Ignored the schools of France and Spain,
And of the Netherlands not surer,
He knew not Cuyp from Claude Lorraine,
Nor Dow from Albert Durer.
Bell: Images.
Scarcely had the Kennyfecks' carriage driven from the door when the
stately equipage of the MacFarlines drew up, which was soon after
followed by the very small pony phaeton of Mrs. Leicester White,
that lady herself driving, and having for her companion a large
high-shouldered, spectacled gentleman, whose glances, at once inquiring
and critical, pronounced him as one of her numerous _protégés_ in art,
science, or letters.
This visit to the “Cashel Gallery,” as she somewhat grandiloquently
designated the collection, had been a thing of her own planning; first,
because Mrs. White was an adept in that skilful diplomacy which so
happily makes plans for pleasure at other people's houses--and oh, what
numbers there are!--delightful, charming people as the world calls them!
whose gift goes no further than this, that they keep a registry of their
friends' accommodation, and know to a nicety the season to dine here,
to sup there, to picnic at one place, and to “spend the day”--horrible
expression of a more horrible fact--at another. But Mrs. White had also
another object in view on the present occasion, which was, to introduce
her companion, Mr. Elias Howie, to her Dublin acquaintance.
Mr. Elias Howie was one of a peculiar class, which this age, so fertile
in inventions, has engendered, a publishers' man-of-all-work, ready for
everything, from statistics to satire, and equally prepared to expound
prophecy, or write squibs for “Punch.”
Not that lodgings were not inhabited in Grub Street before our day,
but that it remained for the glory of this century to see that numerous
horde of tourist authors held in leash by fashionable booksellers,
and every now and then let slip over some country, to which plague,
pestilence, or famine, had given a newer and more terrible interest
In this novel walk of literature Mr. Howie was one of the chief
proficients; he was the creator of that new school of travel which,
writing expressly for London readers, refers everything to the standard
of “town;” and whether it be a trait of Icelandic life, or some remnant
of old-world existence in the far East, all must be brought for trial to
the bar of “Seven Dials,” or stand to plead in the dock of Pall Mall
or Piccadilly. Whatever errors or misconceptions he might fall into
respecting his subjects, he made none regarding his readers. He knew
them by heart,--their leanings, their weakness, and their
prejudices; and how pleasantly could he flatter their town-bred
self-sufficiency,--how slyly insinuate their vast superiority over all
other citizens, insidiously assuring them that the Thames at Richmond
was infinitely finer than the Rhine or the Danube, and that a trip to
Margate was richer in repayal than a visit to the Bosphorus! Ireland
was, just at the time we speak of, a splendid field for his peculiar
talents. The misery-mongers had had their day. The world was somewhat
weary of Landlordism, Pauperism, and Protestantism, and all the other
“isms” of that unhappy country.
There was nothing that had not been said over the overgrown Church
establishment, the devouring Middleman, Cottier misery, and Celtic
barbarism; people grew weary of hearing about a nation so endowed with
capabilities, and which yet did nothing, and rather than puzzle their
heads any further, they voted Ireland a “bore.” It was just then that
“this inspired Cockney” determined to try a new phase of the subject,
and this was not to counsel nor console, not to lament over nor bewail
our varied mass of errors and misfortunes, but to laugh at us. To hunt
out as many incongruities--many real enough, some fictitious--as he
could find; to unveil all that he could discover of social anomaly; and,
without any reference to, or any knowledge of, the people, to bring them
up for judgment before his less volatile and more happily circumstanced
countrymen, certain of the verdict he sought for--a hearty laugh. His
mission was to make “Punch” out of Ireland, and none more capable than
he for the office.
A word of Mr. Howie in the flesh, and we have done. He was large and
heavily built, but neither muscular nor athletic; his frame and all his
gestures indicated weakness and uncertainty. His head was capacious, but
not remarkable for what phrenologists call moral development; while
the sinister expression of his eyes--half submissive, half
satirical--suggested doubts of his sincerity. There was nothing honest
about him but his mouth; this was large, full, thick-lipped, and
sensual,--the mouth of one who loved to dine well, and yet felt that
his agreeability was an ample receipt in full for the best entertainment
that ever graced Black wall or the “Frères.”
It is a heavy infliction that we story-tellers are compelled to lay
upon our readers and ourselves, thus to interrupt our narrative by a
lengthened description of a character not essentially belonging to our
story; we had rather, far rather, been enabled to imitate Mrs. White, as
she advanced into the circle in the drawing-room, saying, “Mr. Cashel,
allow me to present to your favorable notice my distinguished friend,
Mr. Howie. Lady Janet MacFarline, Mr. Howie,--” sotto,--“the author of
'Snooks in the Holy Land,' the wittiest thing of the day; Sir Andrew
will be delighted with him--has been all over the scenes of the
Peninsular war. Mrs. Kennyfeck, Mr. Howie.”
