Ne'er mind his torn, ill-fashioned doublet,
Beshrew me! if he 's not a pretty man.
Don Lopez.
The movement and bustle in the hall showed that Mr. Jones's surmise was
correct; for scarcely had the carriage stopped than the street-door
was flung wide open, and Mr. Pearse, the butler, followed by a strong
detachment of bright-liveried menials, stood bowing their respectful
compliments to their master and his guest. As Mr. Kennyfeck entered the
house, he walked slowly and with difficulty, endeavoring at the same
time to avoid all scrutiny of his appearance as he passed through the
crowded hall; but, although his hat was pressed firmly over his brows,
it could not entirely conceal a very suspiciously tinted margin around
one eye; while the care with which he defended his left arm, and which
he carried in his waistcoat, looked like injury there also.
He, however, made an attempt at a little sprightliness of manner, as,
shaking his companion's hand with cordial warmth, he said,--
“Welcome to Ireland, Mr. Cashel. I hope I shall very often experience
the happiness of seeing you under this roof.”
The person addressed was a remarkably handsome young man, whose air and
carriage bespoke, however, much more the confidence that results from a
sense of personal gifts, and a bold, daring temperament, than that more
tempered ease which is the consequence of fashionable breeding.
Mr. Kennyfeck's felicitations on their arrival were scarce uttered ere
Cashel had sufficiently recovered from his surprise at the unexpected
magnificence of the house to make any reply; for, although as yet
advanced no further than the hall, a marble group by Canova, a centre
lamp of costly Sèvres, and some chairs of carved ebony served to
indicate the expensive style of the remainder of the mansion.
While Cashel, then, muttered his acknowledgments, he added to himself,
but in a voice scarcely less loud,--
“Devilish good crib, this, Master Kennyfeck.”
“Pearse,” said the host, “is dinner ready?”
“My mistress and the young ladies have dined, sir; but Mr. Jones and Mr.
Softly are in the parlor.”
“Well, let us have something at once; or, would you prefer, Mr. Cashel,
making any change in your dress first?”
“I say dinner above all things,” said the youth, disencumbering himself
of a great Mexican mantle.
“Perfectly right; quite agree with you,” said Kennyfeck, endeavoring to
assume a little of his guest's dash; “and here we are. Ah, Jones, how
d'ye do? Mr. Cashel, this is my friend Mr. Jones. Mr. Softly, very
glad to see you. Mr. Softly.--Mr. Cashel. Don't stir, I beg; keep your
places. We 'll have a bit of dinner here, and join you at your wine
afterwards. Meanwhile, I 'll just step upstairs, and be back again in a
moment; you'll excuse me, I 'm sure.”
“Oh, certainly,” replied Cashel, who appeared as if he could excuse
anything with a better grace than the ceremonious slowness of the
butler's arrangements.
There was a pause of a few seconds as Mr. Kennyfeck left the room,
broken, at last, by Mr. Jones asking if they had not been detained by
contrary winds.
“No, I think not; I fancy the weather was pretty average kind of
weather. Had we been expected here earlier?”
“Yes; Mrs. Kennyfeck mentioned to me Monday, and afterwards Tuesday, as
the very latest day for your arrival.”
Cashel made no remark; and, soon after, Mr. Pearse's entrance with the
soup put an end to the conversation. “Mr. Kennyfeck desired me to say,
sir, not to wait for him; he'll be down presently.”
“What do you call this soup?”
“Mock-turtle, sir.”
“Rather too much Madeira in it for my taste; but that sha' n't prevent
my having a glass of wine. Will you permit me, gentlemen?”
The parties bowed policy; but still the intercourse did not progress;
and in the exchanged glances of those at the large table, and the
sidelong looks Cashel occasionally threw towards them, it was easy to
see that neither party had made way with the other.
“I fear Kennyfeck is not going to make his appearance,” said Cashel, as
he seemed to hesitate about proceeding with his dinner.
“I should n't advise you waiting,” cried Jones; “the fish is growing
cold.”
“I suspect Mr. Kennyfeck is fatigued by his journey, sir,” said Mr.
Softly, in his most bland of voices; “I thought I remarked it by his
face.”
“Oh, did you?” said Cashel, with a very peculiar look of knowingness.
“Yes; you are aware, Mr. Cashel,” interrupted Jones, “our friend is n't
much used to that kind of thing. I suppose it's some years since he has
had so much knocking about as in these last few days.”
“I fancy so,” said Cashel, with a significant smile that puzzled the
lawyer exceedingly, and he ate on without making a further remark.
