Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)

CHAPTER XVIII. THE OLD FRIENDS IN COUNCIL

I could an I would, Sir Harry.

While the gay company at Tubbermore dined sumptuously, and enjoyed the luxuries of a splendid table with no other alloy to their pleasure than the ennui of people whose fastidiousness has grown into malady, Mr. Corrigan sat in council at the cottage with his ancient ally, the doctor. There was an appearance of constraint over each, – very unusual with men who had been friends from boyhood; and in their long pauses, and short, abrupt sentences, might be read the absence of that confiding spirit which had bound them so many years like brothers.

It may be in the reader’s recollection that while Corrigan was pledged to secrecy by Linton respecting his revelations of Cashel, Tiernay was equally bound by Roland not to divulge any of his plans for the old man’s benefit. Perhaps it was the first time in the life of either that such a reserve had been practised. Certainly it weighed heavily upon both; and more than once they were coming to the fatal resolve to break their vows, and then some sudden thought – some unknown dread of disconcerting the intentions of those who trusted them – would cross their mind, and after a momentary struggle, a half cough, and muttered “Well! well!” they would relapse into silence, each far too occupied by himself to note the other’s embarrassment.

It was after a long time and much thought that Corrigan perceived, however pledged to Linton not to speak of Cashel’s conduct respecting the cottage, that he was in no wise bound to secrecy regarding the proposal for Mary Leicester’s hand; and this was, indeed, the topic on which he was most desirous of the doctor’s counsel.

“I have a secret for you, Tiernay,” said the old man, at length; “and it is one which will surprise you. I have had an offer this morning for Mary! Ay; just so. You often told me that nothing but this life of isolation and retirement would have left her with me so long; but the thought of losing her – the tangible, actual dread – never presented itself before this day!”

“Who is it?” said Tiernay, shortly, but not without evident agitation of manner.

“One who has never enjoyed much of your favor, Tiernay, and whom I suspect you have judged with less than your habitual fairness.”

“I know the man. Linton?”

“It was Linton.”

“And he actually made this proposition?” said Tiernay, with an expression of the most unbounded surprise in his features.

“To me, myself, in this room, he made it.”

“He asked you what her fortune would be?” said Tiernay, gruffly.

“He did not; he told me of his own. He said, that by a recent event he had become possessed of sufficient property to make him indifferent to the fortune of whoever he might marry. He spoke sensibly and well of his future career, of the plans he had conceived, and the rules he made for his own guidance; he spoke warmly of her with whom he wished to share his fortunes; and lastly, he alluded in kind terms to myself, dependent as I am upon her care, and living as I do upon her affection. In a word, if there was not the ardor of a passionate lover, there was what I augur better from, – the sentiments of one who had long reflected on his own position in life, who knew the world well, and could be no mean guide amid its dangers and difficulties.”

“Have you told Mary of this?”

“I have not. My answer to Linton was: ‘Let me have time to think over this proposal; give me some hours of thought before I even speak to my granddaughter;’ and he acceded at once.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Tiernay, rising, and pacing the room. “How inadequate are we two old men – removed from intercourse with the world, neither players nor lookers-on at the game of life – to cope with one like him, and see what he purposes to himself by this alliance! As for his affection, as for his power to feel her worth, to estimate the gentle virtues of her spotless nature, I cannot, I will not believe it.”

“And for that very reason are you unfit to judge him. Your prejudices, ever against him, are rendered stronger because you cannot divine motives black enough to suit your theory; you give the benefit of all your doubts against himself.”

“I know him to be a gambler in its worse sense. Not one who plays even for the gratification of those alternating vacillations of hope and fear which jaded, worn-out natures resort to as the recompense for blunted emotions and blasted ambitions, but a gambler for gain! – that foul amalgam of the miser and the knave. I ‘ve seen him play the sycophant, too, like one who studied long his part, and knew it thoroughly. No, no, Con, it is not one like this must be husband of Mary!”

“I tell you again, Tiernay, you suffer your prejudices to outrun all your prudence. The very fact that he asks in marriage a portionless girl, without influence from family, and without the advantage of station, should outweigh all your doubts twice told.”

“This does but puzzle me, – nothing more,” said Tiernay, doggedly. “Were it Cashel, that high-hearted, generous youth, who made this offer – ”

“I must stop you, Tiernay; you are as much at fault in your over-estimate of one as in your disparagement of the other. Cashel is not what you deem him. Ask me not how I know it. I cannot, I dare not tell you; it is enough that I do know it, and know it by the evidence of my own eyes.”

