Of “sweet fifteen” no mortal e'er afraid is,
Your real “man traps” are old maiden ladies.
The Legacy.
It was late of that same afternoon ere Cashel awoke. Mr. Phillis had
twice adventured into the room on tiptoe, and as stealthily retired, and
was now, for the third time, about to retreat, when Roland called him
back.
“Beg pardon, sir; but Mrs. Kennyfeck's footman has been here twice for
the answer to this note.”
“Let me see it,” said Cashel, taking a highly-perfumed epistle, whose
tinted paper, seal, and superscription were all in the perfection of
epistolary coquetry.
Dear Mr. Cashel,--Mamma desires me to convey her reproaches
for your shocking forgetfulness of yesterday, when, after
promising to dine here, you never appeared. She will,
however, not only forgive the past, but be grateful for the
present, if you will come to us to-day at seven.
Believe me, very truly yours,
Olivia Kennyfeck.
Simple and commonplace as the words were, Cashel read them over more
than once.
I know not if any of my male readers can corroborate me, but I have
always thought there is some mysterious attraction in even the most
every-day epistle of a young and pretty woman. The commonest social
forms assume a different meaning, and we read the four letters which
spell “dear” in an acceptation very remote from what they inspire when
written by one's law agent; and then, the concluding “yours truly,”
or “faithfully yours,” or better again, “ever yours,”--what suggestive
little words they are! how insinuating in their portraiture of a tie
which possibly might, but does not actually, bind the parties.
If my readers concur not in these sympathies; I have great satisfaction
in saying that Roland Cashel did. He not only sat gazing at the few
lines, but he looked so long at them as to half believe that the first
word was a superlative; then, suddenly rousing himself he asked the
hour. It was already past six. He had only time, then, for a verbal,
“With pleasure,” and to dress for dinner.
It seemed like a reproach on his late mode of living, the pile of
unopened letters, which in imposing mass Mr. Phillis had arrayed on
his master's dressing-table. They contained specimens of everything
epistolary which falls to the lot of those favored children of fortune
who, having “much to give,” are great favorites with the world. There
were dear little pressing invitations signed by the lady of the house,
and indited in all the caligraphy of the governess. There were begging
letters from clergymen with large families, men who gave so “many
hostages to fortune,” that they actually ruined themselves in their
own “recognizances.” Flatteries, which, if not written on tinted
paper, might have made it blush to bear them, mixed up with tradesmen's
assurances of fidelity and punctuality, and bashful apologies for the
indelicacy of any allusion to money.
Oh, it is a very sweet world this of ours, and amiable withal! save that
the angelic smile it bestows on one part of the creation has a sorry
counterpart in the sardonic grin with which it regards the other. Our
friend Cashel was in the former category, and he tossed over the letters
carelessly, rarely breaking a seal, and, even then, satisfied with a
mere glance at the contents, or the name of the writer, when he suddenly
caught sight of a large square-shaped epistle, marked “Sea-letter.” It
was in a hand he well knew, that of his old comrade Enrique; and burning
with anxiety to hear of him, he threw himself into a chair, and broke
the seal.
The very first words which met his eye shocked him.
“St. Kitt's, Jamaica.
“Ay, Roland, even so. St. Kitt's, Jamaica! heavily ironed
in a cell at the top of a strong tower over the sea, with an
armed sentry at my door, I write this! a prisoner fettered
and chained,--I, that could not brook the very orders of
discipline! Well, well, it is only cowardice to repine.
Truth is, _amigo_, I 've had no luck since you left us. It
was doubtless yours that sustained me so long, and when
_you_ withdrew from the firm, I became bankrupt, and yet,
this is pretty much what we used once, in merry mood, to
predict for each other, 'the loop and the leap.'
“How shall I tell you so briefly as neither to weary you to
read, nor myself to write it, my last sad misfortune? I say
the last, because the bad luck took a run against me. First,
I lost everything I possessed at play,--the very pistols you
sent me, I staked and lost. Worse still, Roland,--and faith
I don't think I could make the confession, if a few hours,
or a few days more, were not to hide my shame in a felon's
grave,--I played the jewels you sent here for Maritaña. She
refused them with words of bitterness and anger. Partly from
the irritated feeling of the moment, partly from the curse
of a gambler's spirit,--the hope to weary out the malice of
fortune,--I threw them on the monte-table. Of course I lost.
