Roland Cashel Volume I Part 38

cried Linton, affecting anger.

"Faix, I 'd have earned half a crown if I 'd got up on the beast and rode down to Bilton's," said the fellow, grinning.

"You 'd have had your skull cracked with this cane, the next time I met you, for your pains," said the other, really enraged, while he chucked a s.h.i.+lling at him.

"Success to your honor,--all's right," said the boy. And touching his cap, he scampered off into the wood, and disappeared.

"You shall have a sea voyage, my friend," said Linton, looking after him; "a young gentleman with such powers of observation would have a fine opening in our colonies." And away he rode towards town, his brain revolving many a complex scheme and lucky stratagem, but still with ready smile acknowledging each salutation of his friends, and conveying the impression of being one whose easy nature was unruffled by a care.

CHAPTER XIX. THE DOMESTIC DETECTIVE CONSULTED.

Of "sweet fifteen" no mortal e'er afraid is, Your real "man traps" are old maiden ladies.

The Legacy.

It was late of that same afternoon ere Cashel awoke. Mr. Phillis had twice adventured into the room on tiptoe, and as stealthily retired, and was now, for the third time, about to retreat, when Roland called him back.

"Beg pardon, sir; but Mrs. Kennyf.e.c.k's footman has been here twice for the answer to this note."

"Let me see it," said Cashel, taking a highly-perfumed epistle, whose tinted paper, seal, and superscription were all in the perfection of epistolary coquetry.

Dear Mr. Cashel,--Mamma desires me to convey her reproaches for your shocking forgetfulness of yesterday, when, after promising to dine here, you never appeared. She will, however, not only forgive the past, but be grateful for the present, if you will come to us to-day at seven.

Believe me, very truly yours,

Olivia Kennyf.e.c.k.

Simple and commonplace as the words were, Cashel read them over more than once.

I know not if any of my male readers can corroborate me, but I have always thought there is some mysterious attraction in even the most every-day epistle of a young and pretty woman. The commonest social forms a.s.sume a different meaning, and we read the four letters which spell "dear" in an acceptation very remote from what they inspire when written by one's law agent; and then, the concluding "yours truly,"

or "faithfully yours," or better again, "ever yours,"--what suggestive little words they are! how insinuating in their portraiture of a tie which possibly might, but does not actually, bind the parties.

If my readers concur not in these sympathies; I have great satisfaction in saying that Roland Cashel did. He not only sat gazing at the few lines, but he looked so long at them as to half believe that the first word was a superlative; then, suddenly rousing himself he asked the hour. It was already past six. He had only time, then, for a verbal, "With pleasure," and to dress for dinner.

It seemed like a reproach on his late mode of living, the pile of unopened letters, which in imposing ma.s.s Mr. Phillis had arrayed on his master's dressing-table. They contained specimens of everything epistolary which falls to the lot of those favored children of fortune who, having "much to give," are great favorites with the world. There were dear little pressing invitations signed by the lady of the house, and indited in all the caligraphy of the governess. There were begging letters from clergymen with large families, men who gave so "many hostages to fortune," that they actually ruined themselves in their own "recognizances." Flatteries, which, if not written on tinted paper, might have made it blush to bear them, mixed up with tradesmen's a.s.surances of fidelity and punctuality, and bashful apologies for the indelicacy of any allusion to money.

Oh, it is a very sweet world this of ours, and amiable withal! save that the angelic smile it bestows on one part of the creation has a sorry counterpart in the sardonic grin with which it regards the other. Our friend Cashel was in the former category, and he tossed over the letters carelessly, rarely breaking a seal, and, even then, satisfied with a mere glance at the contents, or the name of the writer, when he suddenly caught sight of a large square-shaped epistle, marked "Sea-letter." It was in a hand he well knew, that of his old comrade Enrique; and burning with anxiety to hear of him, he threw himself into a chair, and broke the seal.

The very first words which met his eye shocked him.

"St. Kitt's, Jamaica.

"Ay, Roland, even so. St. Kitt's, Jamaica! heavily ironed in a cell at the top of a strong tower over the sea, with an armed sentry at my door, I write this! a prisoner fettered and chained,--I, that could not brook the very orders of discipline! Well, well, it is only cowardice to repine.

Truth is, _amigo_, I 've had no luck since you left us. It was doubtless yours that sustained me so long, and when _you_ withdrew from the firm, I became bankrupt, and yet, this is pretty much what we used once, in merry mood, to predict for each other, 'the loop and the leap.'

"How shall I tell you so briefly as neither to weary you to read, nor myself to write it, my last sad misfortune? I say the last, because the bad luck took a run against me. First, I lost everything I possessed at play,--the very pistols you sent me, I staked and lost. Worse still, Roland,--and faith I don't think I could make the confession, if a few hours, or a few days more, were not to hide my shame in a felon's grave,--I played the jewels you sent here for Maritana. She refused them with words of bitterness and anger. Partly from the irritated feeling of the moment, partly from the curse of a gambler's spirit,--the hope to weary out the malice of fortune,--I threw them on the monte-table. Of course I lost.

It was soon after this Barcelonetta was laid in ruin by a shock of earthquake, the greatest ever experienced here. The 'Quadro' is a mere ma.s.s of chaotic rubbish. The 'Puerta Mayor,' with all its statues, is ingulfed, and an arm of the sea now washes up and over the beautiful gardens where the Governor gave his _fete_. The villa, too, rent from roof to bas.e.m.e.nt, is a ruin; vast yawning gulfs intersect the parterres everywhere; the fountains are dried up; the trees blasted by lightning; and a red-brown surface of ashes strewn over the beauteous turf where we used to stroll by moonlight. The old tree that sheltered our monte-table stands uninjured, as if in mockery over our disasters!

