Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)

CHAPTER XVI. A WET DAT – THE FALSE SIGNAL

It was a rainy day, – one of those downright pelting, pouring, swooping wet days which Ireland is accustomed to, for nearly one half of every year. All out-of-door occupation was impossible; the most fidgety could only get as far as the stables, to smoke a cigar and “chaff” horse-talk with the grooms; while the more resigned wandered from room to room, and place to place, in that restlessness that defies common philosophy to subdue.

A wet day in a country house is always a severe trial. Sociability will not be coerced, and the greater the necessity for mutual assistance, the less is the disposition to render it; besides, they who habitually contribute least to the enjoyment of their fellows have always great resources of annoyance at such periods, – as the most insignificant instrument in the orchestra can at any moment destroy the harmony of the band.

Scarcely was breakfast over in Tubbermore than the guests were scattered in various directions, it was difficult to say where. Now and then, some one would peep into the drawing-room or the library, and, as if not seeing “the right man,” shut the door noiselessly, and depart. Of the younger men, many were sleeping off the debauch of the previous evening. Downie Meek, who had a theory upon the subject, always kept his bed while it rained. Sir Andrew had, unfortunately, mistaken a lotion containing laudanum for some concoction of bitters, and was obliged to be kept eternally walking up and down stairs, along corridors and passages, lest he should drop asleep; his man, Flint, accompanying him with “the wakeful announcement” of “Hae a care, Sir Andrew; here ‘s my leddy,” – an antidote to the narcotic worth all the Pharmacopoeia contained.

Lady Janet was meanwhile deep in the formation of a stomachic, which, judging from the maid’s face as she tasted it, must needs have been of the pungent order. Mrs. White was letter-writing. Howie was sketching heads of the company, under the title of “Beauties of Ireland,” for a weekly newspaper. Frobisher was instructing Miss Meek in the science of making knee-caps for one of his horses; and so with the remainder, a few only were to be seen below stairs; of these the “Chief” was fast asleep with the “Quarterly” on his knee, and a stray subaltern or two sat conning over the “Army List,” and gazing in stupid wonder at their own names in print! And now we come to the Kennyfecks, at whose door a servant stands knocking for the second or third time. “Come in” is heard, and he enters.

The blinds are drawn, which, adding to the gloom of the day, the vast apartment is in semi-darkness, and it is some time before you can descry the figures. On a sofa sits Mrs. Kennyfeck in a kind of travelling-dress, with her bonnet beside her; fragments of ribbons and stray articles of dress litter the sofa and the table, several trunks are strewn about, and a maid and a man are performing a pas de deux on an “imperial,” which, in its efforts to close at the lock, is giving way simultaneously at the hinges. Miss Kennyfeck stands at the chimney burning notes and letters, of which, as she glances from time to time, her features betray the tenor; and, lastly, Olivia is lying on a sofa, her face concealed between her hands, and only the quick palpitation of her bosom showing that her agitation is not lulled in slumber.

“What does he say? I can’t hear him with all that stamping,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck; and her voice was not of the dulcet order.

“He says the post-horses have come, mamma, and wishes to know when he’s to come round with the carriage.”

“When I give orders for it; not till then,” said she, imperiously; and the man, abashed in such a presence, departed.

“There, Pearse, leave it so; I cannot bear that noise any longer. Frances, you need n’t wait; I ‘ll send for you if I want you;” and the servants withdrew.

“He’s at least two hours away, now,” said she, addressing her eldest daughter.

“Very nearly. It wanted only a few minutes to eleven when Mr. Cashel sent for him.”

“I hope, Caroline, that he will remember what is due, not to himself, – I cannot say that, – but to me, on this occasion. It is impossible that Cashel can avoid the acknowledgment of his attentions; nothing but your father’s incompetence could permit of his escape.”

“It’s too late, mamma, – altogether too late. When Aunt Fanny – ”

“Don’t speak of her; don’t even mention her name in my presence,” cried Mrs. Kennyfeck, with an accent of bitter anguish.

“I was merely going to observe, mamma, that her conduct has involved us in such ridicule, that reparation of the mischief is out of the question.”

“I wish we were away; I cannot bear to stay another day here,” said Olivia, with a deep sigh.

“If Aunt – ”

“Don’t call her your aunt, Caroline, – I forbid it; she is no sister of mine; she has been the evil genius of our family all her life long. But for her and her wiles I had never been married to your father! Just fancy what a position you might have had now, but for that cruel mishap.”

