THE EARL OF CASHEL
About two o’clock on the following morning, Lord Ballindine set off for
Grey Abbey, on horseback, dressed with something more than ordinary
care, and with a considerable palpitation about his heart. He hardly
knew, himself, what or whom he feared, but he knew that he was afraid
of something. He had a cold, sinking sensation within him, and he felt
absolutely certain that he should be signally defeated in his present
mission. He had plenty of what is usually called courage; had his
friend recommended him instantly to call out Lord Kilcullen and shoot
him, and afterwards any number of other young men who might express a
thought in opposition to his claim on Miss Wyndham’s hand, he would
have set about it with the greatest readiness and aptitude; but he knew
he could not baffle the appalling solemnity of Lord Cashel, in his own
study. Frank was not so very weak a man as he would appear to be when
in the society of Blake. He unfortunately allowed Blake to think for
him in many things, and he found a convenience in having some one to
tell him what to do; but he was, in most respects, a better, and in
some, even a wiser man than his friend. He often felt that the kind of
life he was leading—contracting debts which he could not pay, and
spending his time in pursuits which were not really congenial to him,
was unsatisfactory and discreditable: and it was this very feeling, and
the inability to defend that which he knew to be wrong and foolish,
which made him so certain that he would not be able successfully to
persist in his claim to Miss Wyndham’s hand in opposition to the trite
and well-weighed objections, which he knew her guardian would put
forward. He consoled himself, however, with thinking that, at any rate,
they could not prevent his seeing her; and he was quite sanguine as to
her forgiveness, if he but got a fair opportunity of asking it. And
when that was obtained, why should he care for any one? Fanny would be
of age, and her own mistress, in a few days, and all the solemn earls
in England, and Ireland too, could not then prevent her marrying whom
and when she liked.
He thought a great deal on all his friend had said to his future
poverty; but then, his ideas and Blake’s were very different about
life. Blake’s idea of happiness was, the concentrating of every thing
into a focus for his own enjoyment; whereas he, Frank, had only had
recourse to dissipation and extravagance, because he had nothing to
make home pleasant to him. If he once had Fanny Wyndham installed as
Lady Ballindine, at Kelly’s Court, he was sure he could do his duty as
a country gentleman, and live on his income, be it what it might, not
only without grumbling, but without wishing for anything more. He was
fond of his country, his name, and his countrymen: he was fully
convinced of his folly in buying race-horses, and in allowing himself
to be dragged on the turf: he would sell Brien Boru, and the other two
Irish chieftains, for what they would fetch, and show Fanny and her
guardian that he was in earnest in his intention of reforming. Blake
might laugh at him if he liked; but he would not stay to be laughed at.
He felt that Handicap Lodge was no place for him; and besides, why
should he bear Dot’s disagreeable sarcasms? It was not the part of a
real friend to say such cutting things as he continually did. After
all, Lord Cashel would be a safer friend, or, at any rate, adviser;
and, instead of trying to defeat him by coolness or insolence, he would
at once tell him of all his intentions, explain to him exactly how
matters stood, and prove his good resolutions by offering to take
whatever steps the earl might recommend about the horses. This final
determination made him easier in this mind, and, as he entered the
gates of Grey Abbey Park, he was tolerably comfortable, trusting to his
own good resolutions, and the effect which he felt certain the
expression of them must have on Lord Cashel.
Grey Abbey is one of the largest but by no means one of the most
picturesque demesnes in Ireland. It is situated in the county of
Kildare, about two miles from the little town of Kilcullen, in a flat,
uninteresting, and not very fertile country. The park itself is
extensive and tolerably well wooded, but it wants water and undulation,
and is deficient of any object of attraction, except that of size and
not very magnificent timber. I suppose, years ago, there was an Abbey
here, or near the spot, but there is now no vestige of it remaining. In
a corner of the demesne there are standing the remains of one of those
strong, square, ugly castles, which, two centuries since, were the real
habitations of the landed proprietors of the country, and many of which
have been inhabited even to a much later date. They now afford the
strongest record of the apparently miserable state of life which even
the favoured of the land then endured, and of the numberless domestic
comforts which years and skill have given us, apt as we are to look
back with fond regret to the happy, by-gone days of past periods.
