The Bramleighs of Bishop's Folly

“Are you alone, Nelly?” said her eldest brother, some time after, as he came up, and found her sitting, lost in thought, under a tree.

“Yes. Marion got tired and went in, and Temple went to ask papa about inviting some high and mighty personage who chances to be in our neighborhood.”

“Who is he?”

“Lord Culduff, he called him.”

“Oh! a tremendous swell; an ambassador somewhere. What brings him down here?”

“I forget. Yes! it was something about a mine; he has found tin, or copper, or coal, I don’t remember which, on some property of his here. By the way, Augustus, do you really think George L’Estrange a fool?”

“Think him a fool?”

“I mean,” said she, blushing deeply, “Marion holds his intelligence so cheaply that she is quite shocked at his presuming to be in orders.”

“Well, I don’t think him exactly what Temple calls an esprit fort, but he is a very nice fellow, very companionable, and a thorough gentleman in all respects.”

“How well you have said it, dear Augustus,” said she, with a face beaming with delight. “Where are you off to? Where are you going?”

“I am going to see the yearlings, in the paddock below the river.”

“May I go with you, Gussy?” said she, drawing her arm within his. “I do like a brisk walk with you; and you always go like one with a purpose.”

CHAPTER V. CONFIDENTIAL TALK

Temple found his father in his study, deeply engaged with a mass of papers and letters, and by the worn and fatigued expression of his face showing that he had passed a day of hard work.

“I hope I do not disturb you,” said Temple, as he leaned on the table at which the other was seated.

“Throw that cigar away, and I’ll tell you,” said the old man, with a faint smile. “I never can conquer my aversion to tobacco. What do you want to say? Is it anything we cannot talk over at dinner, or after dinner? – for this post leaves at such an inconvenient hour, it gives me scant time to write.”

“I beg a thousand pardons, sir; but I have just heard that a very distinguished member of our corps – I mean the diplomatic corps – is down in this neighborhood, and I want your permission to ask him over here.”

“Who is he?”

“Lord Culduff.”

“What! that old scamp who ran away with Lady Clifford? I thought he could n’t come to England?”

“Why, sir, he is one of the first men we have. It was he that negotiated the Erzeroum treaty, and I heard Sir Stamford Bolter say he was the only man in England who understood the Sound dues.”

“He ran off with another man’s wife, and I don’t like that.”

“Well, sir, as he didn’t marry her afterwards, it was clear it was only a passing indiscretion.”

“Oh, indeed! that view of it never occurred to me. I suppose, then, it is in this light the corps regards it?”

“I trust so, sir. Where there is no complication there is no loss of character; and as Lord Culduff is received everywhere, and courted in the very best circles, I think it would be somewhat strange if we were to set up to teach the world how it ought to treat him.”

“I have no such pretension. I simply claim the right to choose the people I invite to my house.”

“He may be my chief to-morrow or next day,” said Temple.

“So much the worse for you.”

“Certainly not, sir, if we seize the opportunity to show him some attentions. He is a most high-bred gentleman, and from his abilities, his rank, and his connections, sure to be at the head of the line; and I confess I ‘d be very much ashamed if he were to hear, as he is sure to hear, that I was in his vicinity without my ever having gone to wait on him.”

“Go by all means, then. Wait upon him at once, Temple; but I tell you frankly, I don’t fancy presenting such a man to your sisters.”

“Why, sir, there is not a more unobjectionable man in all England; his manners are the very type of respectful deference towards ladies. He belongs to that old school which professes to be shocked with modern levity, while his whole conversation is a sort of quiet homage.”

“Well, well; how long would he stay, – a week?”

“A couple of days, perhaps, if he came at all. Indeed, I greatly doubt that he would come. They say he is here about some coal-mine they have discovered on his property.”

“What! has he found coal?” cried the old man, eagerly.

“So it is said, sir; or, at least, he hopes so.”

“It’s only lignite. I ‘m certain it’s only lignite. I have been deceived myself twice or thrice, and I don’t believe coal – real coal – exists in this part of Ireland.”

“Of that I can tell you nothing; he, however, will only be too glad to talk the matter over with you.”