Mr. Howie made his round of salutations, and although by his awkwardness
tacitly acknowledging that they were palpably more habituated to the
world's ways than himself, yet inwardly consoled by remarking certain
little traits of manner and accent sufficiently provincial to be
treasured up, and become very droll in print or a copper etching.
“It's a vara new pleasure ye are able to confer upon your friends, Mr.
Cashel,” said Sir Andrew, “to show them so fine a collection o'
pictures in Ireland, whar, methinks, the arts ha' no enjoyed too mickle
encouragement.”
“I confess,” said Cashel, modestly, “I am but ill qualified to extend
the kind of patronage that would be serviceable, had I even the means;
I have not the slightest pretension to knowledge or judgment. The few I
have purchased have been as articles of furniture, pleasant to look at,
without any pretension to high excellence.”
“Just as Admiral Dalrymple paid ten pounds for a dunghill when he turned
farmer,” whispered Mr. Howie in Mrs. White's ear, “and then said, 'he
had only bought it because some one said it was a good thing; but that,
now, he 'd give any man “twenty” to tell him what to do with it,'”
Mrs. White burst into a loud fit of laughter, exclaiming:
“Oh, how clever, how good! Pray, Mr. Howie, tell Lady Janet--tell Mr.
Cashel that.”
“Oh, madam!” cried the terrified tourist, who had not discovered before
the very shallow discrimination of his gifted acquaintance.
“If it is so vara good,” said Sir Andrew, “we maun insist on hearin'
it.”
“No, no! nothing of the kind,” interposed Howie; “besides, the
observation was only intended for Mrs. White's ear.”
“Very true,” said that lady, affecting a look of consciousness.
“The odious woman,” whispered Miss Kennyfeck to her sister; “see how
delighted she looks to be compromised.”
“If we had Linton,” said Cashel, politely offering his arm to Lady
Janet, as he led her into the so-called gallery, “he could explain
everything for us. We have, however, a kind of catalogue here. This
large landscape is said to be by Both.”
“If she be a coo,” said Sir Andrew, “I maun say it's the first time I
ever seen ane wi' the head ower the tail.”
“Nonsense,” said Lady Janet; “don't ye perceive that the animal is
fore-shortened, and is represented looking backwards?”
“I ken nothing aboot that; she may be shortened in the fore-parts, an'
ye say, and that may be some peculiar breed, but what brings her head
ower her rump?”
Sir Andrew was left to finish his criticism alone, the company moving
on to a portrait assigned to Vandyck, as Diedrich von Aevenghem,
Burgomaster of Antwerp.
“A fine head!” exclaimed Mrs. White, authoritatively; “don't you think
so, Mr. Howie?”
“A very choice specimen of the great master, for which, doubtless, you
gave a large sum.”
“Four hundred, if I remember aright,” said Cashel.
“I think he maught hae a clean face for that money,” broke in Sir
Andrew.
“What do you mean, sir?” said Miss Kennyfeck, insidiously, and delighted
at the misery Lady Janet endured from his remarks.
“Don't ye mind the smut he has on ane cheek?”
“It's the shadow of his nose, Sir Andrew,” broke in Lady Janet, with a
sharpness of rebuke there was no misunderstanding.
“Eh, my leddy, so it may, but ye need na bite mine off, for a' that!”
And so saying, the discomfited veteran fell back in high dudgeon.
The party now broke into the twos and threes invariable on such
occasions, and While Mrs. Kennyfeck and her elder daughter paid their
most devoted attentions to Lady Janet, Mrs. White and the author paired
off, leaving Olivia Kennyfeck to the guidance of Cashel.
“So you 'll positively not tell me what it is that preys on your mind
this morning?” said she, in the most insinuating of soft accents.
Cashel shook his head mournfully, and said,--
“Why should I tell you of what it is impossible you could give me
any counsel in, while your sympathy would only cause uneasiness to
yourself?”
“But you forget our compact,” said she, archly; “there was to be perfect
confidence on both sides, was there not?”
“Certainly. Now, when shall we begin?”
“Have you not begun already?”
“I fancy not. Do you remember two evenings ago, when I came suddenly
into the drawing-room and found you pencil in hand, and you, instead of
at once showing me what you had been sketching, shut the portfolio, and
carried it off, despite all my entreaties--nay, all my just demands?”
“Oh, but,” said she, smiling, “confidence is one thing--confession is
another.”
“Too subtle distinctions for me,” cried Cashel. “I foolishly supposed
that there was to be an unreserved--”
“Speak lower, for mercy sake!--don't you perceive Lady Janet trying to
hear everything you say?” This was said in a soft whisper, while she
added aloud, “I think you said it was a Correggio, Mr. Cashel,” as they
stood before a very lightly-clad Magdalen, who seemed endeavoring to
make up for the deficiency of her costume by draping across her bosom
the voluptuous masses of her golden hair.
