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Mr. Softly, the gentleman thus addressed, rose to comply, his face exhibiting a very amusing struggle between shame and astonishment at the position he occupied. The space cleared, Roland took Olivia’s hand, and led her forward with an air of exceeding deference.

“Now, Miss Kenny feck, the step is the easiest thing in the world. It goes so, – one – two; one – two – three; and then change – Exactly, quite right; you have it perfectly. This is, as it were, an introduction to the dance; but the same step is preserved throughout, merely changing its time with the measure.”

It would be as impossible to follow as it would be unfair to weary the reader with the lesson which now began; and yet we would like to linger on the theme, as our memory brings up every graceful gesture and every proud attitude of the fascinating manolo. Representing, as it does, by pantomimic action a little episode of devotion, in which pursuit and flight, entreaty, rejection, seductive softness, haughty defiance, timid fear, and an even insolent boldness alternate and succeed each other, all the movements which expressive action can command, whether of figure or feature, are called forth. Now, it is the retiring delicacy of shrinking, timid loveliness, half hoping, halt fearing, to be pursued; now the stately defiance of haughty beauty, demanding homage as its due. At one moment the winning seductiveness that invites pursuit, and then, sudden as the lightning, the disdain that repels advance.

Not the least interesting part of the present scene was to watch how Olivia, who at first made each step and gesture with diffidence and fear, as she went on, became, as it were, seized with the characteristic spirit of the measure; her features varying with each motive of the music, her eyes at one instant half closed in dreamy languor, and at the next flashing in all the brilliancy of conscious beauty. As for Roland, forgetting, as well he might, all his functions as teacher, he moved with the enthusiastic spirit of the dance, – his rapturous gaze displaying the admiration that fettered him; and when at last, as it were, yielding to long-proved devotion, she gave her hand, it needed the explanation of its being a Mexican fashion to excuse the ardor with which he pressed it to his lips.

Mrs. Kennyfeck’s applause, however, was none the less warm; and if any of the company disapproved, they prudently said nothing, – even Mr. Softly, who only evidenced his feeling by a somewhat hasty resumption of the “Morning Post,” while the elder sister, rising from the piano, whispered, as she passed her sister, “Bad jockey-ship, Livy, dear, to make fast running so early.”

“And that is the – What d’ye call it, Mr. Cashel?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck.

“The manolo, madam. It is of Italian origin, rather than Spanish, – Calabrian, I fancy; but, in Mexico, it has become national, and well suits the changeful temper of our Spanish belles, and the style of their light and floating costume.”

“Yes, I suspect it has a better effect with short drapery than with the sweeping folds of our less picturesque dress,” said Miss Kennyfeck, who, for reasons we must not inquire, took a pleasure in qualifying her approval.

“I never saw it appear more graceful,” said Cashel, with a blunt abruptness far more flattering than a studied compliment.

Olivia blushed; Mrs. Kennyfeck looked happy, and the elder sister bit her lips, and threw up her eyebrows, with an expression we cannot attempt to render in words.

“May I not have the honor of introducing you to the manolo?” said Cashel, presenting himself before her with a deep bow.

“Thank you, I prefer being a spectator; besides, we could have no music, – my sister does not play.”

Olivia blushed; and, in her hasty look, there was an expression of gently conveyed reproach, as though to say, “This is unfair.”

“Do you like music, Mr. Cashel?” continued Miss Kennyfeck, who saw the slight cloud of disappointment that crossed Roland’s features. “Oh, I ‘m certain you do, and I know you sing!”

“Yes,” said Cashel, carelessly, “as every one sings in that merry land I come from; but I fear the wild carol-lings of a ranchero would scarce find acceptance in the polished ears of Europe.”

“What are the melodies like, then?” asked Miss Kennyfeck, throwing into the question a most eager interest.