“Yes; it is an interesting topic, – very interesting. Snell says that the great carboniferous strata are all in Ireland, but that they lie deep, and demand vast capital to work them. He predicts a great manufacturing prosperity to the country when Manchester and Birmingham will have sunk into ruins. He opines that this lignite is a mere indication of the immense vein of true carbon beneath. But what should this old debauchee know of a great industrial theme! His whole anxiety will be to turn it to some immediate profit. He ‘ll be looking for a loan, you ‘ll see. Mark my words, Temple, he ‘ll want an advance on his colliery.” And he gave one of those rich chuckling laughs which are as peculiar to the moneyed classes as ever a simpering smile was to enamelled beauty.

“I don’t say,” added he, after a moment, “that the scheme may not be a good one, – an excellent one. Sampson says that all manufactures will be transferred to Ireland yet, – that this will be in some future time the great seat of national industry and national wealth. Let your grand friend come then, by all means; there is at least one topic we can talk over together.”

Too happy to risk the success he had obtained by any further discussion, Temple hurried away to give orders for the great man’s reception. There was a small suite of rooms which had been furnished with unusual care and elegance when it was believed that Lady Augusta would have honored Castello with her presence. Indeed, she had so far favored the belief as to design some of the decorations herself, and had photographs taken of the rooms and the furniture, as well as of the views which presented themselves from the windows.

Though these rooms were on the second floor, they were accessible from without by a carriage-drive, which wound gradually up among the terraced gardens to a sort of plateau where a marble fountain stood, with a group of Naiads in the midst, over whom a perpetual spray fell like a veil; the whole surrounded with flowery shrubs and rare plants, sheltered from east and north by a strong belt of trees, and actually imparting to the favored spot the character of a southern climate and country.

As the gardener was careful to replace the exhausted or faded flowers by others in full bloom, and as on every available day he displayed here the richest treasures of his conservatory, there was something singularly beautiful in the contrast of this foreground, glowing in tropical luxuriance, with the massive forest-trees down below, and farther in the distance the stern and rugged lines of the Mourne Mountains, as they frowned on the sea.

Within doors, everything that wealth could contribute to comfort was present, and though there was magnificence in the costly silk of the hangings and the velvety richness of the carpets, the prevailing impression was that it was enjoyment, not splendor, was sought for. There were few pictures, – a Ruysdael over the fireplace in the drawing-room, and two or three Cuyps, – placid scenes of low-lying landscapes, bathed in soft sunsets. The doors were all hidden by heavy curtains, and a sense of voluptuous snugness seemed the spirit of the place.

The keys of this precious suite were in Marion’s keeping, and as she walked through the rooms with Temple, and expatiated on the reckless expenditure bestowed on them, she owned that for any less distinguished guest than the great diplomatist she would never have consented to their being opened. Temple, however, was loud in his praises, went over his high connections and titled relatives, his great services, and the immense reputation they had given him, and, last of all, he spoke of his personal qualities, the charm of his manner, and the captivation of his address, so that finally she became as eager as himself to see this great and gifted man beneath their roof.

During the evening they talked much together of what they should do to entertain their illustrious guest. There was, so to say, no neighborhood, nor any possibility of having people to meet him, and they must, consequently, look to their home resources to amuse him.

“I hope Augustus will be properly attentive,” said Temple.

“I ‘m certain he will. I ‘m more afraid of Nellie, if there be anything strange or peculiar in Lord Culduff’s manner. She never puts any curb on her enjoyment of an oddity, and you’ll certainly have to caution her that her humoristic talents must be kept in abeyance just now.”

“I can trust Lord Culduff’s manner to repress any tendency of this kind. Rely upon it, his courtly urbanity and high tone will protect him from all indiscretions; and Nelly, – I ‘m sorry to say it, Marion, but Nelly is vulgar.”

“She is certainly too familiar on fresh acquaintance. I have told her more than once that you do not always please people by showing you are on good terms with yourself. It is a great misfortune to her that she never was ‘out’ before she came here. One season in town would have done more for her than all our precepts.”

“Particularly as she heeds them so little,” said Temple, snappishly.

“Cannot we manage to have some people to meet Lord Culduff at dinner? Who are the Gages who left their cards?”

