Kitabı oku: «Roland Cashel, Volume I (of II)», sayfa 23

CHAPTER XXVIII. A SPLIT IN THE KENNYFECK CABINET

 
Like “cat and dog!” not so! their strife
They carried on like “man and wife.”
 

Family Jars.

It may easily have escaped our reader’s memory, that on Roland Cashel’s hasty departure from Mr. Kennyfeck’s, the seeds of a very serious schism had been sown in that respectable family, Mrs. Kennyfeck being firmly persuaded that her liege lord had grossly mismanaged his influence over the young proprietor; the girls as resolutely opposed to each other; and all, with a most laudable unanimity, agreed in thinking that Aunt Fanny “had spoiled everything,” and that but for her odious interference there never would have arisen the slightest coolness between them and their distinguished acquaintance.

“I may lose the agency!” said Mr. Kennyfeck, with a sigh of afflicting sincerity.

“I should n’t wonder if he avoids the house,” quoth his wife.

“He evidently rejects all attempts at domination,” said Miss Kennyfeck, with a glance at her aunt. Olivia said nothing; but it was not difficult to see that her thoughts were full of the theme. Meanwhile, Miss O’Hara, in all the dignity of injured rectitude, sat seemingly unconscious of the popular feeling against her, repeating from time to time the ominous words, “We shall see – we shall see;” a species of prophetic warning that, come what may, can always assert its accomplishment.

With such elements of discord and discontent, the breakfast proceeded gradually, and the broken attempts at talk had subsided into a sullen silence, when the butler entered to say that Mr. Phillis begged to speak a few words with Mr. Kennyfeck.

“Let him come in here,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, as her husband was rising to leave the room. “I think, if there are to be no more blunders, we had better be present at the conference.”

“Show him in, Pearse,” said Mr. Kennyfeck, in a meek voice; and the gentleman’s gentleman entered, in all that easy self-sufficiency so peculiar to his class.

“What is it, Mr. Phillis?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, in a commanding tone, meant to convey the information of “where the Court sat,” and to whom he should address his pleading.

“It’s a little matter on which I wanted advice, ma’am, for I am really puzzled bow to act. You know, ma’am, that we are expecting large company at our place in the country – Tubb – something – ”

“Tubbermore,” interposed Mr. Kennyfeck.

“Yes, sir, Tubbermore. Well, there have been at least twenty messages this morning from different families, who want to know the best way of going, and when Mr. Cashel means to go himself, and where post-horses are to be had, and how they are to get forward where there are none, and so on.”

“Is your master not the person to dictate the answer to these queries?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, with her grandest air.

“Of course, ma’am, but he’s not here.”

“Where is he, then?” asked she, eagerly.

“He’s gone, ma’am; he went last night.”

“Gone! gone where?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, with an eagerness no artifice could cover.

“It’s hard to say, ma’am; but he went down to Kingstown last night, and sailed in the yacht; and from the preparations and sea stores taken from the hotel, it would seem like a long cruise.”

“And did he not mention anything of his intention to you Mr. Phillis?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, with a flattering emphasis on the pronoun.

“A few lines in pencil, ma’am, dated from the harbor, was all I received. Here they are.” And he handed a piece of note-paper across the table. The contents ran thus: —

Phillis, send word to Sir Harvey Upton’s that I sha’n’t dine there to-morrow. Give the bearer of this my dressing-case, and clothes for some days, and have the fourgon ready packed to start for Tubbermore on receiving my next orders.

R. C. – Kingstown Harbor.

“And who brought this note?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, who fancied she was conducting the inquiry in true judicial form.

“One of the yacht sailors, ma’am; he came up on Lord Kilgoff s carriage.”

“On Lord Kilgoff’s carriage – how did that happen?”

“The carriage came into town, ma’am, to bring some things my Lady sent for; at least, so the sailor told me.”

“And were Lord and Lady Kilgoff on board the yacht?”

“Yes, ma’am; they both sailed in her last night.”

As though drawn by some irresistible influence, every eye was now turned to Aunt Fanny, who, up to this, had listened to Mr. Phillis with a breathless attention, and if looks could be translated, every glance thus thrown said plainly, “This is your doing.”

