Chapter 10. More Of The Hycy Correspondence

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_ CHAPTER X. More of the Hycy Correspondence

A Family Debate--Honest Speculations.

Kathleen's refusal to dance, at the kemp, with Hycy Burke, drew down upon her the loud and vehement indignation of her parents, both of whom looked upon a matrimonial alliance with the Burkes as an object exceedingly desirable, and such as would reflect considerable credit on themselves. Gerald Cavanagh and his wife were certainly persons of the strictest integrity and virtue. Kind, charitable, overflowing with hospitality, and remarkable for the domestic virtues and affections in an extraordinary degree, they were, notwithstanding, extremely weak-minded, and almost silly, in consequence of an over-weening anxiety to procure "great matches" for their children. Indeed it may be observed, that natural affection frequently assumes this shape in the paternal heart, nor is the vain ambition confined to the Irish peasant alone. On the contrary, it may be seen as frequently, if not more so, in the middle and higher classes, where it has ampler scope to work, than in humbler and more virtuous life. It is this proud and ridiculous principle which consigns youth, and beauty, and innocence, to the arms of some dissipated profligate of rank, merely because he happens to inherit a title which he disgraces. There is, we would wager, scarcely an individual who knows the world, but is acquainted with some family laboring under this insane anxiety for connection. Sometimes it is to be found on the paternal side, but, like most of those senseless inconsistencies which entail little else than ridicule or ruin, and sometimes both, upon those who are the object of them, it is, for the most part, a female attribute.

Such as it is, however, our friend, Gerald Cavanagh, and his wife--who, by the way, bore the domestic sceptre in all matters of importance--both possessed it in all its amplitude and vigor. When the kemp had been broken up that night, and the family assembled, Mrs. Cavanagh opened the debate in an oration of great heat and bitterness, but sadly deficient in moderation and logic.

"What on earth could you mane, Kathleen," she proceeded, "to refuse dancin' wid such a young man--a gintleman I ought to say--as Hycy Burke, the son of the wealthiest man in the whole parish, barring the gentry? Where is the girl that wouldn't bounce at him?--that wouldn't lave a single card unturned to secure him? Won't he have all his father's wealth?--won't he have all his land when the ould man dies? and indeed it's he that will live in jinteel style when he gets everything into his own hands, as he ought to do, an' not go dhramin' an' dhromin' about like his ould father, without bein' sartin whether he's alive or not. He would be something for you, girl, something to turn out wid, an' that one could feel proud out of; but indeed, Kathleen, as for pride and decency, you never had as much o' them as you ought, nor do you hold your head as high as many another girl in your place would do. Deed and throth I'm vexed at you, and ashamed of you, to go for to hurt his feelins as you did, widout either rhyme or raison."

"Troth," said her father, taking up the argument where she left it, "I dunno how I'll look the respectable young man in the face afther the way you insulted him. Why on airth wouldn't you dance wid him?"

"Because, father, I don't like him."

"An' why don't you like him?" asked her mother. "Where is there his aquil for either face or figure in the parish, or the barony itself? But I know the cause of it; you could dance with Bryan M'Mahon. But take this with you--sorra ring ever Bryan M'Mahon will put on you wid my consent or your father's, while there's any hope of Hycy Burke at any rate."

Kathleen, during this long harangue, sat smiling and sedate, turning her beautiful and brilliant eyes sometimes upon one parent, sometimes upon another, and occasionally glancing with imperturbable sweetness and good nature at her sister Hanna. At length, on getting an opportunity of speaking, she replied,--

"Don't ask me, mother, to give anything in the way of encouragement to Hycy Burke; don't ask me, I entrate you, for God's sake--the thing's impossible, and I couldn't do it. I have no wish for his father's money, nor any wish for the poor grandeur that you, mother dear, and my father, seem to set your heart upon. I don't like Hycy Burke--I could never like him; and rather than marry him, I declare solemnly to God, I would prefer going into my grave."

As she uttered the last words, which she did with an earnestness that startled them, her fine features became illuminated, as it were, with a serene and brilliant solemnity of expression that was strikingly impressive and beautiful.

"Why couldn't you like him, now?" asked her father; "sure, as your mother says, there's not his aquil for face or figure within many a mile of him?"

"But it's neither face nor figure that I look to most, father."

"Well, but think of his wealth, and the style he'll live in, I'll go bail, when he gets married."