The two or three efforts made by Jones and Softly to converse
together were, like nearly all similar attempts at perfect ease and
self-possession, complete failures, and gradually slided down into
monosyllables, and then to silence; when Cashel, who seemed to be
enjoying his venison and Bordeaux with perfect zest, leaned back in his
chair and said, “What kind of place is this same good city of Dublin?
What goes forward here?”
As this question was more directly addressed to Jones, that gentleman
prepared himself, not unwillingly, for an elaborate reply.
“Dublin, Mr. Cashel,” said he, pretty much in the same tone he would
have used in opening an address to a jury,--
“Dublin is a city which, from a great variety of causes, will always
be exposed to every variable and opposing criticism. To begin: it is
provincial--”
“Is it slow?” interrupted Cashel, who had listened to this exordium with
palpable signs of impatience.
“If you mean, has it its share of those habits of dissipation, those
excesses so detrimental alike to health and fortune--”
“No, no; I merely ask what goes on here,--how do people amuse
themselves?” said Cashel, fencing to avoid any very lengthened exposure
of the other's views.
“They dine, dance, drink tea, talk politics and scandal, like other
folk; but if you ask, what are the distinguishing features of the
society--”
“What kind of sport does the country afford?” interrupted Roland,
somewhat unceremoniously.
“Hunting, shooting, fishing, coursing--”
“What do you mean by hunting,--a fox, is it?”
“Yes, fox-hunting and hare-hunting, too.”
A very insolent laugh was Cashel's answer, as, turning to Mr. Softly, he
said, “Well, I own, all this does strike me as a very tiresome kind of
life. Do you like Ireland, sir?”
“I feel a deep interest in it,” said the curate, with a most solemn
manner.
“Yes, that's all very well; but do you like it?”
“Were it not for its darkness,” said Mr. Softly, sighing, “I should say
I liked it.”
“Darkness,” echoed Cashel,--“darkness; why, hang it, you are pretty far
north here. What is the darkness you speak of?”
“I alluded to popery, sir,--to the obscuring mists of superstition and
ignorance,” replied Mr. Softly, with a kind of energetic timidity that
made himself blush.
“Oh--I perceive--yes--I understand,” muttered Cashel, who certainly felt
all the awkwardness of a man caught in a lie.
“We have a very agreeable society among the bar men,” said Jones,
returning to the charge in a new direction; “a great deal of pleasantry
and fun goes on at our messes.”
“Droll fellows, I suppose,” said Cashel, carelessly. “I remember I
knew a lawyer once; he was a mate of a small clipper in the African
trade,--mischievous kind of devil he was too,--always setting the slaves
by the ears, and getting money for settling the differences. They played
him a good trick at last.” Here he laughed heartily at the recollection
for several minutes.
“What was it?” asked Jones, in some curiosity to learn how the bar was
respected on the banks of the Niger.
“They painted him black and sold him at Cuba,” said Cashel, who once
more broke out into laughter at the excellence of the jest.
Jones's and Softly's eyes met with a most complete accordance in the
glances exchanged. Meanwhile, Cashel, drawing his chair towards the
larger table, filled his glass and proceeded to smash his walnuts with
all the easy contentment of a man who had dined well.
“I perceive Mr. Kennyfeck is not likely to join us,” said Softly, with a
half suggestive look towards the door.
“Tired, perhaps,” said Jones, affecting what he opined to be the cool
indifference of the highest fashion.
“More than that, I suspect,” said Cashel, with a most unfeigned
carelessness. “Did you remark his eye?”
“Yes!” exclaimed both together. “What could that mean?”
“A slight bit of a scrimmage we had on the way from town; a--”
“Mr. Kennyfeck engaged in a row!” cried Softly, almost incredible at the
tidings.
“Yes. I fancy that is about the best word for it,” said Cashel, sipping
his wine. “I suppose one ought not to mention these kind of things;
but of course they are safe with you. They 'll never go further, I am
certain.”
“Oh, never,--not a syllable,” chimed in the two.
