THE TWO FRIENDS
The next three days passed slowly and tediously for most of the guests
assembled at Grey Abbey. Captain Cokely, and a Mr Battersby, came over
from Newbridge barracks, but they did not add much to the general
enjoyment of the party, though their arrival was hailed with delight by
some of the young ladies. At any rate they made the rooms look less
forlorn in the evenings, and made it worth the girls’ while to put on
their best bibs and tuckers.
“But what’s the use of it at all?” said Matilda Fitzgerald to little
Letty O’Joscelyn, when she had spent three-quarters of an hour in
adjusting her curls, and setting her flounces properly, on the evening
before the arrival of the two cavalry officers; “not a soul to look at
us but a crusty old colonel, a musty old bishop, and a fusty old beau!”
“Who’s the old beau?” said Letty.
“Why, that Mr Tierney. I can’t conceive how Lady Cashel can have asked
us to meet such a set,” and Matilda descended, pouting, and out of
humour.
But on the next day she went through her work much more willingly, if
not more carefully.
“That Captain Cokely’s a very nice fellow,” said Matilda; “the best of
that Newbridge set, out and out.”
“Well now, I really think he’s not so nice as Mr Battersby,” said
Letty. “I’m sure he’s not so good-looking.”
“Oh, Battersby’s only a boy. After all, Letty, I don’t know whether I
like officers so much better than other men,”—and she twisted her neck
round to get a look at her back in the pier-glass, and gave her dress a
little pull just above her bustle.
“I’m sure I do,” said Letty; “they’ve so much more to say for
themselves, and they’re so much smarter.”
“Why, yes, they are smarter,” said Matilda; “and there’s nothing on
earth so dowdy as an old black coat. But, then, officers are always
going away: you no sooner get to know one or two of a set, and to feel
that one of them is really a darling fellow, but there, they are off—to
Jamaica, China, Hounslow barracks, or somewhere; and then it’s all to
do over again.”
“Well, I do wish they wouldn’t move them about quite so much.”
“But let’s go down. I think I’ll do now, won’t I?” and they descended,
to begin the evening campaign.
“Wasn’t Miss Wyndham engaged to some one?” said old Mrs Ellison to Mrs
Moore. “I’m sure some one told me so.”
“Oh, yes, she was,” said Mrs Moore; “the affair was settled, and
everything arranged; but the man was very poor, and a gambler,—Lord
Ballindine: he has the name of a property down in Mayo somewhere; but
when she got all her brother’s money, Lord Cashel thought it a pity to
sacrifice it,—so he got her out of the scrape. A very good thing for
the poor girl, for they say he’s a desperate scamp.”
“Well, I declare I think,” said Mrs Ellison, “she’ll not have far to
look for another.”
“What, you think there’s something between her and Lord Kilcullen?”
said Mrs Moore.
“It looks like it, at any rate, don’t it?” said Mrs Ellison.
“Well, I really think it does,” said Mrs Moore; “I’m sure I’d be very
glad of it. I know he wants money desperately, and it would be such a
capital thing for the earl.”
“At any rate, the lady does not look a bit unwilling,” said Mrs
Ellison. “I suppose she’s fond of rakish young men. You say Lord
Ballindine was of that set; and I’m sure Lord Kilcullen’s the same,—he
has the reputation, at any rate. They say he and his father never
speak, except just in public, to avoid the show of the thing.”
And the two old ladies set to work to a good dish of scandal.
“Miss Wyndham’s an exceedingly fine girl,” said Captain Cokely to Mat
Tierney, as they were playing a game of piquet in the little
drawing-room.
“Yes,” said Mat; “and she’s a hundred thousand exceedingly fine charms
too, independently of her fine face.”
“So I hear,” said Cokely; “but I only believe half of what I hear about
those things.”
“She has more than that; I know it.”
“Has she though? Faith, do you know I think Kilcullen has a mind to
keep it in the family. He’s very soft on her, and she’s just as sweet
to him. I shouldn’t be surprised if he were to marry now, and turn
steady.”
“Not at all; there are two reasons against it. In the first place, he’s
too much dipped for even Fanny’s fortune to be any good to him; and
secondly, she’s engaged.”
“What, to Ballindine?” said Cokely.
“Exactly so,” said Mat.