“Are you certain that the yacht has not returned to Kingstown?” said Miss O’Hara.

“Perfectly, ma’am. It blew a storm last night, and the sailors about the harbor told me it was a great chance that any small vessel could outlive the gale.”

Olivia Kennyfeck became deadly pale at these words, and whispered something in her sister’s ear.

“Of course,” replied the other, aloud; then turning to Phillis, said, “Had they a pilot with them?”

“I believe so, miss, but there are so many contradictory reports, one don’t know what to credit; some say that Lord Kilgoff was greatly opposed to the cruise, but that her Ladyship insisted, and that, in fact, they got under weigh at last without my Lord’s knowing, and while they were at dinner.”

“It was a fearful night!” said Mr. Kennyfeck, whose mind was entirely engrossed by the one idea.

“Take him into the next room, and I’ll join you presently,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck to her husband, for that keen-sighted lady had remarked the intense interest with which Mr. Phillis listened to every remark made around him.

“Here’s a pretty piece of business!” cried she, as the door closed after her husband and the valet; “and certainly, I must say, we ‘ve no one to thank for it but you, Fanny!”

“Unquestionably not,” echoed Miss Kennyfeck. “Aunt Fanny has the entire merit of this catastrophe.”

“It is most cruel,” sighed Olivia, as she wiped the tears from her eyes, and bent upon her stern relative a glance of most reproachful sadness.

“Are you all mad?” said the assailed individual, her courage and her color rising together. “How can you pretend to connect me with this disgraceful proceeding? Here’s a case as clearly prearranged as ever was heard of.”

“Impossible!” cried Mrs. Kennyfeck; “did n’t he invite us only yesterday to go down to Tubbermore by sea?”

“And didn’t you yourself offer the only impediment?” said Miss Kennyfeck.

“You are very cruel, aunt,” sobbed Olivia.

“You’ll drive me out of my senses,” said Miss O’Hara; and certainly her look did not belie her words. “I endeavor to rescue you from the snares of a young debauchee, who, as you well know, has a wife still living – ”

“There, I hope you are content now,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, as Olivia fell fainting into her arms; and the window was thrown open, and all were busied in employing the wonted restoratives for such attacks. Meanwhile, hostilities were continued, but in a less rigorous fashion. “You know you’ve ruined everything – you know well how your officious meddling has destroyed this poor child’s fortune; rub her temples, Cary.”

“I know that he is a dissipated, abandoned wretch, that would desert her to-morrow as he has done that unhappy – ”

“Hush, she is coming to. You want to kill her.”

“Humph!” muttered Aunt Fanny; “this scene might be very effective with the young gentleman, but is quite thrown away upon me.”

“Aunt, aunt!” cried Miss Kennyfeck, reprovingly.

“If we had just followed our own counsels, we should have this very hour been on the way to Tubbermore, perhaps never to leave it!”

Aunt Fanny shook her head.

“Yes. You may affect to doubt and hesitate, and all that, but where is the wonderful condescension in a Mr. Cashel proposing for the grand-niece of Roger Miles O’Hara, of Kilmurray O’Hara of Mayo, the second cousin of Lawrence O’Hara Kelly, that ought to be Lord Bally Kelly?”

“Fairly enough, if that was all,” slipped in Miss O’Hara, hoping to escape from all danger by climbing up the genealogical tree whereon her sister was perched.

“If that was all!” repeated Mrs. Kennyfeck, indignantly, catching at the last words, “and what more is wanting, I ‘d be glad to ask? But, to be sure, it was rather a mistake to call to our counsels, in such a case, one that never could succeed in her own.”

This terrible taunt at Miss O’Hara’s celibacy didn’t go unpunished, for, throwing all attempts at conciliation behind her, she rose, with flashing eyes and trembling lips.

“So, it is you that tell me this,” said she – “you that dare to sneer at my being unmarried – you, that were fain to take up with a Dublin attorney – poor Tom Kennyfeck – the hack of the quarter sessions, serving latitats and tithe notices over the country in his old gig – Indeed, girls, I ‘m sorry to speak that way of your father, but it ‘s well known – ”

A loud shriek interrupted the speech, and Mrs. Kennyfeck, in strong hysterics, took her place beside Olivia.