“I think a Correggio,” said Cashel, confused at the sudden artifice;
“but who has the catalogue?--oh, Sir Andrew; tell us about number
fifty-eight.”
“Fefty-eight, fefty-eight?” mumbled Sir Andrew a number of times to
himself, and then, having found the number, he approached the picture
and surveyed it attentively.
“Well, sir, what is it called?” said Olivia.
“It's vara singular,” said Sir Andrew, still gazing at the canvas, “but
doubtless Correggio knew weel what he was aboot. This,” said he, “is a
picture of Sain John the Baaptist in a raiment of caamel's hair.”
No sense of propriety was proof against this announcement; a laugh, loud
and general, burst forth, during which Lady Janet, snatching the book
indignantly from his hands, cried,--
“You were looking at sixty-eight, Sir Andrew, not fifty-eight; and you
have made yourself perfectly ridiculous.”
“By my saul, I believe so,” muttered the old gentleman, in deep anger.
“I 've been looking at 'saxty-eight' ower long already!”
Fortunately, this sarcasm was not heard by her against whom it was
directed, and they who did hear it were fain to suppress their laughter
as well as they were able. The party was now increased by the arrival of
the Dean and his “ancient,” Mr. Softly, to the manifest delight of Mrs.
Kennyfeck, who at once exclaimed,--
“Ah, we shall now hear something really instructive.”
[Illustration: 288]
The erudite churchman, after a very abrupt notice of the company,
started at speed without losing a moment.
His attention being caught by some curious tableaux of the interior
of the great Pyramid, he immediately commenced an explanation of the
various figures, the costumes and weapons, which he said were all
masonic, showing that Pharaoh wore an apron exactly like the Duke of
Sussex, and that every emblem of the “arch” was to be found among the
great of Ancient Egypt.
While thus employed, Mr. Howie, seated in a corner, was busily sketching
the whole party for an illustration to his new book on Ireland, and once
more Cashel and his companion found themselves, of course by the merest
accident, standing opposite the same picture in a little boudoir off
the large gallery. The subject was a scene from Faust, where Marguerite,
leaning on her lover's arm, is walking in a garden by moonlight, and
seeking by a mode of divination common in Germany to ascertain his
truth, which is by plucking one by one the petals of a flower, saying
alternately, “He loves me, he loves me not;” and then, by the result of
the last-plucked leaf, deciding which fate is accomplished. Cashel first
explained the meaning of the trial, and then taking a rose from one of
the flower vases, he said,--
“Let me see if you can understand my teaching; you have only to say, 'Er
liebt mich,' and, 'Er liebt mich nicht.'”
“But how can I?” said she, with a look of beaming innocence, “if there
be none who--”
“No matter,” said Cashel; “besides, is it not possible you could be
loved, and yet never know it? Now for the ordeal.”
“Er liebt mich nicht,” said Olivia, with a low, silvery voice, as she
plucked the first petal off, and threw it on the floor.
“You begin inauspiciously, and, I must say, unfairly, too,” said Cashel.
“The first augury is in favor of love.”
“Er liebt mich,” said she, tremulously, and the leaf broke in her
fingers. “Ha!” sighed she, “what does that imply? Is it, that he only
loves by half his heart?”
“That cannot be,” said Cashel; “it is rather that you treated his
affection harshly.”
“Should it not bear a little?--ought it to give way at once?”
“Nor will it,” said he, more earnestly, “if you deal but fairly. Come, I
will teach you a still more simple, and yet unerring test.”
A heavy sigh from behind the Chinese screen made both the speakers
start; and while Olivia, pale with terror, sank into a chair, Cashel
hastened to see what had caused the alarm.
“Linton, upon my life!” exclaimed he, in a low whisper, as, on tiptoe,
he returned to the place beside her.
“Oh, Mr. Cashel; oh dear, Mr. Cashel--”
“Dearest Olivia--”
“Heigho!” broke in Linton; and Roland and his companion slipped
noiselessly from the room, and, unperceived, mixed with the general
company, who sat in rapt attention while the Dean explained that
painting was nothing more nor less than an optical delusion,--a theory
which seemed to delight Mrs. Kennyfeck in the same proportion that it
puzzled her. Fortunately, the announcement that luncheon was on the
table cut short the dissertation, and the party descended, all more or
less content to make material enjoyments succeed to intellectual ones.
“Well,” whispered Miss Kennyfeck to her sister, as they descended the
stairs, “did he?”
An almost inaudible “No” was the reply.
“Your eyes are very red for nothing, my dear,” rejoined the elder.
