Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II). Lever Charles James
but I am neither to be intimidated by a threat nor conciliated by a compromise.”
“Mr. Corrigan’s claim has nothing to go upon, I assure you,” broke in Kennyfeck. “If we accept the paper, it is by courtesy, – to show that we respect the feeling that suggested it, – nothing more.”
While these words were addressed to Tiernay, Cashel, who had walked towards one of the windows, did not hear them.
“Well,” cried Tiernay, after an awkward pause, “the devil a worse negotiator ever accepted a mission than myself! When I desire to be frank, the only truths that occur to me are sure to be offensive, and I never am so certain to insult as when I fancy I ‘m doing a favor. Goodbye, sir; pardon the liberties of an old man, whose profession has taught him to believe that remedies are seldom painless, and who, although a poor man, would rather any day lose the fee than the patient! You’ll not treat Con Corrigan the less kindly because he has an imprudent friend. I’m sorry to think that I leave an unfavorable impression behind me; but I’m glad, heartily glad, I came here to breakfast, for I go away convinced of two things, that I was far from believing so certain when I entered,” – he paused for a second or two, and then said, – “that a spendthrift could have an unblemished sense of honor, and that an attorney could appreciate it!”
With these words he departed, while Cashel, after staring for a few moments at Kennyfeck, threw himself back in his chair, and laughed long and heartily.
“An original, sir, – quite an original,” said Kennyfeck, who, not exactly knowing whether to accept the doctor’s parting speech as a compliment, or the reverse, contented himself with this very vague expression.
“He’s a fine old fellow, although he does lay on his salve in Indian fashion, with a scalping-knife; but I wish he’d not have said anything of that confounded paper.”
“Pardon me, sir,” interposed Kennyfeck, taking it from his pocket, “but it might prove of inestimable value, in the event of any future litigation.”
“What! you kept it, then?” cried Cashel.
“Of course I did, sir. It is a document scarce inferior to a deed of title; for, although Mr. Corrigan has nothing to substantiate a claim at law, it is incontestable that his family were the original owners of this estate.”
Cashel took the paper from Kennyfeck’s hand, and seemed to peruse it for some minutes, and then approaching the fire he threw it into the blaze, and pressed it down with a poker till it was consumed; while Kennyfeck, too much consternated to utter a word, stood the personification of terror-struck astonishment.
“You have burnt it, sir!” said he at last, in a whisper.
“Why not, sir?” cried Cashel, rudely. “Should I have made use of it against the man who wrote it, or against his heirs, if by chance they should seek one day to dispute my right?”
A deep sigh was all the reply Kennyfeck could make.
“I understand your compassion well,” said Cashel, scornfully. “You are right, sir. It was the buccaneer, not the gentleman, spoke there; but I ‘m sick of masquerading, and I long for a little reality.”
Without waiting for a reply, Roland left the room, and wandered out into the park.
CHAPTER IX. THE BURNT LETTER – “GREAT EXPECTATIONS”
“‘Like Dido’s self,’ she said, ‘I’m free!
Trojan or Tyrian are alike to me.’”
There was but one species of tyranny Mr. Kennyfeck ever attempted in his family: this was, to shroud with a solemn mystery every little event in his professional career which he saw excited any curiosity with his wife and daughters. It was true that on such occasions he became a mark for most sneering insinuations and derisive commentaries, but he rose with the dignity of a martyr above all their taunts, and doubtless felt in his heart the supporting energy of a high-priest standing watch over the gate of the Temple.
The few pencilled lines by Cashel, which had summoned him to the meeting recorded in the last chapter, he threw into the fire as soon as he had read, and then arising from the breakfast-table, dryly observed, —
“Don’t wait breakfast, Mrs. Kennyfeck; I shall not be back for some time.”
“Another secret, Mr. Kennyfeck?” said his wife, scoffingly.
He only smiled in reply.
“It ought to be a duel, at least, pa,” said his eldest daughter, “from the urgent haste of your departure.”
“Or a runaway couple, who wish to have the settlements – ”
“Is that all you know of the matter, Livy?” said her sister, laughing heartily; “why, child, your Gretna Green folks never have settlements – never think of them till six months later, when they are wanting to separate.”
“Is there any occasion for mystery in this case?” rejoined Mrs. Kennyfeck, haughtily.
“To be sure there may, my dear,” broke in Aunt Fanny; “there ‘s many a dirty thing the lawyers have to do they ‘d be ashamed to own before their families.”
Even this did not move Mr. Kennyfeck, and, although from the way he nestled his chin behind the folds of his white cravat, and a certain scarcely perceptible shake of the head, it was clear he longed to refute the foul aspersion.
“I suppose you will appear at dinner, sir?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, with her grandest air.
“I hope so, Mrs. Kennyfeck,” was the mild answer.
“Without you should take it into your head, pa, to enter into rivalry with Mr. Linton, and stay away, heaven knows where or how long,” said Miss Kennyfeck.
Mr. Kennyfeck did not wait for more, but left the room with an air whose solemnity well suited any amount of secrecy.
“Is there a carriage at the door?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck.
“No, mamma; there are three saddle-horses – one with a side-saddle. That odious Miss Meek!” exclaimed Miss Kennyfeck; “what Lord Charles can see in her I cannot conceive. To be sure, she saves a stable-boy the more, and that to him is something.”
“Has your father gone out by the back terrace?” resumed Mrs. Kennyfeck, one only theme occupying her thoughts.
Olivia retired into an adjoining room, and soon returned, saying, —
“No, ma; there’s no one there, except Sir Andrew and Lady Janet, taking their morning walk.”
“Their run, rather, my dear,” chimed in Miss Kennyfeck, “for she chases the poor old man up and down with a cup of camomile tea, which either scalds or sets him a-coughing. I ‘m sure that tiresome old couple have awoke me every day the last week with their squabbling.”
“Step down into the library, my love,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck to her younger daughter, “and bring, me up the ‘Post’ or the ‘St. James’s Chronicle.’”
“And if you meet Phillis, Just ask if he saw your father, for he forgot his gloves.” And, suiting the action to the word, Aunt Fanny dived into a cavern of an apron-pocket, and drew out a pair of knitted things without fingers, which she offered to Olivia.
“Do no such thing, Miss Olivia Kennyfeck,” said her mamma, with an air of imposing grandeur.
“Ma wants the newspaper, Olivia, and is not thinking of papa,” said Miss Kennyfeck; and her eyes sparkled with a malicious fun she well knew how to enjoy.
As Miss Olivia Kennyfeck left the room, her sister approached the fireplace, where a small charred portion of the note thrown down by her father was yet lying. She took it, and walking toward the window, examined it carefully.
And while we leave her thus occupied, let us, for the reader’s information – albeit he may deem the matter trivial – give the contents as Cashel wrote them: —
Dear Mr. Kennyfeck, – Make my excuses to Mrs. Kennyfeck and the Demoiselles Cary