“It will do her good, my dear,” said Aunt Fanny to her niece, as she chafed the hands and bathed the temples of her mother. “I was only telling the truth; she’d never have married your father if Major Kennedy had n’t jilted her; and good luck it was he did, for he had two other wives living at the time – just as your friend, Mr. Cashel, wanted to do with your sister.”

“Aunt – aunt – I entreat you to have done. Haven’t you made mischief enough?”

“Eaten up with vanity and self-conceit,” resumed the old lady, not heeding the interruption. “A French cook and a coach-and-four, – nothing less! Let her scream, child – sure, I know it’s good for her – it stretches the lungs.”

“Leave me – leave the room!” cried Miss Kennyfeck, whose efforts at calmness were rendered fruitless by the torrent of her aunt’s eloquence.

“Indeed I will, my dear: I’ll leave the house, too. Sorry I am that I ever set foot in it. What with the noise and the racket night and day, it’s more like a lunatic asylum than a respectable residence.”

“Send her away – send her away!” screamed Mrs. Kennyfeck, with a cry of horror.

“Do, aunt – do leave the room.”

“I’m going – I’m going, young lady; but I suppose I may drink my cup of tea first – it’s the last I ‘ll ever taste in the same house;” and she reseated herself at the table with a most provoking composure. “I came here,” resumed she, “for no advantage of mine. I leave you without regret, because I see how your poor fool of a father, and your vain, conceited mother – ”

“Aunt, you are really too bad. Have you no feeling?”

“That’s just what comes of it,” said she, stirring her tea tranquilly. “You set up for people of fashion, and you don’t know that people of fashion are twice as shrewd and ‘cute as yourself. Faith, my dear, they’d buy and sell you, every one. What are they at all day, but roguery and schemes of one kind or other, and then after ‘doing’ you, home they go, and laugh at your mother’s vulgarity!”

A fresh torrent of cries from Mrs. Kennyfeck seemed to show that unconsciousness was not among her symptoms, and Miss Kennyfeck now hastened from the room to summon her father to her aid.

“Well, you’ve come to turn me out, I suppose?” said Aunt Fanny, as the old gentleman entered in a state of perplexity that might have evoked the compassion of a less determined enemy.

“My dear Miss Fanny – ”

“None of your four courts blarney with me, sir; I’m ready to go – I ‘ll leave by the coach to-night. I conclude you ‘ll have the decency to pay for my place, and my dinner too, for I ‘ll go to Dawson’s Hotel this minute. Tell your mother, and that poor dawdle there, your sister, that they ‘d be thankful they’d have followed my advice. The rate you’re living, old gentleman, might even frighten you. There’s more waste in your kitchen than in Lord Clondooney’s.

“As for yourself, Caroline, you ‘re the best of the lot; but your tongue, darling! – your tongue!” And here she made a gesture of far more expressive force than any mere words could give.

“Is she gone?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, as a slight lull succeeded.

“Yes, mamma,” whispered Miss Kennyfeck; “but speak low, for Mr. Phillis is in the hall.”

“I’ll never see her again – I’ll never set eyes on her,” muttered Mrs. Kennyfeck.

“I shouldn’t wonder, mamma, if that anonymous letter was written by herself,” said Caroline. “She never forgave Mr. Cashel for not specially inviting her; and this, I’m almost sure, was the way she took to revenge herself.”

“So it was,” cried Mrs. Kennyfeck, eagerly seizing at the notion. “Hush, take care Livy doesn’t hear you.”

“As for the yacht expedition, it was just the kind of thing Lady Kilgoff was ready for. She is dying to be talked of.”

“And that poor, weak creature, Cashel, will be so flattered by the soft words of a peeress, he’ll be intolerable ever after.”

“Aunt Fanny – Aunt Fanny!” sighed Miss Kennyfeck, with a mournful cadence.

“If I only was sure – that is, perfectly certain – that she wrote that letter about Cashel – But here comes your father – take Olivia, and leave me alone.”