This old castle, now used as a cow-shed, is the only record of
antiquity at Grey Abbey; and yet the ancient family of the Greys have
lived there for centuries. The first of them who possessed property in
Ireland, obtained in the reign of Henry II, grants of immense tracts of
land, stretching through Wicklow, Kildare, and the Queen’s and King’s
Counties; and, although his descendants have been unable to retain,
through the various successive convulsions which have taken place in
the interior of Ireland since that time, anything like an eighth of
what the family once pretended to claim, the Earl of Cashel, their
present representative, has enough left to enable him to consider
himself a very great man.
The present mansion, built on the site of that in which the family had
lived till about seventy years since, is, like the grounds, large,
commodious, and uninteresting. It is built of stone, which appears as
if it had been plastered over, is three stories high, and the windows
are all of the same size, and at regular intervals. The body of the
house looks like a huge, square, Dutch old lady, and the two wings
might be taken for her two equally fat, square, Dutch daughters.
Inside, the furniture is good, strong, and plain. There are plenty of
drawing-rooms, sitting-rooms, bed-rooms, and offices; a small gallery
of very indifferent paintings, and a kitchen, with an excellent
kitchen-range, and patent boilers of every shape.
Considering the nature of the attractions, it is somewhat strange that
Lord Cashel should have considered it necessary to make it generally
known that the park might be seen any day between the hours of nine and
six, and the house, on Tuesdays and Fridays between the hours of eleven
and four. Yet such is the case, and the strangeness of this proceeding
on his part is a good deal diminished by the fact that persons, either
induced by Lord Cashel’s good nature, or thinking that any big house
must be worth seeing, very frequently pay half-a-crown to the
housekeeper for the privilege of being dragged through every room in
the mansion.
There is a bed there, in which the Regent slept when in Ireland, and a
room which was tenanted by Lord Normanby, when Lord Lieutenant. There
is, moreover, a satin counterpane, which was made by the lord’s aunt,
and a snuff-box which was given to the lord’s grandfather by Frederick
the Great. These are the lions of the place, and the gratification
experienced by those who see them is, no doubt, great; but I doubt if
it equals the annoyance and misery to which they are subjected in being
obliged to pass one unopened door—that of the private room of Lady
Selina, the only daughter of the earl at present unmarried.
It contains only a bed, and the usual instruments of a lady’s toilet;
but Lady Selina does not choose to have it shown, and it has become
invested, in the eyes of the visitors, with no ordinary mystery. Many a
petitionary whisper is addressed to the housekeeper on the subject, but
in vain; and, consequently, the public too often leave Grey Abbey
dissatisfied.
As Lord Ballindine rode through the gates, and up the long approach to
the house, he was so satisfied of the wisdom of his own final
resolution, and of the successful termination of his embassy under such
circumstances, that he felt relieved of the uncomfortable sensation of
fear which had oppressed him; and it was only when the six-foot high,
powdered servant told him, with a very solemn face, that the earl was
alone in the book-room—the odious room he hated so much—that he began
again to feel a little misgiving. However, there was nothing left for
him now, so he gave up his horse to the groom, and followed the
sober-faced servant into the book-room.
Lord Cashel was a man about sixty-three, with considerable external
dignity of appearance, though without any personal advantage, either in
face, figure, or manner. He had been an earl, with a large income, for
thirty years; and in that time he had learned to look collected, even
when his ideas were confused; to keep his eye steady, and to make a few
words go a long way. He had never been intemperate, and was, therefore,
strong and hale for his years,—he had not done many glaringly foolish
things, and, therefore, had a character for wisdom and judgment. He had
run away with no man’s wife, and, since his marriage, had seduced no
man’s daughter; he was, therefore, considered a moral man. He was not
so deeply in debt as to have his affairs known to every one; and hence
was thought prudent. And, as he lived in his own house, with his own
wife, paid his servants and labourers their wages regularly, and nodded
in church for two hours every Sunday, he was thought a good man. Such
were his virtues; and by these negative qualities—this _vis inertiæ_,
he had acquired, and maintained, a considerable influence in the
country.
When Lord Ballindine’s name was announced, he slowly rose, and, just
touching the tip of Frank’s fingers, by way of shaking hands with him,
hoped he had the pleasure of seeing him well.