“They sent them – not left them. Montifort Gage is the master of the hounds, and, I believe, a person of some consideration here. He does not, however, appear to invite much intimacy. His note acknowledging our subscription – it was a hundred pounds too – was of the coldest, and we exchanged a very few formal words at the meet yesterday.”

“Are we going to repeat the Herefordshire experiment here, then?” And she asked the question with a sparkling eye and a flushed cheek, as though the feeling it excited was not easily to be repressed.

“There ‘s a Sir Roger Kennedy, too, has called.”

“Yes, and Harding says he is married; but his wife’s name is not on the card.”

“I take it they know very little of the habits of the world. Let us remember, Marion, where we are. Iceland is next door but one. I thought Harding would have looked to all this; he ought to have taken care that the county was properly attentive. An agent never wishes to see his chief reside on the property. It is like in my own career, – one is only chargé d’affaires when the head of the legation is on leave.”

“And this was the county we were told was ready to receive us with a sort of frantic enthusiasm. I wonder, Temple, do people ever tell the truth!”

“Yes, when they want you not to believe them. You see, Marion, we blundered here pretty much as we blundered in England. You’ll not get the governor to believe it, nor perhaps even Augustus, but there is a diplomacy of everyday life, and people who fancy they can dispense with it invariably come to grief. Now I always told them – indeed I grew tired telling them – every mile that separates you from a capital diminishes the power of your money. In the city you reign supreme, but to be a county magnate you need scores of things besides a long credit at your banker’s.”

A very impatient toss of the head showed that Marion herself was not fully a convert to these sage opinions, and it was with a half-rude abruptness that she broke in by asking how he intended to convey his invitation to Lord Culduff.

“There ‘s the difficulty,” said he, gravely. “He is going about from one place to another. Harding says he was at Rathbeggan on Sunday last, and was going on to Dinasker next day. I have been looking over the map, but I see no roads to these places. I think our best plan is to despatch Lacy with a letter. Lacy is the smartest fellow we have, and I think will be sure to find him. But the letter, too, is a puzzle.”

“Why should it be? It will be, I suppose, a mere formal invitation?”

“No, no. It would never do to say, ‘Colonel Bramleigh presents his compliments, and requests’ – and so on. The thing must have another tone. It ought to have a certain turn of expression.”

“I am not aware of what amount of acquaintanceship exists between you and Lord Culduff,” said she, stiffly.

“The very least in life. I suspect if we met in a club we should pass without speaking. I arrived at his Legation on the morning he was starting on leave. I remember he asked me to breakfast, but I declined, as I had been three days and nights on the road, and wanted to get to bed. I never met him since. What makes you look so serious, Marion?”

“I’m thinking what we shall do with him if he comes. Does he shoot, or hunt, or fish? – can you give him any out-o’-door occupation?”

“I’m quite abroad as to all his tastes and habits. I only know so much of him as pertains to his character in the ‘line,’ but I ‘ll go and write my note. I ‘ll come back and show you what I have said,” added he, as he gained the door.

When Marion was left alone to reflect over her brother’s words, she was not altogether pleased. She was no convert to his opinions as to the necessity of any peculiar stratagem in the campaign of life. She had seen the house in town crowded with very great and distinguished company; she had observed how wealth asserted itself in society, and she could not perceive that in their acceptance by the world there was any the slightest deficiency of deference and respect. If they had failed in their county experiment in England, it was, she thought, because her father rashly took up an extreme position in politics, a mistake which Augustus indeed saw and protested against, but which some rash advisers were able to over-persuade the Colonel into adopting.

Lady Augusta, too, was an evidence that the better classes did not decline this alliance, and on the whole she felt that Temple’s reasonings were the offshoots of his peculiar set; that small priesthood of society who hold themselves so essentially above the great body of mankind.

“Not that we must make any more mistakes, however,” thought she. “Not that we can afford another defeat;” and as she arrived at this sage judgment, Temple entered, with some sheets of note-paper in his hand.

“I ‘m not quite satisfied with any of these, Marion; I suspect I must just content myself with a mere formal ‘requests the company.’”

“Let me hear what you have said.”

