It was late of that same afternoon ere Cashel awoke. Mr. Phillis had twice adventured into the room on tiptoe, and as stealthily retired, and was now, for the third time, about to retreat, when Roland called him back.

“Beg pardon, sir; but Mrs. Kennyfeck's footman has been here twice for the answer to this note.”

“Let me see it,” said Cashel, taking a highly-perfumed epistle, whose tinted paper, seal, and superscription were all in the perfection of epistolary coquetry.

Simple and commonplace as the words were, Cashel read them over more than once.

I know not if any of my male readers can corroborate me, but I have always thought there is some mysterious attraction in even the most every-day epistle of a young and pretty woman. The commonest social forms assume a different meaning, and we read the four letters which spell “dear” in an acceptation very remote from what they inspire when written by one's law agent; and then, the concluding “yours truly,” or “faithfully yours,” or better again, “ever yours,”—what suggestive little words they are! how insinuating in their portraiture of a tie which possibly might, but does not actually, bind the parties.

If my readers concur not in these sympathies; I have great satisfaction in saying that Roland Cashel did. He not only sat gazing at the few lines, but he looked so long at them as to half believe that the first word was a superlative; then, suddenly rousing himself he asked the hour. It was already past six. He had only time, then, for a verbal, “With pleasure,” and to dress for dinner.

It seemed like a reproach on his late mode of living, the pile of unopened letters, which in imposing mass Mr. Phillis had arrayed on his master's dressing-table. They contained specimens of everything epistolary which falls to the lot of those favored children of fortune who, having “much to give,” are great favorites with the world. There were dear little pressing invitations signed by the lady of the house, and indited in all the caligraphy of the governess. There were begging letters from clergymen with large families, men who gave so “many hostages to fortune,” that they actually ruined themselves in their own “recognizances.” Flatteries, which, if not written on tinted paper, might have made it blush to bear them, mixed up with tradesmen's assurances of fidelity and punctuality, and bashful apologies for the indelicacy of any allusion to money.

Oh, it is a very sweet world this of ours, and amiable withal! save that the angelic smile it bestows on one part of the creation has a sorry counterpart in the sardonic grin with which it regards the other. Our friend Cashel was in the former category, and he tossed over the letters carelessly, rarely breaking a seal, and, even then, satisfied with a mere glance at the contents, or the name of the writer, when he suddenly caught sight of a large square-shaped epistle, marked “Sea-letter.” It was in a hand he well knew, that of his old comrade Enrique; and burning with anxiety to hear of him, he threw himself into a chair, and broke the seal.

The very first words which met his eye shocked him.

“I 'm afraid, sir,” said Mr. Phillis, here obtruding his head into the room, “that you 'll be very late. It is already more than half-past seven o'clock.”

“So it is!” exclaimed Cashel, starting up, while he muttered something not exceedingly complimentary to his host's engagement. “Is the carriage ready?” And without staying to hear the reply, hurried downstairs, the open letter still in his hand.

Scarcely seated in the carriage, Cashel resumed the reading of the letter. Eager to trace the circumstances which led to his friend's captivity, he hastily ran his eyes over the lines till he came to the following:—

The carriage drew up at Kennyfeck's door as Cashel had read thus far, and in a state of mind bordering on fever he entered the hall and passed up the stairs. The clock struck eight as he presented himself in the drawing-room, where the family were assembled, the number increased by two strangers, who were introduced to Roland as Mrs. Kennyfeck's sister, Miss O'Hara, an elderly maiden lady, with a light brown wig; and a raw-boned, much-freckled young man, Peter O'Gorman, her nephew.

Nothing could be more cordial than the reception of the Kennyfecks; they affected not to think that it was so late, vowed that the clock was too fast, were certain that Mr. Cashel's watch was right; in fact, his presence was a receipt in full for all the anxieties of delay, and so they made him feel it.

There was a little quizzing of Roland, as they seated themselves at table, over his forgetfulness of the day before, but so good-humoredly as not to occasion, even to himself, the slightest embarrassment.

“At breakfast at the barrack!” repeated Miss Kennyfeck after him. “What a formidable affair, if it always lasts twenty-four hours.”