"That style maybe won't make his wife happy. No, father, it's neither face, nor figure, nor style that I look to, but truth, pure affection, and upright principle; now, I know that Hycy Burke has neither truth, nor affection, nor principle; an' I wondher, besides, that you could think of my ever marrying a man that has already destroyed the happiness of two innocent girls, an' brought desolation, an' sorrow, an' shame upon two happy families. Do you think that I will ever become the wife of a profligate? An' is it you, father, an' still more you, mother, that's a woman, that can urge me to think of joining my fate to that of a man that has neither shame nor principle? I thought that if you didn't respect decency an' truth, and a regard for what is right and proper, that, at all events, you would respect the feelings of your child that was taught their value."

Both parents felt somewhat abashed by the force of the truth and the evident superiority of her character; but in a minute or two her worthy father, from whose dogged obstinacy she inherited the firmness and resolution for which she had ever been remarkable, again returned to the subject.

"If Hycy Burke was wild, Kathleen, so was many a good man before him; an' that's no raison but he may turn out well yet, an' a credit to his name, as I have no doubt he will. All that he did was only folly an' indiscretion--we can't be too hard or uncharitable upon our fellow-craytures."

"No," chimed in her mother, "we can't. Doesn't all the world know that a reformed rake makes a good husband?--an' besides, didn't them two huzzies bring it on themselves?--why didn't they keep from him as they ought? The fault, in such cases, is never all on one side."

Kathleen's brow and face and whole neck became crimson, as her mother, in the worst spirit of a low and degrading ambition, uttered the sentiments we have just written. Hanna had been all this time sitting beside her, with one arm on her shoulder; but Kathleen, now turning round, laid her face on her sister's bosom, and, with a pressure that indicated shame and bitterness of heart, she wept. Hanna returned this melancholy and distressing caress in the same mournful spirit, and both wept together in silence.

Gerald Cavanagh was the first who felt something like shame at the rebuke conveyed by this tearful embrace of his pure-hearted and ingenuous daughters, and he said, addressing his wife:--

"We're wrong to defend him, or any one, for the evil he has done, bekaise it can't be defended; but, in the mane time, every day will bring him more sense an' experience, an' he won't repute this work; besides, a wife would settle him down."

"But, father," said Hanna, now speaking for the first time, "there's one thing that strikes me in the business you're talkin' about, an' it's this--how do you know whether Hycy Burke has any notion, good, bad, or indifferent, of marrying Kathleen?"

"Why," replied her mother, "didn't he write to her upon the subject?"

"Why, indeed, mother, it's not an easy thing to answer that question," replied Hanna. "She sartinly resaved a letther from him, an' indeed, I think," she added, her animated face brightening into a smile, "that as the boys is gone to bed, we had as good read it."

"No, Hanna, darling, don't," said Kathleen--"I beg you won't read it."

"Well, but I beg I will," she replied; "it'll show them, at any rate, what kind of a reformation is likely to come over him. I have it here in my pocket--ay, this is it. Now, father," she proceeded, looking at the letter, "here is a letter, sent to my sister--'To Miss Cavanagh,' that's what's on the back of it--and what do you think Hycy, the sportheen, asks her to do for him?"

"Why, I suppose," replied her mother, "to run away wid him?"

"Na"

"Then to give her consent to marry him?" said her father.

"Both out," replied Hanna; "no, indeed, but to lend him five-and-thirty pounds to buy a mare, called Crazy Jane, belonging to Tom Burton, of the Race Road!"

"'My Dear Bryan--For heaven's sake, in addition to your other generosities--for-which I acknowledge myself still in your debt--will you lend me thirty-five pounds, to secure a beautiful mare belonging to Tom Burton, of the Race Road? She is a perfect creature, and will, if I am not quick, certainly slip through my fingers. Jemmy, the gentleman'--

"This is what he calls his father, you must know.

"'Jemmy, the gentleman, has promised to stand to me some of these days, and pay off all my transgressions, like a good, kind-hearted, soft-headed old Trojan as he is; and, for this reason, I don't wish to press him now. The mare is sold under peculiar circumstances; otherwise I could have no chance of her at such a price. By the way, when did you see Katsey'--

"Ay, Katsey!--think of that, now--doesn't he respect your daughter very much, father?

"'By the way, when did you see Katsey Cavanagh?--'"

"What is this you're readin' to me?" asked her father. "You don't mean to say that this letter is to Kathleen?"

"Why, no; but so much the better--one has an opportunity now of seein' what he is made of. The letter was intended for Bryan M'Mahon; but he sent it, by mistake, to Kathleen. Listen---

"'When did you see Katsey Cavanagh? She certainly is not ill-looking, and will originate you famous mountaineers. Do, like a good fellow, stand by me at this pinch, and I will drink your health and Kat-sey's, and that you may--' (what's this?) 'col--colonize Ahadarra with a race of young Colossusses that the world will wonder at.