“Then they have deceived you, that’s all,” said Tiernay, roughly; “for I tell you, and I speak now of what my own knowledge can sustain, that he is the very soul of generosity, – a generosity that would imply recklessness, if not guided by the shrinking delicacy of an almost girlish spirit.”

“Tiernay, Tiernay, you are wrong, I say,” cried Corrigan, passionately.

“And I say it is you who are in error,” said Tiernay. “It was but this morning I held in my hands – ” He stopped, stammered, and was silent.

“Well,” cried Corrigan, “go on, – not that, indeed, you could convince me against what my eyes have assured; for here, upon this table, I beheld – ”

“Out with it, man! Tell what jugglery has been practised on you, for I see you have been duped.”

“Hush! here ‘s Mary!” cried Corrigan, who, scarcely able to control himself, now walked the room in great agitation.

“You were talking so loud,” said Mary, “that I guessed you were quarrelling about politics, and so I came to make peace.”

“We were not, Mary; but Tiernay is in one of his wrong-head humors.”

“And your grandfather in the silliest of his foolish ones!” exclaimed Tiernay, as, snatching up his hat he left the cottage.

CHAPTER XIX. A TÊTE-À-TÊTE INTERRUPTED

It might be thought that in a household so full of contrarieties as Tubbermore, any new plan of pleasure would have met but a meagre success. Here, were the Kilgoffs, upon one side, full of some secret importance, and already speaking of the uncertainty of passing the spring in Ireland. There, were the Kennyfecks, utterly disorganized by intestine troubles, – mother, aunt, and daughters at open war, and only of one mind for some few minutes of each day, when they assailed the luckless Kennyfeck as the “author of all evil;” Frobisher, discontented that no handicap could be “got up,” to remunerate him for the weariness of his exile; Upton, suffering under the pangs of rejection; Sir Andrew, reduced to a skeleton by the treatment against his unhappy opiate, being condemned, as “Jim” phrased it, to “two heavy sweats without body-clothes, and a drench every day;” Meek, grown peevish at the little prospect of making anything of Cashel politically; and Cashel himself, hipped and bored by all in turn, and wearied of being the head of a house where the only pleasantry existed in the servants’ hall, – and they were all rogues and thieves who made it.

It might be easily supposed these were not the ingredients which would amalgamate into any agreeable union, and that even a suggestion to that end would meet but few supporters.

Not so; the very thought of doing “anything” was a relief: each felt, perhaps, his share of shame at the general ennui, and longed for whatever gave a chance of repelling it. It was as in certain political conditions in seasons of general stagnation, – men are willing even to risk a revolution rather than continue in a state of unpromising monotony.

Linton, whose own plans required that the others should be full of occupation of one kind or other, was the first to give the impulse, by reminding Miss Meek that her sovereignty had, up to this time, been a dead letter.

“You have positively done nothing,” said he, “since your accession. Here we are, all ready to do your bidding, only waiting for the shadow of a wish on your part. There is no obstacle anywhere; pray let us commence a series of such right royal festivities as shall cause the envy of every other sovereign in Christendom.”

“I ‘m sure I wish for nothing better; but nobody minds me,” said she, pouting.

“What shall be the opening, then?” said Linton, taking a sheet of paper, and seating himself, in all form, to write. “A masquerade?”

“By all means! A masquerade!” exclaimed a dozen voices; and at once a large circle gathered round the table where he sat.

“Does the country afford materials for one?” asked Jennings.

“Oh, dear, yes!” sighed Meek; “you could gather a great many important people here by a little management.”

“I ‘ll tell Macnevin, wha commands at Limerick, to send ye every officer wha is n’t under arrest,” said Sir Andrew, – a speech received with great favor by various young ladies unknown to the reader.

Every one who knew anything of the three neighboring counties was at once summoned to form part of a select committee to name those who ought to be invited. The Chief Justice was acquainted with the principal persons, from his having gone circuit; but then, those he mentioned were rarely of the stamp to add lustre or brilliancy to a fancy ball, – indeed, as Linton whispered, “The old judge had either hanged or transported all the pleasant fellows.”

The Infantry men from Limerick were familiar with every pretty girl of that famed capital and its environs for some miles round; and as exclusiveness was not to be the rule, a very imposing list was soon drawn up.

Then came the question of receiving so large a party, and each vied with his neighbor in generous sacrifices of accommodation; even Downie vouchsafed to say that the noise would be terrible, “but one ought to submit to anything to give pleasure to his friends.”