It was soon after this Barcelonetta was laid in ruin by a
shock of earthquake, the greatest ever experienced here. The
'Quadro' is a mere mass of chaotic rubbish. The 'Puerta
Mayor,' with all its statues, is ingulfed, and an arm of the
sea now washes up and over the beautiful gardens where the
Governor gave his _fête_. The villa, too, rent from roof to
basement, is a ruin; vast yawning gulfs intersect the
parterres everywhere; the fountains are dried up; the
trees blasted by lightning; and a red-brown surface of
ashes strewn over the beauteous turf where we used to stroll
by moonlight. The old tree that sheltered our monte-table
stands uninjured, as if in mockery over our disasters!
Maritaña's hammock was slung beneath the branches, and there
she lay, careless of--nay, I could almost say, if the words
did not seem too strange for truth, actually pleased by--the
dreadful event. I went to take leave of her; it was the last
night we were to spend on shore. I little knew it was to be
the last time we should ever meet. Pedro passed the night
among the ruins of the villa, endeavoring to recover papers
and valuables amid that disastrous mass. Geizheimer was
always with him, and as Noronja and the rest soon fell off
to sleep, wearied by a day of great fatigue, I sat alone
beside her hammock till day was breaking. Oh, would that
night could have lasted for years, so sweetly tranquil were
the starlit hours, so calm and yet so full of hopeful
promise. What brilliant pictures of ambition did she, that
young, untaught girl, present to my eyes,--how teach me to
long for a cause whose rewards were higher, and greater, and
nobler than the prizes of this wayward life. I would have
spoken of my affection, my deep-felt, long-cherished love,
but, with a half-scornful laugh, she stopped me, saying, 'Is
this leafy shade so like a fair lady's boudoir that you can
persuade yourself to trifle thus, or is your own position so
dazzling that you deem the offer to share it a flattery?'”
“I 'm afraid, sir,” said Mr. Phillis, here obtruding his head into the
room, “that you 'll be very late. It is already more than half-past
seven o'clock.”
“So it is!” exclaimed Cashel, starting up, while he muttered something
not exceedingly complimentary to his host's engagement. “Is the carriage
ready?” And without staying to hear the reply, hurried downstairs, the
open letter still in his hand.
Scarcely seated in the carriage, Cashel resumed the reading of the
letter. Eager to trace the circumstances which led to his friend's
captivity, he hastily ran his eyes over the lines till he came to the
following:--
“There could be no doubt of it. The 'Esmeralda,' our noble
frigate, was not in the service of the Republic, but by some
infamous treaty between Pedro and Narochez, the minister,
was permitted to carry the flag of Columbia. We were
slavers, buccaneers, pirates,--not sailors of a state. When,
therefore, the British war-brig 'Scorpion' sent a gun
across our bows, with an order to lie to, and we replied by
showing our main-deck ports open, and our long eighteens all
ready, the challenge could not be mistaken. We were near
enough to hear the cheering, and it seemed, too, they heard
ours; we wanted but you, Roland, among us to have made our
excitement madness!”
The carriage drew up at Kennyfeck's door as Cashel had read thus far,
and in a state of mind bordering on fever he entered the hall and passed
up the stairs. The clock struck eight as he presented himself in the
drawing-room, where the family were assembled, the number increased by
two strangers, who were introduced to Roland as Mrs. Kennyfeck's sister,
Miss O'Hara, an elderly maiden lady, with a light brown wig; and a
raw-boned, much-freckled young man, Peter O'Gorman, her nephew.
Nothing could be more cordial than the reception of the Kennyfecks; they
affected not to think that it was so late, vowed that the clock was
too fast, were certain that Mr. Cashel's watch was right; in fact, his
presence was a receipt in full for all the anxieties of delay, and so
they made him feel it.
