweet silvery tones of a female voice. He listened, and to his
amazement heard that the singer was endeavoring, and with considerable
success, too, to remember his own Mexican air that he had sung the
preceding evening.

Somehow, it struck him he had never thought the melody so pretty
before; there was a tenderness in the plaintive parts he could not have
conceived. Not so the singer; for after a few efforts to imitate one
of Roland's bolder passages, she drew her finger impatiently across
the chords, and exclaimed, “It is of no use; it is only the caballero
himself can do it.”

“Let him teach you, then!” cried Cashel, as he sprang into the room,
wild with delight.

“Oh, Mr. Cashel, what a start you 've given me!” said Olivia Kennyfeck,
as, covered with blushes, and trembling with agitation, she leaned on
the back of a chair.

“Oh, pray forgive me,” said he, eagerly; “but I was so surprised,
so delighted to hear you recalling that little song, I really forgot
everything else. Have I startled you, then?”

“Oh, no; it's nothing. I was trying a few chords. I thought I was quite
alone.”

“But you'll permit me to teach you some of our Mexican songs, won't you?
I should be so charmed to hear them sung as you could sing them.”

“It is too kind of you,” said she, timidly; “but I am no musician. My
sister is a most skilful performer, but I really know nothing; a simple
ballad and a canzonette are the extent of my efforts.”

“For our prairie songs, it is the feeling supplies all the character.
They are wild, fanciful things, with no higher pretensions than to
recall some trait of the land they belong to; and I should be so
flattered if you would take an interest in the Far West.”

“How you must love it! How you must long to return to it!” said Olivia,
raising her long drooping lashes, and letting her eyes rest, with an
expression of tender melancholy, on Cashel.

What he might have said there is no guessing,--nay, for his sake, and
for hers too, it is better not even to speculate on it; but ere he could
reply, another speaker joined in the colloquy, saying,--

“Good morning, Mr. Cashel. Pray don't forget, when the lesson is over,
that we are waiting breakfast.” So saying, and with a laugh of saucy
raillery, Miss Kennyfeck passed down the stairs, not remaining to hear
his answer.

“Oh, Mr. Cashel!” exclaimed Olivia, with a tone half reproachful, half
shy, “we shall be scolded,--at least, I shall,” added she. “It is the
unforgivable offence in this house to be late at breakfast.”

Cashel would very willingly have risked all the consequences of delay
for a few minutes longer of their interview; but already she had tripped
on downstairs, and with such speed as to enter the breakfast-parlor a
few seconds before him. Roland was welcomed by the family without the
slightest shade of dissatisfaction at his late appearance, cordial
greetings and friendly inquiries as to how he had rested pouring in on
every side.

“What 's to be done with Mr. Cashel to-day? I hope he is not to be
teased by business people and red-tapery,” said Mrs. Kenny feck to her
husband.

“I am afraid,” said the silky attorney, “I am very much afraid I must
trespass on his kindness to accompany me to the Master's office. There
are some little matters which will not wait.”

“Oh, they must,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, peremptorily. “Who is the
Master,--Liddard, is n't it? Well, tell him to put it off; Mr. Cashel
must really have a little peace and quietness after all his fatigues.”

“It will only take an hour, at most, Mrs. Kennyfeck,” remonstrated her
submissive mate.

“Well, that is nothing,” cried Cashel. “I 'm not in the least tired, and
the day is long enough for everything.”

“Then we have a little affair which we can manage at home here about the
mortgages. I told you--”

“I believe you did,” replied Cashel, laughing; “but I don't remember a
word of it. It's about paying some money, isn't it?”

“Yes, it's the redemption of two very heavy claims,” exclaimed
Kennyfeck, perfectly shocked at the indifference displayed by the young
man,--“claims for which we are paying five and a half per cent.”

“And it would be better to clear them off?” said Cashel, assuming a show
of interest in the matter he was far from feeling.

“Of course it would. There is a very large sum lying to your credit at
Falkner's, for which you receive only three per cent.”

“Don't you perceive how tiresome you are, dear Mr. Kennyfeck?” said his
wife. “Mr. Cashel is bored to death with all this.”

“Oh, no! not in the least, madam. It ought to interest me immensely;
and so all these things will, I 'm sure. But I was just thinking at what
hour that fellow we met on the packet was to show us those horses he
spoke of?”

“At four,” said Mr. Kennyfeck, with a half-sigh of resignation; “but
you 'll have ample time for that. I shall only ask you to attend at the
judge's chambers after our consultation.”

“Well, you are really intolerable!” cried his wife. “Why cannot you and
Jones, and the rest of you, do all this tiresome nonsense, and leave Mr.
Cashel to us? I want to bring him out to visit two or three people; and
the girls have been planning a canter in the park.”

“The canter, by all means,” said Cashel. “I 'm sure, my dear Mr.
Kennyfeck, you 'll do everything far better without me. I have no
head for anything like business; and so pray, let me accompany the
riding-party.”

“The attendance at the Master's is peremptory,” sighed the
attorney,--“there is no deferring that; and as to the mortgages, the
funds are falling every hour. I should seriously advise selling out at
once.”

“Well, sell out, in Heaven's name! Do all and anything you like, and I
promise my most unqualified satisfaction at the result.”

“There, now,” interposed Mrs. Kennyfeck, authoritatively, “don't worry
any more; you see how tiresome you are!”

And poor Mr. Kennyfeck seemed to see and feel it too; for he hung his
head, and sipped his tea in silence.