The theatre should be the ball-room; the two drawing-rooms and the library would offer space for the company to promenade; the buffet stand in the dining-room; and supper be served in the great conservatory, which, with its trellised vines all studded with lights disposed as stars, would have a new and beautiful effect.

Sir Andrew promised two military bands, and unmarried officers à discrétion.

Devoted offers of assistance poured in from every side. Foraging parties were “told off” to shoot snipe and woodcocks without ceasing; and Frobisher was to ply with a four-in-hand – of Cashel’s horses – to and from Limerick every day, carrying every body and every thing that was wanting.

All the servants of the guests, as well as of the house, were to be attired in a costume which, after some discussion, was decided to be Spanish.

Unlimited facilities were to be at the disposal of all, for whatever they pleased to order. Mrs. White sat down to write to Paris for an envoy of moss-roses and camellias, with a postscript from Upton on the subject of red partridges and foie gras.

Jennings dictated a despatch to Mayence for two cases of Steinberger; and Howie took notes of all for a series of papers which, in four different styles, were to appear in four periodicals simultaneously.

As each guest was at full liberty to invite some half-dozen friends, there was quite an excitement in comparing lists with each other, and speculations innumerable as to the dress and character they would appear in, for all were mysterious upon that head.

“But whar is Maister Cashel all this time?” said Sir Andrew; “methinks it wud na be vara polite na to hae his opinion upon a’ this, syne he must gie the siller for it.”

“He’s playing chess with Lady Kilgoff in the boudoir,” said Jennings.

“Tell Kennyfeck,” said Frobisher; “that’s quite enough! Cashel calls everything where money enters, business, and hates it, in consequence.”

“Oh, dear! I’m precisely of his mind, then,” sighed Meek, caressing his whiskers.

“Kilgoff will not remain, you ‘ll see,” said Upton. “He is not pleased with my Lady’s taste for close intimacy.”

“The Kennyfecks are going to-morrow or next day,” said another.

“So they have been every day this last week; but if some of you gentlemen will only be gallant enough to give a good reason for remaining, they ‘ll not stir.” This was spoken by Lady Janet in her tartest of voices, and with a steady stare at Upton, who stroked his moustaches in very palpable confusion. “Yes, Sir Harvey,” continued she, “I ‘m perfectly serious, and Mr. Linton, I perceive, agrees with me.”

“As he always does, Lady Janet, when he desires to be in the right,” said Linton, bowing.

“Aw – I, aw – I did n’t think it was so easy in that quarter, aw!” said Jennings, in a low semi-confidential tone.

“I ‘ll insure you for a fair premium, Jennings, if you have any fancy that way.”

“Aw, I don’t know, – concern looks hazardous, – ha, ha, ha! – don’t you think so?” But as nobody joined in his laughter, he resumed, in a lower voice, “There, Upton ‘s very spooney indeed about one of them.”

“It’s the aunt,” said Linton, – “a very fine woman, too; what the French call beauté sévère; but classical, quite classical.”

“Confounded old harridan!” muttered Upton, between his teeth; “I ‘d not take her with Rothschild’s bank at her disposal.”

All this little chit-chat was a thing got up by Linton, while stationing himself in a position to watch Cashel and Lady Kilgoff, who sat, at a chess-table, in an adjoining room. It needed not Linton’s eagle glance to perceive that neither was attentive to the game, but that they were engaged in deep and earnest conversation. Lady Kilgoff’s back was towards him, but Roland’s face he could see clearly, and watch the signs of anger and impatience it displayed.

“A little more noise and confusion here,” thought Linton, “and they ‘ll forget that they ‘re not a hundred miles away;” and, acting on this, he set about arranging the company in various groups; and while he disposed a circle of very fast-talking old ladies, to discuss rank and privileges in one corner, he employed some others in devising a character quadrille, over which Mrs. White was to preside; and then, seating a young lady at the piano, – one of those determined performers who run a steeple-chase through waltz, polka, and mazurka, for hours uninterruptedly, – he saw that he had manufactured a very pretty chaos “off-hand.”