“Well, then, on our way here, I learned that there were to be races a
few miles from Coventry, and as I saw our friend Kennyfeck had no fancy
for the sight, I just slipped a few half-crowns into the postboy's hand,
and told him to drive there instead of taking the Liverpool road. Away
we went at a good pace, and in less than an hour reached the course. I
wish you saw the old gentleman's face when he awoke from a sound nap,
and saw the grand stand, with its thousand faces, all in a row, and the
cords, the betting-ring, and the whole circumstance of a race-ground. By
good luck, too, the sharp jerk of our pull-up smashed a spring, and so
we had nothing for it but to leave the chaise and wait till it could be
repaired. While my servant was away in search of some kind of a drag or
other, to go about the field,--there was no walking, what with the crowd
and the press of horses, not to speak of the mud that rose over the
ankles,--we pushed on,--that is, I did, with a stout grip of Kennyfeck's
arm, lest he should escape,--we pushed on, into the ring. Here there was
rare fun going forward, every fellow screaming out his bets, and booking
them as fast as he could. At first, of course, the whole was all ancient
Greek to me. I neither knew what they meant by the 'favorite,' or
'the odds,' or 'the field;' but one somehow always can pick up a thing
quickly, if it be but 'game,' and so, by watching here, and listening
there, I managed to get a kind of inkling of the whole affair, and by
dint of some pushing and elbowing, I reached the very centre of the
ring, where the great dons of the course were betting together.
“'Taurus even against the field,' cried one.
“'Taurus against the field,' shouted another.
“And this same cry was heard on every side.
“'Give it in fifties,--hundreds if you like better,' said a young fellow
mounted on a smart-looking pony, to his friend, who appeared to reflect
on the offer. 'Come, hurry on, man. Let's have a bet, just to give one
an interest in the race.' The other shook his head, and the first went
on, 'What a slow set, to be sure! Is no one willing to back the field,
even? Come, then, here 's a hundred pound to any man who 'll take the
field against Taurus, for two thousand.'
“'Let me have your cob,' said I, 'and I 'll take the bet.'
“He turned round in his saddle, and stared at me as if I were something
more or less than human, while a very general roar of laughing ran
around the entire circle.
“'Come away, come away at once,' whispered Kennyfeck, trembling with
fright.
“'Yes, you had better move off, my friend,' said a thickset,
rough-looking fellow, in a white coat.
“'What say you to five thousand, sir; does that suit your book?' cried
the young fellow to me, in a most insolent tone.
“'Oh, let him alone, my Lord,' said another. 'Take no notice of him.'
“'I say, Grindle,' cried a tall thin man with moustaches, 'who let these
people inside the ring?'
“'They forces their way, my Lud,' said a little knocker-kneed creature,
in a coat four times too big for him, 'and I says to Bill, de--pend upon
it, Bill, them's the swell mob.'
“The words were scarcely out of the fellow's mouth when a general cry
of the 'swell mob' resounded on every side, and at once they closed upon
us, some pushing, others elbowing, driving, and forcing, so that what
with the dense crowd, and the tight hold Kennyfeck now kept of me, I was
pinioned, and could do nothing. At last, by a vigorous twist, I shook
them off from me, and laid two of the foremost at my feet. This I did
with a Mexican trick I saw they knew nothing about. You first make a
feint at the face, and then, dropping on the knee, seize the fellow by
both legs, and hurl him back on his head,--just stand up, I 'll not hurt
you.”
“Thank you,--I understand the description perfectly,” said Mr. Softly,
pale with terror at the proposed experiment.
“Well, the remainder is soon told. They now got in upon us, and of
course I need n't say we got confoundedly thrashed. Kennyfeck was
tumbled about like a football; every one that had nothing else to do had
a kick at him, and there 's no saying how it might have ended had not a
certain Sir George Somebody recognized our poor friend, and rescued him.
I 'm not quite sure that I was quite myself about this time; Kennyfeck
has some story of my getting on some one's horse, and riding about the
course in search of the originators of the fray. The end of it, however,
was, we reached Liverpool with sorer bones than was altogether pleasant,
and although, when Kennyfeck went to bed, I went to the theatre, the
noise only increased my headache, and it needed a good night's sleep to
set me all right again.”
“Mr. Kennyfeck taken for one of the swell mob!” exclaimed Softly, with
a sort of holy horror that seemed to sum up his whole opinion of the
narrative.
“Very bad, was n't it?” said Cashel, pushing the wine past; “but he's a
capital fellow,--took the whole thing in such good part, and seems
only anxious that the story should n't get abroad. Of course I need n't
repeat my caution on that subject?”
“Oh, certainly not! Shall we join the ladies?” said Mr. Jones, as he
surveyed his whiskers and arranged the tie of his cravat before the
glass.
“I'm quite ready,” said Cashel, who had quietly set down in his own mind
that the ladies of the Kennyfeck family were a kind of female fac-simile
of the stiff-looking old attorney, and, therefore, felt very few qualms
on the subject of his disordered and slovenly appearance.