“Ah, my dear fellow, that’s all off long since. I heard Kilcullen say
so myself. I’ll back Kilcullen to marry her against Ballindine for a
hundred pounds.”
“Done,” said Mat; and the bet was booked.
The same evening, Tierney wrote to Dot Blake, and said in a postscript,
“I know you care for Ballindine; so do I, but I don’t write to him. If
he really wants to secure his turtle-dove, he should see that she
doesn’t get bagged in his absence. Kilcullen is here, and I tell you
he’s a keen sportsman. They say it’s quite up with him in London, and I
should be sorry she were sacrificed: she seems a nice girl.”
Lord Kilcullen had ample opportunities of forwarding his intimacy with
Fanny, and he did not neglect them. To give him his due, he played his
cards as well as his father could wish him. He first of all overcame
the dislike with which she was prepared to regard him; he then
interested her about himself; and, before he had been a week at Grey
Abbey, she felt that she had a sort of cousinly affection for him. He
got her to talk with a degree of interest about himself; and when he
could do that, there was no wonder that Tierney should have fears for
his friend’s interests. Not that there was any real occasion for them.
Fanny Wyndham was not the girl to be talked out of, or into, a real
passion, by anyone.
“Now, tell me the truth, Fanny,” said Kilcullen, as they were sitting
over the fire together in the library, one dark afternoon, before they
went to dress for dinner; “hadn’t you been taught to look on me as a
kind of ogre—a monster of iniquity, who spoke nothing but oaths, and
did nothing but sin?”
“Not exactly that: but I won’t say I thought you were exactly just what
you ought to be.”
“But didn’t you think I was exactly what I ought not to have been?
Didn’t you imagine, now, that I habitually sat up all night, gambling,
and drinking buckets of champagne and brandy-and-water? And that I lay
in bed all day, devising iniquity in my dreams? Come now, tell the
truth, and shame the devil; if I am the devil, I know people have made
me out to be.”
“Why, really, Adolphus, I never calculated how your days and nights
were spent. But if I am to tell the truth, I fear some of them might
have been passed to better advantage.”
“Which of us, Fanny, mightn’t, with truth, say the same of ourselves?”
“Of course, none of us,” said Fanny; “don’t think I’m judging you; you
asked me the question,—and I suppose you wanted an answer.”
“I did; I wanted a true one—for though you may never have given
yourself much trouble to form an opinion about me, I am anxious that
you should do so now. I don’t want to trouble you with what is done and
past; I don’t want to make it appear that I have not been thoughtless
and imprudent—wicked and iniquitous, if you are fond of strong terms;
neither do I want to trouble you with confessing all my improprieties,
that I may regularly receive absolution. But I do wish you to believe
that I have done nothing which should exclude me from your future good
opinion; from your friendship and esteem.”
“I am not of an unforgiving temperament, even had you done anything for
me to forgive: but I am not aware that you have.”
“No; nothing for you to forgive, in the light of an offence to
yourself; but much, perhaps, to prevent your being willing to regard me
as a personal friend. We’re not only first cousins, Fanny, but are
placed more closely together than cousins usually are. You have neither
father nor mother; now, also, you have no brother,” and he took her
hands in his own as he said so. “Who should be a brother to you, if I
am not? who, at any rate, should you look on as a friend, if not on me?
Nobody could be better, I believe, than Selina; but she is stiff, and
cold—unlike you in everything. I should be so happy if I could be the
friend—the friend of friends you spoke of the other evening; if I could
fill the place which must be empty near your heart. I can never be this
to you, if you believe that anything in my past life has been really
disgraceful. It is for this reason that I want to know what you truly
think of me. I won’t deny that I am anxious you should think well of
me:—well, at any rate for the present, and the future, and charitably
as regards the past.”
Fanny had been taken much by surprise by the turn her cousin had given
to the conversation; and was so much affected, that, before he had
finished, she was in tears. She had taken her hand out of his, to put
her handkerchief to her eyes, and as she did not immediately answer, he
continued:
“I shall probably be much here for some time to come—such, at least,
are my present plans; and I hope that while I am, we shall become
friends: not such friends, Fanny, as you and Judith O’Joscelyn—friends
only of circumstance, who have neither tastes, habits, or feelings in
common—friends whose friendship consists in living in the same parish,
and meeting each other once or twice a week; but friends in
reality—friends in confidence—friends in mutual dependence—friends in
love—friends, dear Fanny, as cousins situated as we are should be to
each other.”
