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Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)

by Charles Lever · English · Gutenberg #33469 · 788,339 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)

Author: Charles Lever

Illustrator: Hablot Knight Browne


        
Release date: August 19, 2010 [eBook #33469]
                Most recently updated: February 27, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33469

Credits: Produced by David Widger


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




Produced by David Widger





ROLAND CASHEL

By Charles James Lever

With Illustrations By Phiz.

In Two Volumes. Vol. II.




ROLAND CASHEL.



CHAPTER I. AN “UNLIMITED” MONARCHY

     And at last they find out, to their greatest surprise,
     That't is easier far to be “merry than wise.”

     Bell: Images.


“Here is Mr. Cashel; here he is!” exclaimed a number of voices, as
Roland, with a heart full of indignant anger, ascended the terrace upon
which the great drawing-room opened, and at every window of which stood
groups of his gay company. Cashel looked up, and beheld the crowd of
pleased faces wreathed into smiles of gracious welcome, and then he
suddenly remembered that it was _he_ who had invited all that brilliant
assemblage; that, for _him_, all those winning graces were assumed;
and that _his_ gloomy thoughts, and gloomier looks, were but a sorry
reception to offer them.

With a bold effort, then, to shake off the load that oppressed him,
he approached one of the windows, where Mrs. Kennyfeck and her two
daughters were standing, with a considerable sprinkling of young
dragoons around them.

“We are not to let you in, Mr. Cashel,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, from
within. “There has been a vote of the House against your admission.”

“Not, surely, to condemn me unheard,” said Roland; “I might even say,
unaccused.”

“How so?” cried Mrs. Kennyfeck. “Is not your present position your
accusation? Why are you there, while we are here?”

“I went out for a walk, and lost myself in the woods.”

“What does he say, my dear?” said Aunt Fanny, fearful of losing a word
of the dialogue.

“That he lost himself, madam,” said one of the dragoons, dryly.

“So, indeed, we heard, sir,” said the maiden lady, piteously; “but I may
say I foresaw it all.”

“You are an old fool, and, worse still, every one sees it,” whispered
Mrs. Kennyfeck, in an accent that there was no mistaking, although only
a whisper.

“We considered that you had abdicated, Mr. Cashel,” said Mrs. White,
who, having in vain waited for Roland to approach the window she
occupied, was fain at last to join the others, “and we were debating on
what form of Government to adopt,--a Presidency, with Mr. Linton--”

“I see you are no legitimist,” slyly remarked Miss Kenny-feck. But the
other went on,--

“Or an open Democracy.”

“I 'm for that,” said a jolly-looking cavalry captain. “Pray, Miss
Olivia Kennyfeck, vote for it too. I should like nothing so much as a
little fraternizing.”

“I have a better suggestion than either,” said Roland, gayly; “but you
must admit me ere I make it.”

“A device of the enemy,” called out Mrs. White; “he wants to secure his
own return to power.”

“Nay, on honor,” said he, solemnly; “I shall descend to the rank of the
humblest citizen, if my advice be acceded to,--to the humblest subject
of the realm.”

“Ye maunna open the window. Leddy Janet has the rheumatics a' dandering
aboot her back a' the morning,” said Sir Andrew, approaching the group;
and then, turning to Cashel, said, “Glad to see ye, sir; very glad
indeed; though, like Prince Charlie, you're on the wrang side o' the
wa'.”

“Dear me!” sighed Meek, lifting his eyes from the newspaper, and
assuming that softly compassionate tone in which he always delivered the
most commonplace sentiments, “how shocking, to keep you out of your
own house, and the air quite damp! Do pray be careful, and change your
clothes before you come in here.” Then he finished in a whisper to Lady
Janet, “One never gets through a country visit without a cold.”

“Upon my word, I'll let him in,” said Aunt Fanny, with a native richness
of accent that made her fair nieces blush.

“At last!” said Cashel, as he entered the room, and proceeded to
salute the company, with many of whom he had but the very slightest
acquaintance,--of some he did not even remember the names.

The genial warmth of his character soon compelled him to feel heartily
what he had begun by feigning, and he bade them welcome with a
cordiality that spread its kindly influence over all.

“I see,” said he, after some minutes, “Lady Kilgoff has not joined us;
but her fatigue has been very great.”

“They say my Lord 's clean daft,” said Sir Andrew.

“Oh, no, Sir Andrew,” rejoined Roland; “our misfortune has shaken his
nerves a good deal, but a few days' rest and quiet will restore him.”

“He was na ower wise at the best, puir man,” sighed the veteran, as he
moved away.

“Her Ladyship was quite a heroine,--is n't that so?” said Lady Janet,
tartly.

“She held the rudder, or did something with the compass, I heard,”
 simpered a young lady in long flaxen ringlets.

Cashel smiled, but made no answer.

“Oh, dear,” sighed Meek, “and there was a dog that swam--or was it you
that swam ashore with a rope in your mouth?”

“I grieve to say, neither man nor dog performed the achievement.”

“And it would appear that the horrid wretch--what's his name?” asked
Mrs. White of her friend Howie.

“Whose name, madam?”

“The man--the dreadful man, who planned it all. Sick--Sickamore--no, not
Sickamore--”

“Sickleton, perhaps,” said Cashel, strangely puzzled to make out what
was coming.

“Yes, Sickleton had actually done the very same thing twice before, just
to get possession of the rich plate and all the things on board.”

“This is too bad,” cried Cashel, indignantly; “really, madam, you must
pardon my warmth, if it even verges on rudeness; but the gentleman whose
name you have associated with such iniquitous suspicions saved all our
lives.”

“That's what I like in him better than all,” whispered Aunt Fanny to
Olivia; “he stands by his friends like a trump.”

“You have compelled me,” resumed Cashel, “to speak of what really I had
much rather forget; but I shall insist upon your patience now for a
few minutes, simply to rectify any error which may prevail upon this
affair.”

With this brief prelude, Cashel commenced a narrative of the voyage
from the evening of the departure from Kingstown to the moment of the
vessel's sinking off the south coast.

If most of his auditors only listened as to an interesting anecdote, to
others the story had a deeper meaning. The Kennyfecks were longing to
learn how the excursion originated, and whether Lady Kilgoff's presence
had been a pre-arranged plan, or a mere accidental occurrence.

“All's not lost yet, Livy,” whispered Miss Kennyfeck in her sister's
ear. “I give you joy.” While a significant nod from Aunt Fanny seemed to
divine the sentiment and agree with it.

“And I suppose ye had na the vessel insured?” said Sir Andrew, at the
close of the narrative; “what a sair thing to think o'!”

“Oh, dear, yes, to be sure!” ejaculated Meek, piteously; “and the cold,
and the wetting, and the rest of it! for of course you must have met few
comforts in that miserable fishing-hut.”

“How picturesque it must have been,” interposed Mrs. White; “and what a
pity you had no means of having a drawing made of it. The scene at the
moment of the yacht striking; the despair-struck seamen--”

“Pardon me, madam, for destroying even a particle of so ingenious a
fancy; but the men evinced nothing of the kind,--they behaved well, and
with the calmest steadiness.”

“It is scarcely too late yet,” resumed the lady, unabashed; “if you
would just describe it all carefully to Mr. Howie, he could made a
sketch in oils one would swear was taken on the spot.”

“Quite impossible,--out of the question,” said Howie, who was always
ashamed at the absurdities which compromised himself, although keenly
alive to those which involved his neighbors.

“We have heard much of Lady Kilgoff's courage and presence of mind,”
 said Mrs. Kennyfeck, returning to a theme by which she calculated on
exploring into Cashel's sentiments towards that lady. “Were they indeed
so conspicuous?”

“Can you doubt it, madam?” said Lady Janet, tartly; “she gave the most
unequivocal proof of both,--she remembered her husband!”

The tartness of this impertinent speech was infinitely increased by
the voice and manner of the speaker, and a half-suppressed titter ran
through the room, Cashel alone, of all, feeling annoyed and angry. Aunt
Fanny, always less occupied with herself than her neighbors, quickly saw
his irritation, and resolved to change a topic which more than once had
verged on danger.

“And now, Mr. Cashel,” said she, “let us not forget the pledge on which
we admitted you.”

“Quite right,” exclaimed Roland; “I promised a suggestion: here it is--”

“Pardon me for interrupting,” said Miss Kennyfeck; “but in what capacity
do you make this suggestion? Are you still king, or have you abdicated?”

“Abdicated in all form,” replied Roland, bowing with well-assumed
humility; “as simple citizen, I propose that we elect a 'Queen,' to rule
despotically in all things,--uncontrolled and irresponsible.”

“Oh, delightful! admirable!” exclaimed a number of voices, among which
all the men and the younger ladies might be heard; Lady Janet and Mrs.
Kennyfeck, and a few others “of the senior service,” as Mr. Linton
would have called them, seeming to canvass the motion with more cautious
reserve.

“As it is to be an elective monarchy, sir,” said Lady Janet, with a
shrewd glance over all the possible candidates, “how do you propose the
choice is to be made?”

“That is to be for after consideration,” replied Roland; “we may have
universal suffrage and the ballot.”

“No, no, by Jove!” exclaimed Sir Harvey Upton; “we must not enter upon
our new reign by a rebellion. Let only the men vote.”

“How gallant!” said Miss Kennyfeck, sneeringly; while a chorus of “How
unfair!” “How ungenerous!” went through the room.

“What say ye to the plan they hae wi' the Pope?” said Sir Andrew,
grinning maliciously: “tak' the auldest o' the company.”

This suggestion caused a laugh, in which certain parties did not join
over-heartily. Just at this moment the door opened, and Lord Kilgoff,
leaning on the arm of two servants, entered. He was deathly pale, and
seemed several years older; but his face had acquired something of its
wonted expression, and it was with a sad but courteous smile he returned
the salutations of the company.

“Glad to see you amongst us, my Lord,” said Cashel, as he placed an
arm-chair, and assisted the old man to his seat. “I have just been
telling my friends that our country air and quiet will speedily restore
you.”

“Thank you very much, sir,” said he, taking Cashel's hand. “We are both
greatly indebted to your kindness, nor can we indeed ever hope to repay
it.”

“Make him a receiver on the estate, then,” whispered Lady Janet in Miss
Kennyfeck's ear, “and he'll soon pay himself.”

“Tell my Lord about our newly intended government, Mr. Cashel,” said
Mrs. Kennyfeck; “I'm sure it will amuse him.” And Cashel, more in
obedience to the request than from any conviction of its prudence,
proceeded to obey. One word only, however, seemed to fix itself on the
old man's memory.

“Queen! queen!” repeated he several times to himself. “Oh, indeed! You
expect her Majesty will honor you with a visit, sir?”

Cashel endeavored to correct the misconception, but to no purpose; the
feeble intelligence could not relinquish its grasp so easily, and he
went on in a low muttering tone,--

“Lady Kilgoff is the only peeress here, sir, remember that; you should
speak to her about it, Mr. Cashel.”

“I hope we are soon to have the pleasure of seeing Lady Kilgoff, my
Lord,” whispered Cashel, half to concur with, half to turn the course of
conversation.

“She will be here presently,” said he, somewhat stiffly, as if some
unpleasant recollection was passing through his mind; and Cashel
turned away to speak with the others, who eagerly awaited to resume the
interrupted conversation.

“Your plan, Mr. Cashel; we are dying to hear it,” cried one.

“Oh, by all means; how are we to elect the queen?” said another.

“What say you to a lottery,” said he, “or something equally the upshot
of chance? For instance, let the first lady who enters the room be
queen.”

“Very good indeed,” said Lady Janet, aloud; then added, in a whisper,
“I see that old Mrs. Malone with her husband toddling up the avenue this
instant.”

“Olivia, my love,” whispered Mrs. Kennyfeck to her daughter, “fetch me
my work here, and don't be a moment away, child. He's so amusing!” And
the young lady glided unseen from the room at her mamma's bidding. After
a short but animated conversation, it was decided that this mode of
choice should be adopted; and now all stood in anxious expectancy to see
who first should enter. At last footsteps were heard approaching, and
the interest rose higher.

“Leddy Janet was right,” said Sir Andrew, with a grin; “ye 'll hae Mrs.
Malone for your sovereign,--I ken her step weel.”

“By Jove!” cried Upton, “I 'll dispute the succession; that would never
do.”

“That's-a lighter tread and a faster,” said Cashel, listening.

“There are two coming,” cried Mrs. White; “I hear voices: how are we
then to decide?”

There was no time to canvass this knotty point, when a hand was heard
upon the door-handle; it turned, and just as the door moved, a sound of
feet upon the terrace without,--running at full speed,--turned every eye
in that direction, and the same instant Miss Meek sprang into the room
through the window, while Lord Charles and Linton hurried after her, at
the same moment that Lady Kilgoff, followed by Olivia Kennyfeck, entered
by the door.

Miss Meek's appearance might have astonished the company, had even
her _entrée_ been more ceremonious; for she was without hat, her
hair falling in long, dishevelled masses about her shoulders, and her
riding-habit, torn and ragged, was carried over one arm, with a freedom
much more in accordance with speed than grace.

“Beat by two lengths, Charley,” cried she, in a joyous, merry laugh;
“beat in a canter,--Mr. Linton, nowhere.”

“Oh, dear me, what is all this, Jemima love?” softly sighed her bland
papa; “you've not been riding, I hope?”

“Schooling a bit with Charley, pa, and as we left the nags at the
stable, they challenged me to a race home; I don't think they'll do it
again. Do look how they're blown.”

Some of the company laughed good-humoredly at the girlish gayety of the
scene. Others, among whom, it is sad to say, were many of the younger
ladies, made significant signs of being shocked by the indecorum, and
gathered in groups to canvass the papa's indifference and the daughter's
indelicacy. Meanwhile Cashel had been completely occupied with Lady
Kilgoff, making the usual inquiries regarding fatigue and rest, but in a
manner that bespoke all his interest in a favored guest.

“Are you aware to what high destiny the Fates have called you?” said he,
laughing. “Some attain fortune by being first to seek her,--_you_, on
the contrary, win by dallying. We had decided, a few moments before
you came in, that the first lady who entered should be the Queen of our
party,--this lot is yours.”

“I beg to correct you, Mr. Cashel,” cried Lady Janet, smartly; “Miss
Meek entered before her Ladyship.”

“Oh, yes!” “Certainly!” “Without a doubt!” resounded from the whole
company, who were not sorry to confer their suffrages on the madcap girl
rather than the fashionable beauty.

“How distressing!” sighed Mr. Meek. “Oh, dear! I hope this is not
so,--nay, I 'm sure, Jemima, it cannot be the case.”

“You're thinking of George Colman, Meek,--I see you are,” cried Linton.

[Illustration: 026]

“No, indeed; no, upon my honor. What was it about Colman?”

“The story is everybody's story. The Prince insisted once that George
was his senior, and George only corrected himself of his mistake by
saying that 'he could not possibly have had the rudeness to enter the
world before his Royal Highness.'”

“Ah! yes--very true--so it was,” sighed Meek, who-affected not to
perceive the covert sneer at his assumed courtesy.

While, therefore, the party gathered around Cashel, with eager assurance
of Miss Meek's precedence, Lady Kilgoff, rising, crossed the room
to where that young lady was standing, and gracefully arranging her
loose-flowing ringlets into a knot at the back of the head, fastened
them by a splendid comb which she took from her own, and whose top was
fashioned into a handsome coronet of gold, saying, “The question of
legitimacy is solved forever: the Pretender yields her crown to the true
Sovereign.”

The gracefulness and tact of this sudden movement called forth the
warmest acknowledgments of all save Lady Janet, who whispered to Miss
Kenny feck, “It is pretty clear, I fancy, who is to pay for the crown
jewels!”

“Am I really the Queen?” cried the young girl, half wild with delight.

“Most assuredly, madam,” said Linton, kissing her hand in deep
reverence. “I beg to be first to tender my homage.”

“That 's so like him!” cried she, laughing; “but you shall be no officer
of mine. Where 's Charley? I want to make him Master of the Buckhounds,
if there be buckhounds.”

“Will you not appoint your ladies first, madam?” said Lady Janet; “or,
are your preferences for the other sex to leave us quite forgotten?”

“Be all of you everything you please,” rejoined the childish, merry
voice, “with Charley Frobisher for Master of the Horse.”

“Linton for Master of the Revels,” said some one.

“Agreed,” said she.

“Mr. Cashel had better be First Lord of the Treasury, I suspect,” said
Lady Janet, snappishly, “if the Administration is to last.”

“And if ye a'ways wear drapery o' this fashion,” said Sir Andrew, taking
up the torn fragment of her riding-habit as he spoke, “I maun say that
the Mistress of the Robes will na be a sinecure.”

“Will any one tell me what are my powers?” said she, sitting down with
an air of mock dignity.

“Will any one dare to say what they are not?” responded Cashel.

“Have I unlimited command in everything?”

“In everything, madam; I and all mine are at your orders.”

“That's what the farce will end in,” whispered Lady Janet to Mrs.
Kennyfeck.

“Well, then, to begin. The court will dine with us today--to-morrow we
will hunt in our royal forest; our private band--Have we a private band,
Mr. Linton?”

“Certainly, your Majesty,--so private as to be almost undiscoverable.”

“Then our private band will perform in the evening; perhaps, too, we
shall dance. Remember, my Lords and Ladies, we are a young sovereign who
loves pleasure, and that a sad face or a mournful one is treason to our
person. Come forward now, and let us name our household.”

While the group gathered around the wild and high-spirited girl, in
whose merry mood even the least-disposed were drawn to participate,
Linton approached Lady Kilgoff, who had seated herself near a window,
and was affecting to arrange a frame of embroidery, on which she rarely
bestowed a moment's labor.




CHAPTER II. LADY KILGOFF AT BAY

     I'll make her brew the beverage herself,
     With her own fingers stir the cap,
     And know't is poison as she drinks it.

     Harold.


Had Linton been about to renew an acquaintance with one he had scarcely
known before, and who might possibly have ceased to remember him, his
manner could not have been more studiously diffident and respectful.

“I rejoice to see your Ladyship here,” said he, in a low, deliberate
voice, “where, on the last time we spoke together, you seemed uncertain
of coming.”

“Very true, Mr. Linton,” said she, not looking up from her work; “my
Lord had not fully made up his mind.”

“Say, rather, your Ladyship had changed yours,” said he, with a cold
smile,--“a privilege you are not wont to deny yourself.”

“I might have exercised it oftener in life with advantage,” replied she,
still holding her head bent over the embroidery frame.

“Don't you think that your Ladyship and I are old friends enough to
speak without innuendo?”

“If we speak at all,” said she, with a low but calm accent.

“True, that is to be thought of,” rejoined he, with an unmoved quietude
of voice. “Being in a manner prepared for a change in your Ladyship's
sentiments towards me--”

“Sir!” said she, interrupting, and as suddenly raising her face, which
was now covered with a deep blush.

“I trust I have said nothing to provoke reproof,” said Linton, coldly.
“Your Ladyship is well aware if my words be not true. I repeat it,
then,--your sentiments _are_ changed towards me, or--the alteration is
not of _my_ choosing--I was deceived in the expression of them when last
we met.”

“It may suit your purpose, sir, but it can scarcely conform to the
generosity of a gentleman, to taunt me with acceding to your request for
a meeting. If any other weakness can be alleged against me, pray let me
hear it.”

“When we last met,” said Linton, in a voice of lower and deeper meaning
than before, “we did so that I might speak, and _you_ hear, the avowal
of a passion which for years has filled my heart--against which I
have struggled and fought in vain--to stifle which I have plunged into
dissipations that I detested, and followed ambitions I despised--to
obliterate all memory of which I would stoop to crime itself, rather
than suffer on in the hopeless misery I must do.”

“I will hear no more of this,” said she, pushing back the work-table,
and preparing to rise.

“You must and you shall hear me, madam,” said he, replacing the table
and affecting to arrange it for her. “I conclude you do not wish this
amiable company to arbitrate between us.”

“Oh, sir! is it thus you threaten me?”

“You should say compromise, madam. There can be no threat where a common
ruin impends on all concerned.”

“To what end all this, Mr. Linton?” said she. “You surely cannot expect
from me any return to a feeling which, if it once existed, you yourself
were the means of uprooting forever. Even _you_ could scarcely be
ungenerous enough to persecute one for whose misery you have done
already too much.”

“Will you accept my arm for half an hour?” cried he, interrupting. “I
pledge myself it shall be the last time I either make such a request, or
even allude to this topic between us. On the pretence of showing you the
house, I may be able--if not to justify myself--nay, I see how little
you care for that--well, at least to assure you that I have no other
wish, no other hope, than to see you happy.”

“I cannot trust you,” said she, in a tone of agitation; “already we are
remarked.”

“So I perceive,” said he, in an undertone; then added, in a voice
audible enough to be heard by the rest, “I am too vain of my
architectural merits to leave their discovery to chance; and as you
are good enough to say you would like to see the house, pray will your
Ladyship accept my arm while I perform the cicerone on myself?”

The _coup_ succeeded, and, to avoid the difficulty and embarrassment
a refusal would have created, Lady Kilgoff arose, and prepared to
accompany him.

“Eh, what--what is't, my Lady?” said Lord Kilgoff, suddenly awaking from
a kind of lethargic slumber, as she whispered some words in his ear.

“Her Ladyship is telling you not to be jealous, my Lord, while she is
making the tour of the house with Mr. Linton,” said Lady Janet, with a
malicious sparkle of her green eyes.

“Why not make it a royal progress?” said Sir Harvey. “Her Majesty the
Queen might like it well.”

“Her Majesty likes everything that promises amusement,” said the wild
romp; “come, Charley, give us your arm.

“No, I 've got a letter or two to write,” said he, rudely; “there 's
Upton or Jennings quite ready for any foolery.”

“This is too bad!” cried she; and through all the pantomime of mock
royalty, a real tear rose to her eyes, and rolled heavily down her
cheek; then, with a sudden change of humor, she said, “Mr. Cashel, will
_you_ take me?”

