Roland Cashel, Volume I (of II)

“So it is!” exclaimed Cashel, starting up, while he muttered something not exceedingly complimentary to his host’s engagement. “Is the carriage ready?” And without staying to hear the reply, hurried downstairs, the open letter still in his hand.

Scarcely seated in the carriage, Cashel resumed the reading of the letter. Eager to trace the circumstances which led to his friend’s captivity, he hastily ran his eyes over the lines till he came to the following: —

“There could be no doubt of it. The ‘Esmeralda,’ our noble frigate, was not in the service of the Republic, but by some infamous treaty between Pedro and Narochez, the minister, was permitted to carry the flag of Columbia. We were slavers, buccaneers, pirates, – not sailors of a state. When, therefore, the British war-brig ‘Scorpion’ sent a gun across our bows, with an order to lie to, and we replied by showing our main-deck ports open, and our long eighteens all ready, the challenge could not be mistaken. We were near enough to hear the cheering, and it seemed, too, they heard ours; we wanted but you, Roland, among us to have made our excitement madness!”

The carriage drew up at Kennyfeck’s door as Cashel had read thus far, and in a state of mind bordering on fever he entered the hall and passed up the stairs. The clock struck eight as he presented himself in the drawing-room, where the family were assembled, the number increased by two strangers, who were introduced to Roland as Mrs. Kennyfeck’s sister, Miss O’Hara, an elderly maiden lady, with a light brown wig; and a raw-boned, much-freckled young man, Peter O’Gorman, her nephew.

Nothing could be more cordial than the reception of the Kennyfecks; they affected not to think that it was so late, vowed that the clock was too fast, were certain that Mr. Cashel’s watch was right; in fact, his presence was a receipt in full for all the anxieties of delay, and so they made him feel it.

There was a little quizzing of Roland, as they seated themselves at table, over his forgetfulness of the day before, but so good-humoredly as not to occasion, even to himself, the slightest embarrassment.

“At breakfast at the barrack!” repeated Miss Kennyfeck after him. “What a formidable affair, if it always lasts twenty-four hours.”

“What do you mean? How do you know that?” asked Roland, half in shame, half in surprise, at this knowledge of his movements.

“Not to speak of the brilliant conversation, heightened by all the excitement of wit, champagne, and hazard, – dreadful competitors with such tiresome society as ours,” said Olivia.

“Never mind them, Mr. Cashel,” broke in Miss O’Hara, in a mellifluous Doric; “‘tis jealous they are, because you like the officers better than themselves.”

A most energetic dissent was entered by Cashel to this supposition, who nevertheless felt grateful for the advocacy of the old lady.

“When I was in the Cape Coast Fencibles,” broke in Peter, with an accent that would have induced one to believe Africa was on the Shannon, “we used to sit up all night, – it was so hot in the day; but we always called it breakfast, for you see – ”

“And when are we to visit your pictures, Mr. Cashel?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, whose efforts to suppress Peter were not merely vocal, as that injured individual’s shins might attest.

“That depends entirely on you, madam,” said Roland, bowing. “I have only to say, the earlier the more agreeable to me.”

“He has such a beautiful collection,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, turning to her sister.

“Indeed, then, I delight in pictures,” said “Aunt Fanny,” as her nieces called her. “I went the other day to Mount Bennett, to see a portrait painted by Rousseau.”

“By Rubens, I suppose you mean, aunt,” interposed Miss Kennyfeck, tartly.

“So it may be, my dear, I never know the names right; but it was a dark old man, with a hairy cap and a long gray beard, as like Father Morris Heffernan as ever it could stare.”

“Is your new Carlo Dolce so very like Olivia?” interposed Mrs. Kennyfeck, who was sadly hampered by her country relatives and their reminiscences.

“So very like, madam, that I beg you to accept it as a portrait,” replied Roland.

“Upon my word, then, young gentleman, you ‘re not so fond of a pretty face as you might be,” broke in Aunt Fanny, “or you would n’t be so ready to give it away.” A very hearty laugh at the old lady’s eccentricity relieved Cashel from all necessity of explanation.

“The old masters are so good,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck; “I delight in their fine, vigorous touch.”

“Why don’t they put more clothes on their figures,” said Aunt Fanny, “even a warm climate is no excuse for the way the creatures went about.”

