The Kellys and the O'Kellys Part 57

"Mamma," said Lady Selina, gravely, "listen to me: calmly now, and attentively. I don't know what papa has told you; but I tell you f.a.n.n.y does not dream of marrying Adolphus. He has never asked her, and if he did she would never accept him. f.a.n.n.y is more than ever in love with Lord Ballindine."

The countess opened her eyes wide, and looked up into her daughter's face, but said nothing.

"Tell me, mamma, as nearly as you can recollect, what it is papa has said to you, that, if possible, we may prevent mischief and misery.

Papa couldn't have said that f.a.n.n.y had accepted Adolphus?"

"He didn't say exactly that, my dear; but he said that it was his wish they should be married; that Adolphus was very eager for it, and that f.a.n.n.y had received his attentions and admiration with evident pleasure and satisfaction. And so she has, my dear; you couldn't but have seen that yourself."

"Well, mamma, what else did papa say?"

"Why, he said just what I'm telling you: that I wasn't to be surprised if we were called on to be ready for the wedding at a short notice; or at any rate to be ready to congratulate f.a.n.n.y. He certainly didn't say she had accepted him. But he said he had no doubt about it; and I'm sure, from what was going on last week, I couldn't have any doubt either. But he told me not to speak to anyone about it yet; particularly not to f.a.n.n.y; only, my dear, I couldn't help, you know, talking it over with you;" and the countess leaned back in her chair, very much exhausted with the history she had narrated.

"Now, mamma, listen to me. It is not many hours since f.a.n.n.y told me she was unalterably determined to throw herself at Lord Ballindine's feet."

"Goodness gracious me, how shocking!" said the countess.

"She even said that she would ask Adolphus to be the means of bringing Lord Ballindine back to Grey Abbey."

"Lord have mercy!" said the countess.

"I only tell you this, mamma, to show you how impossible it is that papa should be right."

"What are we to do, my dear? Oh, dear, there'll be such a piece of work! What a nasty thing f.a.n.n.y is. I'm sure she's been making love to Adolphus all the week!"

"No, mamma, she has not. Don't be unfair to f.a.n.n.y. If there is anyone in fault it is Adolphus; but, as you say, what shall we do to prevent further misunderstanding? I think I had better tell papa the whole."

And so she did, on the following morning. But she was too late; she did not do it till after Lord Kilcullen had offered and had been refused.

x.x.xII. HOW LORD KILCULLEN FARES IN HIS WOOING

About twelve o'clock the same night, Lord Kilcullen and Mat Tierney were playing billiards, and were just finis.h.i.+ng their last game: the bed-candles were lighted ready for them, and Tierney was on the point of making the final hazard.

"So you're determined to go to-morrow, Mat?" said Kilcullen.

"Oh, yes, I'll go to-morrow: your mother'll take me for a second Paddy Rea, else," said Mat.

"Who the deuce was Paddy Rea?"

"Didn't you ever hear of Paddy Rea?--Michael French of Glare Abbey--he's dead now, but he was alive enough at the time I'm telling you of, and kept the best house in county Clare--well, he was coming down on the Limerick coach, and met a deuced pleasant, good-looking, talkative sort of a fellow a-top of it. They dined and got a tumbler of punch together at Roscrea; and when French got down at Bird Hill, he told his acquaintance that if he ever found himself anywhere near Ennis, he'd be glad to see him at Glare Abbey. He was a hospitable sort of a fellow, and had got into a kind of way of saying the same thing to everybody, without meaning anything except to be civil--just as I'd wish a man good morning. Well, French thought no more about the man, whose name he didn't even know; but about a fortnight afterwards, a hack car from Ennis made its appearance at Glare Abbey, and the talkative traveller, and a small portmanteau, had soon found their way into the hail. French was a good deal annoyed, for he had some fas.h.i.+onables in the house, but he couldn't turn the man out; so he asked his name, and introduced Paddy Rea to the company. How long do you think he stayed at Glare Abbey?"

"Heaven only knows!--Three months."

"Seventeen years!" said Mat. "They did everything to turn him out, and couldn't do it. It killed old French; and at last his son pulled the house down, and Paddy Rea went then, because there wasn't a roof to cover him. Now I don't want to drive your father to pull down this house, so I'll go to-morrow."

"The place is so ugly, that if you could make him do so, it would be an advantage; but I'm afraid the plan wouldn't succeed, so I won't press you. But if you go, I shan't remain long. If it was to save my life and theirs, I can't get up small talk for the rector and his curate."

"Well, good night," said Mat; and the two turned off towards their bed-rooms.

As they pa.s.sed from the billiard-room through the hall, Lord Cashel shuffled out of his room, in his slippers and dressing-gown.

"Kilcullen," said he, with a great deal of unconcerned good humour affected in his tone, "just give me one moment--I've a word to say to you. Goodnight, Mr Tierney, goodnight; I'm sorry to hear we're to lose you to-morrow."

Lord Kilcullen shrugged his shoulders, winked at his friend and then turned round and followed his father.

"It's only one word, Kilcullen," said the father, who was afraid of angering or irritating his son, now that he thought he was in so fair a way to obtain the heiress and her fortune. "I'll not detain you half a minute;" and then he said in a whisper, "take my advice, Kilcullen, and strike when the iron's hot."