The request was too late, for already he had given his arm to Lady
Janet,--an act of devotion he was performing with the expression of a
saint under martyrdom.

“Sir Harvey,--there's no help for it,--we are reduced to _you_.”

But Sir Harvey was leaving the room with Olivia Kenny-feck. In fact,
couples paired off in every direction; the only disengaged cavalier
being Sir Andrew MacFarline, who, with a sardonic grin on his features,
came hobbling forward, as he said,--

“Te maunna tak sich long strides, Missy, if ye ga wf me, for I've got a
couple o' ounces of Langredge shot in my left knee--forbye the gout in
both ankles.”

“I say, Jim,” called out Lord Charles, as she moved away, “if you like
to ride Princepino this afternoon, he's-ready for you.”

“Are _you_ going?” said she, turning her head.

“Yes.”

“Then _I'll_ not go.” And so saying, she left the room.

When Linton, accompanied by Lady Kilgoff, issued from the drawing-room,
instead of proceeding through the billiard-room towards the suite which
formed the “show” part of the mansion, he turned abruptly to his left,
and, passing through a narrow corridor, came out upon a terrace, at the
end of which stood a large conservatory, opening into the garden.

“I ask pardon,” said he, “if I reverse the order of our geography, and
show you the frontiers of the realm before we visit the capital; but
otherwise we shall only be the advance-guard of that interesting company
who have nothing more at heart than to overhear us.”

Lady Kilgoff walked along without speaking, at his side, having
relinquished the support of his arm with a stiff, frigid courtesy. Had
any one been there to mark the two-figures, as side by side they went,
each deep in thought, and not even venturing a glance at the other, he
might well have wondered what strange link could connect them. It was
thus they entered the conservatory, where two rows of orange-trees
formed a lane of foliage almost impenetrable to the eye.

“As this may be the last time we shall ever speak together in secret--”

“You have promised as much, sir,” said she, interrupting; and the very
rapidity of her utterance betrayed the eagerness of her wish.

“Be it so, madam,” replied he, coldly, and with a tone of sternness very
different from that he had used at first. “I have ever preferred your
wishes to my own. I shall never prove false to that allegiance. As we
are now about to speak on terms which never can be resumed, let us at
least be frank. Let us use candor with each other. Even unpleasing truth
is better at such a moment than smooth-tongued insincerity.”

“This preamble does not promise well,” said Lady Kilgoff, with a cold
smile.

“Not, perhaps, for the agreeability of our interview, but it may save us
both much time and much temper. I have said that you are changed towards
me.”

“Oh, sir! if I had suspected that this was to be the theme--” She
stopped, and seemed uncertain, when he finished the speech for her.

“You would never have accorded me this meeting. Do be frank, madam, and
spare me the pain of self-inflicted severity. Well, I will not impose
upon your kindness,--nor indeed was such my intention, if you had but
heard me out. Yes, madam, I should have told you that while I deplore
that alteration, I no more make you chargeable with it, than _you_ can
call _me_ to account for cherishing a passion without a hope. Both one
and the other are independent of us. That one should forget and the
other remember is beyond mere volition.”

He waited for some token of assent, some slight evidence of concurrence;
but none came, and he resumed:

“When first I had the happiness of being distinguished by some slight
show of your preference, there were many others who sought with
eagerness for that position I was supposed to occupy in your favor. It
was the first access of vanity in my heart, and it cost me dearly. Some
envied me; some scoffed; some predicted that my triumph would be a brief
one; some were rude enough to say that I was only placed like a buoy,
to show the passage, and that I should lie fast at anchor while others
sailed on with prosperous gale and favoring fortune. You, madam, best
know which of these were right. I see that I weary you. I can conceive
how distasteful all these memories must be, nor should I evoke them
without absolute necessity. To be brief, then, you are now about to play
over with another the very game by which you once deceived me. It is
your caprice to sacrifice another to your vanity; but know, madam, the
liberties which the world smiled at in Miss Gardiner will be keenly
criticised in the Lady Kilgoff. In the former case, the most malevolent
could but hint at a _mésalliance_; in the latter, evil tongues can take
a wider latitude. To be sure, the fascinating qualities of the suitor,
his wealth, his enviable position, will plead with some; my Lord's
age and decrepitude will weigh with others: but even these charitable
persons will not spare _you_. Your own sex are seldom over-merciful in
their judgments. Men are unscrupulous enough to hint that there was no
secret in the matter; some will go further, and affect to say that they
themselves were not unfavorably looked on.”

“Will you give me a chair, sir?” said she, in a voice which, though
barely above a whisper, vibrated with intense passion. Linton hastened
to fetch a seat, his whole features glowing with the elation of his
vengeance. This passed rapidly away, and as he placed the chair for her
to sit down, his face had resumed its former cold, almost melancholy
expression.

“I hope you are not ill?” said he, with an air of feeling.

A glance of the most ineffable scorn was her only reply.

“It is with sincere sorrow that I inflict this pain upon you,--indeed,
when I heard of that unhappy yacht excursion, my mind was made up to see
Lord Kilgoff the very moment of his arrival, and, on any pretence, to
induce him to leave this. This hope, however, was taken from me, when
I beheld the sad state into which he had fallen, leaving me no other
alternative than to address yourself. I will not hurt your ears by
repeating the inventions, each full of falsehood, that heralded your
arrival here. The insulting discussions how you should be met--whether
your conduct had already precluded your acceptance amongst the circle of
your equals--or, that you were only a subject of avoidance to mothers of
marriageable daughters, and maiden ladies of excessive virtue. You have
mixed in the world, and therefore can well imagine every ingenious turn
of this peculiar eloquence. How was I--I who have known--I who--nay,
madam, not a word shall pass my lips in reference to that theme--I would
only ask, Could I hear these things, could I see your foot nearing the
cliff, and not cry out, Stop?--Another step, and you are lost! There
are women who can play this dangerous game with cool heads and cooler
hearts: schooled in all the frigid indifference that would seem the
birthright of a certain class, the secrets of their affections die with
them; but you are not one of these. Born in what they would call an
humbler, but I should call a far higher sphere, where the feelings are
fresher and the emotions purer, _you_ might chance to--fall in love!”

A faint smile, so faint that it conveyed no expression to her eyes, was
Lady Kilgoff's acknowledgment of these last words.

“Have you finished, sir?” said she, as, after a pause of some seconds,
he stood still.

“Not yet, madam,” replied he, dryly.

“In that case, sir, would it not be as well to tell the man who is
lingering yonder to leave this? except, perhaps, it may be your desire
to have a witness to your words.”

Linton started, and grew deadly pale; for he now perceived that the
man must have been in the conservatory during the entire interview.
Hastening round to where he stood, his fears were at once dispelled;
for it was the Italian sailor, Giovanni, who, in the multiplicity of his
accomplishments, was now assisting the gardener among the plants.

“It is of no consequence, madam,” said he, returning; “the man is an
Italian, who understands nothing of English.”

“_You_ are always fortunate, Mr. Linton,” said she, with a deep emphasis
on the pronoun.

“I have ceased to boast of my good luck for many a day.”

“Having, doubtless, so many other qualities to be proud of,” said she,
with a malicious sparkle of her dark eyes.

“The question is now, madam, of one far more interesting than me.”

“Can that be possible, sir? Is any one's welfare of such moment to his
friends--to the world at large--as the high-minded, the honorable, the
open-hearted Mr. Linton, who condescends, for the sake of a warning
to his young friends, to turn gambler and ruin them; while he has the
daring courage to single out a poor unprotected woman, without one who
could rightly defend her, and, under the miserable mask of interest, to
insult her?”

“Is it thus you read my conduct, madam?” said he, with an air at once
sad and reproachful.

“Not altogether, Mr. Linton. Besides the ineffable pleasure of giving
pain, I perceive that you are acquitting a debt,--the debt of hate you
owe me; because--But I cannot descend to occupy the same level with you
in this business. My reply to you is a very short one. Your insult to me
must go unpunished; for, as you well know, I have not one to resent it.
You have, however, introduced another name in this discussion; to
that gentleman I will reveal all that you have said this day. The
consequences may be what they will, I care not; I never provoked them.
You best know, sir, how the reckoning will fare with you.”

Linton grew pale, almost lividly so, while he bit his lip till the very
blood came; then, suddenly recovering himself, he said: “I am not
aware of having mentioned a name. I think your Ladyship must have been
mistaken; but”--and here he laughed slightly--“you will scarce succeed
in sowing discord between me and my old friend, Lord Charles Frobisher.”

“Lord Charles Frobisher!” echoed she, almost stunned with the
effrontery.

“You seem surprised, madam. I trust your Ladyship meant no other.”
 The insolence of his manner, as he said this, left her unable for some
minutes to reply, and when she did speak, it was with evident effort.

“I trust now, sir, that we have spoken for the last time together. I
own--and it is, indeed, humiliation enough to own it--your words have
deeply insulted me. I cannot deny you the satisfaction of knowing this;
and yet, with all these things before me, I do not hate--I only despise
you.”

So saying, she moved towards the door; but Linton stepped forward, and
said: “One instant, madam. You seem to forget that we are pledged to
walk through the rooms; our amiable friends are doubtless looking for
us.”

“I will ask Mr. Cashel to be my chaperon another time,” said she,
carelessly, and, drawing her shawl around her, passed out, leaving
Linton alone in the conservatory.

“Ay, by St Paul! the work goes bravely on,” cried he, as soon as she had
disappeared. “If she ruin not him and herself to boot, now, I am sore
mistaken. The game is full of interest, and, if I had not so much in
hand, would delight me.”

With this brief soliloquy, he turned to where the Italian was standing,
pruning an orange-tree.

“Have you learned any English yet, Giovanni?”

A slight but significant gesture of one finger gave the negative.

“No matter, your own soft vowels are in more request here. The dress I
told you of is now come,--my servant will give it to you; so, be ready
with your guitar, if the ladies wish for it, this evening.”

Giovanni bowed respectfully, and went on with his work, and soon after
Linton strolled into the garden to muse over the late scene.

Had any one been there to mark the signs of triumphant elation on his
features, they would have seen the man in all the sincerity of his bold,
bad heart. His success was perfect. Knowing well the proud nature of
the young, high-spirited woman, thoroughly acquainted with her impatient
temper and haughty character, he rightly foresaw that to tell her she
had become the subject of a calumny was to rouse her pride to confront
it openly. To whisper that the world would not admit of this or that,
was to make her brave that world, or sink under the effort.

To sting her to such resistance was his wily game, and who knew better
how to play it? The insinuated sneers at the class to which she had once
belonged, as one not “patented” to assume the vices of their betters,
was a deep and most telling hit; and he saw, when they separated, that
her mind was made up, at any cost and every risk, to live down the
slander by utter contempt of it Linton asked for no more. “Let
her,” said he to himself, “but enter the lists with the world for an
adversary! I 'll give her all the benefits of the best motives,--as much
purity of heart, and so forth, as she cares for; but, 'I 'll name the
winner,' after all.”

Too true. The worthy people who fancy that an innate honesty of purpose
can compensate for all the breaches of conventional use, are like the
volunteers of an army who refuse to wear its uniform, and are as often
picked down by their allies as by their enemies.




CHAPTER III. A PARTIAL RECOVERY AND A RELAPSE

     Such a concourse ne'er was seen
     Of coaches, noddies, cars, and jingles,
     “Chars-a-bancs,” to hold sixteen,
     And “sulkies,” meant to carry singles.

     The Pic-nic: A Lay.


It is an old remark that nothing is so stupid as love-letters; and,
pretty much in the same spirit, we may affirm that there are few
duller topics than festivities. The scenes in which the actor is most
interested are, out of compensation, perhaps, those least worthy
to record; the very inability of description to render them is
disheartening too. One must eternally resort to the effects produced, as
evidences of the cause, just as, when we would characterize a climate,
we find ourselves obliged to fall back upon the vegetable productions,
the fruits and flowers of the seasons, to convey even anything of what
we desire. So is it Pleasure has its own atmosphere,--we may breathe,
but hardly chronicle it.

These prosings of ours have reference to the gayeties of Tubbermore,
which certainly were all that a merry party and an unbounded expenditure
could compass. The style of living was princely in its splendor;
luxuries fetched from every land,--the rarest wines of every country,
the most exquisite flowers,--all that taste can suggest, and gold can
buy, were there; and while the order of each day was maintained with
undiminished splendor, every little fancy of the guests was studied with
a watchful politeness that marks the highest delicacy of hospitality.

If a bachelor's house be wanting in the gracefulness which is the charm
of a family reception, there is a freedom, a degree of liberty in
all the movements of the guests, which some would accept as a fair
compromise; for, while the men assume a full equality With their host,
the ladies are supreme in all such establishments. Roland Cashel was,
indeed, not the man to dislike this kind of democracy; it spared him
trouble; it inflicted no tiresome routine of attentions; he was free as
the others to follow the bent of his humor, and he asked for no more.

It was without one particle of vulgar pride of wealth that he delighted
in the pleasure he saw around him; it was the mere buoyancy of a
high-spirited nature. The cost no more entered into his calculations
in a personal than a pecuniary sense. A consciousness that he was
the source of all that splendid festivity,--that his will was the
motive-power of all that complex machinery of pleasure,--increased,
but did not constitute, his enjoyment. To see his guests happy, in the
various modes they preferred, was his great delight, and, for once, he
felt inclined to think that wealth had great privileges.

The display of all which gratified him most was that which usually took
place each day after luncheon; when the great space before the house was
thronged with equipages of various kinds and degrees, with saddle-horses
and mounted grooms, and amid all the bustle of discussing where to, and
with whom, the party issued forth to spend the hours before dinner.

A looker-on would have been amused to watch all the little devices
in request, to join this party, to avoid that, to secure a seat in a
certain carriage, or to escape from some other; Linton's chief amusement
being to thwart as many of these plans as he could, and while he packed
a sleepy Chief Justice into the same barouche with the gay Kennyfeck
girls, to commit Lady Janet to the care of some dashing dragoon, who did
not dare decline the wife of a “Commander of the Forces.”

Cashel always joined the party on horseback, so long as Lady Kilgoff
kept the house, which she did for the first week of her stay; but when
she announced her intention of driving out, he offered his services to
accompany her. By the merest accident it chanced that the very day she
fixed on for her first excursion was that on which Cashel had determined
to try a new and most splendid equipage which had just arrived; it was a
phaeton, built in all the costly splendor of the “Regency of the Duke of
Orleans,”--one of those gorgeous toys which even a voluptuous age gazed
at with wonder. Two jet-black Arabians, of perfect symmetry, drew it,
the whole forming a most beautiful equipage.

Exclamations of astonishment and admiration broke from the whole party
as the carriage drove up to the door, where all were now standing.

“Whose can it be? Where did it come from? What a magnificent phaeton!
Mr. Cashel, pray tell us all about it. Do, Mr. Linton, give us its
history.”

“It has none as yet, my dear Mrs. White; that it may have, one of these
days, is quite possible.”

Lady Janet heard the speech, and nodded significantly in assent.

“Mr. Linton, you are coming with us, a'n't you?” said a lady's voice
from a britzska close by.

“I really don't know how the arrangement is; Cashel said something about
my driving Lady Kilgoff.”

Lady Kilgoff pressed her lips close, and gathered her mantle together as
if by some sudden impulse of temper, but never spoke a word. At the same
instant Cashel made his appearance from the house.

“Are you to drive me, Mr. Cashel?” said she, calmly.

“If you will honor me so far,” replied he, bowing.

“I fancied you said something to me about being her Ladyship's
charioteer,” said Linton.

“You must have been dreaming, man,” cried Cashel, laughing.

“Will you allow my Lady to choose?” rejoined Linton, jokingly, while he
stole at her a look of insolent malice.

Cashel stood uncertain what to say or do in the emergency, when, with a
firm and determined voice, Lady Kilgoff said,--

“I must own I have no confidence in Mr. Linton's guidance.”

“There, Tom,” said Cashel, gayly, “I 'm glad your vanity came in for
that.”

“I have only to hope that you are in safer conduct, my Lady,” said
Linton; and he bowed with uncovered head, and then stood gazing after
the swift carriage as it hastened down the avenue.

“Is it all true about these Kennyfeck girls having so much tin'?” said
Captain Jennings, as he stroked down his moustache complacently.

“They say five-and-twenty thousand each,” said Linton, “and I rather
credit the rumor.”

“Eh, aw! one might do worse,” yawned the hussar, languidly; “I wish they
hadn't that confounded accent!” And so he moved off to join the party on
horseback.

“You are coming with me, Jemima,” said Mr. Downie Meek to his daughter.
“I want to pay a visit to those works at Killaloe, we have so much
committee talk in the House on inland navigation. Oh, dear! it is very
tiresome.”

“Charley says I 'm to go with him, pa; he 's about to try Smasher as a
leader, and wants me, if anything goes wrong.”

“Oh, dear! quite impossible.”

“Yes, yes, Jim, I insist,” said Frobisher, in a half-whisper; “never
mind the governor.”

“Here comes the drag, pa. Oh, how beautiful it looks! There they go, all
together; and Smasher, how neatly he carries himself! I say, Charley,
he has no fancy for that splinter-bar so near him,--it touches his
near hock every instant; would n't it be better to let his trace a hole
looser?”

“So it would,” said Frobisher; “but get up and hold the ribbons till I
have got my gloves on. I say, Linton, keep Downie in chat one moment,
until we 're off.”

This kindly office was, however, anticipated by Lady Janet MacFarline,
who, in her brief transit from the door to the carriage, always
contrived to drop each of the twenty things she loaded herself with at
starting, and thus to press into the service as many of the
bystanders as possible, who followed, one with a muff, another with a
smelling-bottle, a third with a book, a fourth with her knitting, and so
on; while Flint brought up the rear with more air-cushions and hot-water
apparatus than ever were seen before for the accommodation of two
persons. In fact, if the atmosphere of our dear island, instead of being
the mere innocent thing of fog it is, had been surcharged with all the
pestilential vapors of the mistral and the typhoon together, she could
not have armed herself with stronger precautions against it; while even
Sir Andrew, with the constitution of a Russian bear, was compelled
to wear blue spectacles in sunshine, and a respirator when it
lowered,--leaving him, as he said, to the “domnable alternative o' being
blind or dumb.”

“I maun say,” muttered he, behind his barrier of mouth plate, “that
Mesther Cashel has his ain notions aboot amusin' his company when he
leaves ane o' his guests to drive aboot wi' his ain wife. Ech, sir, it
is a pleasure I need na hae come so far to enjoy.”

“Where's Sir Harvey Upton, Sir Andrew?” said my Lady, tartly; “he has
never been near me to-day. I hope he 's not making a fool of himself
with those Kennyfeck minxes.”

“I dinna ken, and I dinna care,” growled Sir Andrew; and then to
himself, he added, “An' if he be, it's aye better fooling wi' young
lassies than doited auld women!”

“A place for you, Mr. Linton!” said Mrs. White, as she seated herself in
a low drosky, where her companion, Mr. Howie, sat, surrounded with all
the details for a sketching-excursion.

“Thanks, but I have nothing so agreeable in prospect.”

“Why, what are you about to do?”

“Alas! I must set out on a canvassing expedition, to court the sweet
voices of my interesting constituency. You know that I am a candidate
for the borough.”

“That must be very disagreeable.”

“It is, but I could not get off; Cashel is incurably lazy, and _I_ never
know how to say 'no.'”

“Well, good-bye, and all fortune to you,” said she; and they drove away.

Mr. Kennyfeck and the Chief Justice, mounted on what are called
sure-footed ponies, and a few others, still lingered about the door, but
Linton took no notice of them, but at once re-entered the house.

For some time previous he had remarked that Lord Kilgoff seemed, as
it were, struggling to emerge from the mist that had shrouded his
faculties; his perceptions each day grew quicker and clearer, and even
when silent, Linton observed that a shrewd expression of the eye would
betoken a degree of apprehension few would have given him credit for.
With the keenness of a close observer, too, Linton perceived that he
more than once made use of his favorite expression, “It appears to me,”
 and slight as the remark might seem, there is no more certain evidence
of the return to thought and reason than the resumption of any habitual
mode of expression.

Resolved to profit by this gleam of coming intelligence, by showing
the old peer an attention he knew would be acceptable, Linton sent up
a message to ask “If his Lordship would like a visit from him?” A
most cordial acceptance was returned; and, a few moments after, Linton
entered the room where he sat, with all that delicate caution so
becoming a sick chamber.

Motioning his visitor to sit down, by a slight gesture of the finger,
while he made a faint effort to smile, in return for the other's
salutation, the old man sat, propped up by pillows, and enveloped in
shawls, pale, sad, and careworn.

“I was hesitating for two entire days, my Lord,” said Linton, lowering
his voice to suit the character of the occasion, “whether I might
propose to come and sit an hour with you, and I have only to beg
that you will not permit me to trespass a moment longer than you feel
disposed to endure me.”

“Very kind of you--most considerate, sir,” said the old peer, bowing
with an air of haughty courtesy.

“You seem to gain strength every day, my Lord,” resumed Linton, who
well knew there was nothing like a personal topic to awaken a sick man's
interest.

“There is something here,” said the old man, slowly, as he placed the
tip of his finger on the centre of his forehead.

“Mere debility, nervous debility, my Lord. You are paying the heavy debt
an overworked intellect must always acquit; but rest and repose will
soon restore you.”

“Yes, sir,” muttered the other, with a weak smile, as though, without
fathoming the sentiment, he felt that something agreeable to his
feelings had been spoken.

“I have been impatient for your recovery, my Lord, I will confess to
you, on personal grounds; I feel now how much I have been indebted
to your Lordship's counsel and advice all through life, by the very
incertitude that tracks me. In fact, I can resolve on nothing, determine
nothing, without your sanction.”

The old man nodded assentingly; the assurance had his most sincere
conviction.