Fanny’s heart was very full, for she felt how much, how desperately,
she wanted such a friend as Kilcullen described. How delightful it
would be to have such a friend, and to find him in her own cousin! The
whole family, hitherto, were so cold to her—so uncongenial. The earl
she absolutely disliked; she loved her aunt, but it was only because
she was her aunt—she couldn’t like her; and though she loved Lady
Selina, and, to a degree, admired her, it was like loving a marble
figure. There was more true feeling in what Kilcullen had now said to
her, than in all that had fallen from the whole family for the four
years she had lived at Grey Abbey, and she could not therefore but
close on the offer of his affection.
“Shall we be such friends, then?” said he; “or, after all, am I too
bad? Have I too much of the taint of the wicked world to be the friend
of so pure a creature as you?”
“Oh no, Adolphus; I’m sure I never thought so,” said she. “I never
judged you, and indeed I am not disposed to do so now. I’m too much in
want of kindness to reject yours,—even were I disposed to do so, which
I am not.”
“Then, Fanny, we are to be friends—true, loving, trusting friends?”
“Oh, yes!” said Fanny. “I am really, truly grateful for your affection
and kindness. I know how precious they are, and I will value them
accordingly.”
Again Lord Kilcullen took her hand, and pressed it in his; and then he
kissed it, and told her she was his own dear cousin Fanny; and then
recommended her to go and dress, which she did. He sat himself down for
a quarter of an hour, ruminating, and then also went off to dress; but,
during that quarter of an hour, very different ideas passed through his
mind, than such as those who knew him best would have given him credit
for.
In the first place, he thought that he really began to feel an
affection for his cousin Fanny, and to speculate whether it were
absolutely within the verge of possibility that he should marry
her—retrieve his circumstances—treat her well, and live happily for the
rest of his life as a respectable nobleman.
For two or three minutes the illusion remained, till it was banished by
retrospection. It was certainly possible that he should marry her: it
was his full intention to do so: but as to retrieving his circumstances
and treating her well!—the first was absolutely impossible—the other
nearly so; and as to his living happily at Grey Abbey as a family man,
he yawned as he felt how impossible it would be that he should spend a
month in such a way, let alone a life. But then Fanny Wyndham was so
beautiful, so lively, so affectionate, so exactly what a cousin and a
wife ought to be: he could not bear to think that all his protestations
of friendship and love had been hypocritical; that he could only look
upon her as a gudgeon, and himself as a bigger fish, determined to
swallow her! Yet such must be his views regarding her. He departed to
dress, absolutely troubled in his conscience.
And what were Fanny’s thoughts about her cousin? She was much surprised
and gratified, but at the same time somewhat flustered and overwhelmed,
by the warmth and novelty of his affection. However, she never for a
moment doubted his truth towards her, or had the slightest suspicion of
his real object. Her chief thought was whether she could induce him to
be a mediator for her, between Lord Cashel and Lord Ballindine.
During the next two days he spoke to her a good deal about her
brother—of whom, by-the-bye, he had really known nothing. He contrived,
however, to praise him as a young man of much spirit and great promise;
then he spoke of her own large fortune, asked her what her wishes were
about its investment, and told her how happy he would be to express
those wishes at once to Lord Cashel, and to see that they were carried
out. Once or twice she had gradually attempted to lead the conversation
to Lord Ballindine, but Kilcullen was too crafty, and had prevented
her; and she had not yet sufficient courage to tell him at once what
was so near her heart.
“Fanny,” said Lady Selina, one morning, about a week after the general
arrival of the company at Grey Abbey, and when some of them had taken
their departure, “I am very glad to see you have recovered your
spirits: I know you have made a great effort, and I appreciate and
admire it.”
“Indeed, Selina, I fear you are admiring me too soon. I own I have been
amused this week past, and, to a certain degree, pleased; but I fear
you’ll find I shall relapse. There’s been no radical reform; my
thoughts are all in the same direction as they were.”
“But the great trial in this world is to behave well and becomingly in
spite of oppressive thoughts: and it always takes a struggle to do
that, and that struggle you’ve made. I hope it may lead you to feel
that you may be contented and in comfort without having everything
which you think necessary to your happiness. I’m sure I looked forward
to this week as one of unmixed trouble and torment; but I was very
wrong to do so. It has given me a great deal of unmixed satisfaction.”