“Here ‘s the first,” said he, reading. “‘My dear Lord, – The lucky accident of your Lordship’s presence in this neighborhood – which I have only accidentally learned.’”

“Oh, dear, no! that’s a chapter of 4 accidents.’”

“Well; listen to this one: ‘If I can trust to a rumor that has just reached us here, but which, it is possible our hopes may have given a credence to, that stern fact will subsequently deny, or reject, or contradict.’ I ‘m not fully sure which verb to take.”

“Much worse than the other,” said Marion.

“It’s all the confounded language; I could turn it in French to perfection.”

“But I fancied your whole life was passed in this sort of phrase-fashioning, Temple,” said she, half smiling.

“Nothing of the kind. We keep the vernacular only for post-paper, and it always begins: ‘My Lord, – Since by my despatch No. 7,028, in which I reported to your Lordship the details of an interview accorded me by the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs of this Government;’ and so on. Now all this, to the polite intercourse of society, is pretty much what singlestick is to the rapier. I wish you ‘d do this for me, Marion. After so many balks, one always ends by a tumble.”

“I declare, I see no occasion for smartness or epigram. I ‘d simply say, ‘I have only just heard that you are in our neighborhood, and I beg to convey my father’s hope and request that you will not leave it without giving us the honor of your company here.’ You can throw in as many of your personal sentiments as may serve, like wool in a packing-case, to keep the whole tight and compact; but I think something like that would suffice.”

“Perhaps so,” said he, musingly, as he once more returned to his room. When he reappeared, after some minutes, it was with the air and look of a man who had just thrown off some weighty burden. “Thank Heaven, it’s done and despatched!” said he. “I have been looking over the F. O. Guide, to see whether I addressed him aright. I fancied he was a Privy Councillor, and I find he is not; he is a K.C.B., however, and a Guelph, with leave to wear the star.”

“Very gratifying to us, – I mean if he should come here,” said she, with a mocking smile.

“Don’t pretend you do not value all these things fully as much as myself, Marion. You know well what the world thinks of them. These distinctions were no more made by us than the money of the realm; but we use one of them like the other, well aware that it represents a certain value, and is never disputed.”

“How old is your friend?”

“Well, he is certainly not young. Here’s what F. O. contributes to his biography. ‘Entered the army as cornet in the 2nd Life Guards, 1816.’ A precious long time ago that. ‘First groom of the bedchamber – promoted – placed on half-pay – entered diplomatic service – in – 19; special mission to Hanover – made K.C.B. – contested Essex, and returned on a petition – went back to diplomacy, and named special envoy to Teheran.’ Ah! now we are coming to his real career.”

“Oh, dear! I ‘d rather hear about him somewhat earlier,” said she, taking the book out of his hand, and throwing it on the table. “It is a great penalty to pay for greatness to be gibbeted in this fashion. Don’t you think so, Temple?”

“I wish I could see myself gibbeted, as you call it.”

“If the will makes the way, we ought to be very great people,” said she, with a smile, half derisive, half real. “Jack, perhaps not; nor Ellen. They have booked themselves in second-class carriages.”

“I’ll go and look up Harding; he is a secret sort of a fellow. I believe all agents assume that manner to every one but the head of the house and the heir. But perhaps I could manage to find out why these people have not called upon us; there must be something in it.”

“I protest I think we ought to feel grateful to them; an exchange of hospitalities with them would be awful.”

“Very likely; but I think we ought to have had the choice, and this they have not given us.”

“And even for that I am grateful,” said she, as with a haughty look she rose and left the room.