Miss Kennyfeck assisted her sister from the sofa, and led her in silence from the room, while Mr. Kennyfeck sat down, with folded hands and bent down head, a perfect picture of dismay and bewilderment.

“Well,” said his wife, after a reasonable interval of patient expectation that he would speak – “well, what have you to say for yourself now, sir?”

The poor solicitor, who never suspected that he was under any indictment, looked up with an expression of almost comic innocence.

“Did you hear me, Mr. Kennyfeck, or is it you want to pass off your dulness for deafness? Did you hear me, I say?”

“Yes, I heard – but I really do not know – that is, I am unaware how – I cannot see – ”

“Oh, the old story,” sighed she – “injured innocence! Well, sir, I was asking you if you felt gratified with our present prospects? Linton’s intimacy was bad enough, but the Kilgoff friendship is absolute, utter ruin. That crafty, old, undermining peer, as proud as poor, will soon ensnare him; and my Lady, with her new airs of a viscountess, only anxious to qualify for London by losing her character before she appears there!”

“As to the agency – ”

“The agency!” echoed she, indignantly, “do your thoughts never by any chance, sir, take a higher flight than five per cent.? – are you always dreaming of your little petty gains at rent-day? I told you, sir, how the patron might be converted into a son-in-law – did I not?”

“You did, indeed, and I’m certain I never threw any impediment in the way of it.”

“You never threw any impediment in the way of your child’s succeeding to a fortune of sixteen thousand a year! You really are an exemplary father.”

“I ‘d have forwarded it, if I only knew how.”

“How good of you! I suppose you ‘d have drawn up the settlements if ordered. But so it is – all my efforts through life have been thwarted by you! I have labored and toiled day and night to place my children in the sphere that their birth, on one side at least, would entitle them to, and you know it.”

Now this Mr. Kennyfeck really did not know. In his dull fatuity he always imagined that he was the honey-gatherer of the domestic hive, and that Mrs. Kennyfeck had in her own person monopolized the functions of queen bee and wasp together.

“Your low, pettifogging ambition never soared above a Softly or a Clare Jones for your daughters, while I was planning alliances that would have placed them among the best in the land – and how have I been rewarded? Indifference, coolness, perhaps contempt!” Here a flood of tears, that had remained dammed up since the last torrent, burst forth in convulsive sobs. “Ungrateful man, who ought never to have forgotten the sacrifice I made in marrying him – the rupture with every member of my family – the severance of every tie that united me to my own.”

She ceased, and here, be it remembered, Mrs. Kennyfeck seemed to address herself to some invisible jury empanelled to try Mr. Kennyfeck on a serious charge.

“He came like a serpent into the bosom of our peaceful circle, and with the arts that his crafty calling but too well supplied, seduced my young affections.”

Mr. Kennyfeck started. It had never before occurred to him that Don Juan was among his range of parts.

“False and unfeeling both,” resumed she. “Luring with promises never intended for performance, you took me from a home, the very sanctuary of peace!”

Mr. Kennyfeck wiped his forehead in perplexity; his recollection of the home in question was different. Sanctuary it might have been, but it was against the officers of the law and the sheriff, and so far as a well-fastened hall door and barricaded windows went, the epithet did not seem quite unsuitable.

“Ah!” sighed she – for it is right to remark that Mrs. Kennyfeck was a mistress of that domestic harmony which consists in every modulation, from the grand adagio of indignant accusation to the rattling andante of open abuse – “had I listened to those older and wiser than I, and who foretold the destiny that awaited me, I had never seen this unhappy day! No, sir! I had not lived to see myself outraged and insulted, and my only sister turned out of the house like a discarded menial.”

Had Mr. Kennyfeck been informed that for courteously making way for a Bencher in the Hall he was stripped of his gown and degraded from his professional rank, he could not have been more thoroughly amazed and thunderstruck.

He actually gasped with excess of astonishment, and, if breath had been left him, would have spoken; but so it was, the very force of the charge stunned him, and he could not utter a word.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Kennyfeck, who in the ardor of combat had imitated certain Spanish sailors, who in the enthusiasm of a sea-fight loaded their cannons with whatever came next to hand, was actually shocked by the effect of her own fire. For the grandeur of a peroration she had taken a flying leap over all truth, and would gladly have been safe back again at the other side of the fence.