There was a little quizzing of Roland, as they seated themselves at
table, over his forgetfulness of the day before, but so good-humoredly
as not to occasion, even to himself, the slightest embarrassment.
“At breakfast at the barrack!” repeated Miss Kennyfeck after him. “What
a formidable affair, if it always lasts twenty-four hours.”
“What do you mean? How do you know that?” asked Roland, half in shame,
half in surprise, at this knowledge of his movements.
“Not to speak of the brilliant conversation, heightened by all the
excitement of wit, champagne, and hazard,--dreadful competitors with
such tiresome society as ours,” said Olivia.
“Never mind them, Mr. Cashel,” broke in Miss O'Hara, in a mellifluous
Doric; “'tis jealous they are, because you like the officers better than
themselves.”
A most energetic dissent was entered by Cashel to this supposition, who
nevertheless felt grateful for the advocacy of the old lady.
“When I was in the Cape Coast Fencibles,” broke in Peter, with an accent
that would have induced one to believe Africa was on the Shannon, “we
used to sit up all night,--it was so hot in the day; but we always
called it breakfast, for you see--”
“And when are we to visit your pictures, Mr. Cashel?” said Mrs.
Kennyfeck, whose efforts to suppress Peter were not merely vocal, as
that injured individual's shins might attest.
“That depends entirely on you, madam,” said Roland, bowing. “I have only
to say, the earlier the more agreeable to me.”
“He has such a beautiful collection,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, turning to
her sister.
“Indeed, then, I delight in pictures,” said “Aunt Fanny,” as her nieces
called her. “I went the other day to Mount Bennett, to see a portrait
painted by Rousseau.”
“By Rubens, I suppose you mean, aunt,” interposed Miss Kennyfeck,
tartly.
“So it may be, my dear, I never know the names right; but it was a dark
old man, with a hairy cap and a long gray beard, as like Father Morris
Heffernan as ever it could stare.”
“Is your new Carlo Dolce so very like Olivia?” interposed Mrs.
Kennyfeck, who was sadly hampered by her country relatives and their
reminiscences.
“So very like, madam, that I beg you to accept it as a portrait,”
replied Roland.
“Upon my word, then, young gentleman, you 're not so fond of a pretty
face as you might be,” broke in Aunt Fanny, “or you would n't be
so ready to give it away.” A very hearty laugh at the old lady's
eccentricity relieved Cashel from all necessity of explanation.
“The old masters are so good,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck; “I delight in their
fine, vigorous touch.”
“Why don't they put more clothes on their figures,” said Aunt Fanny,
“even a warm climate is no excuse for the way the creatures went about.”
“If you saw them in Hickweretickanookee,” said Peter, “King John never
wore anything but a cocked-hat and a pair of short black gaiters the
missionary gave him for learning the Lord's Prayer.”
“I hear that Lady Janet said Cary would be an excellent study for Helen
M'Gregor,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck. “It was scarcely civil, however.”
“It was more,--downright rude,” said Cashel, reddening; “but Miss
Kennyfeck can afford to pay the penalty beauty always yields to its
opposite.”
“There, my dear, that's a compliment,” said Aunt Fanny, “and don't be
displeased. I say, darling, did n't he say a while ago you were like
somebody at Carlow?”
“A Carlo Dolce, aunt,” broke in both sisters, laughing; and so the
dinner proceeded amid commonplaces, relieved occasionally from their
flatness by the absurdities of Aunt Fanny, who seemed as good-naturedly
proof against ridicule, as she was likely to evoke it.
Peter was the first to rise from table, as he was anxious to go to “the
play,” and the ladies soon retired to the drawing-room, Mrs. Kennyfeck
slyly whispering, as she passed behind Roland's chair, an entreaty that
he would not long delay in following them. Cashel's anxiety to close his
_tête-à-tête_ arose from another cause,--his burning anxiety to
finish Enrique's letter; while Kennyfeck himself seemed beating about,
uncertain how to open subjects he desired to have discussed. After a
long pause, he said,--
“I was speaking to Pepystell yesterday, and he is of opinion that
there is no use in preserving any part of the old structure at
Tubbermore,--the great difficulty of adapting a new character of
architecture to the old would not repay the cost.”