“I dinna ken, sir,” said Sir Andrew to Softly, as he made use of his arm
for support,--“I dinna ken how ye understand your theory aboot optical
delusions, but I maun say, it seems to me a vara strange way for men o'
your cloth to pass the mornin' starin' at naked weemen,--creatures, too,
that if they ever leeved at all, must ha' led the maist abondoned lives.
I take it that Diana herself was ne better than a cuttie; do ye mark hoo
she does no scruple to show a bra pair of legs--”
“With respect to the Heathen Mythology,” broke in Softly, in a voice he
hoped might subdue the discussion.
“Don't tell me aboot the hay thins, sir; flesh and bluid is a' the same,
whatever Kirk it follows.”
Before they were seated at table, Linton had joined them, explaining, in
the most natural way in the world, that, having sat down to write in the
boudoir, he had fallen fast asleep, and was only awakened by Mr. Phillis
having accidentally discovered him. A look of quick intelligence
passed between Cashel and Olivia at this narrative; the young lady
soon appeared to have recovered from her former embarrassment, and the
luncheon proceeded pleasantly to all parties. Mr. Howie enjoyed himself
to the utmost, not only by the reflection that a hearty luncheon at two
would save an hotel dinner at six, but that the Dean and Sir Andrew were
two originals, worth five pound apiece even for “Punch.” As to Cashel, a
glance at the author's note-book would show how he impressed that gifted
personage: “R. C.: a snob--rich--and gullible; his pictures, all the
household gods at Christie's, the Vandyck, late a sign of the Marquis
of Granby, at Windsor. Mem.: not over safe to quiz him.” “But we 'll see
later on.” “Visit him at his country-seat, 'if poss.'”
“Who is our spectacled friend?” said Linton, as they drove away from the
door.
“Some distinguished author, whose name I have forgotten.”
“Shrewd looking fellow,--think I have seen him at Ascot. What brings him
over here?”
“To write a book, I fancy.”
“What a bore. This is the age of detectives, with a vengeance. Well,
don't let him in again, that's all. By Jove! it's easier, now-a-days, to
escape the Queen's Bench than the 'Illustrated News.'”
“A note from Mr. Kennyfeck, sir,” said Mr. Phillis, “and the man waits
for an answer.”
Linton, taking up a book, affected to read, but in reality placed
himself so as to watch Cashel's features as he perused the letter, whose
size and shape pronounced to be something unusual. Hurriedly mumbling
over a rather tedious exordium on the various views the writer had taken
of a subject, Cashel's eyes suddenly flashed as he drew forth a small
printed paragraph, cut from the column of a newspaper, and which went
thus:--
“It will be, doubtless, in our readers' recollection how a
short time back an armed slaver, sailing under the flag of
Columbia, was taken, after a most severe and sanguinary
engagement, by H.M. brig 'Hornet.' The commander, a young
Spaniard of singularly handsome exterior, and with all the
bearing and appearance of a rank very different from his
mode of life, was carried off and confined in St. Kitts'
till such time as he could be brought to trial.
Representations from the Government of the Republic were,
however, made, and a claim preferred for indemnity, not only
for the loss of the vessel and property, but for the loss of
life and other injury incurred on the capture. While this
singular demand was under investigation, the young Spaniard
alluded to contrived to break his bonds and escape: the
only mode of doing which was by a leap into the sea from the
parapet of the fortress, a height, we are informed, of nigh
one hundred feet. They who are acquainted with the locality
assert that if he even survived the desperate leap, he must
inevitably have fallen a victim to the sharks who frequent
the bay to catch the bodies of all who die in the prison,
and who, it would appear, are thus unceremoniously disposed
of. This supposition would seem, however, in some respect,
contradicted by the circumstance that a Venezuelan cruiser,
which hung about the shore for the two preceding days,
sailed on the very night of his escape, and, in all
probability, with him on board.”
“I could swear he is safe!” cried Cashel, in an ecstasy of enthusiasm;
“he's a glorious fellow.”
“Who is that?” said Linton, looking up; “any one I know?”
“No, indeed!” said Cashel. Then suddenly checking himself in a speech
whose opening accents were far from flattering, he added, “One you never
even heard of.”
He once more addressed himself to the letter, which, however, merely
contained some not very brilliant commentaries of Mr. Kennyfeck over the
preceding extract, and which, after enumerating a great many modes of
investigating the event, concluded with the only thing like common sense
in the whole, by recommending a strict silence and secrecy about it all.
Cashel was closing the epistle, when he caught on the turn-down the
following lines;--
“Mr. Linton has written to me about something like a legal transfer
of the cottage and lands of Tubberbeg, which he mentions your having
presented to him. What reply am I to return to this? I stated that you
had already assured Mr. Corrigan, the present tenant, of an undisturbed
possession of the tenure, but Mr. L. interrupted my explanation by
saying that he only desired an assignment of the property, such as would
give a parliamentary qualification, and that all pledges made to Mr. C.
he would regard as equally binding on himself.”
