Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)

But where are they alle, I do not see,
One half of our goodlie companie!

    Hone.
That day was destined to be one of contrarieties to the household of Tubbermore. Of the Kennyfeck family, none appeared at dinner. Lady Kilgoff, angry at Roland’s breach of engagement, – for, although he rode at top speed in every direction, he never overtook her, – also kept her room. The carriage sent for Miss Leicester had returned without her, a somewhat formal note of apology stating that Mr. Corrigan was indisposed, and his granddaughter unwilling to leave him; while Linton, usually a main feature in all the social success of a dinner, was still absent.

Of the assembled guests, too, few were in their wonted spirits. Sir Andrew and Lady Janet had quarrelled in the morning about the mode of preparing dandelion tea, and kept up the dispute all the day; Upton was sulky, dark, and reserved; Meek more than usually lachrymose; Fro-bisher’s best mare had been staked in taking a leap, and Miss Meek had never discovered it till half an hour after, so that the lameness was greatly aggravated; Mrs. White had had a “tiff” with the author, for his not believing the Irish to be of Phoenician origin, and would n’t speak to him at dinner; so that Cashel himself, constrained, absent, and ill at ease, found his company anything rather than a relief to his own distracted thoughts.

Among his other guests he found the same reserve and coldness of manner, so that no sooner had they assembled in the drawing-room, after dinner, than he left the house and set off to inquire for Mr. Corrigan at the cottage.

“We had nine vacant places to-day at table,” said Lady Janet, as soon as she had arranged her special table next the fire, with a shade in front and a screen behind her, and was quite satisfied that, in regard to cushions and footstools, she had monopolized the most comfortable in the room.

“I thought – aw – that we – aw – were somewhat slow,” said Captain Jennings, with his habitually tiresome, pompous intonation.

“What’s the matter with Upton?” said a junior officer of his regiment, in a whisper; “he looks so confoundedly put out.”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” yawned out Lord Charles; “he has a very safe book on the Oaks.”

“He’s backing Dido at very long odds,” interposed Miss Meek, “and she’s weak before, they say.”

“Not staked, I hope,” said Frobisher, looking maliciously at her.

“I don’t care what you say, Charley,” rejoined she; “I defy any one to know whether a horse goes tender, while galloping in deep ground. You are always unjust.” And she moved away in anger.

“She is so careless,” said Frobisher, listlessly.

“Tell me about these Kennyfecks. What is it all about?” said Mrs. White, bustling up, as if she was resolved on a long confidence.

“They hedged against themselves, I hear,” said Frobisher.

“Indeed! poor things; and are they much hurt?”

“Not seriously, I fancy,” drawled he. “Lady Janet knows it all.”

Mrs. White did not neglect the suggestion, but at once repaired to that part of the room where Lady Janet was sitting, surrounded by a select circle, eagerly discussing the very question she had asked to be informed upon.

“I had it from Verthinia,” said Mrs. Malone, with her peculiar, thick enunciation, “Lady Kilgoff’s maid. She said that not a day passes without some such scene between the mother and daughters. Mrs. Kennyfeck had, it seems, forbithen Cashel to call there in her abthence.”

“I must most respectfully interrupt you, madam,” said a large old lady, with blond false hair, and a great deal of rouge, “but the affair was quite different. Miss Olivia, that is the second girl, was detected by her aunt, Miss O’Hara, packing up for an elopement.”

“Fudge!” said Lady Janet; “she’d have helped her, if that were the case! I believe the true version of the matter is yet to come out. My woman, Stubbs, saw the apothecary coming downstairs, after bleeding Livy, and called him into her room; not, indeed, to speak of this matter” – here Lady Janet caused her voice to be heard by Sir Andrew, who sat, in moody sulk, right opposite – “it was to ask, if there should not be two pods of capsicum in every pint of dandelion tea.”

“There may be twa horns o’ the de’il in it,” ejaculated Sir Andrew, “but I ‘ll na pit it to my mouth agen. I hae a throat like the fiery furnace that roasted the three chaps in the Bible.”