Scarcely had Cashel entered the drawing-room than he found his hand
grasped in Mr. Kennyfeck's, when, with a most dulcet acccent, he said,--
“I knew you 'd forgive me,--I told Mrs. Kennyfeck you'd excuse me
for not joining you at dinner; but I was really so fatigued. Mrs.
Kennyfeck--Mr. Cashel. My daughter, Mr. Cashel. My daughter Olivia.
Well, now, have you dined heartily?--I hope my friends here took care of
you.”
“I thank you. I never dined better,--only sorry not to, have had your
company. We have our apologies to make, Mrs. Kennyfeck, for not being
earlier; but, of course, you 've heard that we did our very utmost.”
“Oh, yes, yes! I explained everything,” interrupted Kennyfeck, most
eager to stop a possible exposure. “Mrs. Kennyfeck knows it all.”
Although Cashel's manner and address were of a kind to subject him to
the most severe criticism of the ladies of the Kennyfeck family, they
evinced the most laudable spirit in their hospitable and even cordial
reception of him, Mrs. Kennyfeck making room for him to sit on the sofa
beside her,--a post of honor that even the Castle aides-de-camp only
enjoyed by great favor; while the daughters listened with an attention
as flattering to _him_ as it was galling to the other two guests.
Mr. Softly, however, resigned himself to this neglect as to a passing
cloud of forgetfulness, and betook himself to the columns of the
“Morning Post” for consolation, occasionally glancing over the margin
to watch the laughing group around the fire. As for Jones; Mr. Kennyfeck
had withdrawn with that gentleman into a window, where the tactics of
some bill in equity engaged their attention,--manifestly, however, to
the young barrister's discontent, as his frequent stolen looks towards
the ladies evidenced.
It was the first time that the Kennyfecks had ever deigned to listen
to any one whose claims to a hearing rested on higher grounds than
the light gossip and small-talk of the capital, the small fashionable
chit-chat of a provincial city, and which bears the same resemblance to
the table-talk of the greater metropolis as do larks to ortolans, when
disguised in the same kind of sauce; only those accustomed to the higher
flavor being able to detect the difference. It was, then, with as
much surprise as pleasure that they found themselves listening to the
narratives in which not a single noble or lordly personage figured, nor
one singular incident occurred reflecting on the taste, the wealth, or
the morals of their acquaintance. It was no less a novelty, too, for
Cashel to find any one a listener to descriptions of scenes and habits
in whose familiarity he saw nothing strange or remarkable; so that when
the young ladies, at first attracted by mere curiosity, became gradually
more and more interested in his stories, his flattered vanity gave new
warmth to an enthusiasm always ardent, and he spoke of prairie life
and adventure with a degree of eloquence and power that might have
captivated even less indulgent auditors.
It was, besides, the first time that they ever had seen great wealth
unallied with immense pretension. Cashel, perhaps from character,
or that his accession to fortune was too recent, and his consequent
ignorance of all that money can do, whichever of these the cause, was
certainly the most unassuming young man they had ever met. In comparison
with him, the aides-de-camp were princes of the blood; even Mr. Jones
put forth a degree of pretension on the score of his abilities, which
stood in strong contrast with the unaffected and simple modesty of
Roland Cashel.
It is but fair to all parties to add that dark and flashing eyes, shaded
by long and drooping lashes, a high and massive forehead; a brown,
almost Spanish complexion, whose character was increased by a pair of
short coal-black moustaches,--did not detract from the merit of tales,
which, as they chiefly related to feats of personal daring and
address, were well corroborated by the admirable symmetry and handsome
proportions of the relater.
Story followed story. Now the scene lay in the low and misty swamps
of the Niger, where night resounds with the dull roar of the beasts of
prey, and the heavy plash of the sluggish alligator on the muddy shore;
now, it was in the green wood of the Spice Islands, amid an atmosphere
scented with perfume, and glittering with every gorgeous hue of plumage
and verdure. At one moment he would describe a chase at sea, with all
its high and maddening excitement, as each new vicissitude of success
or failure arose; and then he would present some little quiet picture
of shore life in a land where the boundless resources of Nature supply,
even anticipate, the wants and luxuries of man.
Whatever the interest, and occasionally it rose to a high pitch, that
attended his narratives of danger and daring, the little sketches he
gave from time to time of the domestic life of these far-away people,
seemed to attract the most delighted attention of his fair hearers,
particularly where his narrative touched upon the traits, whether of
beauty, dress, or demeanor, that distinguish the belles of New Spain.