While hurrying hither and thither, directing, instructing, and advising every one, he contrived also, as it were by mere accident, to draw across the doorway of the boudoir the heavy velvet curtain that performed the function of a door. The company were far too busied in their various occupations to remark this; far less was it perceived by Lady Kilgoff or Roland. Nobody knew better than Linton how to perform the part of fly-wheel to that complicated engine called society; he could regulate its pace to whatever speed he pleased; and upon this occasion he pushed the velocity to the utmost; and, by dint of that miraculous magnetism by which men of warm imagination and quick fancy inspire their less susceptible neighbors, he spread the contagion of his own merry humor, and converted the drawing-room into a scene of almost riotous gayety.

“They want no more leadership now,” said he, and slipped from the room and hastened towards the library, where sat Lord Kilgoff, surrounded by folios of Grotius and Puffendorf, – less, indeed, for perusal and study than as if inhaling the spirit of diplomatic craft from their presence.

“Nay, my Lord, this is too much,” said he, entering with a smile; “some relaxation is really necessary. Pray come and dissipate a little with us in the drawing-room.”

“Don’t lose my place, however,” said he, smiling far more graciously than his wont. “I was just considering that assertion of Grotius, wherein be lays it down that ‘a river is always objectionable as a national boundary.’ I dissent completely from the doctrine. A river has all the significance of a natural frontier. It is the line of demarcation drawn from the commencement of the world between different tracts, and at once suggests separation.”

“Very true, my Lord; I see your observation in all its justice. A river, in the natural world, is like the distinguishing symbol of rank in the social, and should ever be a barrier against unwarrantable intrusion.”

Lord Kilgoff smiled, tapped his snuff-box, and nodded, as though to say, “Continue.” Linton understood the hint in this wise, and went on, —

“And yet, my Lord, there is reason to fear that, with individuals as with nations, these demarcations are losing their prestige. What people call enlightenment and progress, nowadays, is the mere negation of these principles.”

“Every age has thrown some absurd theory to the surface, sir,” said Lord Kilgoff, proudly; “Southcotians, Mormons, and Radicals among the rest. But truth, sir, has always the ascendency in the long run. Facts cannot be sneered down; and the Pyrenees and the English peerage are facts, Mr. Linton, – and similar facts, too!”

Linton looked like one who divided himself between rebuke and conviction, – submissive, but yet satisfied.

“Give me your arm, Linton; I’m still very far from strong, – this place disagrees with me. I fancy the air is rheumatic, and I am impatient to get away; but the fact is, I have been lingering in the hope of receiving some tidings from the Foreign Office, which I had rather would reach me here than at my own house.”

“Precisely, my Lord; the request, then, has the air – I mean it shows you have been sought after by the Minister, and solicited to take office when not thinking of the matter yourself.”

“Quite so; I open the despatch, as it may be, at the breakfast-table, jocularly observing that it looks official, eh?”

“Exactly, my Lord; you even surmise that it may prove an appointment you have solicited for one of your numerous protégés, – something in the Colonies, or the ‘troop,’ without purchase, in the Blues?”

Lord Kilgoff laughed – for him, heartily – at Linton’s concurrence in his humor, and went on, —

“And when I open it, Linton, and read the contents, eh?”

Here he paused, as if asking what effect his astute friend would ascribe to such pleasant tidings.

“I think I see your Lordship throw the heavy packet from you with a ‘pshaw!’ of disappointment; while you mutter to your next neighbor, ‘I have been warding off this these two or three last years; but there’s no help for it: the King insists upon my taking the mission at Florence!’”

“I must say, Mr. Linton, your conjecture strikes me as strained and unnatural. The appointment to represent my august master at the court of Tuscany might be a worthy object of my ambition. I cannot agree with the view you take of it.”

Linton saw that he had “charged too far,” and hastened to secure his retreat.

“I spoke, my Lord, rather with reference to your regret at quitting the scenes of your natural influence at home, of withdrawing from this distracted country the high example of your presence, the wisdom of your counsels, the munificence of your charity. These are sad exports at such a time as this!”

Lord Kilgoflf sighed, he sighed heavily; he knew Ireland had gone through many trials and afflictions, but the dark future which Linton pictured had never presented itself so full of gloom before. He doubtless felt that when he left the ship she would not long survive the breakers; and, sunk in these reveries, he walked along at Linton’s side till they gained the picture-gallery, at one extremity of which lay the boudoir we have spoken of.

“Poor things, my Lord!” said Linton, shrugging his shoulders as he passed along, and casting a contemptuous glance at the apocryphal Vandykes and Murillos around, and for whose authenticity he had himself, in nearly every case, been the guarantee.

Lord Kilgoff gave a fleeting look at them, but said nothing; and Linton, to occupy time, went on, —