The viscount hoped the same of the earl—and of the ladies. This
included the countess and Lady Selina, as well as Fanny, and was,
therefore, not a particular question; but, having hoped this, and the
earl remaining silent, he got confused, turned red, hummed and hawed a
little, sat down, and then, endeavouring to drown his confusion in
volubility, began talking quickly about his anxiety to make final
arrangements concerning matters, which, of course, he had most deeply
at heart; and, at last, ran himself fairly aground, from not knowing
whether, under the present circumstances, he ought to speak of his
affianced to her guardian as “Fanny”, or “Miss Wyndham”.
When he had quite done, and was dead silent, and had paused
sufficiently long to assure the earl that he was going to say nothing
further just at present, the great man commenced his answer.
“This is a painful subject, my lord—most peculiarly painful at the
present time; but, surely, after all that has passed—but especially
after what has _not_ passed”—Lord Cashel thought this was a dead
hit—“you cannot consider your engagement with Miss Wyndham to be still
in force?”
“Good gracious!—and why not, my lord? I am ready to do anything her
friends—in fact I came solely, this morning, to consult yourself,
about—I’m sure Fanny herself can’t conceive the engagement to be broken
off. Of course, if Miss Wyndham wishes it—but I can’t believe—I can’t
believe—if it’s about the horses, Lord Cashel, upon my word, I’m ready
to sell them to-day.”
This was not very dignified in poor Frank, and to tell the truth, he
was completely bothered. Lord Cashel looked so more than ordinarily
glum; had he been going to put on a black cap and pass sentence of
death, or disinherit his eldest son, he could not have looked more
stern or more important. Frank’s lack of dignity added to his, and made
him feel immeasurably superior to any little difficulty which another
person might have felt in making the communication he was going to
make. He was really quite in a solemn good humour. Lord Ballindine’s
confusion was so flattering.
“I can assure you, my lord, Miss Wyndham calls for no such sacrifice,
nor do I. There was a time when, as her guardian, I ventured to
hint—and I own I was taking a liberty, a fruitless liberty, in doing
so—that I thought your remaining on the turf was hardly prudent. But I
can assure you, with all kindly feeling—with no approach to
animosity—that I will not offend in a similar way again. I hear, by
mere rumour, that you have extended your operations to the other
kingdom. I hope I have not been the means of inducing you to do so;
but, advice, if not complied with, often gives a bias in an opposite
direction. With regard to Miss Wyndham, I must express—and I really had
thought it was unnecessary to do so, though it was certainly my
intention, as it was Miss Wyndham’s wish, that I should have written to
you formally on the subject—but your own conduct—excuse me, Lord
Ballindine—your own evident indifference, and continued, I fear I must
call it, dissipation—and your, as I considered, unfortunate selection
of acquaintance, combined with the necessary diminution of that
attachment which I presume Miss Wyndham once felt for you—necessary,
inasmuch as it was, as far as I understand, never of a sufficiently
ardent nature to outlive the slights—indeed, my lord, I don’t wish to
offend you, or hurt your feelings—but, I must say, the slights which it
encountered—.” Here the earl felt that his sentence was a little
confused, but the viscount looked more so; and, therefore, not at all
abashed by the want of a finish to his original proposition, he
continued glibly enough:
“In short, in considering all the features of the case, I thought the
proposed marriage a most imprudent one; and, on questioning Miss
Wyndham as to her feelings, I was, I must own, gratified to learn that
she agreed with me; indeed, she conceived that your conduct gave ample
proof, my lord, of your readiness to be absolved from your engagement;
pardon me a moment, my lord—as I said before, I still deemed it
incumbent on me, and on my ward, that I, as her guardian, should give
you an absolute and written explanation of her feelings:—that would
have been done yesterday, and this most unpleasant meeting would have
been spared to both of us, but for the unexpected—Did you hear of the
occurrence which has happened in Miss Wyndham’s family, my lord?”
“Occurrence? No, Lord Cashel; I did not hear of any especial
occurrence.”