“To-day we dine alone, Mr. Cashel,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck; “but to-morrow
I will try to show you some of the Dublin notorieties,--at least, such
as are to be had in the season. On Friday we plan a little country
party into Wicklow, and have promised to keep Saturday free, if the
Blackenburgs want us.”

“What shall we say, then, about Tubberbeg, Mr. Cashel?” said Kennyfeck,
withdrawing him into a window-recess. “We ought to give the answer at
once.”

“Faith! I forgot all about it,” said Cashel. “Is that the fishery you
told me of?”

“Oh, no!” sighed the disconsolate man of law. “It's the farm on the
terminable lease, at present held by Hugh Corrigan; he asks for a
renewal.”

“Well, let him have it,” said Cashel, bluntly, while his eyes were
turned towards the fire, where the two sisters, with arms entwined,
stood in the most graceful of attitudes.

“Yes, but have you considered the matter maturely?” rejoined Kennyfeck,
laying his hand on Cashel's arm. “Have you taken into account that he
only pays eight and seven pence per acre,--the Irish acre, too,--and
that a considerable part of that land adjoining the Boat Quay is let, as
building plots for two and sixpence a foot?”

“A devilish pretty foot it is, too,” murmured Cashel, musingly.

“Eh! what?” exclaimed Kennyfeck, perfectly mystified at this response.

“Oh! I meant that I agreed with you,” rejoined the young man, reddening,
and endeavoring to appear deeply interested. “I quite coincide with your
views, sir.”

Kennyfeck seemed surprised at this, for he had not, to his knowledge,
ventured on any opinion.

“Perhaps,” said he, taking breath for a last effort, “if you 'd kindly
look at the map of the estate, and just see where this farm trenches
on your own limits, you could judge better about the propriety of the
renewal.”

“Oh, with pleasure!” exclaimed Cashel, while he suffered himself to
be led into the study, his face exhibiting very indifferent signs of
satisfaction.

“Shall we assist in the consultation, Mr. Cashel?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck,
smiling in reply to his reluctant look at leaving.

“Oh, by all means!” cried he, enthusiastically; “do come, and give me
your advice. Pray, come.”

“Come, girls,” said the mother, “although I perceive Mr. Kennyfeck is
terribly shocked at the bare thought of our intrusion; but be of
good courage, we only accompany Mr. Cashel to save him from any long
imprisonment.” And so she moved majestically forward, her daughters
following her.

An alchemist would probably have received company in his laboratory, or
a hermit admitted a jovial party in his cell, with less of constraint
and dissatisfaction than did Mr. Kennyfeck watch the approach of his
wife and daughters to the sanctum of his study.

Save at rare intervals, when a disconsolate widow had come to resolve a
question of administration, or a no less forlorn damsel had entered to
consult upon an action for “breach of promise,” St. Kevin himself had
never been less exposed to female intervention. It needed, then, all
his reverence and fear of Mrs. Kennyfeck to sustain the shock to his
feelings, as he saw her seat herself in his office-chair, and look
around with the air of command that he alone used to exhibit in these
regions.

“Now for this same map, Mr. Kennyfeck, and let us bear the question for
which this Privy Council has been convened.”

“This is the map,” said Mr. Kennyfeck, unfolding a large scroll, “and
I believe a single glance will enable Mr. Cashel to perceive that some
little deliberation would be advisable before continuing in possession
a tenant whose holding completely destroys the best feature of the
demesne. This red line here is your boundary towards the Limerick road;
here, stands the house, which, from the first, was a great mistake. It
is built in a hollow without a particle of view; whereas, had it
been placed here, where this cross is marked, the prospect would
have extended over the whole of Scariff Bay, and by the west, down to
Killaloe.”

“Well, what's to prevent our building it there yet?” interrupted Cashel.
“I think it would be rare fun building a house,--at least if I may
judge from all the amusement I've had in constructing one of leaves and
buffalo-hides, in the prairies.”

Mrs. Kennyfeck and her eldest daughter smiled their blandest
approbation, while Olivia murmured in her sister's ear, “Oh, dear, he is
so very natural, isn't he?”

“That will be a point for ulterior consideration,” said Mr. Kennyfeck,
who saw the danger of at all wandering from the topic in hand. “Give me
your attention now for one moment, Mr. Cashel. Another inconvenience
in the situation of the present house is, that it stands scarcely a
thousand yards from this red-and-yellow line here.”

“Well, what is that?” inquired Cashel, who already began to feel
interested in the localities.

“This--and pray observe it well, sir--this red-and-yellow line,
enclosing a tract which borders on the Shannon, and runs, as you may
remark, into the very heart of the demesne, this is Tubberbeg, the
farm in question,--not only encroaching upon your limits, but actually
cutting you off from the river,--at least, your access is limited to a
very circuitous road, and which opens upon a very shallow part of the
stream.”

“And who or what is this tenant?” asked Cashel.

“His name is Corrigan, a gentleman by birth, but of a very limited
fortune; he is now an old man, upwards of seventy, I understand.”

“And how came it that he ever obtained possession of a tract so
circumstanced, marring, as you most justly observe, the whole character
of the demesne?”

“That would be a long story, sir; enough, if I mention that his
ancestors were the ancient owners of the entire estate, which was lost
by an act of confiscation in the year forty-five. Some extenuating
circumstances, however, induced the Government to confer upon a younger
branch of the family a lease of this small tract called Tubberbeg, to
distinguish it from Tubbermore, the larger portion; and this lease it is
whose expiration, in a few years, induces the present query.”

“Has Mr. Corrigan children?”

“No; his only child, a daughter, is dead, but a granddaughter lives now
with the old man.”