“It would seem, my Lord, that I must--whether I will or no--stand for
this borough, here; there is no alternative, for you are aware that
Cashel is quite unfit for public business. Each day he exhibits more and
more of those qualities which bespeak far more goodness of heart than
intellectual training or culture. His waywardness and eccentricity might
seriously damage his own party,--could he even be taught that he had
one,--and become terrible weapons in the hands of the enemy. I was
speaking of Cashel, my Lord,” said Linton, as it were answering the look
of inquiry in the old man's face.

“I hate him, sir,” said the old peer, with a bitterness of voice and
look that well suited the words.

“I really cannot wonder at it,” said Linton, with a deep sigh; “such
duplicity is too shocking--far too shocking--to contemplate.”

“Eh! what? What did you say, sir?” cried the old man, impatiently.

“I was remarking, my Lord, that I have no confidence in his sincerity;
that he strikes me as capable of playing a double part.”

A look of disappointment succeeded to the excited expression of the
old man's face; he had evidently expected some revelation, and now his
features became clouded and gloomy.

“We may be unjust, my Lord,” said Linton; “it may be a prejudice on our
part: others would seem to have a different estimate of that gentleman.
Meek thinks highly of him.”

“Who, sir? I didn't hear you,” asked he, snappishly.

“Meek,--Downie Meek, my Lord.”

“Pshaw!” said the old man, with a shrewd twinkle of the eye that made
Linton fear the mind behind it was clearer than he suspected.

“I know, my Lord,” said he, hastily, “that you always held the worthy
secretary cheap; but you weighed him in a balance too nice for the
majority of people--”

“What does that old woman say? Tell me _her_ opinion of Cashel,” said
Lord Kilgoff, rallying into something like his accustomed manner. “You
know whom I mean!” cried he, impatient at Linton's delay in answering.
“The old woman one sees everywhere,--she married that Scotch sergeant--”

“Lady Janet MacFarline--”

“Exactly, sir.”

“She thinks precisely with your Lordship.”

“I'm sure of it; I told my Lady so,” muttered he to himself.

Linton caught the words with eagerness, and his dark eyes kindled; for
at last were they nearing the territory he wanted to occupy.

“Lady Kilgoff,” said he, slowly, “does not need any aid to appreciate
him; she reads him thoroughly, the heartless, selfish, unprincipled
spendthrift that he is.”

“She does not, sir,” rejoined the old man, with a loud voice, and a
stroke of his cane upon the floor that echoed through the room; “you
never were more mistaken in your life. His insufferable puppyism, his
reckless effrontery, his underbred familiarity, are precisely the very
qualities she is pleased with,--'They are so different,' as she says,
'from the tiresome routine of fashionable manners.'”

“Unquestionably they are, my Lord,” said Linton, with a smile.

“Exactly, sir; they differ as do her Ladyship's own habits from those of
every lady in the peerage. I told her so; I begged to set her right on
that subject, at least.”

“Your Lordship's refinement is a most severe standard,” said Linton,
bowing low.

“It should be an example, sir, as well as a chastisement. Indeed, I
believe few would have failed to profit by it.” The air of insolent
pride in which he spoke seemed for an instant to have brought back the
wonted look to his features, and he sat up, with his lips compressed,
and his chin pro-traded, as in his days of yore.

“I would entreat your Lordship to remember,” said Linton, “how few have
studied in the same school you have; how few have enjoyed the intimacy
of 'the most perfect gentleman of all Europe;' and of that small circle,
who is there could have derived the same advantage from the privilege?”

“Your remark is very Just, sir. I owe much--very much--to his Royal
Highness.”

The tone of humility in which he said this was a high treat to the
sardonic spirit of his listener.

“And what a penance to you must be a visit in such a house as this!”
 said Linton, with a sigh.

“True, sir; but who induced me to make it? Answer me that.”

Linton started with amazement, for he was very far from supposing
that his Lordship's memory was clear enough to retain the events of an
interview that occurred some months before.

“I never anticipated that it would cost you so dearly, my Lord,” said
he, cautiously, and prepared to give his words any turn events might
warrant. For once, however, the ingenuity was wasted; Lord Kilgoff,
wearied and exhausted by the increased effort of his intellect, had
fallen back in his chair, and, with drooping lips and fallen jaw, sat
the very picture of helpless fatuity.

“So, then,” said Linton, as on tiptoe he stole noiselessly away, “if
your memory was inopportune, it was, at least, very short-lived. And
now, adieu, my Lord, till we want you for another act of the drama.”




CHAPTER IV. MORE KENNYFECK INTRIGUING

     We 'll have you at our merry-making, too.

     Honeymoon.


If we should appear, of late, to have forgotten some of those friends
with whom we first made our readers acquainted in this veracious
history, we beg to plead against any charge of caprice or neglect. The
cause is simply this: a story, like a stream, has one main current; and
he who would follow the broad river must eschew being led away by
every rivulet which may separate from the great flood to follow its own
vagrant fancy elsewhere. Now, the Kennyfecks had been meandering after
this fashion for some time back. The elder had commenced a very vigorous
flirtation with the dashing Captain Jennings, while the younger sister
was coyly dallying under the attentions of his brother hussar,--less,
be it remembered, with any direct intention of surrender, than with the
faint hope that Cashel, perceiving the siege, should think fit to rescue
the fortress; “Aunt Fanny” hovering near, as “an army of observation,”
 and ready, like the Prussians in the last war, to take part with the
victorious side, whichever that might be.

And now, we ask in shame and sorrow, is it not humiliating to think,
that of a party of some thirty or more, met together to enjoy in
careless freedom the hospitality of a country house, all should have
been animated with the same spirit of intrigue,--each bent on his
own deep game, and, in some one guise or other of deceitfulness, each
following out some scheme of selfish advantage?

Some may say these things are forced and unnatural; that pleasure
proclaims a truce in the great war of life, where combatants lay down
their weapons, and mix like friends and allies. We fear this is not
the case; our own brief experiences would certainly tend to a different
conclusion. Less a player than a looker-on in the great game, we have
seen, through all the excitements of dissipation, all the fascinating
pleasures of the most brilliant circles, the steady onward pursuit of
self-interest; and, instead of the occasions of social enjoyment being
like the palm-shaded wells in the desert, where men meet to taste the
peacefulness of perfect rest, they are rather the arena where, in all
the glitter of the most splendid armor, the combatants have come to
tilt, with more than life upon the issue.

For this, the beauty wreathes herself in all the winning smiles of
loveliness; for this, the courtier puts forth his most captivating
address and his most seductive manner; for this, the wit sharpens the
keen edge of his fancy, and the statesman matures the deep resolve of
his judgment. The diamond coronets that deck the hair and add lustre
to the eyes; the war-won medals that glitter on the coat of some
hardy veteran; the proud insignia of merit that a sovereign's favor
grants,--all are worn to this end! Each brings to the game whatever he
may possess of superiority, for the contest is ever a severe one.

And now to go back to our company. From Lady Janet, intent upon
everything which might minister to her own comfort or mortify her
neighbor, to the smooth and soft-voiced Downie Meek,--with the kindest
of wishes and the coldest of hearts,--they were, we grieve to own
it, far more imposing to look at, full dressed at dinner, than to
investigate by the searching anatomy that discloses the vices and
foibles of humanity; and it is, therefore, with less regret we turn from
the great house, in all the pomp of its splendor, to the humble cottage
where Mr. Corrigan dwelt with his granddaughter.

In wide contrast to the magnificence and profusion of the costly
household, where each seemed bent on giving way to every caprice that
extravagance could suggest, was the simple quietude of that unpretending
family. The efforts by which Corrigan had overcome his difficulties not
only cost him all the little capital he possessed in the world, but
had also necessitated a mode of living more restricted than he had ever
known before. The little luxuries that his station, as well as his age
and long use, had made necessaries, the refinements that adorn even the
very simplest lives, had all to be, one by one, surrendered. Some of
these he gave up manfully, others cost him deeply; and when the day came
that he had to take leave of his old gray pony, the faithful companion
of so many a lonely ramble, the creature he had reared and petted like a
dog, the struggle was almost too much for him.

[Illustration: 050]

He walked along beside the man who led the beast to the gate, telling
him to be sure and seek out some one who would treat her kindly. “Some
there are would do so for my sake; but she deserves it better for her
own.--Yes, Nora, I 'm speaking of you,” said he, caressing her, as
she laid her nose over his arm. “I'm sure I never thought we'd have to
part.”

“She's good as goold this minit,” said the man; “an' it'll go hard but
'll get six pounds for her, any way.”

“Tell whoever buys her that Mr. Corrigan will give him a crown-piece
every Christmas-day that he sees her looking well and in good heart. To
be sure, it's no great bribe, we're both so old,” said he, smiling; “but
my blessing goes with the man that's a friend to her.” He sat down as
he said this, and held his hand over his face till she was gone. “God
forgive me, if I set my heart too much on such things, but it's like
parting with an old friend. Poor Mary's harp must go next. But here
comes Tiernay. Well, doctor, what news?”

The doctor shook his head twice or thrice despondingly, but said
nothing; at last, he muttered, in a grumbling voice,--

“I was twice at the Hall, but there's no seeing Cashel himself; an
insolent puppy of a valet turned away contemptuously as I asked for him,
and said,--

“Mr. Linton, perhaps, might hear what you have to say.'”

“Is Kennyfeck to be found?”

“Yes, I saw him for a few minutes; but he's like the rest of them. The
old fool fancies he 's a man of fashion here, and told me he had left
'the attorney' behind, in Merrion Square. He half confessed to me,
however, what I feared. Cashel has either given a promise to give this
farm of yours to Linton--”

“Well, the new landlord will not be less kind than the old one.”

“You think so,” said Tiernay, sternly. “Is your knowledge of life no
better than this? Have you lived till now without being able to read
that man? Come, come, Corrigan, don't treat this as a prejudice of mine;
I have watched him closely, and he sees it. I tell you again, the fellow
is a villain.”

“Ay, ay,” said Corrigan, laughing; “your doctor's craft has made you
always on the look-out for some hidden mischief.”

“My doctor's craft has taught me to know that symptoms are never without
a meaning. But enough of him. The question is simply this: we have,
then, merely to propose to Cashel the purchase of your interest in the
cottage, on which you will cede the possession.”

“Yes; and give up, besides, all claim at law; for you know we are
supported by the highest opinions.”

“Pooh! nonsense, man; don't embarrass the case by a pretension they
're sure to sneer at. The cottage and the little fields behind it are
tangible and palpable; don't weaken your case by a plea you could not
press.”

“Have your own way, then,” said the old man, mildly.

“It is an annuity, you say, you 'd wish?”

“On Mary's life, not on mine, doctor.”

“It will be a poor thing,” said Tiernay, with a sigh.

“They say we could live in some of the towns in Flanders very cheaply,”
 said Corrigan, cheerfully.

“You don't know how to live cheaply,” rejoined Tiernay, crankily. “You
think, if you don't see a man in black behind your chair, and that you
eat off delf instead of silver, that you are a miracle of simplicity. I
saw you last Sunday put by the decanter with half a glass of sherry at
the bottom of it, and you were as proud of your thrift as if you had
reformed your whole household.”

“Everything is not learned in a moment, Tiernay,” said Corrigan, mildly.

“You are too old to begin, Con Corrigan,” said the other, gravely. “Such
men as you, who have not been educated to narrow fortunes, never learn
thrift; they can endure great privations well enough, but it is the
little, petty, dropping ones that break down the spirit,--these they
cannot meet.”

“A good conscience and a strong will can do a great deal, Tiernay. One
thing is certain,--that we shall escape persecution from _him_. _He_
will scarcely discover us in our humble retreat.”

“I've thought of that too,” said Tiernay; “it is the greatest advantage
the plan possesses. Now, the next point is, how to see this same Cashel;
from all that I can learn, his life is one of dissipation from morning
till night. Those fashionable sharpers by whom he is surrounded are
making him pay dearly for his admission into the honorable guild.”

“The greater the pity,” sighed Corrigan; “he appeared to me deserving of
a different fate. An easy, complying temper--”

“The devil a worse fault I 'd with my enemy,” broke in Tiernay,
passionately. “A field without a fence,--a house without a door to it!
And there, if I am not mistaken, I hear his voice; yes, he 's coming
along the path, and some one with him too.”

“I 'll leave you to talk to him, Tiernay, for you seem in 'the vein.'”
 And with these words the old man turned into a by-path, just as Cashel,
with Lady Kilgoff on his arm, advanced up the avenue.

Nothing is more remarkable than the unconscious homage tendered to
female beauty and elegance by men whose mould of mind, as well as habit,
would seem to render them insensible to such fascinations, nor is their
instinctive admiration a tribute which beauty ever despises.

The change which came over the rough doctor's expression as the
party came nearer exemplified this truth strongly. The look of stern
determination with which he was preparing to meet Cashel changed to one
of astonishment, and, at last, to undisguised admiration, as he surveyed
the graceful mien and brilliant beauty before him. They had left the
phaeton at the little wicket, and the exercise on foot had slightly
colored her cheek, and added animation to her features,--the only aid
necessary to make her loveliness perfect.

“I have taken a great liberty with my neighbor, Doctor Tiernay,” said
Cashel, as he came near. “Let me present you, however, first,--Doctor
Tiernay, Lady Kilgoff. I had been telling her Ladyship that the only
picturesque portion of this country lies within this holly enclosure,
and is the property of my friend Mr. Corrigan, who, although he will
not visit me, will not, I 'm sure, deny me the pleasure of showing his
tasteful grounds to my friends.”

“My old friend would be but too proud of such a visitor,” said Tiernay,
bowing low to Lady Kilgoff.

“Mr. Cashel has not confessed all our object, Mr. Tiernay,” said she,
assuming her most gracious manner. “Our visit has in prospect the hope
of making Miss Leicester's acquaintance; as I know you are the intimate
friend of the family, will you kindly say if this be a suitable
hour, or, indeed, if our presence here at all would not be deemed an
intrusion?”

The doctor colored deeply, and his eye sparkled with pleasure; for
strange enough as it may appear, while sneering at the dissipations of
the great house, he felt a degree of indignant anger at the thought
of Mary sitting alone and neglected, with gayeties around her on every
side.

“It was a most thoughtful kindness of your Ladyship,” replied he, “for
my friend is too old and too infirm to seek society; and so the poor
child has no other companionship than two old men, only fit to weary
each other.”

“You make me hope that our mission will succeed, sir,” said Lady
Kilgoff, still employing her most fascinating look and voice; “we may
reckon you as an ally, I trust.”

“I am your Ladyship's most devoted,” said the old man, courteously; “how
can I be of service?”

“Our object is to induce Miss Leicester to pass some days with us,”
 said she. “We are plotting various amusements that might interest
her,--private theatricals among the rest.”

“Here she comes, my Lady,” said Tiernay, with animation; “I am proud to
be the means of introducing her.”

Just at this instant Mary Leicester had caught sight of the party,
and, uncertain whether to advance or retire, was standing for a moment
undecided, when Tiernay called out:

“Stay a minute, Miss Mary; Lady Kilgoff is anxious to make your
acquaintance.”

“This is a very informal mode of opening an intimacy, Miss Leicester,”
 said Lady Kilgoff; “pray let it have the merit of sincerity, for I have
long desired to know one of whom I have heard so much.”

Mary replied courteously to the speech, and looked pleasedly towards
Cashel, to whom she justly attributed the compliment insinuated.

As the two ladies moved on side by side, engaged in conversation,
Tiernay slackened his pace slightly, and, in a voice of low but earnest
import, said,--

“Will Mr. Cashel consider it an intrusion if I take this opportunity of
speaking to him on a matter of business?”

“Not in the least, doctor,” said Cashel, gayly; “but it's right I should
mention that I am most lamentably ignorant of everything that deserves
that name. My agent has always saved me from the confession, but the
truth will out at last.”

“So much the worse, sir,--for others as well as for yourself,” replied
Tiernay, bluntly. “The trust a large fortune imposes--But I shall forget
myself if I touch on such a theme. My business is this, sir,--and, in
mercy to you, I 'll make it very brief. My old friend, Mr. Corrigan,
deems it expedient to leave this country, and, in consequence,
to dispose of the interest he possesses in these grounds, so long
embellished by his taste and culture. He is well aware that much of what
he has expended here has not added substantial value to the property;
that, purely ornamental, it has, in great part, repaid himself by
the many years of enjoyment it has afforded him. Still, he hopes, or,
rather, I do for him,--for, to speak candidly, sir, _he_ has neither
courage nor hardihood for these kind of transactions,--I hope, sir, that
you, desirous of uniting this farm to the large demesne, as I understand
to be the case, will not deem this an unfitting occasion to treat
liberally with one whose position is no longer what it once was. I must
take care, Mr. Cashel, that I say nothing which looks like solicitation
here; the confidence my friend has placed in me would be ill requited by
such an error.”

“Is there no means of securing Mr. Corrigan's residence here?” said
Cashel. “Can I not accommodate his wishes in some other way, and which
should not deprive me of a neighbor I prize so highly?”

“I fear not. The circumstances which induce him to go abroad are
imperative.”

“Would it not be better to reflect on this?” said Cashel. “I do not seek
to pry into concerns which are not mine, but I would earnestly ask if
some other arrangement be not possible?”

Tiernay shook his head dubiously.

“If this be so, then I can oppose no longer. It only remains for Mr.
Corrigan to put his own value on the property, and I accept it.”

“Nay, sir; this generosity will but raise new difficulties. You are
about to deal with a man as high-hearted as yourself, and with the
punctilious delicacy that a narrow fortune suggests, besides.”

“Do you, then, doctor, who know both of us, be arbitrator. Let it not
be a thing for parchments and lawyers' clerks; let it be an honorable
understanding between two gentlemen, and so, no more of it.”

“If the world were made up of men like yourself and my old friend,
this would be, doubtless, the readiest and the best solution of the
difficulty,” said Tiernay; “but what would be said if we consented to
such an arrangement? What would not be said? Ay, faith, there's not a
scandalous rumor that malice could forge would not be rife upon us.”

“And do you think such calumnies have any terror for _me?_” cried
Cashel.

“When you've lived to _my_ age, sir, you'll reason differently.”

“It shall be all as you wish, then,” said Cashel. “But stay!” cried he,
after a moment's thought; “there is a difficulty I had almost forgotten.
I must look that it may not interfere with our plans. When can I see you
again? Would it suit you to come and breakfast with me tomorrow? I 'll
have my man of business, and we 'll arrange everything.”

“Agreed, sir; I'll not fail. I like your promptitude. A favor is a
double benefit when speedily granted.”

“Now I shall ask one from you, doctor. If I can persuade my kind friends
here to visit us, will you too be of the party sometimes?”

“Not a bit of it. Why should I, sir, expose you to the insolent
criticism my unpolished manners and rude address would bring upon
you--or myself to the disdain that fashionable folk would show me? I
am proud--too proud, perhaps--at the confidence you would repose in
my honor; I don't wish to blush for my breeding by way of recompense.
There, sir,--there is one yonder in every way worthy all the distinction
rank and wealth can give her. I feel happy to think that she is to
move amongst those who, if they cannot prize her worth, will at least
appreciate her fascinations.”

“Will Mr. Corrigan consent?”

“He must,--he shall,” broke in Tiernay; “I'll insist upon it But come
along with me into the cottage, while the ladies are cementing their
acquaintance; we'll see him, and talk him over.”

So saying, he led Cashel into the little library, where, deep sunk in
his thoughts, the old man was seated, with an open book before him, but
of which he had not read a line.

“Con!” cried Tiernay, “Mr. Cashel has come to bring you and Miss Mary
up to the Hall to dinner. There, sir, look at the face he puts on,--an
excuse in every wrinkle of it!”

“But, my dear friend--my worthy doctor--you know perfectly---”

“I 'll know perfectly that you must go,--no help for it I have told Mr.
Cashel that you 'd make fifty apologies--pretend age--Ill-health--want
of habit, and so on; the valid reason being that you think his company a
set of raffs, and--”

“Oh, Tiernay, I beg you 'll not ascribe such sentiments to _me_.”

“Well, I thought so myself, t' other day,--ay, half-an-hour ago; but
there is a lady yonder, walking up and down the grass-plot, has made me
change my mind. Come out and see her, man, and then say as many 'No's'
as you please.” And, half-dragging, half-leading the old man out,
Tiernay went on:--

“You 'll see, Mr. Cashel, how polite he 'll grow when he sees the bright
eyes and the fair cheek. You 'll not hear of any more refusals then, I
promise you.”

Meanwhile, so far had Lady Kilgoff advanced in the favorable opinion
of Miss Leicester that the young girl was already eager to accept the
proffered invitation. Old Mr. Corrigan, however, could not be induced
to leave his home, and so it was arranged that Lady Kilgoff should drive
over on the following day to fetch her; with which understanding they
parted, each looking forward with pleasure to their next meeting.




CHAPTER V. LINTON'S MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

     “Gone! and in secret, too!”


Amid all the plans for pleasure which engaged the attention of the great
house, two subjects now divided the interest between them. One was the
expected arrival of the beautiful Miss Leicester,--“Mr. Cashel's babe in
the wood,” as-Lady Janet called her,--the other, the reading of a little
one-act piece which Mr. Linton had written for the company. Although
both were, in their several ways, “events,” the degree of interest they
excited was very disproportioned to their intrinsic consequence, and can
only be explained by dwelling on the various intrigues and schemes by
which that little world was agitated.

Lady Janet, whose natural spitefulness was a most catholic feeling,
began to fear that Lady Kilgoff had acquired such an influence over
Cashel that she could mould him to any course she pleased,--even a
marriage. She suspected, therefore, that this rustic beauty had been
selected by her Ladyship as one very unlikely to compete with herself
in Roland's regard, and that she was thus securing a lasting ascendancy
over him.

Mrs. Leicester White, who saw, or believed she saw, herself neglected by
Roland, took an indignant view of the matter, and threw out dubious and
shadowy suspicions about “who this young lady might be, who seemed so
opportunely to have sprung up in the neighborhood,” and expressed, in
confidence, her great surprise “how Lady Kilgoff could lend herself to
such an arrangement.”

