“So it is; but go on.”
“I cannot remember one-half; but there is plate and jewels; sums advanced for building; subscriptions to everything and everybody; a heavy amount transmitted to the Havannah.”
“Very true; and that reminds me of a letter which I received at the very moment I was leaving home. Have I your leave to finish the reading? It is from an old and valued comrade.”
“Of course,—don't think of me for an instant,” said Kennyfeck, scarcely able to repress an open acknowledgment of his amazement at the coolness which could turn from so interesting a topic to the, doubtless commonplace, narrative of some Mexican sailor.
Cashel was, meanwhile, searching every pocket for the letter, which he well remembered, after reading in the carriage, to have crushed in his hand as he ascended the stairs. “I have dropped this letter,” said he, in a voice of great agitation. “May I ask if your servants have found it?”
The bell was rung, and the butler at once interrogated. He had seen nothing, neither had the footman. They both remembered, however that Mr. Phillis had accompanied his master to the foot of the stairs to receive some directions, and then left him to return with the carriage.
“So, then, Phillis must have found it,” said Cashel, rising hastily; and, without a word of apology or excuse, he bade his host a hurried good evening, and left the room.
“Won't you have the carriage? Will you not stay for a cup of tea?” cried Mr. Kennyfeck, hastening after him. But the hall-door had already banged heavily behind him, and he was gone. When Cashel reached his house, it was to endure increased anxiety; for Mr. Phillis had gone out, and, like a true gentleman's gentleman, none of the other servants knew anything of his haunts, or when he would return. Leaving Cashel, then, to the tortures of a suspense which his fervid nature made almost intolerable, we shall return for a brief space to the house he had just quitted, and to the drawing-room, where, in momentary expectation of his appearance, the ladies sat, maintaining that species of “staccato” conversation which can afford interruption with least inconvenience. It is our duty to add, that we bring the reader back here less with any direct object as to what is actually going forward, than to make him better acquainted with the new arrival.
Had Miss O'Hara been the mere quiet, easy-going, simple-minded elderly maiden she seemed to Cashel's eyes, the step on our part had not been needed; she might, like some other characters of our tale, have been suffered to glide by as ghosts or stage-supernumeraries do, unquestioned and undetained; but she possessed qualities of a kind to demand somewhat more consideration. Aunt Fanny, to give her the title by which she was best known, was, in reality, a person of the keenest insight into others,—reading people at sight, and endowed with a species of intuitive perception of all the possible motives which lead to any action. Residing totally in a small town in the west of Ireland, she rarely visited the capital, and was now, in fact, brought up “special” by her sister, Mrs. Kennyfeck, who desired to have her advice and counsel on the prospect of securing Cashel for one or other of her daughters. It was so far a wise step, that in such a conjuncture no higher opinion could have been obtained.
“It was like getting a private hint from the Chancellor about a cause in equity.” This was Mr. Kennyfeck's own illustration.