“I’m very glad of that, Selina, but what was it? I’m sure it could not
have come from poor Mrs Ellison, or the bishop’s wife; and you seemed
to me to spend all your time in talking to them. Virtue, they say, is
its own reward: I don’t know what other satisfaction you can have had
from them.”
“In the first place, it has given me great pleasure to see that you
were able to exert yourself in company, and that the crowd of people
did not annoy you: but I have chiefly been delighted by seeing that you
and Adolphus are such good friends. You must think, Fanny, that I am
anxious about an only brother—especially when we have all had so much
cause to be anxious about him; and don’t you think it must be a delight
to me to find that he is able to take pleasure in your society? I
should be doubly pleased, doubly delighted, if I could please him
myself. But I have not the vivacity to amuse him.”
“What nonsense, Selina! Don’t say that.”
“But it’s true, Fanny; I have not; and Grey Abbey has become
distasteful to him because we are all sedate, steady people. Perhaps
some would call us dull, and heavy; and I have grieved that it should
be so, though I cannot alter my nature; but you are so much the
contrary—there is so much in your character like his own, before he
became fond of the world, that I feel he can become attached to and
fond of you; and I am delighted to see that he thinks so himself. What
do you think of him, now that you have seen more of him than you ever
did before?”
“Indeed,” said Fanny, “I like him very much.”
“He is very clever, isn’t he? He might have been anything if he had
given himself fair play. He seems to have taken greatly to you.”
“Oh yes; we are great friends:” and then Fanny paused—“so great
friends,” she continued, looking somewhat gravely in Lady Selina’s
face, “that I mean to ask the greatest favour of him that I could ask
of anyone: one I am sure I little dreamed I should ever ask of him.”
“What is it, Fanny? Is it a secret?”
“Indeed it is, Selina; but it’s a secret I will tell you. I mean to
tell him all I feel about Lord Ballindine, and I mean to ask him to see
him for me. Adolphus has offered to be a brother to me, and I mean to
take him at his word.”
Lady Selina turned very pale, and looked very grave as she replied,
“That is not giving him a brother’s work, Fanny. A brother should
protect you from importunity and insult, from injury and wrong; and
that, I am sure, Adolphus would do: but no brother would consent to
offer your hand to a man who had neglected you and been refused, and
who, in all probability, would now reject you with scorn if he has the
opportunity—or if not that, will take you for your money’s sake. That,
Fanny, is not a brother’s work; and it is an embassy which I am sure
Adolphus will not undertake. If you take my advice you will not ask
him.”
As Lady Selina finished speaking she walked to the door, as if
determined to hear no reply from her cousin; but, as she was leaving
the room, she fancied that she heard her sobbing, and her heart
softened, and she again turned towards her and said, “God knows, Fanny,
I do not wish to be severe or ill-natured to you; I would do anything
for your comfort and happiness, but I cannot bear to think that you
should”—Lady Selina was puzzled for a word to express her meaning—“that
you should forget yourself,” and she attempted to put her arm round
Fanny’s waist.
But she was mistaken; Fanny was not sobbing, but was angry; and what
Selina now said about her forgetting herself, did not make her less so.
“No,” she said, withdrawing herself from her cousin’s embrace and
standing erect, while her bosom was swelling with indignation: “I want
no affection from you, Selina, that is accompanied by so much
disapprobation. You don’t wish to be severe, only you say that I am
likely to forget myself. Forget myself!” and Fanny threw back her
beautiful head, and clenched her little fists by her side: “The other
day you said ‘disgrace myself’, and I bore it calmly then; but I will
not any longer bear such imputations. I tell you plainly, Selina, I
will not forget myself, nor will I be forgotten. Nor will I submit to
whatever fate cold, unfeeling people may doom me, merely because I am a
woman and alone. I will not give up Lord Ballindine, if I have to walk
to his door and tell him so. And were I to do so, I should never think
that I had forgotten myself.”
“Listen to me, Fanny,” said Selina.
“Wait a moment,” continued Fanny, “I have listened enough: it is my
turn to speak now. For one thing I have to thank you: you have
dispelled the idea that I could look for help to anyone in this family.