“Then what is it he asks? Is it a renewal of the lease, on the former
terms?”

“Why, not precisely. I believe he would be willing to-pay more.”

“That's not what I mean,” replied Cashel, reddening; “I ask, what terms
as to time, he seeks for. Would it content him to have the land for his
own life?”

“Mr. Kennyfeck, you are really very culpable to leave Mr. Cashel to the
decision of matters of this kind,--matters in which his kindliness of
heart and inexperience will always betray him into a forgetfulness of
his own interest. What has Mr. Cashel to think about this old creature's
ancestors, who were rebels, it appears, or his daughter, or his
granddaughter? Here is a simple question of a farm, which actually makes
the demesne worthless, and which, by a singular piece of good fortune,
is in Mr. Cashel's power to secure.”

“This is a very correct view, doubtless,” said her meek husband,
submissively, “but we should also remember--”

“We have nothing to remember,” interrupted Mrs. Kenny-feck, stoutly;
“nothing, save his interests, who, as I have observed, is of too
generous a nature to be trusted with such matters.”

“Is there no other farm,--have we nothing on the property he 'd like as
well as this?” asked Cashel.

“I fear not. The attachment to a place inhabited for centuries by his
ancestry--”

“By his fiddlestick!” struck in Mrs. Kennyfeck; “two and sixpence an
acre difference would be all the necessary compensation. Mr. Kennyfeck,
how can you trifle in this manner, when you know how it will injure the
demesne!”

“Oh, ruin it utterly!” exclaimed Miss Kennyfeck.

“It completely cuts off the beautiful river and those dear islands,”
 said Olivia.

“So it does,” said Cashel, musing.

“I wonder are they wooded? I declare I believe they are. Papa, are these
little scrubby things meant to represent trees?”

“Oaks and chestnut-trees,” responded Mr. Kennyfeck, gravely.

“Oh, how I should love a cottage on that island,--a real Swiss cottage,
with its carved galleries and deep-eaved roof. Who owns these delicious
islands?”

“Mr. Cashel, my dear,” said papa, still bent on examining the map.

“Do I, indeed!” cried Roland, in an ecstasy. “Then you shall have your
wish, Miss Kenny feck. I promise you the prettiest Swiss cottage that
your own taste can devise.”

“Oh, dear, oh, pray forgive me!”

“Oh, Mr. Roland Cashel, don't think of such a thing! Olivia was merely
speaking at random. How silly, child, you are to talk that way!”

“Really, mamma, I had not the slightest suspicion--I would n't for the
world have said anything if I thought--”

“Of course not, dear; but pray be guarded. Indeed, I own I never did
hear you make a lapse of the kind before. But you see, Mr. Cashel, you
have really made us forget that we were strangers but yesterday, and you
are paying the penalty of your own exceeding kindness. Forget, then, I
beseech you, this first transgression.”

“I shall assuredly keep my promise, madam,” said Cashel, proudly; “and I
have only to hope Miss Kennyfeck will not offend me by declining so very
humble a present. Now, sir, for our worthy friend Mr. Corrigan.”

“Too fast, a great deal to fast, love,” whispered the elder sister in
the ear of the younger, and who, to the credit of her tact and ingenuity
be it spoken, only gave the most heavenly smile in reply.

“I really am puzzled, sir, what advice to give,” said the attorney,
musing.

“I have no difficulties of this sentimental kind,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck,
with a glance of profound depreciation towards her husband; “and I beg
Mr. Cashel to remember that the opportunity now offered will possibly
never occur again. If the old man is to retain his farm, of course
Mr. Cashel would not think of building a new mansion, which must be
ill-circumstanced; from what I can hear of the present house, it is
equally certain that he would not reside in that.”

“Is it so very bad?” asked Cashel, smiling.

“It was ill-planned originally, added to in, if possible, worse taste,
and then suffered to fall into ruin. It is now something more than
eighty years since it saw any other inhabitant than a caretaker.”

“Well, the picture is certainly not seductive. I rather opine that the
best thing we can do is to throw this old rumbling concern down, at all
events; and now once more,--what shall we do with Mr. Corrigan?”

“I should advise you not giving any reply before you visit the property
yourself. All business matters will be completed here, I trust, by
Saturday. What, then, if we go over on Monday to Tubbermore?”

“Agreed. I have a kind of anxiety to look at the place,--indeed, a mere
glance would decide me if I ever care to return to it again.”

“Then, I perceive, our counsel is of no avail here,” said Mrs.
Kennyfeck, rising, with a very ill-concealed chagrin.

“Nay, madam, don't say so. You never got so far as to give it,” cried
Cashel.

“Oh, yes, you forget that I said it would be absurd to hesitate about
resuming possession.”

“Unquestionably,” echoed Miss Kennyfeck. “It is merely to indulge an old
man's caprice at the cost of your own comfort and convenience.”

“But he may cling to the spot, sister dear,” said Olivia, in an accent
only loud enough to be audible by Cashel.

“You are right,” said Roland, in her ear, with a look that spoke his
approval far more eloquently.

Although Miss Kennyfeck had heard nothing that passed, her quickness
detected the looks of intelligence that were so speedily interchanged,
and as she left the room she took occasion to whisper, “Do take advice,
dear; there is no keeping up a pace like that.”




CHAPTER IX. AN EXCITING ADVENTURE

     “Bravo, Toro.”