"'Ever thine,

"'H. Burke.'

"Here's more, though: listen, mother, to your favorite, that you want to marry Kathleen to:--

"'P.S. I will clear scores with you for all in the course of a few months, and remember that, at your marriage, I must, with my own hand, give you away to Katsey, the fair Oolossa.'"

The perusal of this document, at least so far as they could understand it, astonished them not a little. Until they heard it read, both had been of the opinion that Hycy had actually proposed for Kathleen, or at least felt exceedingly anxious for the match.

"An' does he talk about givin' her away to Bryan M'Mahon?" asked her mother. Sorrow on his impidence!--Bryan M'Mahon indeed! Throth, it's not upon his country side of wild mountain that Kathleen will go to live. An' maybe, too, she has little loss in the same Hycy, for, afther all, he's but a skite of a fellow, an' a profligate into the bargain."

"Paix an' his father," said Gerald--"honest Jemmy--tould me that he'd have it a match whether or not."

"His father did!" exclaimed Mrs. Cavanagh; "now, did he say so, Gerald?"

"Well, in troth he did--said that he had I set his heart upon it, an' that if she hadn't a gown to her back he'd make him marry her."

"The Lord direct us for the best!" exclaimed his wife, whose opinion of the matter at this last piece of information had again changed in favor of Hycy. "Sure, afther all, one oughtn't to be too sevare on so young a man. However, as the sayin' is, 'time will tell,' an' Kathleen's own good sense will show her what a match he'd be."

The sisters then retired to bed; but before they went, Kathleen approached her mother, and putting an open palm affectionately upon each of the good woman's cheeks, said, in a voice in which there was deep feeling and affection:--

"Good-night, mother dear! I'm sure you love me, an' I know it is because you do that you spake in this way; but I know, too, that you wouldn't make me unhappy and miserable for the wealth of the world, much less for Hycy Burke's share of it. There's a kiss for you, and good-night!--there's another for you, father; God bless you! and good-night, too. Come, Hanna darling, come!"

In this state matters rested for some time. Bryan M'Mahon, however, soon got an opportunity of disclosing his intentions to Kathleen, if that can be called disclosing, which was tolerably well known for a considerable time previous to the disclosure. Between them it was arranged that he and his father should make a formal proposal of marriage to her parents, as the best means of bringing the matter to a speedy issue. Before this was done, however, Gerald, at the instigation of his wife, contrived once more to introduce the subject as if by accident, in a conversation with Jemmy Burke, who repeated his anxiety for the match as the best way of settling down his son, and added, that he would lay the matter before Hycy himself, with a wish that a union should take place between them. This interview with old Burke proved a stumbling-block in the way of M'Mahon. At length, after a formal proposal on the behalf of Bryan, and many interviews with reference to it, something like a compromise was effected. Kathleen consented to accept the latter in marriage, but firmly and resolutely refused to hear Burke's name as a lover or suitor mentioned. Her parents, however, hoping that their influence over her might ultimately prevail, requested that she would not engage herself to any one for two years, at the expiration of which period, if no change in her sentiments should take place, she was to be at liberty to marry M'Mahon. For the remainder of the summer and autumn, and up until November, the period at which our narrative has now arrived, or, in other words, when Bryan M'Mahon met Nanny Peety, matters had rested precisely in the same position. This unexpected interview with the mendicant's daughter, joined to the hints he had already received, once more caused M'Mahon to feel considerably perplexed with regard to Hycy Burke. The coincidence was very remarkable, and the identity of the information, however limited, appeared to him to deserve all the consideration which he could bestow upon it, but above all things he resolved, if possible, to extract the secret out of Nanny Peety.

One cause of Hycy Burke's extravagance was a hospitable habit of dining and giving dinners in the head inn of Ballymacan. To ask any of his associates to his father's house was only to expose the ignorance of his parents, and this his pride would not suffer him to do. As a matter of course he gave all his dinners, unless upon rare occasions, in Jack Shepherd's excellent inn; but as young Clinton and he were on terms of the most confidential intimacy, he had asked him to dine on the day in question at his father's.