Maritana's hammock was slung beneath the branches, and there she lay, careless of--nay, I could almost say, if the words did not seem too strange for truth, actually pleased by--the dreadful event. I went to take leave of her; it was the last night we were to spend on sh.o.r.e. I little knew it was to be the last time we should ever meet. Pedro pa.s.sed the night among the ruins of the villa, endeavoring to recover papers and valuables amid that disastrous ma.s.s. Geizheimer was always with him, and as Noronja and the rest soon fell off to sleep, wearied by a day of great fatigue, I sat alone beside her hammock till day was breaking. Oh, would that night could have lasted for years, so sweetly tranquil were the starlit hours, so calm and yet so full of hopeful promise. What brilliant pictures of ambition did she, that young, untaught girl, present to my eyes,--how teach me to long for a cause whose rewards were higher, and greater, and n.o.bler than the prizes of this wayward life. I would have spoken of my affection, my deep-felt, long-cherished love, but, with a half-scornful laugh, she stopped me, saying, 'Is this leafy shade so like a fair lady's boudoir that you can persuade yourself to trifle thus, or is your own position so dazzling that you deem the offer to share it a flattery?'"

"I 'm afraid, sir," said Mr. Phillis, here obtruding his head into the room, "that you 'll be very late. It is already more than half-past seven o'clock."

"So it is!" exclaimed Cashel, starting up, while he muttered something not exceedingly complimentary to his host's engagement. "Is the carriage ready?" And without staying to hear the reply, hurried downstairs, the open letter still in his hand.

Scarcely seated in the carriage, Cashel resumed the reading of the letter. Eager to trace the circ.u.mstances which led to his friend's captivity, he hastily ran his eyes over the lines till he came to the following:--

"There could be no doubt of it. The 'Esmeralda,' our n.o.ble frigate, was not in the service of the Republic, but by some infamous treaty between Pedro and Narochez, the minister, was permitted to carry the flag of Columbia. We were slavers, buccaneers, pirates,--not sailors of a state. When, therefore, the British war-brig 'Scorpion' sent a gun across our bows, with an order to lie to, and we replied by showing our main-deck ports open, and our long eighteens all ready, the challenge could not be mistaken. We were near enough to hear the cheering, and it seemed, too, they heard ours; we wanted but you, Roland, among us to have made our excitement madness!"

The carriage drew up at Kennyf.e.c.k's door as Cashel had read thus far, and in a state of mind bordering on fever he entered the hall and pa.s.sed up the stairs. The clock struck eight as he presented himself in the drawing-room, where the family were a.s.sembled, the number increased by two strangers, who were introduced to Roland as Mrs. Kennyf.e.c.k's sister, Miss O'Hara, an elderly maiden lady, with a light brown wig; and a raw-boned, much-freckled young man, Peter O'Gorman, her nephew.

Nothing could be more cordial than the reception of the Kennyf.e.c.ks; they affected not to think that it was so late, vowed that the clock was too fast, were certain that Mr. Cashel's watch was right; in fact, his presence was a receipt in full for all the anxieties of delay, and so they made him feel it.

There was a little quizzing of Roland, as they seated themselves at table, over his forgetfulness of the day before, but so good-humoredly as not to occasion, even to himself, the slightest embarra.s.sment.

"At breakfast at the barrack!" repeated Miss Kennyf.e.c.k after him. "What a formidable affair, if it always lasts twenty-four hours."

"What do you mean? How do you know that?" asked Roland, half in shame, half in surprise, at this knowledge of his movements.

"Not to speak of the brilliant conversation, heightened by all the excitement of wit, champagne, and hazard,--dreadful compet.i.tors with such tiresome society as ours," said Olivia.

"Never mind them, Mr. Cashel," broke in Miss O'Hara, in a mellifluous Doric; "'tis jealous they are, because you like the officers better than themselves."

A most energetic dissent was entered by Cashel to this supposition, who nevertheless felt grateful for the advocacy of the old lady.

"When I was in the Cape Coast Fencibles," broke in Peter, with an accent that would have induced one to believe Africa was on the Shannon, "we used to sit up all night,--it was so hot in the day; but we always called it breakfast, for you see--"

"And when are we to visit your pictures, Mr. Cashel?" said Mrs.

Kennyf.e.c.k, whose efforts to suppress Peter were not merely vocal, as that injured individual's s.h.i.+ns might attest.

"That depends entirely on you, madam," said Roland, bowing. "I have only to say, the earlier the more agreeable to me."

"He has such a beautiful collection," said Mrs. Kennyf.e.c.k, turning to her sister.

"Indeed, then, I delight in pictures," said "Aunt f.a.n.n.y," as her nieces called her. "I went the other day to Mount Bennett, to see a portrait painted by Rousseau."

"By Rubens, I suppose you mean, aunt," interposed Miss Kennyf.e.c.k, tartly.

"So it may be, my dear, I never know the names right; but it was a dark old man, with a hairy cap and a long gray beard, as like Father Morris Heffernan as ever it could stare."

"Is your new Carlo Dolce so very like Olivia?" interposed Mrs.

Kennyf.e.c.k, who was sadly hampered by her country relatives and their reminiscences.

"So very like, madam, that I beg you to accept it as a portrait,"

replied Roland.

"Upon my word, then, young gentleman, you 're not so fond of a pretty face as you might be," broke in Aunt f.a.n.n.y, "or you would n't be so ready to give it away." A very hearty laugh at the old lady's eccentricity relieved Cashel from all necessity of explanation.