For an instant not a word dropped from either side, and it was clear that he who spoke first had gained the victory. This was the lady.

“Go, sir” – and she wiped her eyes with that calm dignity by which a scolding wife seems to call up all Christian forgiveness of herself, and stand acquitted before her own conscience – “go, sir, and find out what these people that Cashel has invited mean to do; and if it be their intention to repair to Tubbermore, let us lose no time in setting out; and if we are to go, Mr. Kennyfeck, let as do so as becomes us.”

Mr. Kennyfeck stifled a rising sigh – for he knew what the words denoted – and departed; while Mrs. Kennyfeck, with her heart lightened of a heavy load, rose to join her daughters, and discuss dress and “toilette,” the great commissariat of the approaching campaign.

CHAPTER XXIX. STORM AND WRECK

 
Tut, never mind the swell, love,
The sails may sweep the brine;
But the craft will steer as well, love,
With your soft hand in mine.
 

The Cruise.

It was upon a delicious evening, a little before sunset, that a yacht worked out of the harbor of Kingstown, all her canvas spread to catch the light air of wind, which scarcely ruffled the glassy surface of the Bay. The craft, with her snow-white sails, her tall and taper spars, her gay bunting from gaff and peak, was all that the scene wanted to render it a perfect picture; and so, to all seeming, thought the many spectators who crowded the pier and the shore, and gazed with admiration at the graceful vessel, as she glided silently above her own image in the water.

Various were the comments and criticisms from those who surveyed her course; some, in wondering conjecture whither she was bound; others, not a whit better informed, boldly affecting some secret knowledge of her destination, and even, by such pretty pretension, assuming airs of superiority.

“She belongs to that rich young fellow, Roland Cashel,” said one of these, “who, by the way, is getting through his fortune tolerably fast. The story goes, that he has spent two hundred thousand already, and is borrowing at immense interest.”

“Was n’t he a smuggler, or a privateer’s-man, or something of the kind?”

“No; he made all the money in the slave trade.”

“I always heard that he succeeded to a landed estate,” softly insinuated a modest-looking old gentleman.

“Not at all, sir. Such, I am aware, was the common belief; the fact, however, is, that he had invested large sums in land, and was then able to escape the scrutiny many would have instituted regarding the origin of his wealth.”

“Who is it he is always riding with about town – a handsome girl, on a brown horse?”

“On a gray, you mean.”

“No, a brown, with a bang tail.”

“No, no, it’s a gray. She’s a daughter of Tom Kennyfeck, the attorney.”

“The gentleman is right,” interposed a third. “I ‘ve seen him very often with a lady mounted on a brown thorough-bred.”

“Oh! that’s Lady Kilgoff, the handsomest woman in Ireland.”

“She was much better-looking two years ago,” simpered out an ensign, affectedly. “I used to dance with her and her sister at the race balls of Ashby.”

The group immediately fell back, in tacit acknowledgment of the claim of one so aristocratically associated.

“Didn’t you know her, Hipsley?” lisped out the ensign to a brother officer, who was admiring a very green baby on the arm of a very blooming nursery-maid. “You knew the Craycrofts, didn’t you?”

“Lady Kilgoff’s maiden name, sir, was Gardiner,” said the timid old gentleman who spoke before.

The ensign stuck his glass in one eye, and gazed at him for a second or two, with consummate effrontery, and then, in a voice intended for the most cutting drollery, said, —

“Are, you certain it was n’t ‘Snooks’?” – a rejoinder so infinitely amusing that the bystanders laughed immoderately, and the bashful man retired, overwhelmed in confusion.

“They ‘re off for a good long cruise,” said one, looking through his pocket telescope at the yacht, which now was steering to the southward, with a fresher breeze.

“I suspect so. They took on board five or six hampers from the hotel, just before they sailed.”