Cashel's first impulse, when he had read thus far, was to show Linton
the paragraph, and frankly ask him what he wished to be done; indeed,
he had already advanced towards him with that object, when he checked
himself. “It might seem ungracious to ask any explanation. There had
been already a moment of awkwardness about that same cottage, and Linton
had behaved so well; and, of course, only asking him for the possession
as a means of qualifying, Corrigan need never hear of it Besides, he
could make Linton a present of much greater real value as soon as the
circumstances of the estate became better known.” Such and such-like
reasonings passed hastily through his brain; and as all his resolves
were quickly formed, and as quickly acted on, he sat down and wrote:
Dear Mr. Kennyfeck,--Many thanks for the information of your
note, which has served to allay all my anxiety for a valued
friend. As to Linton, you will have the goodness to satisfy
him in every particular, and make all and every legal title
he desires to the cottage and grounds of Tubberbeg. Although
he is now at my side while I write, I have not alluded to
the subject, feeling the awkwardness of touching on a theme
so delicate. Say, however, for me, that Corrigan is not to
be disturbed, nor any pledge I have made towards him--no
matter how liberally construed by him--to be, in any
respect, infringed.--Yours, in great haste,
“Why you are quite a man of business to-day, Cashel, with your
correspondence and letter-writing; and I 'm sorry for it, for I wanted
to have a bit of serious talk with you,--that is, if it do not bore
you.”
“Not in the least. I was, I own it, nervous and uneasy this morning;
now, however, my mind is at ease, and I am quite ready for anything.”
“Well, then, without preamble, are you still of the same mind about
Parliament, because the time is hastening on when you ought to come to
some decision on the matter?”
“I have never bestowed a thought on the matter since,” said Cashel.
“The truth is, when I hear people talk politics in society, I am only
astonished at their seeming bigotry and one-sidedness; and when I
read newspapers of opposite opinions, I am equally confounded at the
excellent arguments they display for diametrically contradictory lines
of action, so that my political education makes but little progress.”
“What you say is perfectly just,” said Linton, appearing to reflect
profoundly. “A man of real independence--not the mere independence of
fortune, but the far higher independence of personal character--has
much to endure in our tangled and complex system of legislation. As for
yourself, for instance, who can afford to despise patronage, who have
neither sons to advance in the Navy, nor nephews in the Foreign Office,
who neither want the Bath nor a baronetcy, who would be as sick of the
flatteries as you would be disgusted with the servility of party--why
you should submit to the dust and heat, the turmoil and fatigue of
a session, I can't think. And how you would be bored,--bored by the
ceaseless reiterations night after night, the same arguments growing
gradually weaker as the echo grew fainter; bored by the bits of 'Horace'
got off by heart to wind up with; bored by the bad jests of witty
members; bored by Peel's candor, and Palmerston's petulance; by Cobden's
unblushing effrontery, and Hume's tiresome placidity. You 'd never know
a happy day nor a joyous hour till you accepted the Chiltern Hundreds,
and cut them all. No; the better course for you would be, choose a
nominee for your borough; select a man in whom you have confidence.
Think of some one over whom your influence would be complete, who would
have no other aim than in following out your suggestions; some one, in
fact, who unites sufficient ability with personal friendship. What d' ye
think of Kennyfeck?”
“Poor Kennyfeck,” said Cashel, laughing, “he'd never think of such a
thing.”
“I don't know,” said Linton, musing; “it might not suit him, but his
wife would like it prodigiously.”
“Shall I propose it, then?” said Cashel.
“Better not, perhaps,” said Linton, appearing to reflect; “his income,
which is a right good one, is professional. This, of course, he 'd
forfeit by accepting a seat in the House. Besides, really, the poor
man would make no way. No, we must think of some one else. Do you like
White?”
“Leicester White? I detest the man, and the wife too.”
“Well, there's Frobisher, a fellow of good name and family. I 'd not go
bail for his preferring your interests to his own, but as times go, you
might chance upon worse. Will you have Frobisher?”
“I have no objection,” said Cashel, carelessly; “would he like it
himself?”
“Would he like anything that might help him to a step in the regiment,
or place him in a position to sell himself, you, and the borough
constituency, to the highest bidder?” said Linton, irritated at Cashel's
half assent.
“Well, if these be his principles,” cried Cashel, laughing, “I think
we 'd better put him aside.”
“You 're right; he 'd never do,” said Linton, recovering all his
self-possession; “what you want is a man sufficiently unconnected with
ties of family or party, to see in you his patron and his object, and
who, with cleverness enough to enunciate the views you desire to see
prevail, has also the strong bond of personal regard to make him always
even more the friend than the follower.”
“I only know of one man who realizes all this combination,” said Cashel,
smiling, “and _he_ would n't answer.”