"I don't quite understand you, my lord," said his son, affecting ignorance of his father's meaning.

"I mean, you can't stand better than you do with f.a.n.n.y: you've certainly played your cards admirably, and she's a charming girl, a very charming girl, and I long to know that she's your own. Take my advice and ask her at once."

"My lord," said the dutiful son, "if I'm to carry on this affair, I must be allowed to do it in my own way. You, I dare say, have more experience than I can boast, and if you choose to make the proposal yourself to Miss Wyndham on my behalf, I shall be delighted to leave the matter in your hands; but in that case, I shall choose to be absent from Grey Abbey. If you wish me to do it, you must let me do it when I please and how I please."

"Oh, certainly, certainly, Kilcullen," said the earl; "I only want to point out that I think you'll gain nothing by delay."

"Very well, my lord. Good night." And Lord Kilcullen went to bed, and the father shuffled back to his study. He had had three different letters that day from Lord Kilcullen's creditors, all threatening immediate arrest unless he would make himself responsible for his son's debts. No wonder that he was in a hurry, poor man!

And Lord Kilcullen, though he had spoken so coolly on the subject, and had snubbed his father, was equally in a hurry. He also received letters, and threats, and warnings, and understood, even better than his father did, the perils which awaited him. He knew that he couldn't remain at Grey Abbey another week; that in a day or two it wouldn't be safe for him to leave the house; and that his only chance was at once to obtain the promise of his cousin's hand, and then betake himself to some place of security, till he could make her fortune available.

When f.a.n.n.y came into the breakfast-room next morning, he asked her to walk with him in the demesne after breakfast. During the whole of the previous evening she had sat silent and alone, pretending to read, although he had made two or three efforts to engage her in conversation. She could not, however, refuse to walk with him, nor could she quite forgive herself for wis.h.i.+ng to do so. She felt that her sudden attachment for him was damped by what had pa.s.sed between her and Lady Selina; but she knew, at the same time, that she was very unreasonable for quarrelling with one cousin for what another had said.

She accepted his invitation, and shortly after breakfast went upstairs to get ready. It was a fine, bright, April morning, though the air was cold, and the ground somewhat damp; so she put on her boa and strong boots, and sallied forth with Lord Kilcullen; not exactly in a good humour, but still feeling that she could not justly be out of humour with him. At the same moment, Lady Selina knocked at her father's door, with the intention of explaining to him how impossible it was that f.a.n.n.y should be persuaded to marry her brother. Poor Lord Cashel! his life, at that time, was certainly not a happy one.

The two cousins walked some way, nearly in silence. f.a.n.n.y felt very little inclined to talk, and even Kilcullen, with all his knowledge of womankind--with all his a.s.surance, had some difficulty in commencing what he had to get said and done that morning.

"So Grey Abbey will once more sink into its accustomed dullness," said he. "c.o.kely went yesterday, and Tierney and the Ellisons go to-day.

Don't you dread it, f.a.n.n.y?"

"Oh, I'm used to it: besides, I'm one of the component elements of the dullness, you know. I'm a portion of the thing itself: it's you that must feel it."

"I feel it? I suppose I shall. But, as I told you before, the physic to me was not nearly so nauseous as the sugar. I'm at any rate glad to get rid of such sweetmeats as the bishop and Mrs Ellison;" and they were both silent again for a while.

"But you're not a portion of the heaviness of Grey Abbey, f.a.n.n.y," said he, referring to what she had said. "You're not an element of its dullness. I don't say this in flattery--I trust nothing so vile as flattery will ever take place between us; but you know yourself that your nature is intended for other things; that you were not born to pa.s.s your life in such a house as this, without society, without excitement, without something to fill your mind. f.a.n.n.y, you can't be happy here, at Grey Abbey."

Happy! thought f.a.n.n.y to herself. No, indeed, I'm not happy! She didn't say so, however; and Kilcullen, after a little while, went on speaking.

"I'm sure you can't be comfortable here. You don't feel it, I dare say, so intolerable as I do; but still you have been out enough, enough in the world, to feel strongly the everlasting do-nothingness of this horrid place. I wonder what possesses my father, that he does not go to London--for your sake if for no one else's. It's not just of him to coop you up here."

"Indeed it is, Adolphus," said she. "You mistake my character. I'm not at all anxious for London parties and gaiety. Stupid as you may think me, I'm quite as well contented to stay here as I should be to go to London."

"Do you mean me to believe," said Kilcullen, with a gentle laugh, "that you are contented to live and die in single blessedness at Grey Abbey?--that your ambition does not soar higher than the interchange of worsted-work patterns with Miss O'Joscelyn?"

"I did not say so, Adolphus."

"What is your ambition then? what kind and style of life would you choose to live? Come, f.a.n.n.y, I wish I could get you to talk with me about yourself. I wish I could teach you to believe how anxious I am that your future life should be happy and contented, and at the same time splendid and n.o.ble, as it should be. I'm sure you must have ambition. I have studied Lavater [47] well enough to know that such a head and face as yours never belonged to a mind that could satisfy itself with worsted-work."

[FOOTNOTE 47: Lavater--Johann Kaspar Lavater (1741-1801), Swiss writer whose only widely read book was a tract on physiognomy (Physiognomische Fragmente zur Beforderung der Menschenkenntnis und Menschenliebe). The Victorians put much stock in physiognomy.]