“What do you mean? How do you know that?” asked Roland, half in shame, half in surprise, at this knowledge of his movements.

“Not to speak of the brilliant conversation, heightened by all the excitement of wit, champagne, and hazard,—dreadful competitors with such tiresome society as ours,” said Olivia.

“Never mind them, Mr. Cashel,” broke in Miss O'Hara, in a mellifluous Doric; “'tis jealous they are, because you like the officers better than themselves.”

A most energetic dissent was entered by Cashel to this supposition, who nevertheless felt grateful for the advocacy of the old lady.

“When I was in the Cape Coast Fencibles,” broke in Peter, with an accent that would have induced one to believe Africa was on the Shannon, “we used to sit up all night,—it was so hot in the day; but we always called it breakfast, for you see—”

“And when are we to visit your pictures, Mr. Cashel?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, whose efforts to suppress Peter were not merely vocal, as that injured individual's shins might attest.

“That depends entirely on you, madam,” said Roland, bowing. “I have only to say, the earlier the more agreeable to me.”

“He has such a beautiful collection,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, turning to her sister.

“Indeed, then, I delight in pictures,” said “Aunt Fanny,” as her nieces called her. “I went the other day to Mount Bennett, to see a portrait painted by Rousseau.”

“By Rubens, I suppose you mean, aunt,” interposed Miss Kennyfeck, tartly.

“So it may be, my dear, I never know the names right; but it was a dark old man, with a hairy cap and a long gray beard, as like Father Morris Heffernan as ever it could stare.”

“Is your new Carlo Dolce so very like Olivia?” interposed Mrs. Kennyfeck, who was sadly hampered by her country relatives and their reminiscences.

“So very like, madam, that I beg you to accept it as a portrait,” replied Roland.

“Upon my word, then, young gentleman, you 're not so fond of a pretty face as you might be,” broke in Aunt Fanny, “or you would n't be so ready to give it away.” A very hearty laugh at the old lady's eccentricity relieved Cashel from all necessity of explanation.

“The old masters are so good,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck; “I delight in their fine, vigorous touch.”

“Why don't they put more clothes on their figures,” said Aunt Fanny, “even a warm climate is no excuse for the way the creatures went about.”

“If you saw them in Hickweretickanookee,” said Peter, “King John never wore anything but a cocked-hat and a pair of short black gaiters the missionary gave him for learning the Lord's Prayer.”

“I hear that Lady Janet said Cary would be an excellent study for Helen M'Gregor,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck. “It was scarcely civil, however.”

“It was more,—downright rude,” said Cashel, reddening; “but Miss Kennyfeck can afford to pay the penalty beauty always yields to its opposite.”

“There, my dear, that's a compliment,” said Aunt Fanny, “and don't be displeased. I say, darling, did n't he say a while ago you were like somebody at Carlow?”

“A Carlo Dolce, aunt,” broke in both sisters, laughing; and so the dinner proceeded amid commonplaces, relieved occasionally from their flatness by the absurdities of Aunt Fanny, who seemed as good-naturedly proof against ridicule, as she was likely to evoke it.

Peter was the first to rise from table, as he was anxious to go to “the play,” and the ladies soon retired to the drawing-room, Mrs. Kennyfeck slyly whispering, as she passed behind Roland's chair, an entreaty that he would not long delay in following them. Cashel's anxiety to close his tÊte-À-tÊte arose from another cause,—his burning anxiety to finish Enrique's letter; while Kennyfeck himself seemed beating about, uncertain how to open subjects he desired to have discussed. After a long pause, he said,—

“I was speaking to Pepystell yesterday, and he is of opinion that there is no use in preserving any part of the old structure at Tubbermore,—the great difficulty of adapting a new character of architecture to the old would not repay the cost.”

Cashel nodded a careless assent, and, after a pause, Kennyfeck resumed:—

“It might be of some convenience at present, however, to let the building stand as it is. A residence of one kind or other you will want, particularly as the elections are approaching.”

Another nod in silence was all the reply.

“Pepystells estimate is large,—don't you think so?”

He nodded again.