Mrs. Kennyfeck was outraged at the entrance of a new competitor into the
field, where her daughter was no longer a “favorite.” In fact, the new
visitor's arrival was heralded by no signs of welcome, save from the
young men of the party, who naturally were pleased to hear that a very
handsome and attractive girl was expected.

As for Aunt Fanny, her indignation knew no bounds; indeed, ever since
she had set foot in the house her state had been one little short of
insanity. In her own very graphic phrase, “She was fit to be tied at all
she saw.” Now, when an elderly maiden lady thus comprehensively sums up
the cause of her anger, without descending to “a bill of particulars,”
 the chances are that some personal wrong--real or imaginary--is more in
fault than anything reprehensible in the case she is so severe upon.
So was it here. Aunt Fanny literally saw nothing, although she heard a
great deal. Daily, hourly, were the accusations of the whole Kennyfeck
family directed against her for the loss of Cashel. But for her, and her
absurd credulity on the statement of an anonymous letter, and there had
been no yacht voyage with Lady Kilgoff--no shipwreck--no life in a cabin
on the coast--no----In a word, all these events had either not happened
at all, or only occurred with Livy Kennyfeck for their heroine.

Roland's cold, almost distant politeness to the young ladies, was marked
enough to appear intentional; nor could all the little by-play
of flirtation with others excite in him the slightest evidence of
displeasure. If the family were outraged at this change, poor Livy
herself bore up admirably; and while playing a hundred little attractive
devices for Cashel, succeeded in making a very deep impression on the
well-whiskered Sir Harvey Upton, of the--th. Indeed, as Linton, who
saw everything, shrewdly remarked, “She may not pocket the ball she
intended, but, rely on't, she 'll make a 'hazard' somewhere.”

Of all that great company, but one alone found no place in her heart
for some secret wile; this was Miss Meek, who, sadly disappointed at
the little influence of her royalty, had ceased to care much for in-door
affairs, and spent her mornings “schooling” with Charley, and her
evenings listening to sporting talk whenever two or three “fast men” got
together in the drawing-room.

The evening that preceded Miss Leicester's intended arrival had been
fixed for the reading of Mr. Linton's comedy,--a little dramatic piece,
which, whether he had stolen wholesale from the French, or only borrowed
in part, none knew; but various were the rumors that it would turn out
to be a very satirical composition, with allusions to many of those who
were to sit in judgment over it. How this supposition originated, or
with whom, there is no saying, nor if well-founded in any respect, for
Linton had never shown his sketch to any one, nor alluded to it, save in
the most vague manner.

Each, however, looked to see his neighbor “shown up;” and while one
said, “What a character could be made of old Sir Andrew, with his
vulgarity, his deafness, and his gluttony!” another thought that Downie
Meek, in his oily smoothness, his sighings, and his “dear me's,” would
be admirable,--all the ladies averring that Lady Kilgoff would be a
perfect embodiment of Lady Teazle as Sir Peter suspected and Joseph
intended her to be.

Fears for individual safety were merged in hopes of seeing others
assailed, and it was in something like a flutter of expectancy that
the party assembled in the drawing-room before dinner. Great was their
surprise to find that Mr. Linton did not make his appearance. The dinner
was announced, but he never came, and his place vacant at the foot of
the table was the continual suggester of every possible reason for
his absence. If Lady Kilgoff could not divest herself of a certain
terror,--vague and meaningless, it is true,--the dread she felt
proceeded from knowing him to be one whose every act had some deep
purpose; while others were then canvassing his absence in easy freedom,
she took the first opportunity of asking Cashel whether he were in the
secret, or if it were really true that Linton had not communicated, even
with him, about his departure.

“I am no better informed than my friends here,” said Roland; “and, to
say truth, I have given little thought about the matter. We have not,
as you are aware, of late seen so much of each other as we used once; he
has himself rather drawn off me, and I have left the interval between us
to widen, without much regret.”

“Remember, however, what I told you: he can be a terrible enemy.”

Cashel smiled calmly as he said, “I have consorted with men whose
vengeance never took longer to acquit than the time occupied in drawing
a knife from the sleeve or a pistol from the girdle. I care very little
for him whose weapon is mere subtlety.”

“It is this over-confidence makes me fear for you,” said she, anxiously;
“for, I say again, you do not know him.”

“I wish I never had,” said Cashel, with an earnestness of voice and
accent. “He has involved me in a hundred pursuits for which I feel
neither taste nor enjoyment. To him I owe it that pleasure is always
associated in my mind with mere debauch; and the only generosity he has
taught me has been the spendthrift waste of the gaming-table.”

“Could you not find out something of him,--when he went, and in what
direction?” said she, anxiously. “I cannot tell you why, but my heart
misgives me about his departure.”

More in compliance with her scruples than that he deemed the matter
worth a thought, Cashel left the room to make inquiries from the
servants; but all he could learn was, that Mr. Linton arose before
daybreak and left the house on foot, his own servant not knowing in what
direction, nor having heard anything of his master's previous intention.

His intimacy with the family at the cottage left it possible that they
might know something of his movements and Cashel accordingly despatched
a messenger thither to ask; but with the same fruitless result as every
previous inquiry.

While Cashel was following up this search with a degree of interest that
increased as the difficulty augmented, he little knew how watchfully his
every word and gesture was noted down by one who stood at his side.
This was Mr. Phillis, who, while seeming to participate in his master's
astonishment, threw out from time to time certain strange, vague hints,
less suggestive of his own opinions than as baits to attract those of
his master.

“Very odd, indeed, sir,--very strange; so regular a gentleman,
too,--always rising at the same hour. His man says, he 's like the
clock. To be sure,” added he, after a pause, “his manner is changed of
late.”

“How do you mean?” asked Cashel, hurriedly.

“He seems anxious, sir,--uneasy, as one might say.”

“I have not perceived it.”

“His man says--”

“What care I for that?” said Cashel, impatiently. “It is not to pry
into Mr. Linton's habits that I am here, it is to assure myself that
no accident has happened to him, and that if he stand in need of my
assistance, I shall not be neglecting him. Tell two of the grooms to
take horses and ride down to Killaloe and Dunkeeran, and ask at the inns
there if he has been seen. Let them make inquiry, too, along the road.”
 With these directions, hastily given, he returned to the drawing-room,
his mind far more interested in the event than he knew how to account
for.

“No tidings of Tom?” said Lord Charles Frobisher, lounging carelessly in
a well-cushioned chair.

Cashel made a sign in the negative.

“Well, it's always a satisfaction to his friends to know that he 'll not
come to harm,” said he, with an ambiguous smile.

“The country is much disturbed at this moment,” said the Chief Justice;
“the calendar was a very heavy one last assize. I trust no marauding
party may have laid hold of him.”

“Ah, yes, that would be very sad indeed,” sighed Meek; “mistaking him
for a spy.”

“No great blunder, after all,” said Lady Janet, almost loud enough for
other ears than her next neighbor's.

“If the night were moonlight,” said Miss Meek, as she opened a shutter
and peeped out into the darkness, “I 'd say he was trying those fences
we have laid out for the hurdle-race.”

“By Jove, Jim, that is a shrewd thought!” said Lord Charles, forgetting
that he was addressing her by a familiar sobriquet he never used before
company.

“You have a bet with him, Charley?” said Upton.

“Yes, we have all manner of bets on the race, and I 'll have one with
you, if you like it,--an even fifty that Tom turns up 'all right and no
accident,' after this bolt.”

“Ah, my Lord, you 're in the secret, then!” said Aunt Fanny, whose
experiences of sporting transactions, derived from “the West,” induced
her to suspect that a wager contained a trap-fall.

A very cool stare was the only acknowledgment he deigned to return to
this speech, while Mrs. Kennyfeck looked unutterable reproaches at her
unhappy relative.

“I call the present company to witness,” said Sir Harvey Upton, “that
if Tom has to come to an untimely end, he has bequeathed to me his brown
cob pony, Batter.”

“I protest against the gift,” said Miss Kennyfeck; “Mr. Linton told me,
if he were killed in the steeplechase on Tuesday next, I should have
Batter.”

“That was a special reservation, Miss Kennyfeck,” said the Chief
Justice; “so that if his death did not occur in the manner specified,
the deed or gift became null and void.”

“I only know,” said Miss Meek, “that Mr. Linton said, as we came back
from the hurdle-field,--'Remember, Batter is yours if--if--'” She
hesitated and grew red, and then stopped speaking, in evident shame and
confusion.

“If what? Tell us the condition; you are bound to be candid,” said
several voices together.

“I'll tell _you_ but I'll not tell any one else,” said the young girl,
turning to Lady Kilgoff; and at the same instant she whispered in her
ear, “if I were to be married to Mr. Cashel.”

“Well,” said her Ladyship, laughing, “and was the bribe sufficient?”

“I should think not!” replied she, with a scornful toss of the head, as
she walked back to her seat.

“I winna say,” said Sir Andrew, “but I ha' a bit claim mysel to that
bonnie snuff-box he ca'd a Louis-Quatorze; if ye mind, leddies, I
asked him to mak' me a present o' it, and he replied, 'In my weell, Sir
Andrew; I'll leave it ye in my weell.'”

“I foresee there will be abundance of litigation,” said the Chief
Justice, “for the claims are both numerous and conflicting.”

“You 'll not be troubled with the next of kin, I believe,” said Lady
Janet, in her most spiteful of voices.

“I say, my Lord Chief Justice,” said Frobisher, “let me have a
travelling opinion from you, on a legal point. Wouldn't Linton's heirs,
or representatives, or whatever they 're called, be bound to 'book up'
if Ramekin is beaten in the handicap?”

“The law expressly declares such transactions without its pale, my
Lord,” said the judge, rebukingly.

“Well, I can only say,” interrupted Upton, “that when we were in
cantonments at Sickmabund, Jack Faris 'of ours' had a heavy stake in
a game of piquet with the major, and just as he was going to count his
point, he gave a tremendous yell, and jumped up from the table. It was a
cobra capella had bitten him in the calf of the leg. Everything was done
for him at once, but all in vain; he swelled up to the size of four, and
died in about two hours. It was rather hard on old Cox, the major,
who had two hundred pounds on it, and a capital hand; and so he made
a representation to the mess, showing that he had seven cards to his
point, with a quint in hearts; that, taking in the ace of clubs, he
should count a quatorze, and, therefore, unquestionably win the game.
The thing was clear as day, and so they awarded him the stakes. Cox
behaved very handsomely, too; for he said, 'If Faris's widow likes to
play the game out, I 'll give her the opportunity when we get back to
England, and back myself, two to one.'”

“The Chevalier Bayard himself could not have done more,” said Miss
Kennyfeck, with admirable gravity.

“I must say,” resumed the dragoon, “we thought it handsome, for old Cox
was always hard up for money.”

“And what is to become of our theatricals, if Mr. Linton should have
been so ill-natured as to drown himself?” said Mrs. White, in a most
disconsolate tone; for she had already made terrible havoc in her
wardrobe to accomplish a Turkish costume.

“Such a disappointment as it will be,” sighed Olivia Kennyfeck, who
had speculated on a last effort upon Cashel in a Mexican dress, where,
certes, superfluity should not be the fault.

“You can always make some compensation for the disappointment,” said
Lady Kilgoff, “by a fancy ball.”

“Oh, delightful! the very thing!” exclaimed several together. “When
shall it be, Mr. Cashel?”

“I am entirely at your orders,” said he, bowing courteously.

“Shall we say Tuesday, then?”

“Not Tuesday; we have the race on that morning,” said Frobisher; “and
some of us, at least, will be too tired for a ball afterwards.”

“Well, Wednesday,--is Wednesday open?”

“Wednesday was fixed for a boat excursion to Holy Island,” said Cashel.

“You can't have Thursday, then,” exclaimed Lady Janet; “that is the only
evening we ever have our rubber. I'll not give you Thursday.”

“Friday we are to have some people at dinner,” said Cashel; “and
Saturday was to have been some piece of electioneering festivity for
Linton's constituents.”

“What matter now?” said Mrs. White; “perhaps the poor dear man is in
a better place. A very sad thought,” sighed she; “but such things are
happening every day.”

“Ah, yes, very sad,” responded Meek, who never failed to perform echo to
any one's lamentation.

“Ah, indeed!” chimed in Aunt Fanny, “cut off like a daisy.” And she
wiped her eyes and looked solemn, for she believed she was quoting
Scripture.

At last it was decided that the ball should come off on the earliest
evening possible, irrespective of all other arrangements; and now the
company formed in a great circle, discussing dresses and characters and
costumes with an eager interest that showed how little Linton's fate had
thrown a shadow over the bright picture of anticipated pleasure.




CHAPTER VI. THE SEASON OF LINTON'S FLITTING

     He could outrogue a lawyer.

     Oldham.


Revealing so freely as we do the hidden wiles of our characters for
the reader's pleasure, it would ill become us to affect any reserve
or mystery regarding their actions. We shall not make, therefore, any
secret of Mr. Linton's absence, nor ask of our patient reader to partake
of the mystification that prevailed among the company at Tubbermore.

It so chanced, that on the evening preceding his departure he saw in
a newspaper paragraph the arrival of a very distinguished lawyer at
Limerick on his way to Dublin, and the thought at once occurred to
him, that the opportunity was most favorable for obtaining an opinion
respecting the “Corrigan Pardon,” without incurring either suspicion or
any lengthened absence.

Another object, inferior, but not devoid of interest, also suggested
itself. It was this: profiting by a secret passage which led from
the theatre to Cashel's bedroom, it was Linton's custom to visit this
chamber every day, ransacking the letters and papers which, in his
careless indolence, Roland left loose upon the tables, and thus
possessing himself of the minutest knowledge of Cashel's affairs. In his
very last visit to this room, he perceived a cumbrous document, of
which the seal of the envelope was broken, but apparently the contents
unlooked at. It was enough that he read the indorsement, “Deed of
conveyance of the Cottage and Lands of Tubber-beg.”

Feeling how far he himself was interested in the paper, and well knowing
the forgetful habits of Cashel, who would never detect its removal, he
coolly folded it up and carried it away.

At first, his intention was simply to peruse the paper at his ease, and,
if need were, to show it in confidence to Cor-rigan, and thus establish
for himself that degree of influence over the old man which the
character of his landlord might convey. But another and a bolder
expedient soon suggested itself to his mind--nor was he one to shrink
from an enterprise merely on account of its hazard--and this was no
less than to forge Cashel's signature to the deed; for, as yet, it was
wanting in that most essential particular.

That Roland would never remember anything of the matter, and that he
would always incline to believe his own memory defective, than suppose
such a falsification possible, Linton was well convinced. There was but
one difficulty; how should he manage for the witnesses, whose names were
to be appended as actually present at the moment of signing. Here was a
stumbling-block--since he could scarcely hope to find others as short of
memory as was Roland Cashel. It was while still canvassing the question
in his mind that he came upon the intelligence in the newspaper of the
lawyer's arrival at Limerick, and suddenly it struck him that he
could easily in that city find out two persons, who, for a sufficient
consideration, would append their signatures to the deed. A little
further reflection devised even an easier plan, which was to take along
with him the Italian sailor Giovanni, and make him represent Cashel,
whose appearance was quite unknown. By Giovanni's personation of Roland,
Linton escaped all the hazard of letting others into his confidence,
while the sailor himself, in a few days more, would leave the
country--never to return.

It was with the calm assurance of a man who could put a price upon
any action required of him, that Giovanni found himself, an hour after
midnight, summoned to Linton's dressing-room.

“I told you some time back, Giovanni, that we might be serviceable to
each other. The hour has come a little earlier than I looked for; and
now the question is, are you of the same mind as you then were?”

“I know nothing of the laws of this country, signor, but if there be
life on the issue--”

“No, no, nothing like that, my worthy fellow. In the present case, all I
ask for is your silence and your secrecy.”

“Oh, that is easily had--go on, signor.”

“Well, I wish to go over to-morrow by daybreak to Limerick. I desire,
too, that you should accompany me--as my companion, however, and my
equal. We are about the same height and size, so take that suit there,
dress yourself, and wait for me at the cross-roads below the village.”

The Italian took the parcel without speaking, and was about to retire,
when Linton said,--

“You can write, I suppose?”

The other nodded.

“I shall want you to sign a document in presence of witnesses--not your
own name, but another, which I'll tell you.”

The Italian's dark eyes flashed with a keen and subtle meaning, and
leaning forward, he said in a low, distinct tone,--

“His Excellency means that I should forge a name?”

“It is scarcely deserving so grave a phrase,” replied Linton, affecting
an easy smile; “but what I ask amounts pretty much to that. Have you
scruples about it?”

“My scruples are not easily alarmed, signor; only let us understand
each other. I'll do _anything_”--and he laid a deep emphasis on the
word--“when I see my way clear before me, nothing when I am blindfolded.”

“A man after my own heart!” cried Linton; “and now, good-night. Be true
to the time and place.” And with this they parted.

The gray mist of a winter morning was just clearing away as Linton,
accompanied by Giovanni, drove up to the principal hotel of Limerick,
where Mr. Hammond, the eminent barrister, was then stopping. Having
ascertained that he was still in the house, Linton at once sent up
his name, with a request to be admitted to an interview with him. The
position he had so long enjoyed among the officials of the Viceroy had
made Linton a person of considerable importance in a city where the
“plated article” so often passes for silver: and no sooner had the
lawyer read the name, than he immediately returned a polite answer,
saying that he was perfectly at Mr. Linton's orders.

The few inquiries which Mr. Linton had meanwhile made at the bar of the
hotel informed him that Mr. Hammond was making all haste to England,
where he was about to appear in a case before the House of Lords; that
horses had been already ordered for him along the whole line of road,
and his presence in London was imperative. Armed with these facts,
Linton entered the room, where, surrounded with deeds, drafts, and acts
of Parliament, the learned counsel was sitting at his breakfast.

“It was but last night late, Mr. Hammond,” said he, advancing with
his very frankest manner, “that we caught sight of your name as having
arrived here, and you see I have lost no time in profiting by the
intelligence. I have come thirty Irish miles this day to catch and carry
you off with me to Mr. Cashel's, at Tubbermore.”

“Most kind, indeed--very flattering--I am really overpowered,” said the
lawyer, actually reddening with pleasure; and he said the exact truth,
he was “overpowered” by a compliment so little expected. For, although
high in his profession, and in considerable repute among his brethren,
he had never been admitted into that peculiar class which calls itself
the first society of the metropolis.

“I assure you,” resumed Linton, “it was by a vote of the whole house I
undertook my mission. The Kilgoffs, the MacFarlines, the Chief Justice,
Meek, and, in fact, all your friends, are there, and we only want _you_
to make the party complete.”

“I cannot express the regret--the very deep regret--I feel at being
obliged to decline such an honor; one which, I am free to confess,
actually takes me by surprise. But, my dear Mr. Linton, you see these
weighty papers--that formidable heap yonder--”

“Meek said so,” said Linton, interrupting, and at the same time assuming
a look of deep despondency. “'Hammond will refuse,' said he. 'There's no
man at the Irish bar has the same amount of business; he cannot give his
friends even one hour from his clients.'”

“I 'm sure I scarcely suspected the Right Honorable Secretary knew of
me,” said Hammond, blushing between pleasure and shame.

“Downie not know of you!--not know Mr. Hammond!--come, come--this may do
for a bit of quiz in those Irish newspapers that are always affecting to
charge English officials with ignorance of the distinguished men here;
but I cannot permit Mr. Hammond himself to throw out the aspersion, nor,
indeed, can I suffer Meek, one of my oldest friends, to lie under the
obloquy. I need not tell one so much more capable of appreciating these
things than myself how every administration comes into office with
a host of followers far more eager for place, and infinitely more
confident of high deservings, than the truly capable men of the party.
These 'locusts' eat up the first harvest, but, happily for humanity,
they rarely live for a second.”

Linton leaned back in his chair, and appeared to be taking counsel with
himself, and at length, as if having formed his resolve, said,--

“Of course frankness with such a man is never a mistaken policy.” And
with this muttered soliloquy again became silent.




CHAPTER VII. FORGERY

     It was not “Flattery,” he sold, but “Hope.”

     Bell.


We left Mr. Linton and Mr. Hammond seated opposite each other, the
former lost in seeming reflection, the latter awaiting with eager
expectancy for something which might explain the few strange words he
had just listened to.

“May I venture on a bit of confidence, Mr. Hammond?” said Linton,
clearing his brow as he spoke; “you'll never betray me?”

“Never--on my honor.”

“Never, willingly, I well know; but I mean, will you strictly keep
what I shall tell you--for yourself alone--because, as I am the only
depositary of the fact, it would be inevitable ruin to me if it got
about?”

“I give you my solemn pledge--I promise.”

“Quite enough--well--” Here he leaned on the other's shoulder, and
putting his lips close to his ear, said: “Malone will retire--Repton
will be chief--and”--here he prodded the listener with his
finger--“Attorney-General.”

“You mean me, sir--do you mean that I am to be Attor--”

“Hush!” said Linton, in a long low note; “do not breathe it, even
in your sleep! If I know these things, it is because I am trusted in
quarters where men of far more influence are hoodwinked. Were I once to
be suspected of even this much, it would be 'up' with me forever.”

“My dear friend--will you pardon me for calling you so?--I 'd suffer
the torture of the rack before I 'd divulge one syllable of it. I own
to you, my family and my friends in general have not been patient under
what they deemed the Government neglect of me.”

“And with too good reason, sir,” said Linton, assuming the look and
air of a moralizer. “And do you know why you have been passed over, Mr.
Hammond? I'll tell you, sir; because your talents were too brilliant,
and your integrity too spotless, for promotion, in times when inferior
capacities and more convenient consciences were easier tools to
handle!--Because you are not a man who, once placed in a conspicuous
position, can be consigned to darkness and neglect when his capabilities
have been proved to the world!--Because your knowledge, sir, your deep
insight into the political condition of this country, would soon have
placed you above the heads of the very men who appointed you. But times
are changed; capable men, zealous men--ay, sir, and I will say, great
men--are in request now. The public _will_ have them, and ministers can
no longer either overlook their claim or ignore their merit. You may
rely upon it; I see something of what goes on behind the scenes of the
great State drama, and be assured that a new era is about to dawn on the
really able men of this country.”