The problem, to judge from Miss Kennyfeck’s face, seemed difficult to solve; but she prudently held her peace.

“You may rest assured they know it all below stairs. That odious Lady Janet has told it in every dressing-room already.”

“And Linton, mamma,” said Caroline, whose sisterly feelings were merged in most impartial justice, – “only fancy Linton imitating Aunt Fanny’s benediction with uplifted hands and eyes. I almost think I see him before me, and hear the insolent shouts of laughter on every side.”

“Give me the aromatic vinegar!” cried Mrs. Kennyfeck, with an accent like suffocation.

“I think there ‘s some one at the door. Come in,” cried Miss Kennyfeck; and a very smartly dressed groom entered with a note.

“Is there any answer to this?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, listlessly, who thought it one of the habitual invitations to some excursion in a carriage or on horseback.

“Yes, my Lady,” said the servant, bowing.

The title sounded pleasantly, and Mrs. K.‘s features relaxed as she broke the seal.

Ah, Mrs. Kennyfeck, indolently and carelessly as you hold that small epistle in your fingers, it cost him who wrote it many a puzzling thought, and many a fair sheet of foolscap. Critics assure us that style is no criterion of the labor of composition, and that Johnson’s rounded periods ran flippantly off the pen, while the seemingly careless sentences of Rousseau cost days and nights of toil. The note was from Sir Harvey Upton, and neither by its caligraphy nor grammar shed lustre on the literary genius of his corps. It went thus: —

My dear Madam, – The beauty and fascinations of your daughters – but more especially of the second – have conspired to inspire me with sentiments of respectful admiration, which may speedily become something warmer should I obtain the gratifying sensation of your approbation.

Family, fortune, and future expectations, will I fancy, be found “all right.” Part of the estate entailed on the baronetcy; encumbrances, a trifle.

I am, waiting your reply, dear madam, Very respectfully yours,

Harvey Upton,

– Hussars.

“Shall we write, Cary?” whispered Mrs. Kennyfeck, in the very faintest of tones.

“Better not, mamma; a verbal ‘happy to see Sir Harvey,’ safer,” was the answer.

Mrs. Kennyfeck yielded to the sager counsel, and the servant departed with the message.

“We may leave the matter entirely with Livy, mamma,” said her sister, half sarcastically; “I opine that innocence, upon the present occasion, will carry the day.”

“I am glad of it,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck; “I am fatigued and out of spirits: I ‘d rather not receive visitors.”

“A white frock and a little sentiment, – a sprig of jessamine and a bit of poetry!” said Miss K., as she arranged her hair at the glass; “only don’t overdo it, Livy.”

“I ‘d much rather you ‘d not go!” said Olivia, languidly.

“Of course, my dear, we are perfectly aware of that; but we have our duties also. Mamma must take care that Aunt Fanny does not ‘give you away’ before you ‘re asked for; and I must see what the result of papa’s interview with Cashel may be, lest you should make a bad market while a good bid is being offered.”

“Clever creature!” murmured Mrs. Kennyfeck, as she rose to leave the room.

“It will seem so odd, mamma, that I’m to receive him, alone!”

“Not at all, Livy; we are packing up to go off: there are the trunks and cap-cases all strewn about. You can be engaged with Frances, and send her to summon us when Sir Harvey comes,” said Miss Kennyfeck.

“Just so, my dear; and then you ‘ll entreat of him to sit down, – all as if you had heard nothing of his note; you ‘ll be quite lively and natural in your manner.”

“Ah, mamma, remember what Talleyrand said to the Emperor: ‘Give me the instructions, sire, but leave the knavery to myself.’ My sweet sister is quite diplomatic enough to re-echo it.”

Livy looked reproachfully at her, but said nothing.

“If I discover, my dear, that the high prize is on your ticket, I ‘ll wear a handkerchief round my neck. Without you see this emblem, don’t discard your baronet.”

“Mamma, is this quite fair?” said Olivia. “Cary speaks as if my heart had no possible concern in the matter.”

“Quite the reverse, my dear; but bear in mind that you have only one heart, and it would not be altogether discreet to give it away to two parties. Cary is always right, my love, in morals as in everything else!”

“And how am I to behave, mamma,” said Olivia, with more courage than before, “if I am neither to refuse nor accept Sir Harvey’s proposals?”

“Did you never flirt, Livy dearest? Doesn’t every partner with whom you dance twice of the same evening make advances that are neither repelled nor received? The silliest boarding-school miss that ever blushed before her Italian teacher knows how to treat such difficulties, if they deserve the name. But we are delaying too long. Mamma! to your post, while I, in the library, establish a strict blockade over papa.”