“Nearly seventy thousand pounds! And that does not include the gate tower, which seems a point for after consideration.”

“I remember,” muttered Cashel, in a voice that implied anything rather than a mind attentive to the subject before it.

“Now, it would be as well,” said Mr. Kennyfeck, drawing a long breath, and, as it were, preparing himself for a great effort, “to put a little order into our affairs. Your first year or two will be costly ones,—building expenses, equipage, horses, furniture, election charges. Much of your capital is vested in foreign securities, which it would be injurious to sell at this moment. Don't you think”—here he changed his voice to an almost insinuating softness—“don't you think that by devoting a certain portion of your income,—say a third, or one-half, perhaps,—for the present, to meet these charges—” He paused, for he saw from Cashel's occupied look that he was not attending to his words.

“Well—continue,” said Roland, affecting to wait for his conclusion.

“I was about to ask, sir,” said Kennyfeck, boldly, “what sum would you deem sufficient for your yearly expenditure?”

“What is the amount of my income?” asked Cashel, bluntly.

“In good years, something above sixteen thousand pounds; in bad ones, somewhat less than twelve.”

“Well, then,—you have the scale of my expenditure at once.”

“Not your whole income?” exclaimed Kennyfeck, astonished.

“Even so. I see no earthly reason for hoarding. I do not find that squandering money is any very high enjoyment; I am certain scraping and saving it would afford me still less pleasure.”

“But there are always casualties demanding extraordinary expense,—a contested election, for instance.”

“I 'll not try it,—I don't intend to enter Parliament.”

“When you marry—”

“Perhaps I shall not do that either.”

“Well, sums lost at play,—the turf has pressed on many a strong pocket.”

“Play has no fascination for me; I can give it up: I may almost say I have done so.”

“Not without paying a heavy penalty, however,” said Kennyfeck, whose animation showed that he had at last approached the territory he was so long in search of.

“How do you mean?” said Cashel, blushing deeply, as he began to fear that by some accident his secret visit to the money-lender had reached Kennyfeck's ears.

“Your drafts on Latrobe, sir, whose account I have received to-day, are very heavy.”

“Oh, is that all?” said Cashel, carelessly.

“All! all!” repeated Kennyfeck; then, suddenly correcting himself, he added, “I am almost certain, sir, that your generous habits have over-mastered your prudence. Are you aware of having drawn fifty thousand pounds?”

“No, I really was not,” replied Cashel, smiling more at the attorney's look of consternation than anything else. “I fancied about half as much. Pray tell me some of the items. No, no! not from book; that looks too formal,—just from memory.”

“Well, there are horses without number,—one bought with all his engagements for the Oaks, which amount to a forfeiture of four thousand pounds.”

“I remember that,—a piece of Linton's blundering; but he lost more heavily himself, poor fellow, our steed Lanz-knecht having turned out a dead failure.”

“Then there is something about a villa at Cowes, which I am certain you never saw.”

“No; but I have a drawing of it somewhere—a pretty thing under a cliff, with a beautiful bay of deep water, and good anchorage. Linton knows all about it.”

“Twelve thousand pounds is a large sum to give without ever seeing the purchase.”

“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.

Aunt Fanny was then there in the guise of a domestic detective, to watch proceedings and report on them,—a function which simplifies the due conduct of a case, be it in love or law, beyond anything.

“How agreeable your papa must be this evening, my dear!” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, as with a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece she recognized that it was near ten.

“I 'm sure he is deep in one of his interminable law arguments, which always makes Mr. Cashel so sleepy and so stupid, that he never recovers for the rest of the evening.”

“He ought to find the drawing-room all the pleasanter for the contrast,” remarked Miss O'Hara, dryly. “I like to see young men—mind me well, young men, it does n't do with old ones—thoroughly bored before they come among the ladies. The sudden change to the tea, and the wax-lights, and the bright eyes, are trying stimulants. Let them, however, be what they call 'pleasant' below-stair, and they are sure to come up flushed and excited, well satisfied with the host's claret, and only anxious to order the carriage. What o'clock is it now?”

“A quarter-past ten, aunt.”