There had been a peculiarly solemn air about Lord Cashel during the
whole of the interview, which deepened into quite funereal gloom as he
asked the last question; but he was so uniformly solemn, that this had
not struck Lord Ballindine. Besides, an appearance of solemnity agreed
so well with Lord Cashel’s cast of features and tone of voice, that a
visage more lengthened, and a speech somewhat slower than usual, served
only to show him off as so much the more clearly identified by his own
characteristics. Thus a man who always wears a green coat does not
become remarkable by a new green coat; he is only so much the more than
ever, the man in the green coat.
Lord Ballindine, therefore, answered the question without the
appearance of that surprise which Lord Cashel expected he would feel,
if he had really not yet heard of the occurrence about to be related to
him. The earl, therefore, made up his mind, as indeed he had nearly
done before, that Frank knew well what was going to be told him, though
it suited his purpose to conceal his knowledge. He could not, however,
give his young brother nobleman the lie; and he was, therefore,
constrained to tell his tale, as if to one to whom it was unknown. He
was determined, however, though he could not speak out plainly, to let
Frank see that he was not deceived by his hypocrisy, and that he, Lord
Cashel, was well aware, not only that the event about to be told had
been known at Handicap Lodge, but that the viscount’s present visit to
Grey Abbey had arisen out of that knowledge.
Lord Ballindine, up to this moment, was perfectly ignorant of this
event, and it is only doing justice to him to say that, had he heard of
it, it would at least have induced him to postpone his visit for some
time. Lord Cashel paused for a few moments, looking at Frank in a most
diplomatic manner, and then proceeded to unfold his budget.
“I am much surprised that you should not have heard of it. The
distressing news reached Grey Abbey yesterday, and must have been well
known in different circles in Dublin yesterday morning. Considering the
great intercourse between Dublin and the Curragh, I wonder you can have
been left so long in ignorance of a circumstance so likely to be widely
discussed, and which at one time might have so strongly affected your
own interests.” Lord Cashel again paused, and looked hard at Frank. He
flattered himself that he was reading his thoughts; but he looked as if
he had detected a spot on the other’s collar, and wanted to see whether
it was ink or soot.
Lord Ballindine was, however, confounded. When the earl spoke of “a
circumstance so likely to be widely discussed”, Mat Tierney’s
conversation recurred to him, and Lord Kilcullen’s public declaration
that Fanny Wyndham’s match was off.—It was certainly odd for Lord
Cashel to call this an occurrence in Miss Wyndham’s family, but then,
he had a round-about way of saying everything.
“I say,” continued the earl, after a short pause, “that I cannot but be
surprised that an event of so much importance, of so painful a nature,
and, doubtless, already so publicly known, should not before this have
reached the ears of one to whom, I presume, Miss Wyndham’s name was not
always wholly indifferent. But, as you have not heard it, my lord, I
will communicate it to you,” and again he paused, as though expecting
another assurance of Lord Ballindine’s ignorance.
“Why, my lord,” said Frank, “I did hear a rumour, which surprised me
very much, but I could not suppose it to be true. To tell the truth, it
was very much in consequence of what I heard that I came to Grey Abbey
to-day.”
It was now Lord Cashel’s turn to be confounded. First, to deny that he
had heard anything about it—and then immediately to own that he had
heard it, and had been induced to renew his visits to Grey Abbey in
consequence! Just what he, in his wisdom, had suspected was the case.
But how could Lord Ballindine have the face to own it?
I must, however, tell the reader the event of which Frank was ignorant,
and which, it appears, Lord Cashel is determined not to communicate to
him.
Fanny Wyndham’s father had held a governorship, or some golden
appointment in the golden days of India, and consequently had died
rich. He left eighty thousand pounds to his son, who was younger than
Fanny, and twenty to his daughter. His son had lately been put into the
Guards, but he was not long spared to enjoy his sword and his uniform.
He died, and his death had put his sister in possession of his money;
and Lord Cashel thought that, though Frank might slight twenty thousand
pounds, he would be too glad to be allowed to remain the accepted
admirer of a hundred thousand.
“I thought you must have heard it, my lord,” resumed the senior, as
soon as he had collected his shreds of dignity, which Frank’s open
avowal had somewhat scattered, “I felt certain you must have heard it,
and you will, I am sure, perceive that this is no time for you—excuse
me if I use a word which may appear harsh—it is no time for any one,
not intimately connected with Miss Wyndham by ties of family, to
intrude upon her sorrow.”