“How difficult,” said Miss Kennyfeck, “I could almost say, how
impossible, to leave a land so abounding in the romance of life, for all
the dull and commonplace realities of European existence.”
“How hard to do so without leaving behind the heart that could feel such
ecstasies,” murmured Olivia, with a half-raised eyelid, and a glance
that made Cashel flush with delight.
“How shall we ever make Ireland compensate you for quitting so lovely a
country!” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, with a smile rarely accorded to anything
lower than a viscount.
“We have a Mexican proverb, madam,” said Cashel, gayly, “which says,
'Wherever the sun shines, bright eyes shine also.' But enough of these
tiresome memories, in which my egotism will always involve me. Shall we
have a fandango?”
“I don't know it; I never saw it danced.”
“Well, the manolo, then.”
“Nor that either,” said both girls, laughing.
“Well, will you learn? I'll teach you the manolo. It's very simple. If
you 'll play the air, Miss Kennyfeck,--it runs thus.” Here he opened the
pianoforte, and, after a few chords, struck with a masterly finger, he
played a little Spanish dance; but with a spirit of execution, and
in such an exciting character of time and measure, that a general
exclamation of delight broke from the whole room, Mr. Jones himself
forgetting all rivalry, and Mr. Softly laying down his newspaper
to listen, and for a moment carried away by the fascination of the
spirit-stirring melody.
“That is the manolo; come, now, and let me teach you, first the air, and
then the dance.”
“Oh, I never could succeed to give it that character of bold and haughty
defiance it breathes from you,” said Miss Kennyfeck.
“Nay, nay, a man's hand is always so rude and heavy, it needs the taper
finger of a lady,”--here Cashel bent, and kissed the hand he held,
but with such a deference and respect in the salute, that deprived the
action, so novel to our eyes, of any appearance of a liberty,--“of
a lady,” he resumed, “to impart the ringing brilliancy of the saucy
manolo.”
“Then play it over once more, and I 'll try,” said Miss Kennyfeck, who
was a most accomplished musician, and had even already caught up the
greater part of the air.
Cashel obeyed, and again the plaudits followed even more
enthusiastically than the first time. With a precision that called forth
many a hearty “bravo” from Roland, Miss Kennyfeck played over the air,
catching up all the spirit of its transitions from gay to plaintive, and
from tender to a strain bold, daring, and energetic.
“Now for the dance,” exclaimed Cashel, eagerly, as he busied himself
in removing chairs and pushing back sofas. “Will you be kind enough to
assist me with this table?”
Mr. Softly, the gentleman thus addressed, rose to comply, his face
exhibiting a very amusing struggle between shame and astonishment at the
position he occupied. The space cleared, Roland took Olivia's hand, and
led her forward with an air of exceeding deference.
“Now, Miss Kenny feck, the step is the easiest thing in the world. It
goes so,--one--two; one--two--three; and then change--Exactly, quite
right; you have it perfectly. This is, as it were, an introduction to
the dance; but the same step is preserved throughout, merely changing
its time with the measure.”
It would be as impossible to follow as it would be unfair to weary the
reader with the lesson which now began; and yet we would like to linger
on the theme, as our memory brings up every graceful gesture and every
proud attitude of the fascinating manolo. Representing, as it does, by
pantomimic action a little episode of devotion, in which pursuit and
flight, entreaty, rejection, seductive softness, haughty defiance, timid
fear, and an even insolent boldness alternate and succeed each other,
all the movements which expressive action can command, whether of
figure or feature, are called forth. Now, it is the retiring delicacy of
shrinking, timid loveliness, half hoping, halt fearing, to be pursued;
now the stately defiance of haughty beauty, demanding homage as its due.
At one moment the winning seductiveness that invites pursuit, and then,
sudden as the lightning, the disdain that repels advance.
Not the least interesting part of the present scene was to watch how
Olivia, who at first made each step and gesture with diffidence and
fear, as she went on, became, as it were, seized with the characteristic
spirit of the measure; her features varying with each motive of the
music, her eyes at one instant half closed in dreamy languor, and at the
next flashing in all the brilliancy of conscious beauty. As for Roland,
forgetting, as well he might, all his functions as teacher, he
moved with the enthusiastic spirit of the dance,--his rapturous gaze
displaying the admiration that fettered him; and when at last, as it
were, yielding to long-proved devotion, she gave her hand, it needed
the explanation of its being a Mexican fashion to excuse the ardor with
which he pressed it to his lips.