“You shall hear, if you like,” said Roland, taking up a guitar, and striking a few full chords with a practised hand. “This is one of the war-songs;” and without further preface he began. Had he even been less gifted than he was as to voice and musical taste, there was enough in the bold and manly energy of his manner, in the fiery daring of his dark eyes, and the expressive earnestness of his whole bearing, to attract the admiration of his hearers. But, besides these advantages, he was not unskilled in the science of music, and even made so poor an instrument a full and masterly accompaniment, imitating, as few but Spaniards can do, the distant sound of drums, the dropping fire of cannon, the wild abrupt changes of battle, and the low plaintive sounds of suffering and defeat; so that, as he concluded, the whole character of the performance had ceased to be regarded as a mere musical display, but had the absolute effect of a powerfully told story.

The Kennyfecks had often been called on in society to award their praises to amateur performances, in whose applause, be it said, en passant, a grateful sense of their being concluded always contributes the enthusiasm; but real admiration and pleasure now made them silent, and as their eyes first turned on the singer and then met, there was a world of intelligence in that one quiet, fleeting glance that revealed more of secret thought and feeling than we, as mere chroniclers of events, dare inquire into.

Whether it was that this silence, prolonged for some seconds, suggested the move, or that Mr. Jones began to feel how ignoble a part he had been cast for in the whole evening’s entertainment, but he rose to take his leave at once, throwing into his manner a certain air of easy self-sufficiency, with which in the “courts” he had often dismissed a witness under cross-examination, and by a mere look and gesture contrived to disparage his testimony.

None, save Miss Kennyfeck, perceived his tactic. She saw it, however, and, with a readiness all her own, replied by a slight elevation of the eyebrow. Jones saw his “signal acknowledged,” and went home contented. Poor man, he was not the first who has been taken into partnership because his small resources were all “ready,” and who is ejected from the firm when wider and grander speculations are entered on. I am not certain either that he will be the last!

Mr. Softly next withdrew, his leave-taking having all the blended humility and cordiality of his first arrival; and now Mr. Kennyfeck was awakened out of a very sound nap by his wife saying in his ear, “Will you ask Mr. Cashel if he ‘ll take a biscuit and a glass of wine before he retires?”

The proposition was politely declined, and after a very cordial hand-shaking with all the members of the family, Cashel said his good-night and retired.

CHAPTER VII. PEEPS BEHIND THE CURTAIN

Ich möchte ihn im Schlafrock sehen.

Der Reisende Teufel.

(I ‘d like to see him in his robe-de-chambre.)

(The Travelling Devil.)

There has always appeared to us something of treachery, not to speak of indelicacy, in the privileges authors are wont to assume in following their characters into their most secret retirement, watching there their every movement and gesture, overhearing their confidential whisperings, – nay, sometimes sapping their very thoughts, for the mere indulgence of a prying, intrusive curiosity.

For this reason, highly appreciating, as we must do, the admirable wit of the “Diable Boiteux,” and the pleasant familiar humor of the “Hermite de la Chaussée d’Antin,” we never could entirely reconcile ourselves to the means by which such amusing views of life were obtained, while we entertain grave doubts if we, – that is, the world at large, – have any right to form our judgments of people from any other evidence than what is before the public. It appears to us somewhat as if, that following Romeo or Desdemona into the Green-room, we should be severe upon the want of keeping which suggested the indulgence of a cigar or a pot of porter, and angry at the high-flown illusions so grossly routed and dispelled.

“Act well your part; there all the honour lies,” said the poet moralist; but it’s rather hard to say that you are to “act” it off as well as on the stage; and if it be true that no man is a hero to his valet, the valet should say nothing about it; and this is the very offence we think novel-writers commit, everlastingly stripping off the decorations and destroying the illusions they take such trouble to create, for little else than the vain boastfulness of saying, See, upon what flimsy materials I can move you to sentiments of grief, laughter, pity, or contempt. Behold of what vulgar ingredients are made up the highest aspirations of genius, – the most graceful fascinations of beauty.