Cashel nodded a careless assent, and, after a pause, Kennyfeck
resumed:--
“It might be of some convenience at present, however, to let the
building stand as it is. A residence of one kind or other you will want,
particularly as the elections are approaching.”
Another nod in silence was all the reply.
“Pepystells estimate is large,--don't you think so?”
He nodded again.
“Nearly seventy thousand pounds! And that does not include the gate
tower, which seems a point for after consideration.”
“I remember,” muttered Cashel, in a voice that implied anything rather
than a mind attentive to the subject before it.
“Now, it would be as well,” said Mr. Kennyfeck, drawing a long breath,
and, as it were, preparing himself for a great effort, “to put a
little order into our affairs. Your first year or two will be costly
ones,--building expenses, equipage, horses, furniture, election charges.
Much of your capital is vested in foreign securities, which it would be
injurious to sell at this moment. Don't you think”--here he changed
his voice to an almost insinuating softness--“don't you think that by
devoting a certain portion of your income,--say a third, or one-half,
perhaps,--for the present, to meet these charges--” He paused, for he
saw from Cashel's occupied look that he was not attending to his words.
“Well--continue,” said Roland, affecting to wait for his conclusion.
“I was about to ask, sir,” said Kennyfeck, boldly, “what sum would you
deem sufficient for your yearly expenditure?”
“What is the amount of my income?” asked Cashel, bluntly.
“In good years, something above sixteen thousand pounds; in bad ones,
somewhat less than twelve.”
“Well, then,--you have the scale of my expenditure at once.”
“Not your whole income?” exclaimed Kennyfeck, astonished.
“Even so. I see no earthly reason for hoarding. I do not find that
squandering money is any very high enjoyment; I am certain scraping and
saving it would afford me still less pleasure.”
“But there are always casualties demanding extraordinary expense,--a
contested election, for instance.”
“I 'll not try it,--I don't intend to enter Parliament.”
“When you marry--”
“Perhaps I shall not do that either.”
“Well, sums lost at play,--the turf has pressed on many a strong
pocket.”
“Play has no fascination for me; I can give it up: I may almost say I
have done so.”
“Not without paying a heavy penalty, however,” said Kennyfeck, whose
animation showed that he had at last approached the territory he was so
long in search of.
“How do you mean?” said Cashel, blushing deeply, as he began to fear
that by some accident his secret visit to the money-lender had reached
Kennyfeck's ears.
“Your drafts on Latrobe, sir, whose account I have received to-day, are
very heavy.”
“Oh, is that all?” said Cashel, carelessly.
“All! all!” repeated Kennyfeck; then, suddenly correcting himself,
he added, “I am almost certain, sir, that your generous habits have
over-mastered your prudence. Are you aware of having drawn fifty
thousand pounds?”
“No, I really was not,” replied Cashel, smiling more at the attorney's
look of consternation than anything else. “I fancied about half as much.
Pray tell me some of the items. No, no! not from book; that looks too
formal,--just from memory.”
“Well, there are horses without number,--one bought with all his
engagements for the Oaks, which amount to a forfeiture of four thousand
pounds.”
“I remember that,--a piece of Linton's blundering; but he lost more
heavily himself, poor fellow, our steed Lanz-knecht having turned out a
dead failure.”
“Then there is something about a villa at Cowes, which I am certain you
never saw.”
“No; but I have a drawing of it somewhere--a pretty thing under a cliff,
with a beautiful bay of deep water, and good anchorage. Linton knows all
about it.”
“Twelve thousand pounds is a large sum to give without ever seeing the
purchase.”
“So it is; but go on.”
“I cannot remember one-half; but there is plate and jewels; sums
advanced for building; subscriptions to everything and everybody; a
heavy amount transmitted to the Havannah.”
“Very true; and that reminds me of a letter which I received at the very
moment I was leaving home. Have I your leave to finish the reading? It
is from an old and valued comrade.”