“Your words have given me a degree of encouragement, Mr. Linton, that I
was very far from ever expecting to receive. I have often deplored--not
on my own account, I pledge my honor--but I have grieved for others,
whom I have seen here, unnoticed and undistinguished by successive
Governments.”

“Well, there is an end of the system now, and it was time!” said Linton,
solemnly. “But to come back. Is there no chance of stealing you away,
even for a couple of days?”

“Impossible, my dear Mr. Linton. The voluminous mass of evidence yonder
relates to an appeal case, in which I am to appear before 'the Lords.'
It is a most important suit; and I am at this very moment on my way to
London, to attend a consultation with the Solicitor-General.”

“How unfortunate!--for _us_, I mean--for, indeed, your client cannot
join in the plaint. By the way, your mention of 'the Lords' reminds me
of a very curious circumstance. You are aware of the manner in which my
friend Cashel succeeded to this great estate here?”

“Yes. I was consulted on a point of law in it, and was present at the
two trials.”

“Well, a most singular discovery has been made within the last few days.
I suppose you remember that the property had been part of a confiscated
estate, belonging to an old Irish family, named Corrigan?”

“I remember perfectly,--a very fine old man, that used to be well known
at Daly's Club, long ago.”

“The same. Well, this old gentleman has been always under the impression
that shortly after the accession of George III. the Act of Confiscation
was repealed, and a full pardon granted to his ancestors for the part
they had taken in the events of the time.”

“I never knew the descendants of one of those 'confiscated' families who
had not some such hallucination,” said Hammond, laughing; “they cling to
the straw, like the drowning man.”

“Exactly,” said Linton. “I quite agree with you. In the present case,
however, the support is better than a straw; for there is an actual
_bona fide_ document extant, purporting to be the very pardon in
question, signed by the king, and bearing the royal seal.”

“Where is this? In whose possession?” said Hammond, eagerly.

Linton did not heed the question, but continued,--

“By a very singular coincidence, the discovery is not of so much moment
as it might be; because, as Cashel is about to marry the old man's
granddaughter--his sole heiress--no change in the destination of the
estate would ensue, even supposing Corrigan's title to be all that he
ever conceived it. However, Cashel is really anxious on the point:
he feels scruples about making settlements and so forth, with the
consciousness that he may be actually disposing of what he has no real
claim to. He is a sensitive fellow; and yet he dreads, on the other
side, the kind of exposure that would ensue in the event of this
discovery becoming known. The fact is, his own ancestors were little
better than bailiffs on the estate; and the inference from this
new-found paper would lead one to say, not over-honest stewards
besides.”

“But if this document be authentic, Mr. Linton, Cashel's title is not
worth sixpence.”

“That is exactly what I 'm coming to,” said Linton, who, the reader
may have already perceived, was merely inventing a case regarding a
marriage, the better to learn from the counsel the precise position
the estate would stand in towards Mary Leicester's husband. “If this
document be authentic, Cashel's title is invalid. Now, what would
constitute its authenticity?”

“Several circumstances: the registry of the pardon in the State Paper
Office--the document itself, bearing the unmistakable evidences of its
origin--the signature and seal--in fact, it could not admit of much
doubt when submitted to examination.”

“I told Cashel so,” said Linton. “I said to him, 'My opinion
unquestionably is that the pardon is genuine; but,' said I, 'when we
have Hammond here, he shall see it, and decide the question.'”

“Ah! that is impossible--”

“So I perceive,” broke in Linton; “we then hoped otherwise.”

“Why did n't you bring it over with you?”

“So I did,” said Linton; “here it is.” And opening a carefully folded
envelope, he placed the important document in the lawyer's bands.

Hammond spread it out upon the table, and sat down to read it over
carefully, while Linton, to afford the more time to the scrutiny, took
the opportunity of descending to his breakfast.

He stopped as he passed the bar to say a few words to the landlord,--one
of those easy speeches he knew so well how to make about the “state of
trade,” “what travellers were passing,” and “how the prospect looked
for the coming season,”--and then, when turning away, as if suddenly
recollecting himself, said:--

“By the way, Swindon, you are a cautious fellow, that a man may trust
with a secret--you know who the gentleman is that came with me?”

“No, sir; never saw him before. Indeed, I did not remark him closely.”

“All the better, Swindon. He does not fancy anything like scrutiny. He
is Mr. Roland Cashel.”

“Of Tubbermore, sir?”

“The same. Hush, man,--be cautious! He has come up here about a little
law business on which he desired to consult Mr. Hammond, and now we
have a document for signature, if you could only find us another person
equally discreet with yourself to be the witness, for these kind of
things, when they get about in the world, are misrepresented in a
thousand ways. Do you happen to have any confidential man here would
suit us?”

“If my head waiter, sir, Mr. Nipkin, would do; he writes an excellent
hand, and is a most reserved, cautious young man.”

“Perfectly, Swindon; he'll do perfectly. Will you join us upstairs,
where my friend is in waiting? Pray, also, give Nipkin a hint not to
bestow any undue attention on Mr. Cashel, who wants to be _incog._ so
far as may be; as for yourself, Swindon, no hint is necessary.”

A graceful bow from the landlord acknowledged the compliment, and he
hastened to give the necessary orders, while Linton continued his way to
the apartment where the Italian awaited him.

“Impatient for breakfast, I suppose, Giovanni?” said Linton, gayly, as
he entered. “Well? sit down, and let us begin. Already I have done more
than half the business which brought me here, and we may be on our way
back within an hour.”

Giovanni seated himself at the table without any of that constraint a
sense of inferiority enforces, and began his breakfast in silence.

“You understand,” said Linton, “that when you have written the name
'Roland Cashel,' and are asked if that be your act and deed, you have
simply to say 'Yes;' a bow--a mere nod, indeed--is sufficient.”

“I understand,” said he, thoughtfully, as if reflecting over the matter
with himself. “I conclude, then,” added he, after a pause, “that the
sooner I leave the country afterwards, the better--I mean the safer--for
me.”

“As to any positive danger,” said Linton, affecting an easy
carelessness, “there is none. The document is merely a copy of one
already signed by Mr. Cashel, but which I have mislaid, and I am so
ashamed of my negligence I cannot bring myself to confess it.”

This tame explanation Linton was unable to finish without faltering, for
the Italian's keen and piercing dark eyes seemed to penetrate into him
as he was speaking.

“With this I have nothing to do,” said he, abruptly. “It is quite clear,
however, that Giovanni Santini is not Roland Cashel; nor, if there be a
penalty on what I have done, am I so certain that he whose name I shall
have forged will undergo it in my place.”

“You talk of forgery and penalties as if we were about to commit a
felony,” said Linton, laughing. “Pray give me the cream. There is really
no such peril in the case, and if there were, it would be all mine.”

“I know nothing of your laws here--I desire to know nothing of
them,” said the Italian, haughtily; “but if it should be my lot to be
arraigned, let it be for something more worthy of manhood. I 'll sign
the paper, but I shall leave the country at once.”

No words could have been more grateful to Linton's ears than these; he
was, even at that very moment, considering in his own mind in what way
to disembarrass himself of his “friend” when this service should have
been effected.

“As you please, Giovanni,” said be, gravely. “I regret to part company
so soon with one whose frankness so well accords with my own humor.”

The Italian's lips parted slightly, and a smile of cold and dubious
meaning flitted across his dark features.

“We part here, then,” said he, rising from the table. “There is a
vessel leaves this for Bristol at noon to-day; it is already past eleven
o'clock.”

“I'll not delay,” said Linton, rising and ringing the bell; “send
Mr. Swindon here,” said he to the waiter, while he opened a parchment
document upon the table, and after hastily glancing over it, folded
it carefully again, leaving uppermost the margin, where certain
pencil-marks indicated the places of signature. “This is yours,
Giovanni,” said he, placing a weighty purse in the Italian's hand, who
took it with all the easy indifference of one whose feelings of shame
were not too acute. “Remember what I have--”

There was no time to finish, for already a light tap was-heard at the
door, and the landlord, followed by the head waiter, entered.

“We were pressed for time, Swindon,” said Linton, as he examined the
pens, which, like all hotel ones, seemed invented for ruling music
paper, “and have sent for you to witness the signature to this document.
Here, Cashel, you are to sign here,” said he, turning to Giovanni,
who-had just lighted a cigar, and was smoking away with all imaginable
coolness. The Italian took the pen, and with a bold and steady hand
wrote the words “Roland Cashel.”

“Mr. Swindon at this side; Mr. Nipkin's name comes underneath.”

“You acknowledge this for your hand and seal, sir?” said Swindon,
turning towards Giovanni.

“I do,” said the Italian, in an accent which did not betray the
slightest emotion, nor any trace of foreign pronunciation.

“All right; thank you, Swindon--thanks, Mr. Nipkin,” said Linton, as,
with an elation of countenance all his efforts could not suppress, he
folded up the parchment; “and now, will you order my horses at once?”

The landlord and the waiter left the room, and Linton found himself once
more alone with Giovanni; the only consolation he felt being that it was
for the last time. There was a pause, in which each gazed steadily at
the other without a word. At last, with a long-drawn sigh, Giovanni
exclaimed,--

“Perdio! but it is hard to do.” And with this he pressed his hat upon
his brows, and waving a careless farewell with his hand, walked out,
leaving Linton in a state of amazement not altogether unmingled with
fear. Tom watched the tall and stalwart figure of the foreigner as he
moved through the crowd that filled the quay, and it was with a sense of
relief he could not explain to himself that he saw him cross the plank
that led to the steamer, on whose deck numerous passengers were already
assembled.

The bell rang out in warning of her approaching departure, and Linton
kept his eyes intently fixed upon the one figure, which towered above
the others around him. Already the scene of bustle portended the moment
of starting, and some were hastening on board, as others, with not less
eagerness, were endeavoring to get on shore; when, just at that instant,
the landlord's voice was heard.

“Mr. Hammond is just going off, sir; he wants to say one word to you
before he goes.”

Mr. Hammond had just taken his seat in his carriage, and sat with one
hand upon the door, awaiting Linton's coming.

“I am run sharp for time, Mr. Linton,” cried he, “and have not a second
to lose. I wish sincerely I could have given a little more time to that
document--not indeed that any feature of difficulty exists in forming
an opinion, only that I believe I could have put your friend on the safe
road as to his future course.”

“You regard it then as authentic--as a good and valid instrument?” said
Linton, in a low but eager voice.

“So much so,” said Hammond, lowering his tone to a mere whisper, “that
if he does not marry the young lady in question, I would not give him
twenty shillings for his title.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Linton, leaning his head on the door of the
carriage, as if to conceal his chagrin, but in reality to hide the
exuberance of his joy; “and this is your candid opinion of the case?”

“I am willing to stake my fame as a lawyer on the issue; for, remember,
the whole history of the suit is familiar to me. I recollect well the
flaws in the course of proofs adduced, and I see how this discovery
reconciles each discrepancy, and supplies every missing link of the
chain.”

“Poor fellow!--it will be a sad blow for him,” said Linton, with
admirably feigned emotion.

“But it need not, Mr. Linton; the church can tie a knot not even an
equity suit can open. Let him marry.”

“Ay, if he will.”

“Tell him he must; tell him what I now tell you, that this girl is the
greatest heiress in the land, and that he is a beggar. Plain speaking,
Mr. Linton, but time is short Good-bye.”

“One word more. Is the document of such a nature that leaves him no case
whatever? Is all the ground cut away beneath his feet?”

“Every inch of it. Once more, good-bye. Here is your parchment; keep it
safely. There are few men in this city hold in their hands a paper of
such moment.”

“I'll take good care of it,” said Linton, sententiously; “and so
good-bye, and a safe journey to you. I 'll not forget our conversation
of this morning; Meek shall hear of it before I sleep to-night. Adieu.”

“The richest heiress in the land, and Cashel a beggar,” repeated Linton,
slowly, to himself, as the carriage drove off. “Charley Frobisher would
say, 'Hedge on the double event,' but I 'll keep my book.” And, with
this slang reflection, he sauntered into the inn to wait for his horses.




CHAPTER VIII. ROLAND DISCOVERS THAT HE HAS OVERDRAWN

    --His counsel, like his physic,
     If hard to take, was good when taken.

     Village Worthies.

Long before the guests of Tubbermore were astir, Cashel sat in his
library awaiting the arrival of Dr. Tiernay. In obedience to Roland's
request, Mr. Kennyfeck was present, and affected to look over books
or out of windows,--to scan over prints or inspect maps,--anything, in
short, which should pass the time and shorten the interval of waiting,
doubly awkward from being the first moment he had been alone with Cashel
since his arrival. Cashel was silent and absorbed, and, more intent upon
following out the train of his own thoughts, never noticed the various
arts by which Kennyfeck affected to interest himself. The solicitor,
too, bent from time to time a stealthy look on the young man, on whose
features he had rarely seen the same traces of deep reflection.

At last, with a half start, as if suddenly awaking, Cashel sat up in his
chair, and said,--

“Have I explained to you what Dr. Tiernay's business is here this
morning? It is to make a proposition from Mr. Corrigan for the sale
of his interest in Tubber-beg. He wishes to leave the country and go
abroad.”

“His interest, sir,” replied Kennyfeck, calmly, “although more valuable
to you than to any one else, must be a matter of small amount; for years
back, he has done little more than vegetate on the property, without
capital or skill to improve it.”

“I 'm not asking you to appraise it, just yet,” said Roland, snappishly;
“I was simply informing you of the object of the gentleman's visit. It
is the advantage of this purchase that I wished you to consider, not its
cost.”

“The cost will define the advantage, sir,” rejoined Kennyfeck,
“particularly as the demand may be high, and the payment inconvenient.”

“How do you mean, inconvenient?”

Kennyfeck hesitated. There was something in the hurried abruptness of
the question, as well as in the excited expression of the questioner's
face, that confused him; so that Cashel had time to repeat the words
before he could reply.

“Is it that I am straitened for money?” said he, passionately.

“Not quite--that--sir,” replied Kennyfeck, stopping between every word.
“You have resources--very great resources--untouched, and you have
considerable sums in foreign securities, intact--”

“Never mind these,” broke in Roland, hurriedly. “How do we stand with
those London fellows?”

Kennyfeck shook his head gravely, but without speaking.

“I pray you, sir,” said Roland, in a voice of hardly suppressed passion,
“keep pantomime for another moment, or a keener interpreter of it, and
condescend, in plain English, to answer me my last question.”

“There is no difficulty with Bigger and Swain, sir,” said Kennyfeck,
as his cheek grew slightly red. “They will neither be pressing for a
settlement, nor exacting when making it; besides, you have not overdrawn
very heavily, After all.”

“Overdrawn, said you?--did you say overdrawn, Mr. Kennyfeck?”

“Yes, sir. In the account last forwarded, your debit was eleven thousand
four hundred and forty pounds; since that you have drawn--but not for
any large amount.”

“Overdrawn!” repeated Cashel, as though his thoughts had never wandered
beyond the first shock of that fact; then rallying into something
like his habitual easy humor, he said, “I am, I need not tell you, the
stupidest man of business that ever breathed, so pray forgive me if
I ask you once more if I understood you aright, that I have not only
expended all the money I owned in these people's hands, but actually had
contracted a debt to them?”

“That is the case, sir,” said Kennyfeck, gravely.

A deep groan broke from Cashel, and he sat silent and still.

“I would wish to observe, sir,” said Kennyfeck, who was shocked at the
alteration a few moments had made in the young man's countenance--“I
would wish to observe, sir, that if you desire a sum of money for any
purpose--”

“Stay--let me interrupt you here,” said Cashel, laying his hand on
Kennyfeck's arm, and using a tone whose earnest distinctness thrilled
through his hearer's heart; “I should deceive you, were you to suppose
that it is the want of money gives me the pain I am now suffering. That
I had believed myself rich a few moments back, and now found myself a
beggar, could not give one-thousandth part of that suffering which I
feel here. I have braved poverty in every form, and I could brave it
again; but I 'll tell you what it is that now cuts me to the soul, and
lowers me to myself. It is that, in a senseless, heartless career, I
should have squandered the wealth by which I once imagined I was to
bless and succor hundreds. It is to think, that of all the gold I have
wasted, not one memory has been purchased of a sick-bed consoled, a
suffering lessened, a sinking spirit encouraged,--I have done nothing,
actually nothing, save pamper vice and sensual heartlessness. I came to
this kingdom a few months back, my very dreams filled with schemes of
benevolence; I felt as if this wealth were given to me that I might show
the world how much of good may be done by one who, having experienced
narrow fortune, should best know how to relieve it in others; and now,
here am I, the wealth and the high aspirations alike departed, with
no tradition to carry away, save of a life passed in debauch, the
friendship of worthless, the pitying contempt of good men! Hear me out
I was nurtured in no school of sentiment; I belonged to a class who
had too little time or taste to indulge in scruples. We were reckless,
passionate,--cruel, if you will,--but we were not bad in cold blood; we
seldom hated long; we never could turn on a benefactor. These are not
the lessons I 've lived to learn here! It is over, however--it is past
now! I 'll go back to the old haunts, and the old comrades. It will go
hard with me if I quarrel with their rude speech and rough demeanor. I
'll think of _gentlemen!_ and be grateful.”

The rapid utterance in which he poured forth these words, and the fervid
excitement of his manner, abashed Kenny-feck, and deterred him from
reply. Cashel was the first to speak.

“This arrangement, however, must be provided for; whatever Mr.
Corrigan's interest be worth--or rather, whatever he will accept in lieu
of it--I insist upon his having. But I see Dr. Tiernay coming up to the
door; we can talk of these things at another time.”

When Tiernay entered the library he was heated with his walk, and his
face betrayed unmistakable signs of recent irritation; indeed, he did
not long conceal the reason.

“Is it true, Mr. Cashel, that Mr. Linton is your nominee for the borough
of Derraheeny?”

“Yes; what of that?”

“Why, that he canvasses the constituency in a fashion we have not yet
been accustomed to; at least _your_ tenants, of whom I am one, are
told that our votes are the condition on which our leases will receive
renewal; that you will not brook opposition in any one who holds under
you. Are these your sentiments, Mr. Cashel, or only his?”

“Not mine, assuredly,” replied Cashel, gravely.

“I said as much. I told several of my neighbors that if this mode of
canvass had your sanction, it was from not knowing the privileges of an
elector.”

“I neither sanctioned nor knew of it,” rejoined Cashel, eagerly.

“So much the better--at least for me,” said Tiernay, seating himself at
the breakfast-table, “for I shall not lose a good breakfast, as I should
have been forced to do had these been your intentions.”

“I would observe, Dr. Tiernay,” interposed Kennyfeck, mildly, “that
the borough, being entirely the property of Mr. Cashel, its charities
maintained by his bounty, and its schools supported at his cost, he has
a fair claim on the gratitude of those who benefit by his benevolence.”

“Let him stand himself for the borough, and we 'll not deny the debt,”
 said Tiernay, roughly; “but if for every ten he should expend a
hundred, ay, sir, or a thousand, on the village, I 'd not vote for Mr.
Linton.”

“Most certainly, doctor; I'd never seek to coerce you,” said Cashel,
smiling.

“Labor lost, sir. I am your tenant for a holding of twenty-two pounds a
year. I have never been in arrear; you, consequently, have not granted
me any favor, save that of extending your acquaintance to me. Now,
sir, except that you are a rich man and I a poor one, how is even that
condescension on your part a favor? and how could _you_ purpose, upon
it, to ask me to surrender my right of judgment on an important point
to you, who, from your high station, your rank and influence, have a
thousand prerogatives, while I have but this one?”

“I never heard the just influence of the landed proprietor disputed
before,” said Kenny feck, who felt outraged at the doctor's hardihood.

“It is only _just_ influence, sir,” said Tiernay, “when he who wields
it is an example, as much by his life, as by the exercise of an ability
that commands respect. Show me a man at the head of a large property
extending the happiness of his tenantry, succoring the sick, assisting
the needy, spreading the blessings of his own knowledge among those who
have neither leisure nor opportunity to acquire it for themselves. Let
me see him, while enjoying to the fullest the bounteous gifts that are
the portion of but few in this world, not forgetful of those whose life
is toil, and whose struggle is for mere existence. Let me not know the
landlord only by his liveries and his equipage, his fox-hounds, his
plate, his racers, and his sycophants.”

“Hard hitting, doctor!” cried Cashel, interrupting.

“Not if you can take it so good-humoredly,” said Tiernay; “not if it
only lose me the honor of ever entering here, and teach you to reflect
on these things.”

“You mistake me much,” said Cashel, “if you judge me so narrowly.”

“I did not think thus meanly of you; nor, if I did, would it have
stopped me. I often promised myself, that if I could but eat of a rich
man's salt, I'd tell him my mind, while under the protection of his
hospitality. I have paid my debt now; and so, no more of it. Kennyfeck
could tell you better than I, if it be not, in part at least, deserved.
All this splendor that dazzles our eyes,--all this luxury, that makes
the contrast of our poverty the colder,--all this reckless waste, that
is like an unfeeling jest upon our small thrift, is hard to bear when we
see it, not the pastime of an idle hour, but the business of a life. You
can do far better things than these, and be happier as well as better
for doing them! And now, sir, are you in the mood to discuss my friend's
project?”

“Perfectly so, doctor; you have only to speak your sentiments on the
matter before Mr. Kennyfeck; my concurrence is already with you.”

“We want you to buy our interest in Tubber-beg,” said the doctor,
drawing his chair in front of Kennyfeck; “and though you tell us that
flower-plats and hollies, laurustinus and geraniums, are not wealth, we
'll insist on your remunerating us for some share of the cost. The spot
is a sweet one, and will improve your demesne. Now, what's it worth?”