Having denounced, by this recorded protest, the practice, and disclaiming, as we must do, all desire to benefit by its enjoyment, we desire our reader, particularly if he be of the less worthy gender, to feel a due sense of the obligation he owes us, if we claim his company for half an hour on such a voyage of discovery. Step softly, there is no excuse for noise, as the stair-carpet is thick, and not a sound need be heard. Gently, as you pass that green door, – that is the bedroom of Mr. and Mrs. Kennyfeck. We will not linger there, nor invade the sanctity of those precincts, within which the monotonous tones of Mrs. K. are heard, revelling in that species of domestic eloquence which, like the liberty of the press, is oftener pleasant to those who employ, than to those who receive its judgments. Here for a few minutes let us stay. This is Roland Cashel’s apartment; and, strange enough, instead of sleeping, he is up at his table, writing, too, – he, of all men the least epistolary. There may be no great indication of character in mere handwriting, but the manner, the gesture, the degree of rapidity of the writer, as seen at the moment, are all full of individuality. Mark, then, with what speed his pen moves; not the daisy-cutting sling of the accomplished rider, but the slashing gallop of the heavy charger. Many a blot, never an erasure, – so, there it goes, – “Yours ever, Roland Cashel.” And now, he begins another.

Come, these are no times for squeamishness. Let us anticipate “Sir James,” and read before he seals it.

Dublin. My dear Comrade, – We are neither of us very gifted letter-writers, but events are always enough to tell, even when style be wanting; and here am I, so overwhelmed by the rush of new sensations that I know not where to begin, or how to tell what has really happened since we parted, nor distinguish actual stubborn facts from my own fancies. My brief note from Porto Giacomo told you that I had succeeded to something like fifteen thousand pounds a year. I believe it is rather more, with a good round sum, I don’t know how much, in bank; and now, here I am,’ just arrived, but marvellously at home, in the house of the worthy fellow that has established my claim.

If I only knew so much of my good luck, I ‘d say it was no bad thing to be pleasantly domesticated in a capital mansion, with every refinement and luxury at hand, and two such girls, the daughters! Oh, amigo mio, you’d think wondrous little of the Barcelonetta belles, if I could show you these damsels! Such tempting shyness; such shrinking, playful modesty; and then so frank, without that slap-dash abruptness! Never mind, – I own freely that Maritaña is lovely; there is not such a mouth – as to a foot – well, well. I wish I could take a peep at you all again, just as night closes, and she comes out to take her walk upon the grass, and hear her singing as she went, or watch her as she danced the manolo, which – by the way – one of the girls here caught up wonderfully, and in almost an instant too. But the manolo, with a long, sweeping, flounced, and furbelowed petticoat! Only think of the absurdity! Not but she looked exceedingly pretty the while, but how much better had she, if one could only have cut half a yard off her drapery!

Have you received the pistols I sent from London? I hope you ‘ll think them handsome, – I know they are true, having tried them at thirty-five, and even fifty paces. The yataghan I ‘m certain you ‘ll admire; it has the peculiar handle and hilt you ‘re fond of. Pray let our friends on the Chilian side learn something of the qualities of the blade itself. I have been thinking since about the emeralds – and perhaps Maritaña may refuse them. If so, do what you will with them so that I hear no more of the matter. And now for the bond: release me from that tie by all means. It is not that I really feel it in the light of a contract, – Maritaña never did; but I have it ever on my mind, like a debt. I give you full powers: draw upon me for the sum you please, and I promise not to dishonor the check. Pedro likes a good bargain, and don’t balk him!

I don’t know what your own views are in that quarter, but I tell you frankly that Maritaña has higher and bolder aspirations than either you or I were likely to aid her in attaining. She is a proud girl, Enrique, and will never care for any man that is not able and willing to elevate her into a very different sphere from that she moves in. I never actually loved her, – I certainly do not do so now, – and yet I cannot get her out of my head.

Before I forget it, let me ask you to pay Ruy Dias two hundred doubloons for me. The horse I killed was not worth forty; but, these are not times for bargaining, and the fellow didn’t want to part with the beast Alconetti – the Italian in the Plaza – has something against me, – pay it too; and now that I am on the subject of debts, whenever you next cruise off Ventillanos, send a party on shore to catch the dean, and give him four-and-twenty with a rope’s end, – say it is from me; he ‘ll know why, and so shall you, when you inform me that it has been cleverly effected.