Frank was completely bothered. He thought that if she were so
sorrowful, if she grieved so deeply at the match being broken off, that
was just the reason why he should see her. After all, it was rather
flattering to himself to hear of her sorrows; dear Fanny! was she so
grieved that she was forced to part from him?
“But, Lord Cashel,” he said, “I am ready to do whatever you please.
I’ll take any steps you’ll advise. But I really cannot see why I’m to
be told that the engagement between me and Miss Wyndham is off, without
hearing any reason from herself. I’ll make any sacrifice you please, or
she requires; I’m sure she was attached to me, and she cannot have
overcome that affection so soon.”
“I have already said that we require—Miss Wyndham requires—no sacrifice
from you. The time for sacrifice is past; and I do not think her
affection was of such a nature as will long prey on her spirits.”
“My affection for her is, I can assure you—”
“Pray excuse me—but I think this is hardly the time either to talk of,
or to show, your affection. Had it been proved to be of a lasting, I
fear I must say, a sincere nature, it would now have been most valued.
I will leave yourself to say whether this was the case.”
“And so you mean to say, Lord Cashel, that I cannot see Miss Wyndham?”
“Assuredly, Lord Ballindine. And I must own, that I hardly appreciate
your delicacy in asking to do so at the present moment.”
There was something very hard in this. The match was to be broken off
without any notice to him; and when he requested, at any rate, to hear
this decision from the mouth of the only person competent to make it,
he was told that it was indelicate for him to wish to do so. This put
his back up.
“Well, my lord,” he said with some spirit, “Miss Wyndham is at present
your ward, and in your house, and I am obliged to postpone the exercise
of the right, to which, at least, I am entitled, of hearing her
decision from her own mouth. I cannot think that she expects I should
be satisfied with such an answer as I have now received. I shall write
to her this evening, and shall expect at any rate the courtesy of an
answer from herself.”
“My advice to my ward will be, not to write to you; at any rate for the
present. I presume, my lord, you cannot doubt my word that Miss Wyndham
chooses to be released from an engagement, which I must say your own
conduct renders it highly inexpedient for her to keep.”
“I don’t doubt your word, of course, Lord Cashel; but such being the
case, I think Miss Wyndham might at least tell me so herself.”
“I should have thought, Lord Ballindine, that you would have felt that
the sudden news of a dearly loved brother’s death, was more than
sufficient to excuse Miss Wyndham from undergoing an interview which,
even under ordinary circumstances, would be of very doubtful
expediency.”
“Her brother’s death! Good gracious! Is Harry Wyndham dead!”
Frank was so truly surprised—so effectually startled by the news, which
he now for the first time heard, that, had his companion possessed any
real knowledge of human nature, he would at once have seen that his
astonishment was not affected. But he had none, and, therefore, went on
blundering in his own pompous manner.
“Yes, my lord, he is dead. I understood you to say that you had already
heard it; and, unless my ears deceived me, you explained that his
demise was the immediate cause of your present visit. I cannot,
however, go so far as to say that I think you have exercised a sound
discretion in the matter. In expressing such an opinion, however, I am
far from wishing to utter anything which may be irritating or offensive
to your feelings.”
“Upon my word then, I never heard a word about it till this moment!
Poor Harry! And is Fanny much cut up?”
“Miss Wyndham is much afflicted.”
“I wouldn’t for worlds annoy her, or press on her at such a moment.
Pray tell her, Lord Cashel, how deeply I feel her sorrows: pray tell
her this, with my kindest—best compliments.”
This termination was very cold—but so was Lord Cashel’s face. His
lordship had also risen from his chair; and Frank saw it was intended
that the interview should end. But he would now have been glad to stay.
He wanted to ask a hundred questions;—how the poor lad had died?
whether he had been long ill?—whether it had been expected? But he saw
that he must go; so he rose and putting out his hand which Lord Cashel
just touched, he said,
“Good bye, my lord. I trust, after a few months are gone by, you may
see reason to alter the opinion you have expressed respecting your
ward. Should I not hear from you before then, I shall again do myself
the honour of calling at Grey Abbey; but I will write to Miss Wyndham
before I do so.”
Lord Cashel had the honour of wishing Lord Ballindine a very good
morning, and of bowing him to the door; and so the interview ended.