As it chanced that many of Mr. Kennyfeck's clients were Western
gentlemen, whose tastes have an unequivocal tendency to all matters
relating to horse-flesh, his stable was not less choicely furnished
than his cellar; for, besides being always able to command the shrewdest
judgments when he decided to make a purchase, many an outstanding
balance of long duration, many a debt significantly pencilled “doubtful”
 or “bad,” in his note-book, was cleared off by some tall, sinewy
steeplechaser from Galway, or some redoubted performer with the
“Blazers.”

So well known was this fact that several needed no other standard of a
neighbor's circumstances, than whether he had contributed or not to the
Kennyfeck stud. This brief explanation we have been induced to make, to
account for the sporting character of a stable whose proprietor never
was once seen in the saddle. Far otherwise the ladies of the house; the
mother and daughters, but in particular the elder, rode with all the
native grace of Galway; and as they were invariably well mounted, and
their grooms the smartest and best appointed, their “turn-out” was the
admiration of the capital.

It was in vain that the English officials at the Castle, whose
superlative tastes were wont to overshadow mere Irish pretension,
endeavored to compete with these noted equestrians. Secretaries' wives
and chamberlains' daughters, however they might domineer in other
matters, were here, at least, surpassed, and it was a conceded fact,
that the Kennyfecks rode better, dressed better, and looked better on
horseback than any other girls in the country. If all the critics as to
horsemanship pronounced the elder unequivocally the superior rider,
mere admirers of gracefulness preferred the younger sister, who,
less courageous and self-possessed, invested her skill with a certain
character of timidity that increased the interest her appearance
excited.

They never rode out without an immense _cortège_ of followers, every
well-looking and well-mounted man about town deeming it his _devoir_ to
join this party, just as the box of the reigning belle at the opera is
besieged by assiduous visitors The very being seen in this train was
a kind of brevet promotion in fashionable esteem, to which each
newly-arrived cornet aspired, and thus the party usually presented
a group of brilliant uniforms and dancing plumes that rivalled in
brilliancy, and far excelled in amusement, the staff of the viceroy
himself.

It would be uufair to suppose that, with all their natural innocence
and artlessness, they were entirely ignorant of the sway they thus
exercised; indeed, such a degree of modesty would have trenched upon the
incredulous, for how could they doubt what commanders of the forces
and deputy-assistant-adjutants assured them, still less question the
veracity of a prince royal, who positively asserted that they “rode
better than Quentin's daughter”?

It was thus a source of no small excitement among the mounted loungers
of the capital, when the Kennyfecks issued forth on horseback, and not,
as usual, making the tour of the “Square” to collect their forces, they
rode at once down Grafton Street, accompanied by a single cavalier.

“Who have the Kennyfeck girls got with them?” said a
thin-waisted-looking aide-de-camp to a lanky, well-whiskered fellow in a
dragoon undress, at the Castle gate.

“He is new to me--never saw him before. I say, Lucas, who is that tall
fellow on Kennyfeck's brown horse--do you know him?”

“Don't know--can't say,” drawled out a very diminutive hussar cornet.

“He has a look of Merrington,” said another, joining the party.

“Not a bit of it; he's much larger. I should n't wonder if he's one of
the Esterhazys they've caught. There is one of them over here--a Paul or
a Nicholas, of the younger branch;--but here 's Linton, he 'll tell us,
if any man can.”

This speech was addressed to a very dapper, well-dressed man of about
thirty, mounted on a small thoroughbred pony, whose splashed and heaving
flanks bespoke a hasty ride.

“I say, Tom, you met the Kennyfecks,--who was that with them?”

“Don't you know him, my Lord?” said a sharp, ringing voice; “that's our
newly-arrived millionnaire,--Roland Cashel, our Tipperary Croesus,--the
man with I won't say how many hundred thousands a year, and millions in
bank besides.”

“The devil it is--a good-looking fellow, too.”

“Spooney, I should say,” drawled out the hussar, caressing his
moustache.

“One need n't be as smart a fellow as you, Wheeler, with forty thousand
a year,” said Linton, with a sly glance at the others.

“You don't suppose, Tom,” said the former speaker, “that the Kennyfecks
have any designs in that quarter,--egad! that would be rather aspiring,
eh?”

“Very unwise in us to permit it, my Lord,” said Linton, in a low tone.
“That's a dish will bear carving, and let every one have his share.”

My Lord laughed with a low cunning laugh at the suggestion, and nodded
an easy assent.

Meanwhile the Kennyfecks rode slowly on, and crossing Essex Bridge
continued their way at a foot pace towards the park, passing in front of
the Four Courts, where a very large knot of idlers uncovered their heads
in polite salutation as they went.

“That's Kennyfeck's newly-discovered client,” cried one; “a great card,
if they can only secure him for one of the girls.”

“I say, did you remark how the eldest had him engaged? She never noticed
any of us.”

“I back Olivia,” said another; “she's a quiet one, but devilish sly for
all that.”

“Depend upon it,” interposed an older speaker, “the fellow is up to all
that sort of thing.”

“Jones met him at dinner yesterday at Kennyfeck's, and says he is a
regular soft one, and if the girls don't run an opposition to each
other, one is sure to win.”

“Why not toss up for him, then? that would be fairer.”

“Ay, and more sisterly, too,” said the elder speaker. “Jones would be
right glad to claim the beaten horse.”

“Jones, indeed,--I can tell you they detest Jones,” said a young fellow.

“They told you so, eh, Hammond?” said another; while a very hearty laugh
at the discomfited youth broke from the remainder.

And now to follow our mounted friends, who, having reached the park,
continued still at a walking pace to thread the greasy paths that
led through that pleasant tract; now hid amid the shade of ancient
thorn-trees, now gaining the open expanse of plain with its bold
background of blue mountains.