A very warm controversy now arose as to where the yacht was bound for, and who were the parties who went on board of her in the harbor; points which, in the absence of all real knowledge, admitted of a most animated debate. Meanwhile, an old weather-beaten sailor, in a pilot coat, continued to gaze alternately from the sky to the sea, and back again, and at last murmured to himself, —

“They ‘ll catch it before midnight, if they don’t haul their wind, and get into shelter.”

Some drifting clouds, dropping slight rain as they passed, soon after cleared the pier of its loiterers, and night fell, dark and starless, while the wind freshened, and the sea fretted and chafed upon the rocks, and even sent its spray high against the strong lighthouse.

Let us now quit the shore, and bear company with the party on board, who, having dined sumptuously, sat sipping their coffee on deck, while the swift craft skimmed the calm waters of the bay, and unfolded in her course the beautiful panorama of the shore – the bold steep bluff of Brayhead, the curved strand of Killiney, the two “Sugar Loaves” rising from the bosom of dark woods, and, in the distance, the higher chain of the Wicklow mountains, while on the opposite side Howth seemed like a blue island studding the clear surface of the bay. Lord Kilgoff and Mr. Sickleton paid but passing attention to the bright picture around. A learned discussion on naval matters, wherein my Lord took the opportunity of storing his mind with a goodly stock of technicals, to be used at some future occasion, occupied them altogether, leaving her Ladyship and Roland Cashel to the undisturbed enjoyment of the scene and its associations.

They paid the highest tribute the picturesque can exact – they sat in silence watching the changing tints, which from red faded to violet, then gray, and at last grew dark with closing night, while the wind freshening sent the sea rushing swiftly past, and made their light craft heave and pitch heavily.

“We are returning to Kingstown, I trust?” said my Lord to Sickleton, who had left him for a moment, to give orders about shortening sail. “It appears to me like a threatening night.”

“It looks dirty, my Lord,” said Sickleton, dryly, as he walked aft with the pilot, and conferred with him in a low tone.

“Are we making for Kingstown, Mr. Cashel?” said my Lord, in a voice he was not able to divest of anxiety.

“I believe not,” said Cashel, rising, and approaching the compass. “No, we are lying down channel straight as we can go.”

“Ay, and very well for us that we can do it,” growled out the pilot. “If we make the Hook Light before we tack, I shall say we ‘re lucky.”

“Does he mean there is any danger, Mr. Cashel?” said Lady Kilgoff, but in a voice devoid of tremor.

“None whatever; but I am sadly distressed at having carried you out so far, since I find that in the present state of the tide, and with the wind still driving more to the north, we cannot bear up for Kingstown, but must run along the shore.”

“Think nothing of that,” said she, gayly; “real peril I have no fancy for – a mere inconvenience is of no moment whatever; but” – here she dropped her voice very low – “say something to my Lord – give him some encouragement.”

“It blows fresh, my Lord, and if it were not for the trespass on your comfort, I should almost rejoice at the occasion of showing you my yacht’s qualities as a sailing-boat.”

“I should prefer taking your word for them, sir,” said Lord Kilgoff, tartly; “a pleasure-trip is one thing, a night in a small vessel exposed to a heavy gale is another.”

“You ‘re right, my Lord,” said the pilot, who heard but a part of the observation; “it will be a gale before morning.”

“Luff! luff, there!” shouted Sickleton; and at the same instant a heavy sea thundered against the bow and broke over the fore part of the vessel with a crashing sound.

“I think when we see the lighthouse of Kingstown so near us,” said Lord Kilgoff, “there ought to be no great difficulty in returning.”

“That’s not the harbor-light you see yonder – that’s the Kish, my Lord,” said the pilot “Keep her up, my man, keep her up, the wind is freshening.”

“Will you indeed forgive me for this disastrous turn of our cruise?” said Cashel, as he fastened his boat-cloak around Lady Kilgoff’s throat, after several vain efforts to induce her to go below.

“If you only prevent my Lord from scolding, I shall enjoy it immensely,” said she, in a half whisper.