“If you saw them in Hickweretickanookee,” said Peter, “King John never wore anything but a cocked-hat and a pair of short black gaiters the missionary gave him for learning the Lord’s Prayer.”

“I hear that Lady Janet said Cary would be an excellent study for Helen M’Gregor,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck. “It was scarcely civil, however.”

“It was more, – downright rude,” said Cashel, reddening; “but Miss Kennyfeck can afford to pay the penalty beauty always yields to its opposite.”

“There, my dear, that’s a compliment,” said Aunt Fanny, “and don’t be displeased. I say, darling, did n’t he say a while ago you were like somebody at Carlow?”

“A Carlo Dolce, aunt,” broke in both sisters, laughing; and so the dinner proceeded amid commonplaces, relieved occasionally from their flatness by the absurdities of Aunt Fanny, who seemed as good-naturedly proof against ridicule, as she was likely to evoke it.

Peter was the first to rise from table, as he was anxious to go to “the play,” and the ladies soon retired to the drawing-room, Mrs. Kennyfeck slyly whispering, as she passed behind Roland’s chair, an entreaty that he would not long delay in following them. Cashel’s anxiety to close his tête-à-tête arose from another cause, – his burning anxiety to finish Enrique’s letter; while Kennyfeck himself seemed beating about, uncertain how to open subjects he desired to have discussed. After a long pause, he said, —

“I was speaking to Pepystell yesterday, and he is of opinion that there is no use in preserving any part of the old structure at Tubbermore, – the great difficulty of adapting a new character of architecture to the old would not repay the cost.”

Cashel nodded a careless assent, and, after a pause, Kennyfeck resumed: —

“It might be of some convenience at present, however, to let the building stand as it is. A residence of one kind or other you will want, particularly as the elections are approaching.”

Another nod in silence was all the reply.

“Pepystells estimate is large, – don’t you think so?”

He nodded again.

“Nearly seventy thousand pounds! And that does not include the gate tower, which seems a point for after consideration.”

“I remember,” muttered Cashel, in a voice that implied anything rather than a mind attentive to the subject before it.

“Now, it would be as well,” said Mr. Kennyfeck, drawing a long breath, and, as it were, preparing himself for a great effort, “to put a little order into our affairs. Your first year or two will be costly ones, – building expenses, equipage, horses, furniture, election charges. Much of your capital is vested in foreign securities, which it would be injurious to sell at this moment. Don’t you think” – here he changed his voice to an almost insinuating softness – “don’t you think that by devoting a certain portion of your income, – say a third, or one-half, perhaps, – for the present, to meet these charges – ” He paused, for he saw from Cashel’s occupied look that he was not attending to his words.

“Well – continue,” said Roland, affecting to wait for his conclusion.

“I was about to ask, sir,” said Kennyfeck, boldly, “what sum would you deem sufficient for your yearly expenditure?”

“What is the amount of my income?” asked Cashel, bluntly.

“In good years, something above sixteen thousand pounds; in bad ones, somewhat less than twelve.”

“Well, then, – you have the scale of my expenditure at once.”

“Not your whole income?” exclaimed Kennyfeck, astonished.

“Even so. I see no earthly reason for hoarding. I do not find that squandering money is any very high enjoyment; I am certain scraping and saving it would afford me still less pleasure.”

“But there are always casualties demanding extraordinary expense, – a contested election, for instance.”

“I ‘ll not try it, – I don’t intend to enter Parliament.”

“When you marry – ”

“Perhaps I shall not do that either.”

“Well, sums lost at play, – the turf has pressed on many a strong pocket.”

“Play has no fascination for me; I can give it up: I may almost say I have done so.”

“Not without paying a heavy penalty, however,” said Kennyfeck, whose animation showed that he had at last approached the territory he was so long in search of.

“How do you mean?” said Cashel, blushing deeply, as he began to fear that by some accident his secret visit to the money-lender had reached Kennyfeck’s ears.

“Your drafts on Latrobe, sir, whose account I have received to-day, are very heavy.”

“Oh, is that all?” said Cashel, carelessly.

“All! all!” repeated Kennyfeck; then, suddenly correcting himself, he added, “I am almost certain, sir, that your generous habits have over-mastered your prudence. Are you aware of having drawn fifty thousand pounds?”

“No, I really was not,” replied Cashel, smiling more at the attorney’s look of consternation than anything else. “I fancied about half as much. Pray tell me some of the items. No, no! not from book; that looks too formal, – just from memory.”