“Of course,--don't think of me for an instant,” said Kennyfeck, scarcely
able to repress an open acknowledgment of his amazement at the
coolness which could turn from so interesting a topic to the, doubtless
commonplace, narrative of some Mexican sailor.
Cashel was, meanwhile, searching every pocket for the letter, which he
well remembered, after reading in the carriage, to have crushed in his
hand as he ascended the stairs. “I have dropped this letter,” said he,
in a voice of great agitation. “May I ask if your servants have found
it?”
The bell was rung, and the butler at once interrogated. He had seen
nothing, neither had the footman. They both remembered, however that Mr.
Phillis had accompanied his master to the foot of the stairs to receive
some directions, and then left him to return with the carriage.
“So, then, Phillis must have found it,” said Cashel, rising hastily;
and, without a word of apology or excuse, he bade his host a hurried
good evening, and left the room.
“Won't you have the carriage? Will you not stay for a cup of tea?” cried
Mr. Kennyfeck, hastening after him. But the hall-door had already banged
heavily behind him, and he was gone. When Cashel reached his house, it
was to endure increased anxiety; for Mr. Phillis had gone out, and, like
a true gentleman's gentleman, none of the other servants knew anything
of his haunts, or when he would return. Leaving Cashel, then, to the
tortures of a suspense which his fervid nature made almost intolerable,
we shall return for a brief space to the house he had just quitted, and
to the drawing-room, where, in momentary expectation of his appearance,
the ladies sat, maintaining that species of “staccato” conversation
which can afford interruption with least inconvenience. It is our duty
to add, that we bring the reader back here less with any direct object
as to what is actually going forward, than to make him better acquainted
with the new arrival.
Had Miss O'Hara been the mere quiet, easy-going, simple-minded elderly
maiden she seemed to Cashel's eyes, the step on our part had not been
needed; she might, like some other characters of our tale, have been
suffered to glide by as ghosts or stage-supernumeraries do, unquestioned
and undetained; but she possessed qualities of a kind to demand somewhat
more consideration. Aunt Fanny, to give her the title by which she
was best known, was, in reality, a person of the keenest insight
into others,--reading people at sight, and endowed with a species of
intuitive perception of all the possible motives which lead to any
action. Residing totally in a small town in the west of Ireland, she
rarely visited the capital, and was now, in fact, brought up “special”
by her sister, Mrs. Kennyfeck, who desired to have her advice and
counsel on the prospect of securing Cashel for one or other of her
daughters. It was so far a wise step, that in such a conjuncture no
higher opinion could have been obtained.
“It was like getting a private hint from the Chancellor about a cause in
equity.” This was Mr. Kennyfeck's own illustration.
Aunt Fanny was then there in the guise of a domestic detective, to watch
proceedings and report on them,--a function which simplifies the due
conduct of a case, be it in love or law, beyond anything.
“How agreeable your papa must be this evening, my dear!” said Mrs.
Kennyfeck, as with a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece she
recognized that it was near ten.
[Illustration: 261]
“I 'm sure he is deep in one of his interminable law arguments, which
always makes Mr. Cashel so sleepy and so stupid, that he never recovers
for the rest of the evening.”
“He ought to find the drawing-room all the pleasanter for the contrast,”
remarked Miss O'Hara, dryly. “I like to see young men--mind me well,
young men, it does n't do with old ones--thoroughly bored before they
come among the ladies. The sudden change to the tea, and the wax-lights,
and the bright eyes, are trying stimulants. Let them, however, be what
they call 'pleasant' below-stair, and they are sure to come up flushed
and excited, well satisfied with the host's claret, and only anxious to
order the carriage. What o'clock is it now?”
“A quarter-past ten, aunt.”
“Too late; full three-quarters too late,” ejaculated she, with the tone
of an oracle. “There is nothing your father could have to say should
have detained him till now. Play that little Mexican thing again, my
dear; and, Livy, love, leave the door a little open; don't you find the
heat of this room intolerable?”