With these words Miss Kennyfeck waved her hand affectedly in adieu, and led her mother from the room; while Olivia, after a second’s pause, arose and arrayed more smoothly the silky tresses of her hair before the glass.

We have once already, in this veracious narrative, been ungallant enough to peep at this young lady, and coolly watch her strategy before the enemy. We will not repeat the offence, nor linger to mark how, as she walked the room, she stopped from time to time before the mirror to gaze on charms which expectancy had already heightened; in fact, we will quit the chamber with Mrs. Kennyfeck and her elder daughter, and as the choice is permitted which to follow, we select the latter.

“Here ‘s Miss Kennyfeck, by Jove!” cried Jennings, as she crossed the hall. “We have all been dying to see you; pray come here and give us your counsel.” And he led her into a small drawing-room, where, around a table covered with prints and colored drawings of costume, a considerable number of the guests were assembled.

“For mercy’s sake, nothing out of the Waverley novels!” said the blond lady. “I am wearied of seeing the Jewess Rebecca wherever I go.”

“Well, I’ll be Diana Vernon, I know that,” said Miss Meek; “you may all choose how you please.”

“But you can’t be, my love, if we have the ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream,’” said Mrs. White.

“Why can’t I, if Charley takes Osbaldiston?” said she.

“Because they are not characters of the piece.”

“Nobody cares for character in a masquerade!” said Linton.

“Or if they have any, they put a mask over it,” said Lady Janet

“I vote that we are all Tyrolese peasanths,” lisped the fat and dumpy Mrs. Malone. “It’s a most picthuresque costhume.”

“What will you be, Sir Andrew?” cried another, as the old general passed the door in a dog-trot, with Flint behind him.

“By me saul! I thenk I’ll be the Wanderin’ Jew!” cried he, wiping the perspiration off his forehead.

“You hear that, Lady Janet?” said Linton, roguishly. “Sir Andrew intends to live forever.”

“So that I don’t, sir, I can’t complain,” said she, with a tartness quite electric.

“I incline to leave the choice of each free,” said Miss Kennyfeck, as she tossed over the drawings. “When you select a story, there are always a certain number of characters nobody likes to take.”

“I’ll be Henri Quatre,” said an infantry captain. “I wish you ‘d be Gabrielle, Miss Kennyfeck?”

“Thanks; but I ‘ve a fancy for that Cephalonian costume.”

“Egad! you can always pick up a ‘Greek’ or two, here, to keep you company,” said a hussar; but no one joined his laugh.

“I’ll be Don Belianis!” said a tall, melancholy subaltern.

“What were you at Bellingden’s last year, Fillymore?”

“I went as ‘Chiffney;’ but they turned me out. The whole was mediaeval, and they said I was all wrong.”

“Try that turban, my dear Miss Kennyfeck,” said Mrs. White, who, suspecting the young lady wore false ringlets, made a vigorous effort to expose the cheat.

“By Jove! how becoming!” exclaimed Jennings. “Now, put on the mantle, – not over the right shoulder, but so, – crossed a little.”

“You ought to have this scarf round your neck,” said another; “blue and gold have such an excellent effect.”

“I vote for your wearing that,” said the hussar, quite smitten with her beauty. “What do they call the dress?”

“Costume of Leopoldine of Eschingen, who defended the ‘Irongate’ against the Turks, in 1662.”

“Where was that?” asked one.

“In somebody’s avenue, I suppose,” lisped out the tall sub.

“No, no; it ‘s on some river or other. There’s a cataract they call the Irongate, – I forget where.”

“The Lethe, perhaps,” said Miss Kennyfeck, slyly.

“Is not that a pace! by Jove! Cashel ‘s in a hurry. This way,” said Jennings; and they all rushed to the window in time to see Roland flit past at a full gallop.

Miss Kennyfeck did not wait for more; but, throwing off the turban and mantle, hastened out to catch her father, who, at the same instant, was issuing from the library..

“Now, pa,” said she, slipping her arm within his, “how is it to be? Pray, now, don’t affect the mysterious, but say at once, – has he proposed?”

“Who? has who proposed?”

“Mr. Cashel, of course. How could I mean any other?”

“For you, my dear?” said he, for once venturing upon a bit of raillery.

“Pshaw, pa; for Olivia!”

“Nothing of the kind, my dear. Such a subject has never been alluded to between us.”