“There are difficulties which may preclude any arrangement,” said
Kennyfeck, gravely. “There was a deed of gift of this very property made
out, and only awaiting Mr. Cashel's signature.”

“To whom?” said Tiernay, gasping with anxiety.

“To Mr. Linton.”

“The very thing I feared,” said the old man, dropping his head
sorrowfully.

“It is easily remedied, I fancy,” said Cashel. “It was a hasty promise
given to afford him qualification for Parliament. I 'll give him
something of larger value; I know he 'll not stand in our way here.”

“How you talk of giving, sir! You should have been the Good Fairy of a
nursery tale, and not a mere man of acres and bank-notes. But have your
own way. It's only anticipating the crash a month or so; ruined you must
be!”

“Is that so certain?” said Cashel, half smiling, half seriously.

“Ask Mr. Kennyfeck, there, whose highest ambition half a year ago was to
be your agent, and now he 'd scarcely take you for a son-in-law! Don't
look so angry, man; what I said is but an illustration. It will be with
your property as it was with your pleasure-boat t'other day; you 'll
never know you 've struck till you 're sinking.”

“You affect to have a very intimate knowledge of Mr. Cashel's affairs,
sir,” said Kennyfeck, who was driven beyond all further endurance.

“Somewhat more than you possess, Mr. Kennyfeck; for I know his tenantry.
Not as you know them, from answering to their names at rent-day, but
from seeing them in seasons of distress and famine,--from hearing their
half-uttered hopes that better days were coming when the new landlord
himself was about to visit them; from listening to their sanguine
expectations of benefits; and now, within some few days, from hearing
the low mutterings of their discontent,--the prelude of worse than
that.”

“I have seen nothing else than the same scenes for forty years, but
I never remember the people more regular in their payments,” said the
attorney.

“Well, don't venture among the Drumcoologhan boys alone; that, at least,
I would recommend you,” said the doctor, menacingly.

“Why not?--who are they?--where are these fellows?” cried Cashel, for
danger was a theme that never failed to stir his heart.

“It 's a bad barony, sir,” said Kennyfeck, solemnly.

“A district that has supplied the gallows and the convict-ship for many
a year; but we are wandering away from the theme we ought to discuss,”
 interposed Tiernay, “and the question narrows itself to this; if this
property is still yours,--if you have not already consigned it to
another,--what is my friend's interest worth?”

“That will require calculation and reflection.”

“Neither, Mr. Kennyfeck,” broke in Cashel. “Learn Mr. Corrigan's
expectations, and see that they are complied with.”

“My friend desired a small annuity on the life of his granddaughter.”

“Be it an annuity, then,” replied Cashel.

“By heaven!” exclaimed Tiernay, as if he could not restrain the impulse
that worked within him, “you are a fine-hearted fellow. Here, sir,” said
he, taking a paper from his pocket,--“here is a document, which my poor
friend sat up half the night to write, but which I'd half made up my
mind never to give you. You'd never guess what it is, nor your keen
friend either, but I 'll spare you the trouble of spelling it over. It's
a renunciation of Cornelius Corrigan, Esq., for himself and his
heirs forever, of all right, direct or contingent, to the estate
of Tubbermore, once the family property of his ancestors for eleven
generations. You never heard of such a claim,” said Tiernay, turning
to Cashel, “but Mr. Kennyfeck did; he knows well the importance of that
piece of paper he affects to treat with such indifference.”

“And do you suppose, sir, that if this claim you speak of be a good and
valid one, I could, as a man of honor, maintain a possession to which I
had no right? No; let Mr. Corrigan take back that paper; let him try his
right, as the laws enable him. If I stand not here as the just owner of
this house, I am ready to leave it at this instant; but I am neither to
be intimidated by a threat nor conciliated by a compromise.”

“Mr. Corrigan's claim has nothing to go upon, I assure you,” broke in
Kennyfeck. “If we accept the paper, it is by courtesy,--to show that we
respect the feeling that suggested it,--nothing more.”

While these words were addressed to Tiernay, Cashel, who had walked
towards one of the windows, did not hear them.

“Well,” cried Tiernay, after an awkward pause, “the devil a worse
negotiator ever accepted a mission than myself! When I desire to be
frank, the only truths that occur to me are sure to be offensive, and
I never am so certain to insult as when I fancy I 'm doing a favor.
Goodbye, sir; pardon the liberties of an old man, whose profession
has taught him to believe that remedies are seldom painless, and who,
although a poor man, would rather any day lose the fee than the
patient! You'll not treat Con Corrigan the less kindly because he has
an imprudent friend. I'm sorry to think that I leave an unfavorable
impression behind me; but I'm glad, heartily glad, I came here to
breakfast, for I go away convinced of two things, that I was far from
believing so certain when I entered,”--he paused for a second or two,
and then said,--“that a spendthrift could have an unblemished sense of
honor, and that an attorney could appreciate it!”

With these words he departed, while Cashel, after staring for a few
moments at Kennyfeck, threw himself back in his chair, and laughed long
and heartily.

“An original, sir,--quite an original,” said Kennyfeck, who, not
exactly knowing whether to accept the doctor's parting speech as a
compliment, or the reverse, contented himself with this very vague
expression.

“He's a fine old fellow, although he does lay on his salve in Indian
fashion, with a scalping-knife; but I wish he'd not have said anything
of that confounded paper.”

“Pardon me, sir,” interposed Kennyfeck, taking it from his pocket,
“but it might prove of inestimable value, in the event of any future
litigation.”

“What! you kept it, then?” cried Cashel.

“Of course I did, sir. It is a document scarce inferior to a deed of
title; for, although Mr. Corrigan has nothing to substantiate a claim
at law, it is incontestable that his family were the original owners of
this estate.”

Cashel took the paper from Kennyfeck's hand, and seemed to peruse it for
some minutes, and then approaching the fire he threw it into the blaze,
and pressed it down with a poker till it was consumed; while Kennyfeck,
too much consternated to utter a word, stood the personification of
terror-struck astonishment.

“You have burnt it, sir!” said he at last, in a whisper.

“Why not, sir?” cried Cashel, rudely. “Should I have made use of it
against the man who wrote it, or against his heirs, if by chance they
should seek one day to dispute my right?”

A deep sigh was all the reply Kennyfeck could make.

“I understand your compassion well,” said Cashel, scornfully. “You are
right, sir. It was the buccaneer, not the gentleman, spoke there; but I
'm sick of masquerading, and I long for a little reality.”

Without waiting for a reply, Roland left the room, and wandered out into
the park.




CHAPTER IX. THE BURNT LETTER--“GREAT EXPECTATIONS”

     “'Like Dido's self,' she said, 'I'm free!
     Trojan or Tyrian are alike to me.'”


There was but one species of tyranny Mr. Kennyfeck ever attempted in his
family: this was, to shroud with a solemn mystery every little event in
his professional career which he saw excited any curiosity with his wife
and daughters. It was true that on such occasions he became a mark for
most sneering insinuations and derisive commentaries, but he rose with
the dignity of a martyr above all their taunts, and doubtless felt in
his heart the supporting energy of a high-priest standing watch over the
gate of the Temple.

The few pencilled lines by Cashel, which had summoned him to the meeting
recorded in the last chapter, he threw into the fire as soon as he had
read, and then arising from the breakfast-table, dryly observed,--

“Don't wait breakfast, Mrs. Kennyfeck; I shall not be back for some
time.”

“Another secret, Mr. Kennyfeck?” said his wife, scoffingly.

He only smiled in reply.

“It ought to be a duel, at least, pa,” said his eldest daughter, “from
the urgent haste of your departure.”

“Or a runaway couple, who wish to have the settlements--”

“Is that all you know of the matter, Livy?” said her sister,
laughing heartily; “why, child, your Gretna Green folks never have
settlements--never think of them till six months later, when they are
wanting to separate.”

“Is there any occasion for mystery in this case?” rejoined Mrs.
Kennyfeck, haughtily.

“To be sure there may, my dear,” broke in Aunt Fanny; “there 's many
a dirty thing the lawyers have to do they 'd be ashamed to own before
their families.”

Even this did not move Mr. Kennyfeck, and, although from the way he
nestled his chin behind the folds of his white cravat, and a certain
scarcely perceptible shake of the head, it was clear he longed to refute
the foul aspersion.

“I suppose you will appear at dinner, sir?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, with
her grandest air.

“I hope so, Mrs. Kennyfeck,” was the mild answer.

“Without you should take it into your head, pa, to enter into rivalry
with Mr. Linton, and stay away, heaven knows where or how long,” said
Miss Kennyfeck.

Mr. Kennyfeck did not wait for more, but left the room with an air whose
solemnity well suited any amount of secrecy.

“Is there a carriage at the door?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck.

“No, mamma; there are three saddle-horses--one with a side-saddle. That
odious Miss Meek!” exclaimed Miss Kennyfeck; “what Lord Charles can see
in her I cannot conceive. To be sure, she saves a stable-boy the more,
and that to him is something.”

“Has your father gone out by the back terrace?” resumed Mrs. Kennyfeck,
one only theme occupying her thoughts.

Olivia retired into an adjoining room, and soon returned, saying,--

“No, ma; there's no one there, except Sir Andrew and Lady Janet, taking
their morning walk.”

“Their run, rather, my dear,” chimed in Miss Kennyfeck, “for she chases
the poor old man up and down with a cup of camomile tea, which either
scalds or sets him a-coughing. I 'm sure that tiresome old couple have
awoke me every day the last week with their squabbling.”

“Step down into the library, my love,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck to her
younger daughter, “and bring, me up the 'Post' or the 'St. James's
Chronicle.'”

“And if you meet Phillis, Just ask if he saw your father, for he forgot
his gloves.” And, suiting the action to the word, Aunt Fanny dived
into a cavern of an apron-pocket, and drew out a pair of knitted things
without fingers, which she offered to Olivia.

“Do no such thing, Miss Olivia Kennyfeck,” said her mamma, with an air
of imposing grandeur.

“Ma wants the newspaper, Olivia, and is not thinking of papa,” said Miss
Kennyfeck; and her eyes sparkled with a malicious fun she well knew how
to enjoy.

As Miss Olivia Kennyfeck left the room, her sister approached the
fireplace, where a small charred portion of the note thrown down by
her father was yet lying. She took it, and walking toward the window,
examined it carefully.

And while we leave her thus occupied, let us, for the reader's
information--albeit he may deem the matter trivial--give the contents as
Cashel wrote them:--

     Dear Mr. Kennyfeck,--Make my excuses to Mrs. Kennyfeck
     and the Demoiselles Cary and Olivia, if I deprive them of
     your society this morning at breakfast, for I shall want
     your counsel and assistance in the settlement of some
     difficult affairs. I have been shamefully backward in paying
     my respectful addresses to the ladies of your family; but
     to-day, if they will permit, I intend to afford myself that
     pleasure. It is as a friend, and not as my counsel learned
     in law, I ask your presence with me in my library at ten
     o'clock.    Till then,

     Believe me yours,

     R.  C.

Now, of this very commonplace document, a few blackened, crumpled, frail
fragments were all that remained; and these, even to the searching dark
eyes of Miss Kennyfeck, revealed very little. Indeed, had they not been
written in Cashel's hand, she would have thrown them away at once, as
unworthy of further thought. This fact, and the word “Olivia,” which she
discovered after much scrutiny, however, excited all her zeal, and she
labored now like an antiquarian who believes he has gained the clew
to some mysterious inscription. She gathered up the two or three filmy
black bits of paper which yet lay within the fender, and placing them
before her, studied them long and carefully. The word “settlement” was
clear as print.

“'Olivia and 'settlement' in the same paper,” thought she; “what can
this mean?

“Come here, mamma--Aunt Fanny--look at this for a moment,” said she,
eagerly; and the two ladies approached at her bidding.

“What is that word?” she said to Mrs. Kennyfeck; “is it not 'Olivia'?
Don't you see the end of the 'l' has been burned away, but the rest is
quite plain?”

“So it is--upon my life!--and in Cashel's hand, too!” exclaimed Mrs.
Kennyfeck.

[Illustration: 093]

“And what is that?” asked Miss Kennyfeck, triumphantly, pointing to
another word.

Aunt Fanny, with her spectacles on, bent down, and examined it long.

“'Battlement.' That is 'battlement' as clear as day,” said she.

“What nonsense, aunt--it is 'settlement.' Look at what you call a
'b'--it is an 's.'”

“Cary's quite right. The word is 'settlement,'” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, in
a voice tremulous with joy.

“And there!--I hope you can read!” exclaimed Miss Kennyfeck, “even
without your spectacles--'paying'--'addresses.'”

“Show it to me, Cary,” said her mother, eagerly. “I declare I can read
it perfectly. Is it possible?--can this be indeed true?”

“Of course it is, mamma. Will you tell me by what other coincidence
you could find Olivia's name coupled with the words 'settlement' and
'addresses' in the same note?”

“It is very suspicious, certainly,” said Aunt Fanny.

“I think it very convincing, aunt--not suspicious,” said Miss Kennyfeck,
proudly. “Here is something about 'friend,' and another word I can't
make out.”

“That's something about a 'saw,' my love,” said Aunt Fanny.

“How absurd, aunt; the word is 'law.' I have it. See--here is the
name--it is the conclusion of the note, and ran, doubtless, thus: 'Your
present friend, and future son-in-law,--R. C.”

Mrs. Kennyfeck leaned forward, and kissed her daughter's cheek with a
degree of fervor she very rarely gave way to; and then, lying back in
her chair, pressed her handkerchief to her face, while she, doubtless,
revelled in a little excursion of fancy, not the less brilliant because
tempered with anxiety.

If the moment was one of maternal ecstasy for Mrs. Kennyfeck, it was no
less one of triumphant joy to her daughter. It was _she_ who revealed
the secret meaning; her skill and ingenuity had given light to the dark
mystery, and consistency to its incoherence. What domination could be
too great for such services? It was then, like a legitimate sovereign
assuming the reins of government, she said,--

“I beg, Aunt Fanny, that you will not spoil the game this time, as most
unquestionably you did before.”

“Let us see that there is one to be spoiled, my dear,” rejoined Aunt
Fanny, snappishly.

“You are really too provoking, Fanny,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, removing her
handkerchief from two very red eyelids. “You never are satisfied when
you see us happy. Cary has shown you enough to convince any one--”

“Anyone disposed to conviction, mamma,” broke in Miss Kennyfeck,
haughtily. “Hush, here's Olivia.”

“Mr. Meek is reading the 'Post,' ma,” said the young lady, entering;
“and he has got the other papers in his pocket, but he says there's
really nothing of any interest in them.”

“I think Livy should be told, mamma,” whispered Miss Kennyfeck to her
mother.

“I quite agree with you, Cary,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck; “I never was a
friend to any secrecy in families. Your father, indeed, I grieve to say,
does not participate in my sentiments; but much may be excused in him,
from the habits of his profession, and, I will also say, from the class
in life he sprang from.” Here Mrs. Kennyfeck, who had spoken like one
delivering an oracle, stopped to drop a tear over the sad _mésalliance_
which had condemned her to become the wife of an attorney. “Olivia, my
dear, circumstances have disclosed the nature of the interview which
Mr. Kennyfeck would not confide to us. It is one in which you are deeply
concerned, my dear. Have you any suspicion to what I allude?”

Olivia assumed her very sweetest look of innocence, but made no reply.

“Mamma wants you to be candid enough to say, if there is anything in the
way of particular attention you may have received lately, which should
corroborate the impressions we entertain.”

Miss Kennyfeck delivered these words so categorically, that her sister
well knew how, in the event of refusal, a searching cross-examination
was reserved for her.

Olivia looked down, and a very slight embarrassment might be detected in
the quickened heaving of her chest.

“Tell us, my darling,” said Aunt Fanny, “if--if any one has, in a manner
so to say--you understand--eh?”

“Keep the blushes, Livy, for another time; they look beautiful with
orange flowers in the hair,” said her sister; “but be candid with us.”

“If you mean attentions, mamma--”

“We mean attentions, 'and something more,' as Lord Lyndburst says,”
 interposed Miss Kennyfeck, who felt that she was the proper person to
conduct the inquiry.

“I cannot positively say, mamma, that we are engaged, but I believe that
if you and pa made no obstacles--if, in fact, you are satisfied that his
rank and fortune are sufficient for your expectations, as I own they are
for mine--”

“What humility!” exclaimed Miss Kennyfeck, holding up her hands.

“Hush, Cary--go on, Livy,” said her mother.

“I have no more to say, mamma. Sir Harvey told me--”

“Sir Harvey!” cried Mrs. Kennyfeck.

“Sir Harvey Upton!” echoed Miss Kennyfeck.

“The man with the hair all over his face!” exclaimed Aunt Fanny, whose
western habits had not accustomed her to mustaches.

Olivia stared from one to the other in mingled fear and astonishment.
She suddenly saw that she had been betrayed into a confession to which
they did not possess the slightest clew; she also perceived that the
tidings, for which she anticipated a most joyous welcome, were received
with coldness and almost disdain.

“He is a baronet, mamma, with very great expectations,” said she,
proudly; for really, it was a large “bird” to bag, in the beginning of
the season, too!

“Very possibly,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, looking to her elder daughter
with that silent eloquence which the court occasionally bestows upon the
crown counsel, meaning to say: “Have you anything to reply to that?”

“Mamma is aware that Sir Harvey is a baronet, and a captain of Hussars,
and Jonas Upton of Somerton is his uncle, who may, or may not, leave him
his large estates--a circumstance, most probably, mainly dependent on
the alliance he may form in marriage.”

“Yes, indeed! my dear,” broke in Aunt Fanny; “and when the old man finds
out that 'tis only an attorney's daughter--”

“Fanny, do you mean to drive me distracted?” screamed Mrs. Kennyfeck;
“are my children to be taught to be ashamed of their father?”

“'T is a lesson they might know by heart, this time of day, my dear,”
 said the inexorable Fanny, who put up her spectacles, and smoothed down
her apron,--unmistakable signs that she was preparing for battle.

“You need n't 'beat to quarters,' aunt, as Captain Luttredge says; there
is no one going to fire into you,” said Miss Kennyfeck. “The question at
present is, how is Olivia to free herself from an unhappy connection--”

“An unhappy connection!” exclaimed Livy, in amazement.

“Listen to your sister, and don't interrupt her,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck.

“I spoke advisedly, Livy,” resumed the elder, “when I called your
connection with Sir Harvey Upton unhappy. We have just learned that far
higher views are open to you,--that no less a person than Mr. Cashel--”

“Impossible, mamma! he never notices me in the least. Our acquaintance
is scarcely more than a cold act of recognition when we meet.”

“Though love is hot sometimes, soon it grows cold,” muttered Aunt Fanny,
who believed she was quoting to the letter.

“There never was love in the case at all, aunt,” said Olivia.

“Attend to _me_, Livy,” said her sister, who seemed impatient at this
digression. “It is sufficient--it ought, at least, to be sufficient--for
you, that _we_ know Mr. Roland Cashel's intentions. It is for _you_
to establish a coolness with Sir Harvey. There is no difficulty in the
task. I could not presume to instruct _you_ in any matter of this kind,
nor will I.”

“Take a friend's advice, Livy dear, and don't throw out dirty water till
you're sure of clean.”

“What, aunt?” asked Olivia, who really was puzzled by the figurative
eloquence of her relative.

“Pshaw!” said Miss Kennyfeck, equally angry at the counsel and the
vulgarity of the expression it was couched in. “Livy, attend to _me_,”
 said she again. “Mr. Cashel has sent for papa this morning to make a
formal--Hush! here is pa himself.” And Mr. Kennyfeck's heavy tread was
heard approaching the door.

Mr. Kennyfeck's sudden entrance not only closed the discussion, but left
the debaters in the difficulty of having no concerted line of conduct
respecting the new arrival; and although Mrs. Kennyfeck's eyebrows were
worked with a telegraphic activity, and Miss Kennyfeck's pantomimic
replies as promptly returned, it was clear that neither comprehended the
other. Kaunitz lays it down as an axiom that “when two wings of an army
are in presence of an enemy, and without means of rapid and certain
communication, it is always better to act on the defensive than to
attack, without some evident weak point of the adversary encourages a
forward movement.” It is more than probable that neither Mrs. Kennyfeck
nor her fair daughter had studied the authority in question, yet, with a
tact quite instinctive, they proceeded to act upon it.

“You are back early, Mr. Kennyfeck,” said his wife, with a tone of half
indifference.

Mr. Kennyfeck looked at his watch, and said it wanted twenty minutes to
twelve.

“Has Mr. Linton returned, pa?” asked Miss Kennyfeck.

“I believe not. I have not heard that he has.”

“It would be little loss if he never did!” said Aunt Fanny, as she
bit the end of an obstinate thread that would not enter the eye of her
needle.

“Oh, Aunt Fanny!” exclaimed Olivia, in a deprecating tone.

“'Pon my word, my dear, them 's my sentiments--whatever yours is.”

“Mr. Cashel certainly thinks differently,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, glad to
introduce the name uppermost in all their thoughts.

“I think of late there has been something like a coldness between
them--You see them very rarely together. Did Mr. Cashel mention his name
to you this morning, Mr. Kennyfeck?” said his wife; and by this sudden
question revealing that they knew, at least, where he had been.

“Mere passingly, incidentally,” said Mr. Kennyfeck, evidently amazed
that his small mystery had been penetrated; then, after a slight pause,
he added, very probably with a sly malice to pique curiosity, “Mr.
Cashel is desirous of Mr. Linton's counsel on a step he meditates
taking.”

“Indeed, sir; and has he much confidence in Mr. Linton's judgment?”

“In this instance, it is likely he will follow the dictates of his own,
Mrs. Kennyfeck,” said the attorney, solemnly.