“Who is he,--and why?” asked Linton, in vain endeavoring to look easy
and unconcerned.
“Tom Linton is the man, and his invincible laziness the 'why.' Isn't
that true?”
“By George, Cashel, if you 're content with the first part of the
assertion, I 'll pledge myself to remedy the latter. I own, frankly, it
is a career for which I have no predilection; if I had, I should have
been 'in' many years ago. I have all my life held very cheap your great
political leaders, both as regards capacity and character, and I have
ever fancied that I should have had some success in the lists; but I
have always loved ease, and that best of ease, independence. If you
think, however, that I can worthily represent you in Parliament, and
that you could safely trust to my discretion the knotty question of
political war, say the word, my boy, and I 'll fling my 'far niente'
habits to the wind, and you shall have all the merit of developing the
promising member for--what's the name of it?”
“Derraheeny.”
“Exactly--the honorable and learned--for Derraheeny. I rather like the
title.”
“Well, Linton, if you are really serious--”
“Most assuredly, serious; and more, to prove it, I shall ask you to
clench our bargain at once. It is not enough that you make me your
nominee, but you must also render me eligible to become so.”
“I don't clearly comprehend--”
“I 'll enlighten you. Our venerable constitution, perfectly irrespective
of the Tom Lintons of this world--a race which, by the way, never dies
out, probably because they have avoided intermarriage--has decided that
a man must possess something besides his wits to be qualified as 'Member
of Parliament;' a strange law, because the aforesaid wits are all that
the Honorable House has any reason to lay claim to. This same something
which guarantees that a man has a legislative capacity, amounts to some
hundreds a year. Don't be impatient, and come out with any piece of rash
generosity; I don't want you to make a present of an estate--only to
lend me one! To be qualified, either as a candidate for the House or a
gentleman rider, one only needs a friend,--a well-to-do friend, who 'll
say, 'He's all right.'”
“I 'm quite ready to vouch for you, Tom, but you 'll have to take the
affair into your own management.”
“Oh, it's easy enough. That same cottage and the farm which we spoke of
the other day, Kennyfeck can make out a kind of conveyance, or whatever
the instrument is called, by which it acknowledges me for its owner,
vice Roland Cashel, Esquire. This, properly sealed, signed, and so
on, will defy the most searching Committee that ever pried into any
gentleman's private circumstances.”
“Then explain it all to Kennyfeck, and say that I wish it done at once.”
“Nay, Cashel, pardon me. My ugliest enemy will not call me punctilious,
but I must stand upon a bit of ceremony here. This must be ordered by
yourself. You are doing a gracious thing,--a devilish kind thing,--it
must not be done by halves. Were I to communicate this to Kennyfeck,
he 'll unquestionably obey the direction, but most certainly he 'd say to
the first man he met, 'See how Linton has managed to trick Cashel out of
a very considerable slice of landed property.' He 'd not take much
trouble to state the nature of our compact; he 'd rather blink the whole
arrangement, altogether, and make the thing seem a direct gift. Now, I
have too much pride on your account, and my own too, to stand this.”
“Well, well, it shall be as you like; only I trow I disagree with you
about old Kennyfeck: he 's a fine straight-hearted fellow--he's--”
“He 's an attorney, Cashel. These fellows can no more comprehend a
transfer of property without a trial at bar, or a suit in Equity, than
an Irish second can understand a falling out without one of the parties
being brought home on a door. Besides, he has rather a grudge against
me. I never told you,--indeed, I never meant to tell you,--but I can
have no secrets from you. You know the youngest girl, Olivia?”
“Yes, go on,” said Cashel, red and pale by turns.
“Well, I flirted a good deal last winter with her. Upon my life, I did
not intend it to have gone so far; I suppose it must have gone far,
though, because she became desperately in love. She is very pretty,
certainly, and a really good little girl,--_mais, que voulez-vous?_ If
I tie a fly on my hook I can't afford to see a flounder or a perch walk
off with it; it's the speckled monster of the stream I fish for. They
ought to have known that themselves,--I 've no doubt they did, too; but
they were determined, as they say here, to die 'innocent,' and so one
fine morning I was just going to join the hounds at Finglas, when old
Kennyfeck, very trimly dressed, and looking unutterable importance,
entered my lodgings. There's a formula for these kind of explanations--I
've gone through seven of these myself, and I 'll swear that every papa
has opened the conference with a solemn appeal to Heaven 'that he never
was aware of the attentions shown his daughter, nor the state of his
dear child's affections, till last evening.' They always assure you,
besides, that if they could give a million and a half as dowry, you are
the very man--the actual one individual--they would have selected; so
that on an average most young ladies have met with at least half-a-dozen
parties whom the fathers have pronounced to be, separately, the one most
valued. Kennyfeck behaved, I must say, admirably. His wife would have a
Galway cousin sent for, and a duel; some other kind friend suggested to
have me waylaid and thrashed. He calmly heard me for about ten minutes,
and then taking up his hat and gloves, said, 'Take your rule,' and so it
ended. I dined there the next Sunday,--yes, that's part of my system: I
never permit people to nourish small grudges, and go about abusing me
to my acquaintances. If they _will_ do that, I overwhelm them by their
duplicity, as I am seen constantly in their intimacy, and remarkable for
always speaking well of them, so that the world will certainly give it
against them. The gist of all this tiresome story is, that Kennyfeck
and the ladies would, if occasion served, pay off the old debt to me;
therefore, beware if you hear me canvassed in that quarter!” Linton,
like many other cunning people, very often lapsed into little
confessions of the tactics by which he played his game in the world,
and although Cashel was not by any means a dangerous confidant to such
disclosures, he now marked with feelings not all akin to satisfaction
this acknowledgment of his friend's skill.