Mrs. Kennyfeck's applause, however, was none the less warm; and if
any of the company disapproved, they prudently said nothing,--even Mr.
Softly, who only evidenced his feeling by a somewhat hasty resumption
of the “Morning Post,” while the elder sister, rising from the piano,
whispered, as she passed her sister, “Bad jockey-ship, Livy, dear, to
make fast running so early.”
“And that is the--What d'ye call it, Mr. Cashel?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck.
“The manolo, madam. It is of Italian origin, rather than
Spanish,--Calabrian, I fancy; but, in Mexico, it has become national,
and well suits the changeful temper of our Spanish belles, and the style
of their light and floating costume.”
“Yes, I suspect it has a better effect with short drapery than with the
sweeping folds of our less picturesque dress,” said Miss Kennyfeck,
who, for reasons we must not inquire, took a pleasure in qualifying her
approval.
“I never saw it appear more graceful,” said Cashel, with a blunt
abruptness far more flattering than a studied compliment.
Olivia blushed; Mrs. Kennyfeck looked happy, and the elder sister
bit her lips, and threw up her eyebrows, with an expression we cannot
attempt to render in words.
“May I not have the honor of introducing you to the manolo?” said
Cashel, presenting himself before her with a deep bow.
“Thank you, I prefer being a spectator; besides, we could have no
music,--my sister does not play.”
Olivia blushed; and, in her hasty look, there was an expression of
gently conveyed reproach, as though to say, “This is unfair.”
“Do you like music, Mr. Cashel?” continued Miss Kennyfeck, who saw the
slight cloud of disappointment that crossed Roland's features. “Oh, I 'm
certain you do, and I know you sing!”
“Yes,” said Cashel, carelessly, “as every one sings in that merry land
I come from; but I fear the wild carol-lings of a ranchero would scarce
find acceptance in the polished ears of Europe.”
“What are the melodies like, then?” asked Miss Kennyfeck, throwing into
the question a most eager interest.
“You shall hear, if you like,” said Roland, taking up a guitar, and
striking a few full chords with a practised hand. “This is one of the
war-songs;” and without further preface he began. Had he even been less
gifted than he was as to voice and musical taste, there was enough in
the bold and manly energy of his manner, in the fiery daring of his dark
eyes, and the expressive earnestness of his whole bearing, to attract
the admiration of his hearers. But, besides these advantages, he was not
unskilled in the science of music, and even made so poor an instrument a
full and masterly accompaniment, imitating, as few but Spaniards can do,
the distant sound of drums, the dropping fire of cannon, the wild abrupt
changes of battle, and the low plaintive sounds of suffering and defeat;
so that, as he concluded, the whole character of the performance had
ceased to be regarded as a mere musical display, but had the absolute
effect of a powerfully told story.
The Kennyfecks had often been called on in society to award their
praises to amateur performances, in whose applause, be it said, _en
passant_, a grateful sense of their being concluded always contributes
the enthusiasm; but real admiration and pleasure now made them silent,
and as their eyes first turned on the singer and then met, there was a
world of intelligence in that one quiet, fleeting glance that revealed
more of secret thought and feeling than we, as mere chroniclers of
events, dare inquire into.
Whether it was that this silence, prolonged for some seconds, suggested
the move, or that Mr. Jones began to feel how ignoble a part he had been
cast for in the whole evening's entertainment, but he rose to take
his leave at once, throwing into his manner a certain air of easy
self-sufficiency, with which in the “courts” he had often dismissed
a witness under cross-examination, and by a mere look and gesture
contrived to disparage his testimony.
None, save Miss Kennyfeck, perceived his tactic. She saw it, however,
and, with a readiness all her own, replied by a slight elevation of the
eyebrow. Jones saw his “signal acknowledged,” and went home contented.
Poor man, he was not the first who has been taken into partnership
because his small resources were all “ready,” and who is ejected from
the firm when wider and grander speculations are entered on. I am not
certain either that he will be the last!
Mr. Softly next withdrew, his leave-taking having all the blended
humility and cordiality of his first arrival; and now Mr. Kennyfeck was
awakened out of a very sound nap by his wife saying in his ear, “Will
you ask Mr. Cashel if he 'll take a biscuit and a glass of wine before
he retires?”
The proposition was politely declined, and after a very cordial
hand-shaking with all the members of the family, Cashel said his
good-night and retired.