Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)

“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.

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.