From the evident attention bestowed by the two sisters, it was clear
that Cashel was narrating something of interest, for he spoke of an
event which had happened to himself in his prairie life; and this alone,
independent of all else, was enough to make the theme amusing.

“Does this convey any idea of a prairie, Mr. Cashel?” said Miss
Kennyfeck, as they emerged from a grove of beech-trees, and came upon
the wide and stretching plain, so well known to Dubliners as the Fifteen
Acres, but which is, in reality, much greater in extent. “I have always
fancied this great grassy expanse must be like a prairie.”

“About as like as yonder cattle to a herd of wild buffaloes,” replied
Roland, smiling.

“Then what is a prairie like? Do tell us,” said Olivia, eagerly.

“I can scarcely do so, nor, if I were a painter, do I suppose that I
could make a picture of one, because it is less the presence than the
total absence of all features of landscape that constitutes the wild
and lonely solitude of a prairie. But fancy a great plain--gently--very
gently undulating,--not a tree, not a shrub, not a stream to break the
dreary uniformity; sometimes, but even that rarely, a little muddy pond
of rain-water, stagnant and yellow, is met with, but only seen soon
after heavy showers, for the hot sun rapidly absorbs it. The only
vegetation a short yellowed burnt-up grass,--not a wild flower or a
daisy, if you travelled hundreds of hundreds of miles. On you go, days
and days, but the scene never changes. Large cloud shadows rest upon
the barren expanse, and move slowly and sluggishly away, or sometimes a
sharp and pelting shower is borne along, traversing hundreds of miles
in its course; but these are the only traits of motion in the death-like
stillness. At last, perhaps after weeks of wandering, you descry, a long
way off, some dark objects dotting the surface,--these are buffaloes; or
at sunset, when the thin atmosphere makes everything sharp and distinct,
some black spectral shapes seem to glide between you and the red
twilight,--these are Indian hunters, seen miles off, and by some strange
law of nature they are presented to the vision when far, far beyond the
range of sight. Such strange apparitions, the consequence of refraction,
have led to the most absurd superstitions; and all the stories the
Germans tell you of their wild huntsmen are nothing to the tales every
trapper can recount of war parties seen in the air, and tribes of red
men in pursuit of deer and buffaloes, through the clear sky of an autumn
evening.”

“And have you yourself met with these wild children of the desert?” said
Olivia; “have you ever been amongst them?”

“Somewhat longer than I fancied,” replied Roland, smiling. “I was a
prisoner once with the Camanches.”

“Oh, let us hear all about it,--how did it happen?” cried both together.

“It happened absurdly enough, at least you will say so, when I tell you;
but to a prairie-hunter the adventure would seem nothing singular. It
chanced that some years ago I made one of a hunting-party into the Rocky
Mountains, and finally as far as Pueblo Santo, the last station before
entering the hunting-grounds of the Camanches, a very fierce tribe,
and one with whom all the American traders have failed to establish
any relations of friendship or commerce. They care nothing for the
inventions of civilization, and, unlike all other Indians, prefer their
own bows and arrows to firearms.

“We had been now four days within their boundary, and yet never met
one of the tribe. Some averred that they always learned by the scouts
whenever any invasion took place, and retired till they were in
sufficient force to pour down and crush the intruders. Others, who
proved better informed, said that they were hunting in a remote tract,
several days' journey distant. We were doubly disappointed, for besides
not seeing the Camanches, for which we had a great curiosity, we did not
discover any game. The two or three trails we followed led to nothing,
nor could a hoof-track be seen for miles and miles of prairie. In this
state of discomfiture, we were sitting one evening around our fires, and
debating with ourselves whether to turn back or go on, when, the dispute
waxing warm between those of different opinions, I, who hated all
disagreements of the kind, slipped quietly away, and throwing the bridle
on my horse, I set out for a solitary ramble over the prairie.

“I have the whole scene before me this instant,--the solemn desolation
of that dreary track; for scarcely had I gone a mile over what seemed a
perfectly level plain, when the swelling inequalities of the ground shut
out the watch-fires of my companions, and now there was nothing to be
seen but the vast expanse of land and sky, each colored with the same
dull leaden tint of coming night; no horizon was visible, not a star
appeared, and in the midst of this gray monotony, a stillness prevailed
that smote the heart with something more appalling than mere fear. No
storm that ever I listened to at sea, not the loudest thunder that ever
crashed, or the heaviest sea that ever broke upon a leeward shore at
midnight, ever chilled my blood like that terrible stillness. I thought
that the dreadful roll of an avalanche or the heaving ground-swell of
an earthquake had been easier to bear. I believe I actually prayed for
something like sound to relieve the horrible tension of my nerves, when,
just as if my wish was heard, a low booming sound, like the sea within a
rocky cavern, came borne along on the night wind. Then it lulled again,
and after a time grew louder. This happened two or three times, so
that, half suspecting some self-delusion, I stopped my ears, and then on
removing my hands, I heard the noise increasing till it swelled into one
dull roaring sound, that made the very air vibrate. I thought it must
be an earthquake, of which it is said many occur in these regions, but,
from the dreary uniformity, leave no trace behind.