The young ladies obeyed, and meanwhile Aunt Fanny, drawing her chair
closer to her sister's, said, in a low tone,--
“Well, explain the matter more clearly. Did he give her the diamonds?”
“No; that is the strangest of all,” responded Mrs. Kennyfeck. “He just
told Leonard to send them home, and we never heard more about them.”
Aunt Fanny shook her head.
“You know, he asked Olivia, as they were going downstairs, what she
thought of them; and she replied, 'They 're beautiful.'”
“How did she say it, though; was it like a mere casual remark, or did
she make it with feeling?”
“With feeling,” echoed Mrs. Kennyfeck, pursing up her lips.
“Well?”
“Well! he just said, 'I'll take them,' and there was an end of it.”
Aunt Fanny seemed to reflect, and, after some time, said,--
“Now, as to the horse, when did he make her a present of that?”
“It was to Caroline he gave the horse; sure I told you already.”
“Very true, so you did; a bad feature of the case, too! She ought to
have declined it somehow.”
“So she would,” broke in Mrs. Kennyfeck; “but, you perceive, it was very
doubtful, at the time, which of the girls he preferred.”
“And you tell me this Mr. Linton has such influence over him.”
“The most absolute. It is only a few weeks since they became acquainted,
and now they are inseparable.”
“What is he like,--Linton himself?”
Mrs. Kennyfeck gave a most significant signal, by closing up her lips,
and slowly nodding her head,--a gesture that seemed well understood.
“Does Kennyfeck know nothing of his affairs; has he no private history
of the man, which might be useful to us?”
“Don't think of that, my dear,” rejoined Mrs. Kennyfeck, knowingly; “but
here they come at last.” This was said with reference to the sound of
footsteps on the stairs, which gradually approached, and at last Mr.
Kennyfeck made his appearance in the drawing-room.
“Where is Mr. Cashel,--is he gone?” asked Mrs. Kennyfeck, in an accent
of unusual anxiety.
“He went away above an hour ago. He wanted to see a letter, or to write
one, or to look for one he had lost,--I forget which.”
“I'm certain you do!” observed Mrs. Kennyfeck, with an expression of
unequivocal contempt. “I am perfectly certain we need not look to you
for either information or assistance.”
Poor Mr. Kennyfeck was dumfoundered. The very words were riddles to
him, and he turned to each person about him in silent entreaty for
explanation; but none came.
“What had you been conversing about?” asked Aunt Fanny, in that
encouraging tone lawyers sometimes use to draw out a reluctant or
bashful witness.
“Of his money affairs, Miss O'Hara; and I am grieved to say that the
subject had so little interest for him, that he started up and left me
on suddenly remembering something about a letter.”
“Which something you have totally forgotten,” remarked Mrs. Kennyfeck,
tartly.
“And yet it would be a most important fact for us,” observed Aunt Fanny,
with judicial solemnity; “a letter, whether to read or to write, of such
pressing necessity, implies much.”
“Come, Livy, dear,” said Miss Kennyfeck, rising from the pianoforte, and
addressing her sister, who sat reading on the sofa, “_my_ canzonette and
_your_ beautiful attitude are so much sweetness thrown away. He's gone
without even a thought of either! There, there, don't look so innocently
vacant,--you understand me perfectly.”
A very gentle smile was all the younger sister's reply as she left the
room.
“Depend upon it, my dear,” said Miss O'Hara to Mrs. Kennyfeck, “that
young man had made some unhappy connection; that's the secret of this
letter, and when they get into a scrape of the kind it puts marriage out
of their heads altogether. It was the same with Captain Morris,”--here
she whispered still lower, the only audible words being, “without my
ever suspecting,--one evening--a low creature--never set eyes upon--ah,
man, man!” And with this exclamation aloud, Aunt Fanny took her candle
and retired.
About a minute after, however, she re-entered the drawing-room, and
advancing close to her sister, said, with all the solemnity of deep
thought,--
“Peter is no good in this case, my dear; send him home at once. That man
will 'blaze' for the asking.” And with a nod of immense significance she
finally withdrew.