I will not ask your brother to do anything for me which you think so
disgraceful. I will not subject him to the scorn with which you choose
to think my love will be treated by him who loved me so well. That you
should dare to tell me that he who did so much for my love should now
scorn it!—Oh, Selina, that I may live to forget that you said those
words!” and Fanny, for a moment, put her handkerchief to her eyes—but
it was but for a moment. “However,” she continued, “I will now act for
myself. As you think I might forget myself, I tell you I will do it in
no clandestine way. I will write to Lord Ballindine, and I will show my
letter to my uncle. The whole house shall read it if they please. I
will tell Lord Ballindine all the truth—and if Lord Cashel turns me
from his house, I shall probably find some friend to receive me, who
may still believe that I have not forgotten myself.” And Fanny Wyndham
sailed out of the room.
Lady Selina, when she saw that she was gone, sat down on the sofa and
took her book. She tried to make herself believe that she was going to
read; but it was no use: the tears dimmed her eyes, and she put the
book down.
The same evening the countess sent for Selina into her boudoir, and,
with a fidgety mixture of delight and surprise, told her that she had a
wonderful piece of good news to communicate to her.
“I declare, my dear,” she said, “it’s the most delightful thing I’ve
heard for years and years; and it’s just exactly what I had planned
myself, only I never told anybody. Dear me; it makes me so happy!”
“What is it, mamma?”
“Your papa has been talking to me since dinner, my love, and he tells
me Adolphus is going to marry Fanny Wyndham.”
“Going to marry whom?” said Lady Selina, almost with a shout.
“Fanny, I say: it’s the most delightful match in the world: it’s just
what ought to be done. I suppose they won’t have the wedding before
summer; though May is a very nice month. Let me see; it only wants
three weeks to May.”
“Mamma, what are you talking about?—you’re dreaming.”
“Dreaming, my dear? I’m not dreaming at all: it’s a fact. Who’d’ve
thought of all this happening so soon, out of this party, which gave us
so much trouble! However, I knew your father was right. I said all
along that he was in the right to ask the people.”
“Mamma,” said Lady Selina, gravely, “listen to me: calmly now, and
attentively. I don’t know what papa has told you; but I tell you Fanny
does not dream of marrying Adolphus. He has never asked her, and if he
did she would never accept him. Fanny is more than ever in love with
Lord Ballindine.”
The countess opened her eyes wide, and looked up into her daughter’s
face, but said nothing.
“Tell me, mamma, as nearly as you can recollect, what it is papa has
said to you, that, if possible, we may prevent mischief and misery.
Papa couldn’t have said that Fanny had accepted Adolphus?”
“He didn’t say exactly that, my dear; but he said that it was his wish
they should be married; that Adolphus was very eager for it, and that
Fanny had received his attentions and admiration with evident pleasure
and satisfaction. And so she has, my dear; you couldn’t but have seen
that yourself.”
“Well, mamma, what else did papa say?”
“Why, he said just what I’m telling you: that I wasn’t to be surprised
if we were called on to be ready for the wedding at a short notice; or
at any rate to be ready to congratulate Fanny. He certainly didn’t say
she had accepted him. But he said he had no doubt about it; and I’m
sure, from what was going on last week, I couldn’t have any doubt
either. But he told me not to speak to anyone about it yet;
particularly not to Fanny; only, my dear, I couldn’t help, you know,
talking it over with you;” and the countess leaned back in her chair,
very much exhausted with the history she had narrated.
“Now, mamma, listen to me. It is not many hours since Fanny told me she
was unalterably determined to throw herself at Lord Ballindine’s feet.”
“Goodness gracious me, how shocking!” said the countess.
“She even said that she would ask Adolphus to be the means of bringing
Lord Ballindine back to Grey Abbey.”
“Lord have mercy!” said the countess.
“I only tell you this, mamma, to show you how impossible it is that
papa should be right.”
“What are we to do, my dear? Oh, dear, there’ll be such a piece of
work! What a nasty thing Fanny is. I’m sure she’s been making love to
Adolphus all the week!”
“No, mamma, she has not. Don’t be unfair to Fanny. If there is anyone
in fault it is Adolphus; but, as you say, what shall we do to prevent
further misunderstanding? I think I had better tell papa the whole.”
And so she did, on the following morning. But she was too late; she did
not do it till after Lord Kilcullen had offered and had been refused.