Above all, my dear boy, write; I so long to hear about you all, and to know all that has happened since I left you.

Send the old trunks with my uniform to the agents in the Havannah; I ‘d like to see them once more. François may keep anything else of mine, except what you would like to select as a “souvenir.” Don’t let Rica write to me. I feel I should have no chance in a correspondence with him; nor need I have any, because whatever you say, I agree to, – remember that.

If you can manage about the emeralds, it would be the most gratifying news to me. You might tell her that we are so certain of never meeting again, and that all is now over forever, and so on, – it would have an air of unkindness to reject them. Besides, I see no reason why she should! No matter; I needn’t multiply reasons, where, if one will not suffice, a thousand must fail, and the chances are, if she suspect my anxiety on the subject, it will decide her against me. Do it, then, all in your own way.

Have I said all I wanted? Heaven knows! My head is full; my heart, too, is not without its load. I wish you were here. I wish it for many reasons. I already begin to suspect you are right about the sudden effect a spring into wealth may produce; but I hope that all you said on that score may not be true. If I thought so, I ‘d – No matter, I ‘ll endeavor to show that you are unjust, and that is better. Yours ever,

Roland Cashel.

Don Enrique da Cordova,

Lieutenant of the Columbian frigate “Esmeralda.” Care of Messrs. Eustache et Le Moine, merchants, Havannah.

The next epistle which followed was far more brief. It was thus: —

Messrs. Vanderhaeghen und Droek, Antwerp.

Enclosed is an order on Hamerton for seventeen thousand four hundred and forty-eight gulden, principal and interest for three years, of an unjust demand made by you on me before the tribunal of Bruges.

You failed, even with all the aid of your knavish laws and more knavish countrymen, to establish this iniquitous claim, and only succeeded in exhibiting yourselves as rogues and swindlers, – good burgher-like qualities in your commercial city.

I have now paid what I never owed; but there still remains between us an unsettled score. Let my present punctuality guarantee the honorable intentions I entertain of settling it one day; till when, as you have shown yourselves my enemy,

Believe me to be yours, Roland Cashel.

The order on the banker ran as follows: —

Pay to Vanderhaeghen und Droek, two of the greatest knaves alive, seventeen thousand four hundred and forty-eight gulden, being the principal and interest for three years of a dishonest claim made upon Roland Cashel. To Hamerton and Co., Cheapside.

With all that soothing consciousness we hear is the result of good actions, Cashel lay down on his bed immediately on concluding this last epistle, and was fast asleep almost before the superscription was dried.

And now, worthy reader, another peep, and we have done. Ascending cautiously the stairs, you pass through a little conservatory, at the end of which a heavy cloth curtain conceals a door. It is that of a dressing-room, off which, at opposite sides, two bedrooms lie. This same dressing-room, with its rose-colored curtains and ottoman, its little toilet-tables of satin-wood, its mirrors framed in alabaster, its cabinets of buhl, and the book-shelves so coquettishly curtained with Malines lace, is the common property of the two sisters whom we so lately introduced to your notice.

There were they wont to sit for hours after the return from a ball, discussing the people they had met, their dress, their manner, their foibles and flirtations; criticising with no mean acuteness all the varied games of match-making mammas and intriguing aunts, and canvassing the schemes and snares so rife around them. And oh, ye simple worshippers of muslin-robed innocence! oh, ye devoted slaves of ringleted loveliness and blooming freshness! bethink ye what wily projects lie crouching in hearts that would seem the very homes of careless happiness; what calculations; what devices; how many subtleties that only beauty wields, or simple man is vanquished by!