“Well, there are horses without number, – one bought with all his engagements for the Oaks, which amount to a forfeiture of four thousand pounds.”

“I remember that, – a piece of Linton’s blundering; but he lost more heavily himself, poor fellow, our steed Lanz-knecht having turned out a dead failure.”

“Then there is something about a villa at Cowes, which I am certain you never saw.”

“No; but I have a drawing of it somewhere – a pretty thing under a cliff, with a beautiful bay of deep water, and good anchorage. Linton knows all about it.”

“Twelve thousand pounds is a large sum to give without ever seeing the purchase.”

“So it is; but go on.”

“I cannot remember one-half; but there is plate and jewels; sums advanced for building; subscriptions to everything and everybody; a heavy amount transmitted to the Havannah.”

“Very true; and that reminds me of a letter which I received at the very moment I was leaving home. Have I your leave to finish the reading? It is from an old and valued comrade.”

“Of course, – don’t think of me for an instant,” said Kennyfeck, scarcely able to repress an open acknowledgment of his amazement at the coolness which could turn from so interesting a topic to the, doubtless commonplace, narrative of some Mexican sailor.

Cashel was, meanwhile, searching every pocket for the letter, which he well remembered, after reading in the carriage, to have crushed in his hand as he ascended the stairs. “I have dropped this letter,” said he, in a voice of great agitation. “May I ask if your servants have found it?”

The bell was rung, and the butler at once interrogated. He had seen nothing, neither had the footman. They both remembered, however that Mr. Phillis had accompanied his master to the foot of the stairs to receive some directions, and then left him to return with the carriage.

“So, then, Phillis must have found it,” said Cashel, rising hastily; and, without a word of apology or excuse, he bade his host a hurried good evening, and left the room.

“Won’t you have the carriage? Will you not stay for a cup of tea?” cried Mr. Kennyfeck, hastening after him. But the hall-door had already banged heavily behind him, and he was gone. When Cashel reached his house, it was to endure increased anxiety; for Mr. Phillis had gone out, and, like a true gentleman’s gentleman, none of the other servants knew anything of his haunts, or when he would return. Leaving Cashel, then, to the tortures of a suspense which his fervid nature made almost intolerable, we shall return for a brief space to the house he had just quitted, and to the drawing-room, where, in momentary expectation of his appearance, the ladies sat, maintaining that species of “staccato” conversation which can afford interruption with least inconvenience. It is our duty to add, that we bring the reader back here less with any direct object as to what is actually going forward, than to make him better acquainted with the new arrival.

Had Miss O’Hara been the mere quiet, easy-going, simple-minded elderly maiden she seemed to Cashel’s eyes, the step on our part had not been needed; she might, like some other characters of our tale, have been suffered to glide by as ghosts or stage-supernumeraries do, unquestioned and undetained; but she possessed qualities of a kind to demand somewhat more consideration. Aunt Fanny, to give her the title by which she was best known, was, in reality, a person of the keenest insight into others, – reading people at sight, and endowed with a species of intuitive perception of all the possible motives which lead to any action. Residing totally in a small town in the west of Ireland, she rarely visited the capital, and was now, in fact, brought up “special” by her sister, Mrs. Kennyfeck, who desired to have her advice and counsel on the prospect of securing Cashel for one or other of her daughters. It was so far a wise step, that in such a conjuncture no higher opinion could have been obtained.

“It was like getting a private hint from the Chancellor about a cause in equity.” This was Mr. Kennyfeck’s own illustration.

Aunt Fanny was then there in the guise of a domestic detective, to watch proceedings and report on them, – a function which simplifies the due conduct of a case, be it in love or law, beyond anything.

“How agreeable your papa must be this evening, my dear!” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, as with a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece she recognized that it was near ten.

“I ‘m sure he is deep in one of his interminable law arguments, which always makes Mr. Cashel so sleepy and so stupid, that he never recovers for the rest of the evening.”

“He ought to find the drawing-room all the pleasanter for the contrast,” remarked Miss O’Hara, dryly. “I like to see young men – mind me well, young men, it does n’t do with old ones – thoroughly bored before they come among the ladies. The sudden change to the tea, and the wax-lights, and the bright eyes, are trying stimulants. Let them, however, be what they call ‘pleasant’ below-stair, and they are sure to come up flushed and excited, well satisfied with the host’s claret, and only anxious to order the carriage. What o’clock is it now?”

