Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II). Lever Charles James

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ was just as our aunt had got thus far in her running commentary that both voices ceased, and a stillness, unbroken by a murmur, succeeded. “What could it mean?” was the sudden question that flashed across her mind; and Napoleon’s own dread anxiety, as he gazed on the wood, and hesitated whether the dark masses emerging from the shade were his own legions or the Prussians, was not much more intense than hers. At last – we are sorry to record it – but, alas! Aunt Fanny was only mortal, and an old maid to boot – she approached the door and peeped through the keyhole. The sight which met her eyes needed no second glance; she saw both heads bent down together, the dark waving hair of Cashel close to the nut-brown silky braids of Olivia. Neither spoke. “It was then concluded.”

      This was the moment in which mutual avowals, meeting like two rivers, form one broad and sweeping flood; it was the moment, too, in which, according to her theory; a friend was all essential. According to her phrase, the “nail should be clinched.”

      Now, Aunt Fanny had been cruelly handled by the family for all the blunders she had committed. Her skill had been impugned; her shrewdness sneered at; her prognostications derided. Here was an opportunity to refute all at once; and, in the language of the conqueror, “to cover herself with glory.”

      Gently opening the door she entered the room, and stealing tiptoe over, till she stood behind their chairs, she placed, with all the solemnity of an archbishop, a hand on either head, and, in a voice of touching fervor, said, —

      “Bless ye both, my darlings; may ye be as happy as – ”

      As what? The history is unable to record; for a shrill cry from her niece, and an exclamation nearly as loud, and we fear far less polite, from Roland, cut short the speech.

      Shriek followed shriek from Olivia, who, partly from the shock, and still more from shame, was thrown into an attack of hysterics.

      “What the – ” he was very nigh saying something else – “what have you done, madam?” said Roland, in a state of mingled anger and terror.

      “It’s only your Aunt Fanny; it’s me, my pet. Livy, darling, don’t be frightened; and here, too, is Mr. Cashel.”

      In this, however, the good lady was mistaken; for Roland had hastened upstairs to Mrs. Kennyfeck’s room, which finding locked, he flew down to the great drawing-room, thence to the library, and was making for the garden, when he saw that lady and her daughter crossing the hall.

      “I ‘m afraid, madam,” said he, with all the composure he could summon, “Miss Olivia Kennyfeck is not well; nothing serious, I trust; but a sudden fright – a shock – Miss O’Hara somewhat imprudently – ”

      “Oh, Fanny again!” screamed Mrs. Kennyfeck; and without waiting for more, rushed upstairs, followed by her daughter, while Roland, in a state of mind we dare not dwell upon, hastened from the house, and mounting his horse, galloped off into the wood.

      There were times when Cashel would have laughed, and laughed heartily, at the absurdity of this adventure. He would have even treasured up the “tableau” as a thing for future ridicule among his friends; but his better feelings, born of a more manly pride, rejected this now; he was sorry, deeply, sincerely sorry that one with so much to fascinate and charm about her, could lend herself to a mere game like this. “Where are these deceptions to end?” said he, in passionate warmth. “Have candor, good faith, and honesty fled the world? or, are they only to be found among those whose vices make the foil to such humble virtues?”

      Nor were these his only painful reflections. He was obliged to see himself – the thing of all others he despised – “a dupe;” the mark for every mean artifice and every ignoble scheme. The gambler, the flirt, the adventurer in every walk, regarded him as a prey. Wealth had done this for him – and it had done no more! None cared for him as a friend or companion. Even as a lover, his addresses were heralded by his gold, not enhanced by qualities of his own. What humiliation!

      Mary Leicester alone seemed unimpressed by his great fortune, and regardless of his wealth; she alone had never evinced towards him any show of preference above others less endowed by Fate. Nay, he fancied he could trace something of reserve in her manner whenever he stepped by chance out of his character of careless, buoyant youth, and dwelt upon the plans mere money accomplishes. In these she showed no interest, and took no pleasure; while, to the adventures of his former life, she listened with eager attention. It was easy to see she thought more of the caballero than the millionnaire.

      What a happiness had it been to have befriended her grandfather and herself; how different had been his reflections at this hour; what lessons in the true wisdom of life might he not have learned from one who had seen the world, not as the play-table for the rolling dice of fortune, but as the battle-ground where good and evil strive for victory, where a higher philosophy is taught than the lifeless, soulless dictates of mere fashionable existence!

      CHAPTER XI. SCANDAL, AND GENERAL ILL-HUMOR

      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 СКАЧАТЬ