“You 'd never have shown your face there again, I 'll wager a hundred!”
said Linton, reading in the black look of Roland's countenance an
expression he did not fancy.
“You are right. I should have deemed it unfair to impose on the young
lady a part so full of awkwardness as every meeting must necessitate.”
“That comes of your innocence about women, my dear friend; they have
face for anything. It is not hypocrisy, it is not that they do not feel,
and feel deeply, but their sense of command, their instinct of what is
becoming, is a thousand times finer than ours; and I am certain
that when we take all manner of care to, what is called, spare their
feelings, we are in reality only sparing them a cherished opportunity of
exercising a control over those feelings which we foolishly suppose to
be as ungovernable as our own.”
Either not agreeing with the sentiment, or unable to cope with its
subtlety, Cashel sat some time without speaking. From Olivia Kennyfeck
his thoughts reverted to one in every respect unlike her,--the daring,
impetuous Maritaña.
He wondered within himself whether _her_ bold, impassioned nature
could be comprehended within Linton's category, and a secret sense of
rejoicing thrilled through him as he replied to himself in the negative.
“I 'd wager a trifle, Roland, from that easy smile you wear, that your
memory has called up one example, at least, unfavorable to my theory.
Eh! I have guessed aright Come then, out with it, man,--who is this
peerless paragon of pure ingenuous truth?--who is she whose nature is
the transparent crystal where fair thoughts are enshrined? No denizen
of our misty northland, I'll be sworn, but some fair Mexican, with as
little disguise as drapery. Confess, I say--there is a confession, I 'll
be sworn--and so make a clean breast of it.”
It struck Cashel, while Linton was speaking, how effectually Maritaña
herself, by one proud look, one haughty gesture, would have silenced
such flippant raillery; and he could not help feeling it a kind of
treason to their old friendship that he should listen to it in patient
endurance.
“Listen to me, amigo mio,” said he, in a tone of earnest passion that
seemed almost estranged from his nature latterly,--“listen to me while
I tell you that in those faraway countries, whose people you regard with
such contemptuous pity, there are women--ay, young girls--whose daring
spirit would shame the courage of many of those fine gentlemen we spend
our lives with; and I, for one, have so much of the Indian in me, as to
think that courage is the first of virtues.”
“I cannot help fancying,” said Linton, with an almost imperceptible
raillery, “that there are other qualities would please me as well in a
wife or a mistress.”
“I have no doubt of it--and suit you better, too,” said Cashel,
savagely; then hastily correcting himself for his rude speech, he added,
“I believe, in good earnest, that you would as little sympathize
with that land and its people as I do with this. Ay, if you want a
confession, there's one for you. I'm longing to be back once more among
the vast prairies of the West, galloping free after the dark-backed
bisons, and strolling along in the silent forests. The enervation of
this life wearies and depresses me; worse than all, I feel that, with a
little more of it, I shall lose all energy and zest for that activity
of body, which, to men like myself, supplies the place of thought,--a
little more of it, and I shall sink into that languid routine where
dissipation supplies the only excitement.”
“This is a mere passing caprice; a man who has wealth--”
“There it is,” cried Cashel, interrupting him impetuously; “that is the
eternal burden of your song. As if wealth, in forestalling the necessity
for labor, did not, at the same time, deprive life of all the zeal of
enterprise. When I have stepped into my boat to board a Chilian frigate,
I have had a prouder throbbing at my heart than ever the sight of that
banker's check-book has given me. There's many a Gambusino in the Rocky
Mountains a happier--ay, and a finer fellow, too, than the gayest of
those gallants that ever squandered the gold _he_ quarried! But why go
on?--we are speaking in unknown tongues to each other.”
The tone of irritation into which, as it seems unconsciously, Cashel had
fallen, was not lost on the keen perception of Linton, and he was not
sorry to feign a pretext for closing an interview whose continuance
might be unpleasant.