“A quarter-past ten, aunt.”

“Too late; full three-quarters too late,” ejaculated she, with the tone of an oracle. “There is nothing your father could have to say should have detained him till now. Play that little Mexican thing again, my dear; and, Livy, love, leave the door a little open; don’t you find the heat of this room intolerable?”

The young ladies obeyed, and meanwhile Aunt Fanny, drawing her chair closer to her sister’s, said, in a low tone, —

“Well, explain the matter more clearly. Did he give her the diamonds?”

“No; that is the strangest of all,” responded Mrs. Kennyfeck. “He just told Leonard to send them home, and we never heard more about them.”

Aunt Fanny shook her head.

“You know, he asked Olivia, as they were going downstairs, what she thought of them; and she replied, ‘They ‘re beautiful.’”

“How did she say it, though; was it like a mere casual remark, or did she make it with feeling?”

“With feeling,” echoed Mrs. Kennyfeck, pursing up her lips.

“Well?”

“Well! he just said, ‘I’ll take them,’ and there was an end of it.”

Aunt Fanny seemed to reflect, and, after some time, said, —

“Now, as to the horse, when did he make her a present of that?”

“It was to Caroline he gave the horse; sure I told you already.”

“Very true, so you did; a bad feature of the case, too! She ought to have declined it somehow.”

“So she would,” broke in Mrs. Kennyfeck; “but, you perceive, it was very doubtful, at the time, which of the girls he preferred.”

“And you tell me this Mr. Linton has such influence over him.”

“The most absolute. It is only a few weeks since they became acquainted, and now they are inseparable.”

“What is he like, – Linton himself?”

Mrs. Kennyfeck gave a most significant signal, by closing up her lips, and slowly nodding her head, – a gesture that seemed well understood.

“Does Kennyfeck know nothing of his affairs; has he no private history of the man, which might be useful to us?”

“Don’t think of that, my dear,” rejoined Mrs. Kennyfeck, knowingly; “but here they come at last.” This was said with reference to the sound of footsteps on the stairs, which gradually approached, and at last Mr. Kennyfeck made his appearance in the drawing-room.

“Where is Mr. Cashel, – is he gone?” asked Mrs. Kennyfeck, in an accent of unusual anxiety.

“He went away above an hour ago. He wanted to see a letter, or to write one, or to look for one he had lost, – I forget which.”

“I’m certain you do!” observed Mrs. Kennyfeck, with an expression of unequivocal contempt. “I am perfectly certain we need not look to you for either information or assistance.”

Poor Mr. Kennyfeck was dumfoundered. The very words were riddles to him, and he turned to each person about him in silent entreaty for explanation; but none came.

“What had you been conversing about?” asked Aunt Fanny, in that encouraging tone lawyers sometimes use to draw out a reluctant or bashful witness.

“Of his money affairs, Miss O’Hara; and I am grieved to say that the subject had so little interest for him, that he started up and left me on suddenly remembering something about a letter.”

“Which something you have totally forgotten,” remarked Mrs. Kennyfeck, tartly.

“And yet it would be a most important fact for us,” observed Aunt Fanny, with judicial solemnity; “a letter, whether to read or to write, of such pressing necessity, implies much.”

“Come, Livy, dear,” said Miss Kennyfeck, rising from the pianoforte, and addressing her sister, who sat reading on the sofa, “my canzonette and your beautiful attitude are so much sweetness thrown away. He’s gone without even a thought of either! There, there, don’t look so innocently vacant, – you understand me perfectly.”

A very gentle smile was all the younger sister’s reply as she left the room.

“Depend upon it, my dear,” said Miss O’Hara to Mrs. Kennyfeck, “that young man had made some unhappy connection; that’s the secret of this letter, and when they get into a scrape of the kind it puts marriage out of their heads altogether. It was the same with Captain Morris,” – here she whispered still lower, the only audible words being, “without my ever suspecting, – one evening – a low creature – never set eyes upon – ah, man, man!” And with this exclamation aloud, Aunt Fanny took her candle and retired.

About a minute after, however, she re-entered the drawing-room, and advancing close to her sister, said, with all the solemnity of deep thought, —

“Peter is no good in this case, my dear; send him home at once. That man will ‘blaze’ for the asking.” And with a nod of immense significance she finally withdrew.