This fencing was too much for Mrs. Kennyfeck, in whom the Job-like
element was always at zero. It was an insult, too, to her understanding,
that Mr. Kennyfeck should skirmish in this fashion with _her_; and so,
drawing herself proudly up, she said,--

“Mr. Kennyfeck, I would wish to ask you, if you have, even upon one
single occasion, discovered that _my_ knowledge of the world, _my_ tact,
or _my_ intelligence, were inferior to your own?”

“Never, madam; I'm sure I never disputed the--”

“No, sir, you never dared to contest the fact, though you may have
endeavored to escape from its application. I believe, sir, the only
instance of deficient judgment I can be accused of, _you_, at least,
ought not to reproach me with. 'My family'”--this was a word Mrs.
Kennyfeck used to enunciate with an emphasis that always impressed her
husband very little provocation might possibly have made her say, “our
house”--“my family, indeed, may refuse to forgive me”--she stopped,
wiped her eyes, and then, with what seemed an heroic victory over her
feelings, went on--“but the welfare of my children, sir, may well be
conceived dear to one, who would not league to them the unhappy descent
she has herself suffered.”

Mrs. Kennyfeck paused again. It appeared as though, do what she would,
there was no escaping from the theme of her _mésalliance_ when once she
had touched it. It was very birdlime in its adhesiveness.

“When, therefore, Mr. Kennyfeck, the occasion presents itself of
resuming, through my children--for alas! it is lost to me in my own
person--the station I have forfeited, I do think that I should at least
be consulted, that my advice should be asked, and my guidance required.
Don't you think so too, sir?”

Now, of all men living, never was there one more inept to read riddles
than poor Mr. Kennyfeck, and while he averred that he perfectly
concurred in his wife's opinion, he had not the faintest glimmering of a
notion what that opinion implied.

“Don't you think, sir, also it would be better to use a little candor
with your family?”

“Yes, pa, we know all about it,” said Miss Kennyfeck, nodding
significantly.

“Ay, indeed, we had it in black and white--that is, if we can call a bit
of burnt--”

“Aunt Fanny, what are you about?” cried Miss Kennyfeck, in a voice of
real terror, for she was shocked at the meanness she did not scruple to
stoop to.

“Yes, Mr. Kennyfeck,” reiterated his wife, “we know all! If, however,
you still persist in maintaining that mysterious aspect you have assumed
with your family, I must say, sir, it is perfectly absurd.”

“It is unnecessary, too, papa,” cried Miss Kennyfeck.

“And it's unfair to that young creature,” chimed in Aunt Fanny, with
a gesture towards Olivia, who sat, _en tableau_ for injured innocence,
next a window.

Possibly, if any could have read Mr. Kennyfeck's sentiments at that
instant, they would have recognized the sufferings of a true martyr. To
his own heart he muttered,--

“This is very hard; it is being called upon to reply to a case without a
copy of the affidavits.”

At length, with a courage that he did not believe he was capable of, he
said,--

“I am confused, Mrs. Kennyfeck; I am overwhelmed; I may submit a plea of
surprise--that is, I would move the court, I mean--in fact, I must beg
you will permit me to adjourn this case.”

And with these words, and in an agitation very unusual with him, he
hastened from the room. Scarcely had the door closed after him, than he
reopened it, and putting in his head, said,--

“I should have told you, Mrs. Kennyfeck, that Mr. Cashel intends to pay
a visit here to-day.”

And so saying, he shut the door and departed.

“At last, sir!” exclaimed Mrs. Kennyfeck, in a voice of exultation, “you
have been obliged to confess so much at least; but, rely on it, girls,
your father is acting under Cashel's dictation, or he never would dare
to tamper in this manner with _me_.”




CHAPTER X. A STARTLING INTRUSION

     Say what you will, good friend, I do persist,
     I had him “covered” when you shook my wrist.

     The Duel.


In a handsome drawing-room, where the light was judiciously tempered by
the slight folds of rose-colored curtains, while the air breathed the
faint delicious perfume of some hot-house flowers, sat Olivia Kennyfeck
alone. She was most simply but becomingly dressed, and in her hair, worn
in smooth bands on either cheek, a little sprig of Greek myrtle, with
its bright red berries, was interwoven, which served to show to even
greater advantage the delicate fairness of a skin tinged with the very
faintest blush. There was a soft pensive character in her beauty which
seemed to harmonize perfectly with the silent room and its scattered
objects of art. The very exclusion of all view appeared to add to the
effect; as though suggesting how much of in-door happiness was contained
within those four walls\ neither asking for, nor wanting, the “wide cold
world” without. She was reading--at least she held a book in her hand--a
gorgeously bound little volume it was--nor did the dark ribbon of velvet
fringed with gold that marked her place fail to contrast well with the
snowy whiteness of the wrist it fell upon.

Her attitude, as she lay, rather than sat, in a deep armchair, was
faultless in its grace; and even the tiny foot, which rested on a little
Blenheim spaniel as he lay sleeping on the hearth-rug, had a certain air
of homelike ease that made the scene a picture, and to a suggestive mind
might have given it a story. And yet, for all the sleepy softness of
those half-drooped lids, for all that voluptuous ease of every lineament
and limb, the heart within was watchful and waking. Not a sound upon the
stairs, not a voice, not a footstep, that did not make its pulses beat
faster and fuller.

Two o'clock struck, and the great bell rang out which called the guests
to luncheon, a meal at which Cashel never appeared; and now Olivia
listened to the sounds of merry laughter that floated along the
corridors, and faded away in the distance, as group after group passed
downstairs, and at last, all was silent again. Where was he? Why did he
not come? she asked herself again and again. Her mamma and sister
had purposely stayed away from luncheon to receive him; for so it was
arranged, that she herself should first see Cashel alone, and afterwards
be joined by the others--and yet he came not!

The half-hour chimed, and Olivia looked up at the French clock upon
the mantelpiece with amazement. Surely there had been more than thirty
minutes since she heard it last; and the little Cupid on the top, who,
with full-stretched bow and fixed eye, seemed bent on mischief--silly
fool! like herself, there was no mark to shoot at! She sighed; it was
not a deep sigh, nor a sad one; nor was it the wearisome expression of
listlessness; nor was it the tribute paid to some half-called up
memory. It was none of these; though perhaps each entered into it as an
ingredient. But what right have we to analyze its meaning, or ask how
much of hope or fear it contained?--what portion of regret for one she
was about to desert?--what shame for the faithlessness? Ay, what shame!

Coquetry is no virtue; but most certainly it is not the wholesale
corrupter some moralists would make it. Miss Olivia Kennyfeck had been
taught it from her earliest years,--from those pleasant days, when,
dressed like some fairy queen, she descended from the nursery to stand
beside pa's chair on company days, at dessert, and be stared at, and
kissed, and “dear-loved” by some scores of people, whose enthusiasm
for childish beauty had all the warmth that springs from turtle and
truffles, iced punch and Lafitte. She had been taught it by the French
governess, who told her to be _aimable_. The very dancing-master cried
out, “Grace,--more grace, if you please, Miss Olivia,” at every step of
her minuet; and the riding-master's eternal exhortation was, “Sit as if
the whole world was watching you, miss.”

These teachings go further and deeper into the heart than we suspect.
“The wish to please”--pure and amiable as the feeling can be--lies on
the frontier of a dangerous land,--the “wish to conquer.” That passion
once engendered in the heart, no room remains for any other.

To return to Miss Olivia Kennyfeck,--for most ungallantly we are
forgetting she is alone all this while. Her education had but one end
and object,--to obtain a good position by marriage. The precept had
been instilled into her mind in a thousand different ways, and not only
self-interest, but pride, emulation, and vanity had been enlisted in its
support. So constantly was the theme presented to her, such day-by-day
discussion of the prizes and blanks drawn by others in the wheel
connubial, that she really felt little or no interest in any other
topic.

And yet, with all that misdirection of mind, that perverse insistence on
wrong, there was still in her heart a void, a want, that neither vanity
nor selfishness could fill. It might be, perhaps, to be found out by
one who should make it the storehouse of high and generous impulses,
of ennobling duties and tender affections; or, just as likely, lie like
some fruitful but unknown tract,--barren, waste, and profitless!

Three o'clock came! And now the house resounded with the buzz of voices
and the hurried movement of feet. Carriages and horses, too, assembled
before the door, and all the pleasant bustle of those bent on pleasure
filled the air. Olivia arose, and, screened by the curtain, watched the
scene beneath. For the first time she perceived that Lady Kilgoff was in
a riding-dress. She stood in the midst of a group before the door, amid
which Olivia's eyes peered with restless activity.

No, Cashel was not there! She almost said the comforting words aloud,
but at the same instant a cry of, “Here he is,--here he comes!” broke
from those beneath, and every head was turned towards the road to the
stables, along which Cashel was seen cantering a snow-white Arab of
great beauty. As he came nearer it could be seen that he was seated on
a side-saddle, while he managed the well-trained creature with the most
graceful address.

“Are you quite certain I may venture, Mr. Cashel?” said Lady Kilgoff, as
he pulled up in front of her; “remember, that I am neither so fearless
nor so skilful as our fair queen beside me, who, I must own, is far more
worthy of 'Hassan Bey' than I am.”

“I'll pledge my life on his good conduct,” said Roland, springing from
his back; “I've ridden him for an hour, and he is gentleness itself.”

“He's over-trained for my fancy,” said Miss Meek. “He's like one of
the creatures you see in Franconi's, walking up a ladder to catch a
handkerchief.”

Lady Janet whispered something in her ear, at which she started and
smiled, but evidently in ignorance of its meaning.

“What is that very wicked thing that Lady Janet has just told you?” said
Lady Kilgoff, as she advanced to mount her horse.

“It was _à propos_ of the handkerchief. She said 'Probably you were
going to throw yours at Mr. Cashel,'--I'm sure I don't know why.”

Fortunately none but Lady Kilgoff and Cashel heard this speech, but both
blushed deeply.

While this was enacting below, Olivia, who marked every gesture and
every look eagerly, could not hear what passed. She could only see the
respectful attention bestowed by Cashel on every wish of his fair guest;
how, having seated her, he draped in graceful folds the long velvet
habit, in which, and with a white hat and drooping feather, she
resembled one of the court of Louis Quinze.

At last she turned her horse's head, and rode him slowly along before
the house, evidently timid and afraid of the high-mettled animal.
Cashel, however, walked at his head, and so they stood, while he
arranged the curb-chain, exactly beneath the window where Olivia was
standing.

She opened the sash noiselessly, and, bending down, listened.

“I assure you,” said Lady Kilgoff, “I 'll not continue my ride if you
don't come. I have no confidence in these fine gentlemen cavaliers; and
as for Miss Meek, she 'd risk her life to see me run away with.”

“I pledge myself to follow in ten minutes,--nay, in five, if possible. I
told Mr. Kennyfeck I should make my obeisances to the ladies to-day.”

“Would to-morrow not serve?” said she, smiling.

“I believe it might--but a promise! Besides, I have been sadly deficient
in attentions there.”

“Sir Harvey and his brother hussar have made the _amende_ for your
shortcomings, but go, make haste and overtake us. I see 'my Lord' trying
to understand Lady Janet, and I must not delay longer.”

“Ride slowly,” cried Roland, “and don't get run away with till I 'm of
the party.”

She nodded archly in reply to this speech, and joining the group, who
were all awaiting her, rode off, while Cashel entered the house, and
soon was heard ascending the stairs at a hurried pace.

Olivia could only close the window and resume her place, when a tap
was given at the door, and the same instant Cashel entered the room. He
stopped suddenly, and looked around, for at first he did not perceive
Olivia, who, deep in her book, affected not to hear the noise of his
approach.

The rich coronet of brown hair, on which an evening sun was throwing one
brilliant gleam, caught his eye, and he advanced near enough to see
and be struck by that graceful attitude of which we gave our reader a
glimpse at the opening of this chapter.

She was reading some old English ballad; and, as she closed the volume,
murmured, half aloud, the lines of the concluding verse:--

“And ye variété, bounde upon a carte, Was draggede to ye gallows high,
While ye knighte that stole ye ladye's hearte (And was not his ye
gravere parte!) Rode onte to see him die.”

“A sad moral indeed,” said Cashel, in a low, soft voice.

“Oh, dear! oh, Mr. Cashel!” cried she, starting, and letting fall the
book, “how you have terrified me!”

“Pray forgive me,” said he, drawing his chair near, “but when I entered
the room I saw no one. I had come thus far ere I discovered that I was
so fortunate.”

“Shall I ring for mamma and Cary? they are dressing, I know, but will be
quite annoyed if you go before they come down.”

“You must not inconvenience them on my account,” said Roland, eagerly.
“I'm certain,” added he, smiling, “you are not afraid to receive me
alone.”

She hung down her head, and partly averting it, murmured a scarcely
audible “No.”

Cashel, who had evidently never calculated on his careless remark being
taken thus seriously, looked silly and uncomfortable for a few seconds.
There is a terrible perversity sometimes in our natures; we are disposed
to laugh occasionally at times when nothing could be more ill-timed or
unsuitable; and so, at moments when we would give anything in the world
for some commonplace theme to hang phrases on, we cannot, for the life
of us, originate one.

“You've not ridden out, I think, since we came?” said Roland, at last,
but with an air of sudden despair at his own stupidity.

“No. We have driven out once or twice; but--but--”

“Pray finish,” said he, with a persuasive look as he spoke.

“I was going to say that your horses are so spirited, that I was really
afraid to trust myself, and the more so as Miss Meek is so wild and so
reckless.”

“Never think of riding with _her_, Let me be your _chaperon_,--shall we
say to-morrow? I 've got the gentlest creature that was ever mounted.”

“Oh, I know her; that sweet white Arab I saw the groom exercising
yesterday?”

“No; not she,” said Roland, blushing and confused, “a spotted barb,
fully as handsome--some say handsomer. Will you do me the favor to ride
her to-morrow, and, if she be fortunate enough to please you, to accept
her?”

Olivia hung down her head for a second, and a deep scarlet covered her
cheek, and rose even to her temples, and it was with a voice broken and
interrupted she said, “Oh, I cannot--I must not.” Then, turning on him a
look, where the tearful eyes, swimming in a softened lustre, conveyed a
whole story of deep suffering, she said rapidly, “You are too kind
and too good ever to give pain; you are too generous to believe others
capable of it; but were I to accept your beautiful gift--were I even to
ride out with you _alone_--there is nothing that would not be said of
me.”

It was Cashel's turn for a slight blush now; and, to do him justice, he
felt the sensation a most disagreeable one. It had not indeed occurred
to him to make the proposal as the young lady took it, but he was far
too long schooled in gallantry to undeceive her, and so he said, “I
really cannot see this in the light you do. It is a very natural wish on
my part, that I should show my guests whatever my poor grounds afford of
the picturesque; and remember, we are not friends of yesterday.” This he
said in his very kindest tone.

“I _do_ remember it,” said she, with a slow but most meaning sigh.

“That memory is, I trust, not so associated with sorrow,” added he,
leaning down, and speaking in a deep, earnest voice, “that you recall it
with a sigh?”

“Oh, no; but I was thinking--I must not say of what I was thinking.”

“Nay, but you must,” said he, gently, and drawing his chair closer.

“I dare not--I cannot--besides, you “--and there was on the pronoun the
very softest of all-dwelling intonation--“_you_ might be angry--might
never forgive me.”

“Now I must insist on your telling me,” said Roland, passionately, “if
but to show how unfairly you judge me.”

“Well,” said she, drawing a long breath--“but shall I trust you?”

There was a most winning archness in the way she said this, that
thrilled through Cashel as he listened. “No, I will not,” added she,
suddenly, and as if carried away by a passionate impulse; “you are
too--”

“Too what?” cried he, impatiently.

“Too fickle,” said she; and then, as if terrified at her own boldness,
she added, in a tremulous voice, “Oh, do forgive me!”

“There is really nothing to forgive,” said Roland, “unless you persist
in keeping from me an avowal that I almost fancy I have a right to ask
for. And now, of what were you thinking?”

“I 'll tell you,” said she, in a low, earnest accent, “though it may
lose me your esteem. I was thinking”--her voice here fell so low that
Cashel, to hear her words, was obliged to draw his chair closer, and
bend down his head till it actually brushed against the leaves she wore
in her hair--“I was thinking that, when we knew you first, before you
had made acquaintance with others, when you sat and read to us, when we
walked and rode together,--when, in short, the day was one bright dream
of pleasure to us, who had never known a brother--”

Pardon us, dear reader, if, at so critical a moment, we occupy the
pause which here ensued--and there was a pause--by referring to our
Aunt Fanny, only premising that we do so advisedly. It was one of
that excellent lady's firmest convictions that every one in the world
required some discreet friend, who should, at eventful passages in life,
be ready to aid, by presence of mind, a wavering resolve, or confirm a
half-formed determination. Now, she had waited for two mortal hours on
that day for Cashel's coming, in a state of impatience little short of
fever. She opened and shut her window, looked up one avenue and down
another; she had watched on the landing, and stood sentinel on the
stairs; she had seen Mrs. Kenny-feck and her elder daughter pass
out into the garden, weary of long waiting; when, at last, she heard
Roland's hasty step as he traversed the hall, and, hurrying upstairs,
entered the drawing-room.

Drawn by an attraction there is no explaining, she left her room, and
took up her position in a small boudoir which adjoined the drawing-room.
Here she sat, persuading herself she was at her work; but, in reality,
in a state of suspense not very inferior to some prisoner while a jury
is deliberating on his fate.

The conversation, at first conducted in an ordinary tone, had gradually
subsided, till it dropped into the low, undistinguishable manner we
have mentioned.

[Illustration: 114]

Aunt Fanny's inventive mind had suggested every step of the interview.
She kept muttering to herself: “He is explaining himself--she is
incredulous--and he tries to reassure her--she believes that his heart
was given to another--he vows and swears it was always hers--she cannot
credit the happiness--she is too unworthy.”

It was just as our aunt had got thus far in her running commentary that
both voices ceased, and a stillness, unbroken by a murmur, succeeded.
“What could it mean?” was the sudden question that flashed across her
mind; and Napoleon's own dread anxiety, as he gazed on the wood, and
hesitated whether the dark masses emerging from the shade were his
own legions or the Prussians, was not much more intense than hers. At
last--we are sorry to record it--but, alas! Aunt Fanny was only mortal,
and an old maid to boot--she approached the door and peeped through the
keyhole. The sight which met her eyes needed no second glance; she saw
both heads bent down together, the dark waving hair of Cashel close
to the nut-brown silky braids of Olivia. Neither spoke. “It was then
concluded.”

This was the moment in which mutual avowals, meeting like two rivers,
form one broad and sweeping flood; it was the moment, too, in which,
according to her theory; a friend was all essential. According to her
phrase, the “nail should be clinched.”

Now, Aunt Fanny had been cruelly handled by the family for all the
blunders she had committed. Her skill had been impugned; her shrewdness
sneered at; her prognostications derided. Here was an opportunity to
refute all at once; and, in the language of the conqueror, “to cover
herself with glory.”

Gently opening the door she entered the room, and stealing tiptoe over,
till she stood behind their chairs, she placed, with all the solemnity
of an archbishop, a hand on either head, and, in a voice of touching
fervor, said,--

“Bless ye both, my darlings; may ye be as happy as--”

As what? The history is unable to record; for a shrill cry from her
niece, and an exclamation nearly as loud, and we fear far less polite,
from Roland, cut short the speech.

Shriek followed shriek from Olivia, who, partly from the shock, and
still more from shame, was thrown into an attack of hysterics.

“What the--” he was very nigh saying something else--“what have you
done, madam?” said Roland, in a state of mingled anger and terror.

“It's only your Aunt Fanny; it's me, my pet. Livy, darling, don't be
frightened; and here, too, is Mr. Cashel.”

In this, however, the good lady was mistaken; for Roland had hastened
upstairs to Mrs. Kennyfeck's room, which finding locked, he flew down
to the great drawing-room, thence to the library, and was making for the
garden, when he saw that lady and her daughter crossing the hall.

“I 'm afraid, madam,” said he, with all the composure he could summon,
“Miss Olivia Kennyfeck is not well; nothing serious, I trust; but a
sudden fright--a shock--Miss O'Hara somewhat imprudently--”

“Oh, Fanny again!” screamed Mrs. Kennyfeck; and without waiting for
more, rushed upstairs, followed by her daughter, while Roland, in a
state of mind we dare not dwell upon, hastened from the house, and
mounting his horse, galloped off into the wood.

There were times when Cashel would have laughed, and laughed heartily,
at the absurdity of this adventure. He would have even treasured up
the “tableau” as a thing for future ridicule among his friends; but his
better feelings, born of a more manly pride, rejected this now; he was
sorry, deeply, sincerely sorry that one with so much to fascinate and
charm about her, could lend herself to a mere game like this. “Where are
these deceptions to end?” said he, in passionate warmth. “Have candor,
good faith, and honesty fled the world? or, are they only to be found
among those whose vices make the foil to such humble virtues?”

Nor were these his only painful reflections. He was obliged to see
himself--the thing of all others he despised--“a dupe;” the mark for
every mean artifice and every ignoble scheme. The gambler, the flirt,
the adventurer in every walk, regarded him as a prey. Wealth had done
this for him--and it had done no more! None cared for him as a friend or
companion. Even as a lover, his addresses were heralded by his gold, not
enhanced by qualities of his own. What humiliation!

Mary Leicester alone seemed unimpressed by his great fortune, and
regardless of his wealth; she alone had never evinced towards him any
show of preference above others less endowed by Fate. Nay, he fancied
he could trace something of reserve in her manner whenever he stepped by
chance out of his character of careless, buoyant youth, and dwelt upon
the plans mere money accomplishes. In these she showed no interest,
and took no pleasure; while, to the adventures of his former life, she
listened with eager attention. It was easy to see she thought more of
the _caballero_ than the _millionnaire_.

