Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)

Oft turns upon itself.

    Bell.
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!”