CHAPTER XX. HOW ENRIQUE’S LETTER WAS LOST AND FOUND

“Arcades ambo!”Blackguards both!

In the window of a very pretty cottage-room overlooking the Liffey, and that romantic drive so well known to Dub-liners as the “low road” to Lucan, sat Tom Linton. He was enjoying a cigar and a glass of weak negus, as a man may enjoy such luxuries seated in the easiest of chairs, looking out upon one of the sweetest of woodland landscapes, and feeling the while that the whole was “his own.” If conscientious scruples had been any part of that gentleman’s life philosophy, he might have suffered some misgivings, seeing that the cottage itself, its furniture, the plate, the very horses in the stable and the grooms about it, had been won at the hazard-table, and from one whose beggary ended in suicide. But Linton did not dwell on such things, and if they did for an instant cross his mind, he dismissed them at once with a contemptuous pity for the man who could not build up a fortune by the arts with which he had lost one. He had not begun the world himself with much principle, and all his experiences went to prove that even less would suffice, and that for the purposes of the station he occupied, and the society he frequented, it was only necessary that he should not transgress in his dealings with men of a certain rank and condition; so that while every transaction with people of class and fashion should be strictly on “the square,” he was at perfect liberty to practise any number of sharp things with all beneath them. It was the old axiom of knight-errantry adapted to our own century, which made every weapon fair used against the plebeian!

From a pleasant revery over some late successes and some future ones in anticipation, he was aroused by a gentle tap at the door.

“Come in,” said he; “I think I guess who it is, – Phillis, eh?”

“Yes, sir, you’re quite correct,” said that individual, advancing from the misty twilight of the room, which was only partly lighted by a single alabaster lamp. “I thought I’d find you at home, sir, and I knew this letter might interest you. He dropped it when going up the stairs at Kennyfeck’s, and could scarcely have read it through.”

“Sit down, George – sit down, man – what will you take? I see you ‘ve had a fast drive; if that was your car I heard on the road, your pace was tremendous. What shall it be – claret – sherry – brandy-and-water?”

“If you please, sir, sherry. I have lost all palate for Bordeaux since I came to Mr. Cashel. We get abominable wine from Cullan.”

“So I remarked myself; but this must be looked to. Come, try that; it’s some of Gordon’s, and he would not send a bad bottle to me.”

“I ‘m very certain of that, sir. It is excellent.”

“Now then for the epistle.” So saying, he lighted a taper and prepared to read.. “Jamaica, – oh, a shipmate’s letter!”

“A curious one, too, sir, as you ‘ll say when you read it.”

Linton, without reply, began to read, nor did he break silence till he finished, when, laying down the paper, he said, “And this very fellow who writes this he actually spoke of inviting to Ireland, – to stay some time at his house, – to be introduced, in fact, to his acquaintances as a personal friend.”

“It’s very sad, sir,” sighed Phillis. “I have long been of opinion that I must leave him. The appointments, it is true, are good; perquisites, too, very handsome; but the future, Mr. Linton, – what a future it will be!”

“It need not be a very near one, at all events,” said Linton, smiling; “you’ve read this?”

“Just threw an eye over it, sir!”

“Well, you see that your excellent master has been little better than a pirate or a slaver.”

“Very shocking, indeed, sir!”

“Of course this must not go abroad, George.”

“It would ruin me utterly, sir.”

“To be sure it would. No nobleman, nor any gentleman of rank or fashion, could think of engaging your services after such an appointment. Happily, George, you may not require such, if you only mind your hits. Your master can afford to make your fortune, and never know himself the poorer. Come, how go on matters latterly at No. 50?”

“Pretty much as usual, sir; two dinner-parties last week.”

“I know all about them, though I affected to be engaged and did n’t dine there. What I want is to hear of these Kennyfecks, – do they come much after him?”

“Only once, sir, when they came to see the house and stopped to luncheon.”

“Well, was he particular in his attentions to either of the daughters?”

“Very attentive, indeed, sir, to the younger. She dropped her handkerchief in the gallery, and ran back for it, and so did he, sir.”

“You followed, of course?”

“I did, sir, and she was blushing very much as I came in, and I heard her say something about ‘forgiving him,’ and then they left the room.”

“And what of Kennyfeck, – has he had any conversations with him on business?”

“None, sir; I have strictly followed your orders, and never admitted him.”