What a happiness had it been to have befriended her grandfather and
herself; how different had been his reflections at this hour; what
lessons in the true wisdom of life might he not have learned from one
who had seen the world, not as the play-table for the rolling dice
of fortune, but as the battle-ground where good and evil strive for
victory, where a higher philosophy is taught than the lifeless, soulless
dictates of mere fashionable existence!




CHAPTER XI. SCANDAL, AND GENERAL ILL-HUMOR.

     But where are they alle, I do not see,
     One half of our goodlie companie!

     Hone.


That day was destined to be one of contrarieties to the household of
Tubbermore. Of the Kennyfeck family, none appeared at dinner. Lady
Kilgoff, angry at Roland's breach of engagement,--for, although he rode
at top speed in every direction, he never overtook her,--also kept her
room. The carriage sent for Miss Leicester had returned without her,
a somewhat formal note of apology stating that Mr. Corrigan was
indisposed, and his granddaughter unwilling to leave him; while Linton,
usually a main feature in all the social success of a dinner, was still
absent.

Of the assembled guests, too, few were in their wonted spirits. Sir
Andrew and Lady Janet had quarrelled in the morning about the mode of
preparing dandelion tea, and kept up the dispute all the day; Upton
was sulky, dark, and reserved; Meek more than usually lachrymose;
Fro-bisher's best mare had been staked in taking a leap, and Miss Meek
had never discovered it till half an hour after, so that the lameness
was greatly aggravated; Mrs. White had had a “tiff” with the author, for
his not believing the Irish to be of Phoenician origin, and would n't
speak to him at dinner; so that Cashel himself, constrained, absent, and
ill at ease, found his company anything rather than a relief to his own
distracted thoughts.

Among his other guests he found the same reserve and coldness of manner,
so that no sooner had they assembled in the drawing-room, after dinner,
than he left the house and set off to inquire for Mr. Corrigan at the
cottage.

“We had nine vacant places to-day at table,” said Lady Janet, as soon as
she had arranged her special table next the fire, with a shade in front
and a screen behind her, and was quite satisfied that, in regard to
cushions and footstools, she had monopolized the most comfortable in the
room.

“I thought--aw--that we--aw--were somewhat slow,” said Captain Jennings,
with his habitually tiresome, pompous intonation.

“What's the matter with Upton?” said a junior officer of his regiment,
in a whisper; “he looks so confoundedly put out.”

“I'm sure I don't know,” yawned out Lord Charles; “he has a very safe
book on the Oaks.”

“He's backing Dido at very long odds,” interposed Miss Meek, “and she's
weak before, they say.”

“Not staked, I hope,” said Frobisher, looking maliciously at her.

“I don't care what you say, Charley,” rejoined she; “I defy any one to
know whether a horse goes tender, while galloping in deep ground. You
are always unjust.” And she moved away in anger.

“She _is_ so careless,” said Frobisher, listlessly.

“Tell me about these Kennyfecks. What is it all about?” said Mrs. White,
bustling up, as if she was resolved on a long confidence.

“They hedged against themselves, I hear,” said Frobisher.

“Indeed! poor things; and are they much hurt?”

“Not seriously, I fancy,” drawled he. “Lady Janet knows it all.”

Mrs. White did not neglect the suggestion, but at once repaired to that
part of the room where Lady Janet was sitting, surrounded by a select
circle, eagerly discussing the very question she had asked to be
informed upon.

“I had it from Verthinia,” said Mrs. Malone, with her peculiar, thick
enunciation, “Lady Kilgoff's maid. She said that not a day passes
without some such scene between the mother and daughters. Mrs. Kennyfeck
had, it seems, forbithen Cashel to call there in her abthence.”

“I must most respectfully interrupt you, madam,” said a large old lady,
with blond false hair, and a great deal of rouge, “but the affair was
quite different. Miss Olivia, that is the second girl, was detected by
her aunt, Miss O'Hara, packing up for an elopement.”

“Fudge!” said Lady Janet; “she'd have helped her, if that were the case!
I believe the true version of the matter is yet to come out. My woman,
Stubbs, saw the apothecary coming downstairs, after bleeding Livy, and
called him into her room; not, indeed, to speak of this matter”--here
Lady Janet caused her voice to be heard by Sir Andrew, who sat, in moody
sulk, right opposite--“it was to ask, if there should not be two pods of
capsicum in every pint of dandelion tea.”

“There may be twa horns o' the de'il in it,” ejaculated Sir Andrew, “but
I 'll na pit it to my mouth agen. I hae a throat like the fiery furnace
that roasted the three chaps in the Bible.”

“It suits your tongue all the better,” muttered Lady Janet, and turned
round to the others. “Stubbs, as I was saying, called the man in, and
after some conversation about the dandelion, asked, in a cursory way,
you know, 'How the lady was, upstairs?' He shook his head, and said
nothing.

“'It will not be tedious, I hope?' said Stubbs.

“'These are most uncertain cases,' said he; 'sometimes they last a day,
sometimes eight or nine.'

“'I think you 're very mysterious, doctor,' said Stubbs.

“He muttered something about honor, and, seizing his hat went off, as
Stubbs says, 'as if he was shot!'”

“Honor!” cried one of the hearers.

“Honor!” ejaculated another, with an expression of pure horror.

“Did n't he say, madam,” said the blond old lady, “that it wasn't his
branch of the profession?”

“Oh! oh!” broke in the company together, while the younger ladies held
up their fans and giggled behind them.

“I 'm thorry for the poor mother!” sighed Mrs. Malone, who had seven
daughters, each uglier than the other.

“I pity the elder girl,” said Lady Janet; “she had a far better tone
about her than the rest.”

“And that dear, kind old creature, the aunt. It is said that but for her
care this would have happened long ago,” said Mrs. Malone.

“She was, to my thinking, the best of them,” echoed the blond lady; “so
discreet, so quiet, and so unobtrusive.”

“What could come of their pretension?” said a colonel's widow, with a
very large nose and a very small pension; “they attempted a style of
living quite unsuited to them! The house always full of young men, too.”

“You would n't have had them invite old ones, madam,” said Lady Janet,
with the air of rebuke the wife of a commander-in-chief can assume to
the colonel's relict.

“It's a very sad affair, indeed,” summed up Mrs. White, who, if she had
n't quarrelled with Mr. Howie, would have given him the whole narrative
for the “Satanist.”

“What a house to be sure! There's Lady Kilgoff on one side--”

“What of her, my Lady?” said the blonde.

“You did n't hear of Lord Kilgoff overtaking her to-day in the wood with
Sir Harvey Upton?--hush! or he 'll hear us. The poor old man--you know
his state of mind--snatched the whip from the coachman, and struck Sir
Harvey across the face. They say there's a great welt over the cheek!”

Mrs. White immediately arose, and, under pretence of looking for a
book, made a circuit of the room in that part where Sir Harvey Upton was
lounging, with his head on his hand.

“Quite true,” said she, returning to the party. “It is so painful, he
can't keep his hand from the spot.”

“Has any one discovered who the strange-looking man was that was
received by Mr. Cashel this morning in his own study?” asked the blonde.
“My maid said he was for all the world like a sheriff's officer.
It seems, too, he was very violent in his language; and but for Mr.
Kennyfeck, he would not have left the house.”

“Too true, I fear, ma'am,” said Mrs. Malone; “my husband, the
Thief,”--this was Mrs. Malone's mode of abbreviating and pronouncing
the words Chief Justice,--“told me it was impothible for Mr. Cashel to
continue his extravaganth much longer.”

“It's shameful--it's disgraceful,” said Lady Janet; “the kitchen is a
scene of waste and recklessness, such as no fortune could stand.”

“Indeed, so the 'Thief' said,” resumed Mrs. Malone; “he said that
robbery went on, on every thide, and that Mr. Phillith, I think his name
is, was the worst of all.”

“Your husband was quite correct, ma'am,” said Lady Janet; “no one should
know it better.” And then she whispered in her neighbor's ear, “If the
adage be true, 'Set a thief to catch a thief.'”

The party intrusted with this could not restrain her laughter, and for a
space, a species of distrust seemed to pervade the circle.

We are certain that no apology will be required, if we ask of our reader
to quit this amiable society,--although seated at a comfortable fire,
in the very easiest of chairs, with the softest carpet beneath his
feet,--and accompany Roland Cashel, who now, with hasty step, trod the
little path that led to Tubber-beg Cottage.

However inhospitable the confession, we are bound to acknowledge Cashel
was growing marvellously weary of his character as a host. The hundred
little contrarieties which daily arose, and which he knew not how to
smooth down or conciliate, made him appear, in his own estimation at
least, deficient in worldly tact, and left him open to the belief that
others would judge him even less mercifully. The unbridled freedom of
his household, besides, stimulated all the selfishness of those who, in
a better arranged establishment, had kept “watch and ward” over their
egotism; and thus, instead of presenting the features of a society where
the elements of agreeability were not deficient, they resembled rather
the company in a packet-ship, each bent upon securing his own comfort,
and only intent how to make his neighbor subsidiary to himself.

Prosperity, too, was teaching him one of its least gracious
lessons,--“Distrust.” The mean and selfish natures by which he was
surrounded were gradually unfolding themselves to his view, and he was
ever on the verge of that dangerous frontier where scepticism holds
sway. One conclusion--and it was not the least wise--he formed was, that
he was ill suited to such companionship, and that he had been happier,
far happier, on some humble fortune, than as the rich proprietor of a
great estate.

It was while thus ruminating, Cashel found himself at the little space
which intervened between one front of the cottage and the lake, and
was struck by the rapid movement of lights that glanced from window to
window, appearing and disappearing at every instant.

The dread that the old man was taken seriously ill at once came over
him, and he hastened forward in eager anxiety to learn the tidings.
Then, suddenly checking himself, he felt reluctant, almost stranger that
he was, to obtrude at such a moment. Fearing to advance, and unwilling
to retire, he stood uncertain and hesitating.

As he remained thus, the door of the drawing-room that opened upon the
lawn was flung wide, and Tiernay passed hastily out, saying in a loud
and excited voice, “I will have my own way. I 'll see Cashel at once.”
 And with these words he issued forth in haste. Scarcely, however, had
he gone a dozen paces, than he stopped short, and, clasping his hands
firmly together, muttered aloud, “To what end should I seek him? What
claim can I pretend,--by what right appeal to him?”

“Every claim and every right,” cried Roland, advancing towards him, “if
I can only be of any service to you.”

“What! actually here at this moment!” exclaimed Tiernay. “Come this way
with me, sir; we must not go into the house just yet.” And so saying, he
passed his arm within Roland's, and led him onward towards the lake.

“Is he ill?” said Cashel,--“is Mr. Corrigan taken ill?” But although
the question was asked eagerly, Tiernay was too deeply sunk in his own
thoughts to hear it; while he continued to mutter hurriedly to himself.

“What _is_ the matter?” said Roland at last, losing patience at a
preoccupation that could not be broken in upon. “Is Mr. Corrigan ill?”

“He is ruined!” said Tiernay, dropping Cashel's arm, and letting fall
his own as he spoke, with a gesture of despair.

“What do you mean? How?”

“Ruined! utterly ruined!” re-echoed Tiernay; and there was that in
his accent and the emotion of his manner that forbade any further
questioning.

“It is not at a moment like this,” said the doctor, “that I can tell you
a long tale, where treachery and falsehood on one side, and generosity
and manliness on the other, played the game as ever it has been, and
ever will be played, between such antagonists;--enough, if I say my poor
friend became responsible for the debts of a man who, but for his aid,
would have had a felon's fate. This fellow, who possesses one terrible
means of vengeance, threatens now to use it, if a demand be not complied
with, which Corrigan may leave himself a beggar and yet not satisfy. The
threat has been held over him for years, and for years he has struggled
on, parting, one by one, with every little requirement of his station,
and submitting with noble resignation to any and every thing to stave
off the evil day; but it has come at last.”

“And what is the sum demanded?” said Cashel, hastily.

“I cannot tell. There are various bills; some have been renewed again
and again, others are yet current. It is a tangled web, and, in our
hopelessness, we never sought to unravel it!”

“But the danger is imminent?”

“So imminent that my friend will be arrested to-morrow if bail be not
forthcoming. I have not told him this; I dare not tell him so; but I
have made up a story to induce him to leave this to-night.”

“Where for?” cried Roland, anxiously.

“God knows! I lose memory as well as judgment in moments like this. I
believe I advised Limerick, and thence by ship to some port in England,
from which they could reach the Continent.”

“But all this will be unnecessary if I offer myself as security,” said
Roland.

“For a sum of which you know nothing!” muttered Tiernay, sorrowfully.

“No matter; it cannot be, in all likelihood, more than I can meet.”

“And for one who can never repay!” echoed the doctor still more sadly.

“Who can tell that?” said Cashel. “There's many a coinage costlier than
ever the mint fashioned; he may requite me thus.”

The doctor started. “You mean--no!--no!” cried he, interrupting himself,
“that were too great good fortune. I must tell you, sir,” added he, in
a firm voice, “that there is nothing--absolutely nothing--to give you in
requital for such aid. My friend's alternative is a prison, or be your
debtor for what he cannot pay.”

“I am content,--perfectly content,” said Roland. “There is no need to
say another word on the matter. Do not suffer him to endure any anxiety
we can spare him; tell him at once the thing is done.”

“We must think over this a little,” said Tiernay, musing. “Con is a
difficult fellow to deal with; there must be something which shall give
it the semblance of a loan; he must be made to believe it is only a
change of creditors.”

“Could not we arrange it without his knowledge, while you could affect
to have made some settlement which has satisfied the others?”

“Too late,--too late, for that; he has seen Hoare himself.”

“Hoare!--the money-lender from Dublin?” said Cashel, blushing at the
recollection of his own acquaintance with him.

“Ay, sir, of course you know him! A man cannot enjoy such distinguished
friendships as you have without the aid of usurers?”

Cashel smiled good-humoredly, and went on,--

“Where is this gentleman at present.”

“Yonder,” said Tiernay, pointing to the cottage; “but he intends shortly
returning to the inn at the village, where perhaps it would be better to
meet him than here. If you 'll permit me, I 'll just step in and say as
much, and then we can stroll that way together.”

Cashel consented, and his companion left him to do his errand. It was
only as he stood alone, and had time for reflection, that he remembered
his conversation with Kennyfeck in the morning, and learned that, with
regard to ready money at least, he stood in a very different position
from what he supposed. That there would be difficulties and legal
obstacles innumerable made by Kennyfeck to any sale of property, he well
knew; but he had made up his mind as to his course, and would not be
thwarted. He had but space for these reflections, when Tiernay joined
him, saying,--

“So far all is well. Hoare will follow us in a few minutes, and, for
privacy' sake, I have made the rendezvous at my house.”

“And Corrigan,--how have you left him?” asked Cashel.

“Like one in a dream. He seems neither to know whether it be misfortune
or the opposite which impends him. Were it not for Mary, his poor heart
had given way long since. Ay, sir, there is more true heroism in one day
of that humble life, than in the boldest deed of bravery even you have
ever witnessed.”

Cashel did not speak, but, in the pressure of his arm against Tiernay's
the other felt how the theme had touched him.

“You only know her by the graceful elegance of her manner, and the
fascinations that, even to old men like myself, are a kind of sorcery;
but I have seen her in every trial, where temper and mind, and heart and
pride, are tested, and come through all victorious; draining the very
wells of her own hopefulness to feed the exhausted fountain which age
and disappointment had dried up; lending to manhood a greater courage
than her own; ay, and more,--showing that her temper could resist the
jarring influences of misfortune, and, like the bright moon above the
storm-lashed clouds, soar on, glorious and lustrous ever. What are men
made of?” cried he, energetically; “of what stuff are they formed, when
such a girl as this can excite more admiration for her beauty than for
traits of character that ennoble humanity?”

“You speak with all a lover's warmth, doctor,” said Cashel, half
smiling, while in reality, the subject interested him deeply.

“And why not, sir? I do love her, and with an affection that only
such beings inspire. It is creatures like her that redeem years
of disappointment and worldly disgust. It is in watching the
single-heartedness of that young girl that I, an old man, hackneyed and
hardened as I am, become trustful and hopeful of others. Love her!--to
be sure I love her. And so would you, if the poor fopperies amid which
you live but left you one moment free to think and feel as your own head
and heart would lead you. I hope you take no heed of my rude speech,
sir,” said he, hastily; “but it is the fault of my craft to believe that
sweet things are only 'Placebos,' given but to earn the fee and amuse
the patient.”

“I thank you for it,” said Cashel, pressing his hand; “few have ever
cared to tell me truths.”

“Say, rather, few have cared to resign their influence over you by
showing they knew your weak points. Now, I have too deep an interest in
you, and too slight a regard for any profit your acquaintance can render
myself, to be swayed by this. You don't know, you cannot know, what a
charm there is to an old fellow like myself--whose humble fortunes
limit to a life of mere routine--to think that he has an opportunity of
counselling one in your station,--to feel that he has sown the seed of
some good principle, that one day or other will bear its fruit. Yes,
years hence, when you have forgotten the old village doctor,--or if by
chance remember him, only to recall his vulgarity or eccentricity,--I
will be an anxious watcher over you, flattering myself to think that I
have had some share in instilling the precepts by which you are winning
good men's esteem. These thoughts are poor men's treasures, but he that
feels them would not barter them for gold.”

“I have long wished for such a counsellor,” said Cashel, fervently.

“The advice will not be the less stringent that it comes when you are
heart-sick of frivolity,” said Tiernay. “What could your fine company up
yonder teach you? Such of them as are above mere folly trade in vice.
I have seen them all since they have assembled here, and I am no mean
physiognomist, and there is but one among them deserving of better than
the poor heartless life they 're leading.”

“I can guess whom you mean,” said Roland, half pleased and half fearful.

“Well, she indeed would merit a better lot; and yet I would she were
gone.”

“Why so? Do you grudge as even a passing 'gleam of virtue's
brightness'?”

“She is more dangerous than the veriest coquette that ever lured a man
to ruin. It is in such as she, where noble qualities have run to waste,
where generous sentiments and pure affections have been blighted by the
cold chill of a world that fosters not such gifts, the peril is ever
greatest; for her sake and for yours, I would she were gone.”

As they spoke thus, they had reached the wide esplanade in front of
the great house, from the windows of which lights were gleaming, while
sounds of festivity and pleasure floated on the night air.

Tiernay halted for a second, and then said, “Who could believe that the
owner of that princely mansion, filled as it is with pleasure-loving
guests, and every adjunct that can promote enjoyment, should leave it,
to wander on foot with a poor old village doctor, whose only merit is to
utter unpalatable truths!”

“And be happier while doing so,--add that, my worthy friend,” said
Cashel, pressing the arm that he held within his own.

“Come along, sir; this dalliance is pleasanter to me than to you. I
begin to feel that I may have done you good, and you should be a doctor
to know the full ecstasy of that feeling. Let us now move on, or this
man will be before us.” And so saying, they moved briskly forward
towards the village of Dunkeeran.




CHAPTER XII. SHYLOCK DEMANDS HIS BOND

     The debts we make by plighted vows,
     Bear heaviest interest, ever!

     Haywood.


The doctor's little parlor was the very “ideal” of snugness; there
was nothing which had the faintest resemblance to luxury save the
deep-cushioned arm-chair, into which he pressed Cashel at entering; but
there were a hundred objects that told of home. The book-shelves, no
mean indication of the owner's _trempe_, were filled with a mixture
of works on medicine, the older English dramatists, and that class of
writers who prevailed in the days of Steele and Addison. There was a
microscope on one table, with a great bunch of fresh-plucked fern beside
it. A chess-board, with an unfinished game--a problem from a newspaper,
for he had no antagonist--stood on another table; while full in front
of the fire, with an air that betokened no mean self-importance, sat
a large black cat, with a red leather collar, the very genius of
domesticity. As Cashel's eyes took a hasty survey of the room, they
rested on a picture--it was the only one there--which hung over the
mantelpiece. It was a portrait of Mary Leicester, and although a mere
water-color sketch, an excellent likeness, and most characteristic in
air and attitude.

“Ay!” said Tiernay, who caught the direction of his glance, “a birthday
present to me! She had promised to dine with me, but the day, like most
Irish days when one prays for sunshine, rained torrents; and so she sent
me that sketch, with a note, a merry bit of doggerel verse, whose merit
lies in its local allusions to a hundred little things, and people only
known to ourselves; but for this, I 'd be guilty of breach of faith and
show it to you.”

“Is the drawing, too, by her own hand?”

“Yes; she is a clever artist, and might, it is said by competent judges,
have attained high excellence as a painter had she pursued the study. I
remember an illustration of the fact worth mentioning. Carringford, the
well-known miniature-painter, who was making a tour of this country
a couple of years back, passed some days at the cottage, and made a
picture of old Con Corrigan, for which, I may remark passingly, poor
Mary paid all her little pocket-money,--some twenty guineas, saved
up from Heaven knows how long. Con did not know this, of course,
and believed the portrait was a compliment to his granddaughter.
Carringford's ability is well known, and there is no need to say the
picture was admirably painted; but still it wanted character; it had
not the playful ease, the gentle, indulgent pleasantry that marks my old
friend's features; in fact, it was hard and cold,--not warm, generous,
and genial: so I thought, and so Mary thought, and accordingly, scarcely
had the artist taken his leave, when she set to work herself, and made
a portrait, which, if inferior as a work of art, was infinitely superior
as a likeness. It was Con himself; it had the very sparkle of his mild
blue eye, the mingled glance of drollery and softness, the slightly
curled mouth, as though some quaint conceit was lingering on the
lip,--all his own. Mary's picture hung on one side of the chimney, and
Carringford's at the other, and so they stood when the painter came
through from Limerick and passed one night at Tubber-beg, on his way to
Dublin. I breakfasted there that morning, and I remember, on entering
the room, I was surprised to see the frame of Carringford's portrait
empty, and a bank-note, carefully folded, stuck in the corner. 'What
does that mean?' said I to him, for we were alone at the time.

“'It means simply that _my_ picture cannot stand such competitorship as
_that_,

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