CHAPTER VI. UP IN THE MOUNTAINS

About eighteen miles from Bishop’s Folly, and in the very midst of the Mourne Mountains, a low spur of land projects into the sea by a thin, narrow promontory, so narrow, indeed, that in days of heavy sea and strong wind, the waves have been seen to meet across it. Some benevolent individual had once conceived the idea of planting a small lighthouse here, as a boon to the fishermen who frequent the coast. The lighthouse was built, but never occupied, and after standing some years in a state of half ruin, was turned into a sort of humble inn or shebeen, most probably a mere pretext to cover its real employment as a depot for smuggled goods; for in the days of high duties French silks and brandies found many channels into Ireland besides the road that lay through her Majesty’s customs. Mr., or, as he was more generally called, Tim Mackessy, the proprietor, was a well-known man in those parts. He followed what in Ireland for some years back has been as much a profession as law or physic, and occasionally a more lucrative line than either, – Patriotism. He was one of those ready, voluble, self-asserting fellows, who abound in Ireland, but whose favor is not the less with their countrymen from the fact of their frequency. He had, he said, a father, who suffered for his country in ninety-eight; and he had himself maintained the family traditions by being twice imprisoned in Carrickfergus jail, and narrowly escaping transportation for life. On the credit of this martyrdom, and the fact that Mr. O’Connell once called him “honest Tim Mackessy,” he had lived in honor and repute amongst such of his countrymen as “feel the yoke and abhor the rule of the Saxon.”

For the present, we are, however, less occupied by Tim and his political opinions than by two guests, who had arrived a couple of days before, and were now seated at breakfast in that modest apartment called the best parlor. Two men less like in appearance might not readily be found. One, thin, fresh-looking, with handsome but haughty features, slightly stooped, but to all seeming as much from habit as from any debility, was Lord Culduff; his age might be computed by some reference to the list of his services, but would have been a puzzling calculation from a mere inspection of himself. In figure and build, he might be anything from five-and-thirty to two or three and forty; in face, at a close inspection, he might have been high up in the sixties.

His companion was a middle-sized, middle-aged man, with a mass of bushy curly black hair, a round bullet head, wide-set eyes, and a short nose, of the leonine pattern; his mouth, large and thick-lipped, had all that mobility that denotes talker and eater: for Mr. Cutbill, civil engineer and architect, was both garrulous and gourmand, and lived in the happy enjoyment of being thought excellent company, and a first-rate judge of a dinner. He was musical too; he played the violoncello with some skill, and was an associate of various philharmonics, who performed fantasias and fugues to dreary old ladies and snuffy old bachelors, who found the amusement an economy that exacted nothing more costly than a little patience. Among these Tom Cutbill was a man of wit and man of the world. His career brought him from time to time into contact with persons of high station and rank, and these he ventilated amongst his set in the most easy manner, familiarly talking of Beaufort, and Argyle, and Cleveland, as though they were household words.

It was reported that he had some cleverness as an actor; and he might have had, for the man treated life as a drama, and was eternally representing something, – some imaginary character, – till any little fragment of reality in him had been entirely rubbed out by the process, and he remained the mere personation of whatever the society he chanced to be in wanted or demanded of him.

He had been recommended to Lord Culduff’s notice by his Lordship’s London agent, who had said, “He knows the scientific part of his business as well as the great swells of his profession, and he knows the world a precious sight better than they do. They could tell you if you have coal, but he will do that and more; he will tell you what to do with it.” It was on the advice thus given Lord Culduff had secured his services, and taken him over to Ireland. It was a bitter pill to swallow, for this old broken-down man of fashion, self-indulgent, fastidious, and refined, to travel in such company; but his affairs were in a sad state, from years of extravagance and high living, and it was only by the supposed discovery of these mines on this unprofitable part of his estate that his creditors consented to defer that settlement which might sweep away almost all that remained to him. Cutbill was told, too, – “His Lordship is rather hard up just now, and cannot be liberal as he could wish; but he is a charming person to know, and will treat you like a brother.” The one chink in this shrewd fellow’s armor was his snobbery. It was told of him once, in a very dangerous illness, when all means of inducing perspiration had failed, that some one said, “Try him with a lord; it never failed with Tom yet.” If an untitled squire had proposed to take Mr. Cutbill over special to Ireland for a hundred pound note and his expenses, he would have indignantly refused the offer, and assisted the proposer besides to some unpalatable reflections on his knowledge of life; the thought, however, of journeying as Lord Culduff’s intimate friend, being treated as his brother, thrown, from the very nature of the country they travelled in, into close relations, and left free to improve the acquaintance by all those social wiles and accomplishments on which he felt he could pride himself, was a bribe not to be resisted. And thus was it that these two men, so unlike in every respect, found themselves fellow-travellers and companions.