“I resolved to regain my companions at once; danger is always easier
to confront in company, and so I turned my horse's head to go back. The
noise was now deafening, and so stunning that the very ground seemed to
give it forth. My poor horse became terrified, his flanks heaved, and he
labored in his stride as if overcome by fatigue. This again induced me
to suspect an earthquake, for I knew by what singular instincts animals
are apprised of its approach. I therefore gave him the spur, and urged
him on with every effort, when suddenly he made a tremendous bound
to one side, and set off with the speed of a racer. Stretched to his
fullest stride, I was perfectly powerless to restrain him; meanwhile,
the loud thundering sounds filled the entire air,--more deafening than
the greatest artillery; the crashing uproar smote my ears, and made my
brain ring with the vibration, and then suddenly the whole plain grew
dark behind and at either side of me, the shadow swept on and on, nearer
and nearer, as the sounds increased, till the black surface seemed, as
it were, about to close around me; and now I perceived that the great
prairie, far as my eyes could stretch, was covered by a herd of wild
buffaloes; struck by some sudden terror, they had taken what is called
'the Stampedo,' and set out at full speed. In an instant they
were around me on every side,--a great moving sea of dark-backed
monsters,--roaring in terrible uproar, and tossing their savage heads
wildly to and fro, in all the paroxysm of terror. To return, or even to
extricate myself, was impossible; the dense mass pressed like a wall
at either side of me, and I was borne along in the midst of the heaving
herd, without the slightest hope of rescue. I cannot--you would not ask
me, if even I could--recall the terrors of that dreadful night, which in
its dark hours compassed the agonies of years. Until the moon got up,
I hoped that the herd might pass on, and at last leave me at liberty
behind; but when she rose, and I looked back, I saw the dark sea of
hides, as if covering the whole wide prairie, while the deep thunder
from afar mingled with the louder bellowing of the herd around me.

“I suppose my reeling brain became maddened by the excitement; for even
yet, when by any accident I suffer slight illness, terrible fancies of
that dreadful scene come back; and I have been told that, in my wild
cries and shouts, I seem encouraging and urging on the infuriate herd,
and by my gestures appearing to control and direct their headlong
course. Had it been possible, I believe I should have thrown myself to
the earth and sought death at once, even in this dreadful form, than
live to die the thousand deaths of agony that night inflicted; but this
could not be, and so, as day broke, I was still carried on, not, indeed,
with the same speed as before; weariness weighed on the vast moving
mass, but the pressure of those behind still drove them onward. I
thought the long hours of darkness were terrible; and the appalling
gloom of night added tortures to my sufferings; but the glare of
daylight, the burning sun, and the clouds of dust were still worse. I
remember, too, when exhaustion had nearly spent my last frail energy,
and when my powerless hands, letting fall the bridle, dropped heavily to
my side, that the herd suddenly halted,--halted, as if arrested by some
gigantic hand; and then the pressure became so dreadful that my bones
seemed almost bursting from my flesh, and I screamed aloud in my agony.
After this, I remember little else. The other events of that terrible
ride are like the shadowy spectres of a magic lantern; vague memories
of sufferings, pangs that even yet chill my blood, steal over me, but
unconnected and incoherent, so that when, as I afterwards heard, the
herd dashed into the Camanche encampment, I have no recollection of
anything, except the terror-struck faces of the red men, as they bent
before me, and seemed to worship me as a deity. Yes, this terrible
tribe, who had scarcely ever been known to spare a white man, not
only did not injure, but they treated me with the tenderest care and
attention. A singular incident had favored me. One of the wise men had
foretold some days before that a herd of wild buffaloes, sent by their
god, Anadongu, would speedily appear, and rescue the tribe from the
horrors of impending starvation. The prediction was possibly based upon
some optical delusion, like that I have mentioned. Whatever its origin,
the accomplishment was hailed with ecstasy; and I myself, a poor, almost
dying creature, stained with blood, crushed and speechless, was regarded
as their deliverer and preserver.”

“How long did you remain amongst them?” cried Miss Kennyfeck.

“And how did you escape?” asked Olivia.

“Were they always equally kind?”

“Were you sorry to leave them?” were the questions rapidly poured in ere
Cashel could reply to any one of them.

“I have often heard,” said Miss Kennyfeck, “that the greater mental
ability of the white man is certain to secure him an ascendancy over the
minds of savage tribes, and that, if he be spared at first, he is sure
in the end to become their chief.”

“I believe they actually worship any display of intelligence above their
own,” said Olivia.

“These are exaggerated accounts,” said Cashel, smiling. “Marriage is,
among savage as among civilized nations, a great stepping-stone to
eminence. When a white man is allied with a princess--”

“Oh, how shocking!” cried both together. “I'm sure no person, anything
akin to a gentleman, could dream of such a thing,” said Miss Kennyfeck.

“It happens now and then, notwithstanding,” said Cashel, with a most
provoking gravity.

While the sisters would have been well pleased had Cashel's personal
revelations continued on this theme, they did not venture to explore so
dangerous a path, and were both silent. Roland, too, appeared buried
in some recollection of the past, for he rode on for some time without
speaking,--a preoccupation on his part which seemed in no wise agreeable
to his fair companions.

“There are the MacFarlines, Livy,” said Miss Kennyfeck; “and Linton, and
Lord Charles, and the rest of them. I declare, I believe they see us,
and are coming this way.”

“What a bore! Is there no means of escape? Mr. Cashel, pray invent one.”

“I beg pardon. What was it you said? I have been dreaming for the last
three minutes.”

“Pleasant dreams I 'm certain they were,” said Miss Kennyfeck, with a
very significant smile; “evoked, doubtless, by some little memory of
your life among the Cainanches.”

Cashel started and grew red, while his astonishment rendered him
speechless.

“Here they come; how provoking!” exclaimed Livy.

“Who are coming?”