“I trust, Lady Kilgoff,” said his Lordship, approaching, and steadying himself by the bulwarks, “that this night’a experience will induce you to distrust your own judgment when in opposition to mine. I foresaw the whole of it. It is now blowing a fierce gale – ”

“Not a bit of it, my Lord,” interposed the pilot, bluntly; “but it will blow great guns ‘fore daybreak, or I ‘m mistaken.”

“And where shall we be then?” asked my Lord, querulously.

“Rayther hard to tell,” said the pilot, laughing. “If she be as good a sea-boat as they say, and that we don’t carry away any of our spars, we may run for Cove. I take it – ”

“For Cove! Gracious mercy! and if she be not as good a vessel as it is said she is, sir, what then, pray?”

The pilot made no reply, but gave orders to set the jib, as she was laboring too much by the head.

The wind increased, and with it the sea, which, dividing at the bow, fell in great cataracts over the vessel, sweeping along the entire deck at every plunge she gave.

“I wish she were a little deeper in the water,” whispered Sickleton to Cashel. “We have n’t within fifteen tons of our ballast on board. But she ‘s a sweet craft, ain’t she? Keep her, there – steady, man.”

“We could n’t stand round in stays, and bear up for the harbor?” asked Cashel, on whom Lord Kilgoff’s face of misery had made a strong impression.

“Impossible! At least the pilot, who knows this coast well, says there is a shore current here runs eight knots.”

“What shall we do with him? He ‘ll scarce live through the night.”

“Let us get him down below, and, once snug in a berth, he ‘ll fall asleep, and forget everything.”

Cashel shook his head doubtfully, but determined to try the plan at all hazards.

“Would my Lord be persuaded to lie down, do you think?” said Roland, approaching Lady Kilgoff, who, enveloped in the folds of the heavy boat-cloak, sat calm and collected near the wheel.

“Is there danger?” asked she, hurriedly.

“Not the least; but he seems so ill, and every sea rushes-over him as he stands.”

“You should go down, my dear Lord,” said she, addressing him; “Mr. Cashel is afraid you ‘ll catch cold here?”

“Ah, is he indeed?” said Lord Kilgoff, in a snappish asperity. “He is too good to bestow a thought upon me.”

“I am only anxious, my Lord, that you should n’t suffer from your complaisance so unhappily rewarded.”

“Very kind, exceedingly kind, sir. It is, as you say, most unhappy – a perfect storm, a hurricane. Gracious mercy! what’s that?”

This exclamation was caused by a loud smash, like the report of a cannon-shot, and at the same moment the taper topmast fell crashing down, with all its cordage clattering round it. The confusion of the accident, the shouting of voices, the thundering splash of the sea, as, the peak having fallen, the craft had lost the steadying influence of the mainsail, all seemed to threaten immediate danger. Cashel was about to spring forward and assist in cutting away the entangled rigging, when he felt his hand firmly grasped by another, whose taper fingers left no doubt to whom it belonged.

“Don’t be alarmed – it is nothing,” whispered he encouragingly; “the mishap is repaired in a second.”

“You ‘ll not leave me,” said she, in a low tone, which thrilled through every fibre of his heart. He pressed her hand more closely, and tried, but in vain, to catch a glimpse at her face.

Meanwhile the disordered rigging had been repaired, and two men under Sickleton’s direction, lifting the drooping and scarce conscious peer from the deck, carried him down below.

If the old instincts of Roland Cashel’s sailor life would have rendered the scene interesting to him, watching as he did the way his craft “behaved,” and marking well the fine qualities she possessed as a sea-boat, there was another and far more intense feeling then occupying him as he stood close beside that swathed and muffled figure, who, pale and silent, marked by some gesture, from time to time, her dependence upon him. To Roland, the rattle of the gale, the hissing sea, the strained and creaking cordage, all, not only brought back old memories of his once life, but effectually seemed to dispel the colder mood of mind which admixture with the world of fashion had impressed upon him. He was again, if not in reality, in heart and spirit, the bold buccaneer that walked the Western seas, bursting with life, and eager for adventure. Every plunge that sent the bowsprit down, every squall that bent the taper mast, and laid the vessel half-seas under, inspirited and excited him, not the less that the wild storm called forth every form of encouragement to her, who vibrated between actual terror and a strange sense of delight.