“I was thinking of a hurried trip down to Tubbermore,” said he, rising;
“we shall have these guests of yours in open rebellion, if we don't
affect at least something like preparation for their reception. I'll
take Perystell along with me, and we'll see what can be done to get the
old house in trim.”
“Thanks,” said Cashel, as he walked up and down, his thoughts seeming
engaged on some other theme.
“I 'll write to you a report of the actual condition of the fortress,”
said Linton, assuming all his habitual easy freedom of manner, “and
then, if you think of anything to suggest, you'll let me hear.”
“Yes, I 'll write,” said Cashel, still musing on his own thoughts.
“I see pretty plainly,” cried Linton, laughing, “there's no earthly use
in asking you questions just now, your brain being otherwise occupied,
and so, good-bye.”
“Good-bye--good-bye,” said Cashel, endeavoring, but not with a very good
grace to shake off his pre-occupation while he shook hands with him; and
Linton descended the stairs, humming an opera air, with all the seeming
light-heartedness of a very careless nature.
Cashel, meanwhile, sat down, and, with his head resting on his hand,
pondered over their late interview. There were two circumstances which
both puzzled and distressed him. How came it that Linton should have
written this note to Kennyfeck on a subject which only seemed to
have actually suggested itself in the course of this their very last
conversation? Had he already planned the whole campaign respecting the
seat in Parliament and the qualification, and was his apparently chance
allusion to those topics a thing studied and devised beforehand? This,
if true, would argue very ill for his friend's candor and fair dealing;
and yet, how explain it otherwise? Was there any other seat open to him
for which to need a qualification? If so, he had never spoken of it. It
was the first time in his life that Cashel had conceived a suspicion of
one whom he had regarded in the light of friend, and only they who have
undergone a similar trial can understand the poignant suffering of the
feeling; and yet, palpable as the cause of such a doubt was, he
had never entertained it had not Linton spoken disparagingly of the
Kennyfecks! This is a curious trait of human nature, but one worth
consideration; and while leaving it to the elucidation the penetration
of each reader may suggest, we only reiterate the fact, that while
Cashel could, without an effort, have forgiven the duplicity practised
on himself, the levity Linton employed respecting Olivia engendered
doubts of his honor too grave to be easily combated.
As for Linton scarcely had he quitted Cashel, than he hastened to call
on Kennyfeck; he had written the note already alluded to, to leave
at the house should the solicitor be from home; but having left it by
accident on the writing-table, his servant, discovering it to be sealed
and addressed, had, without further question, left it at Kennyfeck's
house. As Linton went along, he searched his pockets for the epistle,
but consoled himself by remembering how he had left it at home.
A few moments later found him at Kennyfeck's door. The attorney was at
home, and, without any announcement, Linton entered the study where he
sat.
“I was this instant writing to you, sir,” said Kennyfeck, rising,
and placing a seat for him; “Mr Cashel, on being informed of the wish
expressed in your note--”
“Of what note?” said Linton, in a voice of, for him, very unusual
agitation.
“This note--here, sir,--dated--no, by-the-by, it is not dated, but
brought by your servant two hours ago.”
Linton took the paper, glanced his eye over it, and then, in mingled
chagrin and forgetfulness, tore it, and threw the fragments into the
fire.
“There is some mistake about this,” said he, slowly, and giving himself
time to consider what turn he should lend it.
“This is Mr. Cashel's reply, sir,” said Kennyfeck, after pausing some
moments, but in vain for the explanation.
Linton eagerly caught the letter and read it through, and whatever
scruples or fear he might have conceived for any other man's, it seemed
as if he had little dread of Cashel's penetration, for his assured and
easy smile at once showed that he had regained his wonted tranquillity.
“You will then take the necessary steps, without delay, Kennyfeck,”
said he. “The elections cannot be very distant, and it is better to be
prepared.” As he spoke, he threw the letter back upon the table, but in
a moment afterwards, while taking off his gloves, managed to seize it
and convey it to his pocket. “You know far better than I do, Kennyfeck,”
resumed he, “how sharp the lawyers can be in picking out any flaw
respecting title and so forth; for this reason, be careful that this
document shall be as regular and binding as need be.”
“It shall be submitted for counsel's opinion this evening, sir--”
“Not to Jones, then; I don't fancy that gentleman, although I know he
has some of your confidence; send it to Hammond.”
“As you please, sir.”
“Another point. You'll not insert any clause respecting the tenant in
possession; it would only be hampering us with another defence against
some legal subtlety or other.”
“Mr. Cashel does not desire this, sir?”
“Of course not--you understand what the whole thing means. Well, I must
say good-bye; you 'll have all ready by the time I return to town. My
respects to the drawing-room. Adieu.
“That was bad blunder about the note,” muttered Linton, as he walked
along towards home, “and might have lost the game, if the antagonist had
any skill whatever.”