“Poor thing! she has been badly treated, then, that’s all! It would, however, have saved us all a world of misconception if you had only said so at first; you must own that.”

“But you forget, Miss Kennyfeck, that I never supposed you entertained this impression. Mr. Cashel’s conversation with me related exclusively to the affairs of his property.”

“Poor Livy!” said Miss Kennyfeck, letting go his arm and ascending the stairs. As Miss Kennyfeck drew near the door of the drawing room, she began to sing sufficiently loud to be heard by those within, and thus, judiciously heralding her approach, she opened the door and entered. Sir Harvey had been standing beside the chimney-piece with Olivia, but turned hastily round, his countenance exhibiting that state of mingled doubt, fear, and satisfaction, which vouched for the cleverness of the young lady’s tactics. Nothing, in truth, could have been more adroit than her management; performing a feat which among naval men is known as “backing and filling,” she succeeded in manoeuvring for nigh an hour, without ever advancing or retiring. We should be unwilling to deny our reader the value of a lesson, did we not feel how the fairer portion of our audience would weary over a recital, in every detail of which they could instruct our ignorance.

The late Lord Londonderry was famed for being able to occupy “the house” for any given time without ever communicating a fact, raising a question, solving a difficulty, or, what is harder than all, committing himself. But how humbly does this dexterity appear beside the young-lady-like tact that, opposed by all the importunity of a lover, can play the game in such wise that after fifty-odd minutes the “pieces” should stand upon the board precisely as they did at the beginning!

“How do you do, Sir Harvey? Why are you not on that committee of costume in the little drawing-room where the great question at issue is between the time of the crusades and the swell mob?”

“I have been far more agreeably occupied, in a manner that my feelings” – here Olivia looked disappointed, – “my heart, I mean,” said he – and the young lady looked dignified – “my feelings and my heart, too,” resumed be, horribly puzzled which tack to sail upon, “assure me must nearly concern my future happiness.”

“How pleasant!” said Cary, laughingly, as if she accepted the speech as some high-flown compliment; “you are so fortunate to know what to do on a dreary wet day like this.”

Olivia, whose eyes were bent upon her sister, changed color more than once. “The signal was flying,” “Stop firing,” just at the moment when the enemy had all but “struck;” in less figurative phrase, Miss Kennyfeck’s throat was encircled by the scarf which she had forgotten to lay aside on leaving the drawing-room.

The object was too remarkable to escape notice, and Olivia’s face grew scarlet as she thought of her triumph.

Miss Kennyfeck saw this, but attributed the agitation to anything but its true cause.

“I ‘m in search of mamma,” said she, and with a very peculiar glance at Olivia, left the room.

Sir Harvey’s visit lasted full twenty minutes longer; and although no record has been preserved of what passed on the occasion, they who met him descending the stairs all agreed in describing his appearance as most gloomy and despondent. As for Olivia, she saw the door close after him with a something very like sorrow. There was no love in the case, nor anything within a day’s journey of it; but he was good-looking, fashionable, well-mannered, and mustachioed. She would have been “my lady,” too; and though this is but a “brevet nobility” after all, it has all “the sound of the true metal.” She thought over all these things; and she thought, besides, how very sad he looked when she said “No;” and, how much sadder, when asked the usual question about “time, and proved devotion, and all that sort of thing,” she said “No,” again; and how, saddest of all, when she made the stereotyped little speech about “sisterly affection, and seeing him happy with another!” Oh dear! oh dear! is it not very wearisome and depressing to think that chess can have some hundred thousand combinations, and love-making but its two or three “gambits,” – the “fool’s-mate” the chief of them? We have said she was sorry for what had occurred; but she consoled herself by remembering it was not her fault that Sir Harvey was not as rich as Cashel, and nephew to a live uncle!

As Sir Harvey’s “lady” – Heaven forgive me, I had almost written “wife” – she would have been the envy of a very large circle of her Dublin acquaintance; and then she knew that these dragoon people have a way of making their money go so much further than civilians; and in all that regards horses, equipage, and outward show, the smartest “mufti” is a seedy affair beside the frogs of the new regulation pelisse! She actually began to feel misgivings about her choice. A high drag at the Howth races, a crowd of whiskered fellows of “ours,” and the band of the regiment in Merrion Square, came home to her “dear Dublin” imagination with irresistible fascination. In her mind’s eye, she had already cut the “bar,” and been coldly distant with the infantry. It was a little revery of small triumphs, but the sum of them mounted up to something considerable.