“Too late; full three-quarters too late,” ejaculated she, with the tone of an oracle. “There is nothing your father could have to say should have detained him till now. Play that little Mexican thing again, my dear; and, Livy, love, leave the door a little open; don't you find the heat of this room intolerable?”

The young ladies obeyed, and meanwhile Aunt Fanny, drawing her chair closer to her sister's, said, in a low tone,—

“Well, explain the matter more clearly. Did he give her the diamonds?”

“No; that is the strangest of all,” responded Mrs. Kennyfeck. “He just told Leonard to send them home, and we never heard more about them.”

Aunt Fanny shook her head.

“You know, he asked Olivia, as they were going downstairs, what she thought of them; and she replied, 'They 're beautiful.'”

“How did she say it, though; was it like a mere casual remark, or did she make it with feeling?”

“With feeling,” echoed Mrs. Kennyfeck, pursing up her lips.

“Well?”

“Well! he just said, 'I'll take them,' and there was an end of it.”

Aunt Fanny seemed to reflect, and, after some time, said,—

“Now, as to the horse, when did he make her a present of that?”

“It was to Caroline he gave the horse; sure I told you already.”

“Very true, so you did; a bad feature of the case, too! She ought to have declined it somehow.”

“So she would,” broke in Mrs. Kennyfeck; “but, you perceive, it was very doubtful, at the time, which of the girls he preferred.”

“And you tell me this Mr. Linton has such influence over him.”

“The most absolute. It is only a few weeks since they became acquainted, and now they are inseparable.”

“What is he like,—Linton himself?”

Mrs. Kennyfeck gave a most significant signal, by closing up her lips, and slowly nodding her head,—a gesture that seemed well understood.

“Does Kennyfeck know nothing of his affairs; has he no private history of the man, which might be useful to us?”

“Don't think of that, my dear,” rejoined Mrs. Kennyfeck, knowingly; “but here they come at last.” This was said with reference to the sound of footsteps on the stairs, which gradually approached, and at last Mr. Kennyfeck made his appearance in the drawing-room.

“Where is Mr. Cashel,—is he gone?” asked Mrs. Kennyfeck, in an accent of unusual anxiety.

“He went away above an hour ago. He wanted to see a letter, or to write one, or to look for one he had lost,—I forget which.”

“I'm certain you do!” observed Mrs. Kennyfeck, with an expression of unequivocal contempt. “I am perfectly certain we need not look to you for either information or assistance.”

Poor Mr. Kennyfeck was dumfoundered. The very words were riddles to him, and he turned to each person about him in silent entreaty for explanation; but none came.

“What had you been conversing about?” asked Aunt Fanny, in that encouraging tone lawyers sometimes use to draw out a reluctant or bashful witness.

“Of his money affairs, Miss O'Hara; and I am grieved to say that the subject had so little interest for him, that he started up and left me on suddenly remembering something about a letter.”

“Which something you have totally forgotten,” remarked Mrs. Kennyfeck, tartly.

“And yet it would be a most important fact for us,” observed Aunt Fanny, with judicial solemnity; “a letter, whether to read or to write, of such pressing necessity, implies much.”

“Come, Livy, dear,” said Miss Kennyfeck, rising from the pianoforte, and addressing her sister, who sat reading on the sofa, “my canzonette and your beautiful attitude are so much sweetness thrown away. He's gone without even a thought of either! There, there, don't look so innocently vacant,—you understand me perfectly.”

A very gentle smile was all the younger sister's reply as she left the room.

“Depend upon it, my dear,” said Miss O'Hara to Mrs. Kennyfeck, “that young man had made some unhappy connection; that's the secret of this letter, and when they get into a scrape of the kind it puts marriage out of their heads altogether. It was the same with Captain Morris,”—here she whispered still lower, the only audible words being, “without my ever suspecting,—one evening—a low creature—never set eyes upon—ah, man, man!” And with this exclamation aloud, Aunt Fanny took her candle and retired.

About a minute after, however, she re-entered the drawing-room, and advancing close to her sister, said, with all the solemnity of deep thought,—

“Peter is no good in this case, my dear; send him home at once. That man will 'blaze' for the asking.” And with a nod of immense significance she finally withdrew.