It was considerably past midnight as the two girls sat at the fire, their dressing-gowns and slippered feet showing that they had prepared for bed; but the long luxuriant hair, as yet uncurled, flowed in heavy masses on their neck and shoulders. They did not, as usual, converse freely together; a silence and a kind of constraint sat upon each, and although Olivia held a book before her, it was less for the purpose of reading than as a screen against the fire, while her sister sat with folded arms and gently drooping head, apparently lost in thought. It was after a very lengthened silence, and in a voice which showed that the speaker was following up some train of thought, Miss Kennyfeck said, —

“And do you really think him handsome, Olivia?”

“Of whom are you speaking, dear?” said Olivia, with the very softest accent.

Miss Kennyfeck started; her pale cheeks became slightly red as, with a most keen irony, she replied, “Could you not guess? Can I mean any one but Mr. Clare Jones?”

“Oh, he’s a downright fright,” answered the other; “but what could have made you think of him?”

“I was not thinking of him, nor were you either, sister dear,” said Miss Kennyfeck, fixing her eyes full upon her; “we were both thinking of the same person. Come, what use in such subterfuges? Honesty, Livy, may not be the ‘best policy,’ but it has one great advantage, – it saves a deal of time; and so I repeat my question, do you think him handsome?”

“If you mean Mr. Cashel, dearest,” said the younger, half bashfully, “I rather incline to say he is. His eyes are very good; his forehead and brow – ”

“There, – no inventory, I beg, – the man is very well-looking, I dare say, but I own he strikes me as tant soit peu sauvage. Don’t you think so?”

“True, his manners – ”

“Why, he has none; the man has a certain rakish, free-and-easy demeanor that, with somewhat more breeding, would rise as high as ‘tigerism,’ but now is detestable vulgarity.”

“Oh, dearest, you are severe.”

“I rather suspect that you are partial.”

“I, my dear! not I, in the least. He is not, by any means, the style of person I like. He can be very amusing, perhaps; he certainly is very odd, very original.”

“He is very rich, Livy,” said the elder sister, with a most dry gravity.

“That can scarcely be called a fault, still less a misfortune,” replied Olivia, slyly.

“Well, well, let us have done with aphorisms, and speak openly. If you are really pleased with his manner and address, say so at once, and I ‘ll promise never to criticise too closely a demeanor which, I vow, does not impress me highly, – only be candid.”

“But I do not see any occasion for such candor, my dear. He is no more to me than he is to you. I ask no protestations from you about this Mr. Roland Cashel.”

Miss Kennyfeck bit her lip and seemed to repress a rising temptation to reply, but was silent for a moment, when she said, in a careless, easy tone, —

“Do you know, Livy dearest, that this same manolo you danced this evening is not by any means a graceful performance to look at, at least when danced with long, sweeping drapery, flapping here and flouncing there. It may suit those half-dressed Mexican damsels who want to display a high arched instep and a rounded ankle, and who know that they are not transgressing the ordinary limits of decorum in the display; but certainly your friend Mr. Softly did not accord all his approval. Did you remark him?”

“I did not; I was too much engaged in learning the figure: but Mr. Softly disapproves of all dancing.”

“Oh, I know he does,” yawned Miss Kennyfeck, as if the very mention of his name suggested sleep; “the dear man has his own notions of pleasantry, – little holy jokes about Adam and Eve. There is nothing so intolerable to me as the insipid playfulness of your young parson, except, perhaps, the coarse fun of your rising barrister. How I hate Mr. Clare Jones!”

“He is very underbred.”

“He is worse; the rudest person I ever met, – so familiar.”

“Why will he always insist on shaking hands?”

“Why will he not at least wash his own, occasionally?”

“And then his jests from the Queen’s Bench, – the last mot– I’m sure I often wished it were so literally – of some stupid Chief Justice. Well, really, in comparison, your savage friend is a mirror of good looks and good manners.”

“Good night, my dear,” said Olivia, rising, as though to decline a renewal of the combat.

“Good night,” echoed her sister, bluntly, “and pleasant dreams of ‘Roland the brave, Roland the true;’ the latter quality being the one more in request at this moment.” And so, humming the well-known air, she took her candle and retired.