“Some friends of ours, who, strange to say, have the misfortune to
be peculiarly disagreeable to my sister Livy to-day, although I
have certainly seen Lord Charles contrive to make his company less
distasteful at other times.”

“Oh, my dear Caroline, you know perfectly well--” broke in Olivia, with
a tone of unfeigned reproach.

“Let us ride for it, then,” said Miss Kepnyfeck, without permitting her
to finish. “Now, Mr. Cashel, a canter,--a gallop, if you will.”

“Quite ready,” said Cashel, his animation at once returning at the bare
mention; and away they set, down a gentle slope with wooded sides, then
they gained another grassy plain, skirted with trees, at the end of
which a small picturesque cottage stood, the residence of a ranger;
passing this, they arrived at a thick wood, and then slackened their
pace, as all pursuit might be deemed fruitless. This portion of
the park, unlike the rest, seemed devoted to various experiments in
agriculture and gardening. Here were little enclosed plots of Indian
corn and Swedish turnips; here, small plantations of fruit trees. Each
succeeding secretary seemed to have left behind him some trace of his
own favorite system for the improvement of Ireland, and one might recall
the names of long-departed officials in little experimental specimens of
drainage, or fencing, or drill culture around. Less interested by these
patchwork devices, Cashel stood gazing on a beautiful white bull, who
grazed in a little paddock carefully fenced by a strong oak paling.
Although of a small breed, he was a perfect specimen of strength and
proportion, his massive and muscular neck and powerful loins contrasting
with the lanky and tendinous form of the wild animal of the prairies.

The girls had not remarked that Roland, beckoning to his servant,
despatched him at full speed on an errand, for each was loitering about,
amusing herself with some object of the scene.

“What has fascinated you yonder?” said Miss Kennyfeck, riding up to
where Roland still stood in wondering admiration at the noble animal.

“The handsomest bull I ever saw!” cried he, in all the ecstasy of a
'Torero;' “who ever beheld such a magnificent fellow? Mark the breadth
of his chest, and the immense fore-arm. See how he lashes his tail
about. No need of bandilleros to rouse your temper.”.

“Is there no danger of the creature springing over the paling?” said
Olivia, drawing closer to Cashel, and looking at him with a most
trustful dependence.

Alas for Roland's gallantry, he answered the words and not the glance
that accompanied them.

“No; he'd never think of it, if not excited to some excess of passion.
I 'd not answer for his patience, or our safety either, if really
provoked. See! is not that glorious?” This burst of enthusiasm was
called forth by the bull, seized with some sudden caprice, taking a
circuit of the paddock at full speed, his head now raised majestically
aloft, and now bent to the ground; he snatched some tufts of the grass
as he went, and flung them from him in wild sport.

“Bravo, toro!” cried Cashel, in all the excitement of delight and
admiration. “Viva el toro!” shouted he. “Not a 'Corrida' of the Old
World or the New ever saw a braver beast.”

Whether in compliance with his humor, or that she really caught up the
enthusiasm from Cashel, Miss Kennyfeck joined in all his admiration, and
seemed to watch the playful pranks of the great animal with delight.

“How you would enjoy a real 'toro machia!'” said Cashel, as he turned
towards her, and felt that she was far handsomer than he had ever
believed before. Indeed, the heightened color of exercise, and the
flashing brilliancy of her eyes, made her seem so without the additional
charm derived from sympathy with his humor.

“I should delight in it,” cried she, with enthusiasm. “Oh, if I could
but see one!”

Cashel drew nearer as she spoke, his dark and piercing eyes fixed with a
look of steadfast admiration, when in a low half-whisper he said, “Would
you really like it? Have these wild and desperate games an attraction
for you?”

“Oh, do not ask me,” said she, in the same low voice. “Why should I
confess a wish for that which never can be.”

“How can you say that? Have not far greater and less likely things
happened to almost all of us? Think of me, for instance. Travelling with
the Gambusinos a few months back, and now--now _your_ companion here.”

If there was not a great deal in the mere words themselves, there was
enough in the look of the speaker to make them deeply felt. How
much further Cashel might have adventured, and with what additional
speculations invested the future, is not for us to say; for just then
his groom rode up at speed, holding in his hands a great coil of rope,
to one end of which a small round ball of wood was fastened.

“What is that for, Mr. Cashel?” inquired both the girls together, as
they saw him adjust the coils lightly on his left arm, and poise the
ball in his right hand.

“Cannot you guess what it means?” said Roland, smiling. “Have you never
heard of a lasso?”

“A lasso!” exclaimed both in amazement “You surely could never intend--”

“You shall see,” cried he, as he made three or four casts with the rope
in the air, and caught up the loops again with astonishing dexterity.
“Now only promise me not to be afraid, nor, if possible, let a cry
escape, and I'll show you some rare sport Just take your places here;
the horses will stand perfectly quiet.” Without waiting for a reply,
he ordered the grooms to remain at either side of the young ladies, and
then dismounting, he forced open the lock and led his horse into the
paddock. This done, he leisurely closed the gate and mounted, every
motion being as free from haste and excitement as if made upon the
high-road. As for the bull, at the noise of the gate on its hinges, he
lifted up his head; but as it were indifferent to the cause, he resumed
his grazing attitude the moment after.

Cashel's first care seemed to be to reconnoitre the ground; for at
a slow walk he traversed the space in various directions, carefully
examining the footing and watching for any accidental circumstance
that might vary the surface. He then rode up to the paling, where in
unfeigned terror the two girls sat, silently following him in every
motion.

“Now, remember,” said he, smiling, “no fears, no terrors. If you were to
make me nervous, I should probably miss my cast, and the disgrace, not
to speak of anything else, would be dreadful.”