“It suits your tongue all the better,” muttered Lady Janet, and turned round to the others. “Stubbs, as I was saying, called the man in, and after some conversation about the dandelion, asked, in a cursory way, you know, ‘How the lady was, upstairs?’ He shook his head, and said nothing.

“‘It will not be tedious, I hope?’ said Stubbs.

“‘These are most uncertain cases,’ said he; ‘sometimes they last a day, sometimes eight or nine.’

“‘I think you ‘re very mysterious, doctor,’ said Stubbs.

“He muttered something about honor, and, seizing his hat went off, as Stubbs says, ‘as if he was shot!’”

“Honor!” cried one of the hearers.

“Honor!” ejaculated another, with an expression of pure horror.

“Did n’t he say, madam,” said the blond old lady, “that it wasn’t his branch of the profession?”

“Oh! oh!” broke in the company together, while the younger ladies held up their fans and giggled behind them.

“I ‘m thorry for the poor mother!” sighed Mrs. Malone, who had seven daughters, each uglier than the other.

“I pity the elder girl,” said Lady Janet; “she had a far better tone about her than the rest.”

“And that dear, kind old creature, the aunt. It is said that but for her care this would have happened long ago,” said Mrs. Malone.

“She was, to my thinking, the best of them,” echoed the blond lady; “so discreet, so quiet, and so unobtrusive.”

“What could come of their pretension?” said a colonel’s widow, with a very large nose and a very small pension; “they attempted a style of living quite unsuited to them! The house always full of young men, too.”

“You would n’t have had them invite old ones, madam,” said Lady Janet, with the air of rebuke the wife of a commander-in-chief can assume to the colonel’s relict.

“It’s a very sad affair, indeed,” summed up Mrs. White, who, if she had n’t quarrelled with Mr. Howie, would have given him the whole narrative for the “Satanist.”

“What a house to be sure! There’s Lady Kilgoff on one side – ”

“What of her, my Lady?” said the blonde.

“You did n’t hear of Lord Kilgoff overtaking her to-day in the wood with Sir Harvey Upton? – hush! or he ‘ll hear us. The poor old man – you know his state of mind – snatched the whip from the coachman, and struck Sir Harvey across the face. They say there’s a great welt over the cheek!”

Mrs. White immediately arose, and, under pretence of looking for a book, made a circuit of the room in that part where Sir Harvey Upton was lounging, with his head on his hand.

“Quite true,” said she, returning to the party. “It is so painful, he can’t keep his hand from the spot.”

“Has any one discovered who the strange-looking man was that was received by Mr. Cashel this morning in his own study?” asked the blonde. “My maid said he was for all the world like a sheriff’s officer. It seems, too, he was very violent in his language; and but for Mr. Kennyfeck, he would not have left the house.”

“Too true, I fear, ma’am,” said Mrs. Malone; “my husband, the Thief,” – this was Mrs. Malone’s mode of abbreviating and pronouncing the words Chief Justice, – “told me it was impothible for Mr. Cashel to continue his extravaganth much longer.”

“It’s shameful – it’s disgraceful,” said Lady Janet; “the kitchen is a scene of waste and recklessness, such as no fortune could stand.”

“Indeed, so the ‘Thief’ said,” resumed Mrs. Malone; “he said that robbery went on, on every thide, and that Mr. Phillith, I think his name is, was the worst of all.”

“Your husband was quite correct, ma’am,” said Lady Janet; “no one should know it better.” And then she whispered in her neighbor’s ear, “If the adage be true, ‘Set a thief to catch a thief.’”

The party intrusted with this could not restrain her laughter, and for a space, a species of distrust seemed to pervade the circle.

We are certain that no apology will be required, if we ask of our reader to quit this amiable society, – although seated at a comfortable fire, in the very easiest of chairs, with the softest carpet beneath his feet, – and accompany Roland Cashel, who now, with hasty step, trod the little path that led to Tubber-beg Cottage.