“Oh, we 'll behave very well,” said Miss Kennyfeck, trying to assume a
composure that her pale cheek and compressed lips very ill corroborated.
As for Olivia, too terrified for words, she merely looked at him, while
the tears rolled heavily down her cheeks.

“Now, to see if my hand has not forgot its cunning!” said Roland, as
he pressed his horse's flanks, and, pushing into a half-gallop, made
a circuit around the bull. The scene was a picturesque as well as
an exciting one. The mettlesome horse, on which the rider sat with
consummate ease; in his right hand the loose coils of the lasso, with
which to accustom his horse he flourished and shook around the head
and ears of the animal as he went; while, with head bent down, and
the strong neck slightly retracted, the bull seemed to watch him as he
passed, and at length, slowly turning, continued to fix his eyes
upon the daring intruder. Gradually narrowing his circle, Cashel was
cautiously approaching within a suitable distance for the cast, when the
bull, as it were losing patience, gave one short hoarse cry and made at
him, so sudden the spring, and so infuriate the action, that a scream
from both the sisters together showed how near the danger must have
appeared. Roland, however, had foreseen from the attitude of the beast
what was coming, and by a rapid wheel escaped the charge, and passed
close beside the creature's flank, unharmed. Twice or thrice the same
manouvre occurred with the same result; and although the horse was
terrified to that degree that his sides were one sheet of foam, the
control of the rider was perfect, and his every gesture bespoke ease and
confidence.

Suddenly the bull stopped, and retiring till his haunches-touched the
paling, he seemed surveying the field, and contemplating another
and more successful mode of attack. The concentrated passion of the
creature's attitude at this moment was very fine, as with red eyeballs
and frothed lips he stood, slowly and in heavy strokes lashing his
flanks with his long tail.

“Is he tired?” said Miss Kennyfeck, as Cashel stood close to the paling,
and breathed his horse, for what he foresaw might be a sharp encounter.

“No! far from it,” answered Roland; “the fellow has the cunning of an
old 'Corridor;' you 'll soon see him attack.”

The words were not well uttered, when, with a low deep roar, the bull
bounded forward, not in a straight line, however, but zigzagging from
left to right, and right to left, as if with the intention of pinning
the horseman into a corner. The terrific springs of the great beast, and
his still more terrific cries, appeared to paralyze the horse, who
stood; immovable, nor was it till the savage animal had approached
within a few yards of him, that at last he reared up straight, and then,
as if overcome by terror, dashed off at speed, the bull following.

The scene was now one of almost maddening excitement; for, although the
speed of the horse far exceeded that of his pursuer, the bull, by
taking a small circle, was rapidly gaining on him, and, before the third
circuit of the field was made, was actually almost side by side. Roland
saw all his danger; he knew well that the slightest swerve, a “single
mistake,” would be fatal; but he had been trained to peril, and this was
not the first time he had played for life and won. It was then, just
at the instant when the bull, narrowing his distance, was ready, by
one bound, to drive his horns into the horse's flank, that the youth
suddenly reined up, and throwing the horse nearly on his haunches,
suffered his pursuer to shoot ahead. The same instant, at least so it
seemed, he rose in his stirrups, and winding the rope three or four
times above his head, hurled it forth. Away went the floating coils
through the air, and with a sharp snap, they caught the animal's
fore-legs in their fast embrace. Maddened by the restraint, he plunged
forward, but ere he gained the ground, a dexterous pull of the lasso
jerked the legs backwards, and the huge beast fell floundering to the
earth. The stunning force seemed enough to have extinguished life, and
he lay, indeed, motionless for a few seconds, when, by a mighty effort,
he strove to burst his bonds. Roland, meanwhile, after a severe struggle
to induce his horse to approach, abandoned the effort, sprang to the
ground, and by three or four adroit turns of the lasso over the head and
between the horns, completely fettered him, and at each fresh struggle
passing new turns of the rope, he so bound him that the creature lay
panting and powerless, his quivering sides and distended nostrils
breathing the deep rage that possessed him.

“Ah, Mosquito mio,”--the Toridor's usual pet name for a young
bull,--“you were an easy victory after all, though I believe with a
little more practice of the game I should only get off second best.”

There was, if we must confess it, a certain little bit of boastfulness
in the speech, the truth being that the struggle, though brief, had
been a sharp one, and so Cashel's air and look bespoke it, as he led his
horse out of the paddock.

It would be a somewhat nice point--happily, it is not requisite to
decide it--whether Roland was more flattered by the enthusiastic praise
of the elder sister, or touched by the silent but eloquent look with
which Olivia received him.

“What a splendid sight, what a noble achievement!” said Miss Kennyfeck.
“How I thank you for thus giving me, as it were, a peep into Spain, and
letting me feel the glorious enthusiasm a deed of heroism can inspire!”

“Are you certain you are not hurt?” whispered Olivia; “the creature's
horns certainly grazed you. Oh dear! how terrible it was at one moment!”

“Are you going to leave him in his toils?” said Miss Kennyfeck.

“Oh, certainly,” replied Cashel, laughing; “I commit the pleasant office
of liberating him to other hands.” And so saying, he carelessly mounted
his horse, while they pressed him with a hundred questions and inquiries
about the late combat.

“I shall be amused to hear the reports that will be current to-morrow,”
 said Miss Kennyfeck, “about this affair. I 'm certain the truth will
be the last to ooze out. My groom says that the creature belongs to the
Lord Lieutenant, and if so, there will be no end to the stories.”

Cashel

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