"You know, my dear Harry," he said to his friend, "there is no use in striving to conceal the honest vulgarity of Jemmy the gentleman from you who know it already. I may say ditto to madam, who is unquestionably the most vulgar of the two--for, and I am sorry to say it, in addition to a superabundant stock of vulgarity, she has still a larger assortment of the prides; for instance, pride of wealth, of the purse, pride of--I was going to add, birth--ha! ha! ha!--of person, ay, of beauty, if you please--of her large possessions--but that comes under the purse again--and lastly--but that is the only well-founded principle among them--of her accomplished son, Hycy. This, now, being all within your cognizance already, my dear Hal, you take a pig's cheek and a fowl with me to-day. There will be nobody but ourselves, for when I see company at home I neither admit the gentleman nor the lady to table. Damn it, you know the thing would be impossible. If you wish it, however, we shall probably call in the gentleman after dinner to have a quiz with him; it may relieve us. I can promise you a glass of wine, too, and that's another reason why we should keep him aloof until the punch comes. The wine's always a sub silencio affair, and, may heaven pity me, I get growling enough from old Bruin on other subjects."

"Anything you wish, Hycy, I am your man; but somehow I don't relish the idea of the quiz you speak of. 'Children, obey your parents,' says Holy Scripture; and I'd as soon not help a young fellow to laugh at his father."

"A devilish good subject he is, though--but you must know that I can draw just distinctions, Hal. For instance, I respect his honesty--"

"And copy it, eh?"

"Certainly--I respect his integrity, too--in fact, I appreciate all his good qualities, and only laugh at his vulgarity and foibles."

"You intend to marry, Hycy?"

"Or, in other words, to call you brother some of these days."

"And to have sons and daughters?"

"Please the fates."

"That will do," replied Clinton, dryly.

"Ho! ho!" said Hycy, "I see. Here's a mentor with a vengeance--a fellow with a budget of morals cut and dry for immediate use--but hang all morality, say I; like some of my friends that talk on the subject, I have an idiosyncrasy of constitution against it, but an abundant temperament for pleasure."

"That's a good definition," said Clinton; "a master-touch, a very correct likeness, indeed. I would at once know you from it, and so would most of your friends."

"This day is Friday," said Hycy, "more growling."

"Why so?"

"Why, when I eat meat on a Friday, the pepper and sauce cost me nothing. The 'gentlemen' lays on hard, but the lady extenuates, 'in regard to it's bein' jinteel.'"

"Well, but you have certainly no scruple yourself on the subject?"

"Yes, I have, sir, a very strong one--in favor of the meat--ha! ha! ha!"

"D--n me, whoever christened you Hycy the accomplished, hit you off."

"I did myself; because you must know, my worthy Hal, that, along with all my other accomplishments, I am my own priest.'

"And that is the reason why you hate the clergy? eh--ha! ha! ha!"

"A hit, a hit, I do confess."

"Harke, Mr. Priest, will you give absolution--to Tom Corbet?"

"Ah! Hal, no more an' thou lovest me--that sore is yet open. Curse the villain. My word and honor, Hal, the gentleman' was right there. He told me at the first glance what she was. Here comes a shower, let us move on, and reach Ballymacan, if possible, before it falls. We shall be home in fair time for dinner afterwards, and then for my proposal, which, by the word and honor--"

"And morality?"

"Nonsense, Harry; is a man to speak nothing but truth or Scripture in this world?--No--which I say by the honor of a gentleman, it will be your interest to consider and accept."

"Very well, most accomplished. We shall see, and we shall hear, and then we shall determine."

A ham and turkey were substituted for the pig's cheek and fowl, and we need not say that Hycy and his friend accepted of the substitution with great complacency. Dinner having been discussed, and a bottle of wine finished, the punch came in, and each, after making himself a stiff tumbler, acknowledged that he felt comfortable. Hycy, however, anxious that he should make an impression, or in other words gain his point, allowed Clinton to grow a little warm with liquor before he opened the subject to which he had alluded. At length, when he had reached the proper elevation, he began:--

"There's no man, my dear Harry, speaks apparently more nonsense than I do in ordinary chat and conversation. For instance, to-day I was very successful in it; but no matter, I hate seriousness, certainly, when there is no necessity for it. However, as a set-off to that, I pledge you my honor that no man can be more serious when it is necessary than myself. For instance, you let out a matter to me the other night that you probably forget now. You needn't stare--I am serious enough and honorable enough to keep as an inviolable secret everything of the kind that a man may happen to disclose in an unguarded moment."

"Go on, Hycy, I don't forget it--I don't, upon my soul."

"I allude to M'Mahon's farm in Ahadarra."

"I don't forget it; but you know, Hycy, my boy, I didn't mention either M'Mahon or Ahadarra."

"You certainly did not mention them exactly; but, do you think I did not know at once both the place and the party you allude to? My word and honor, I saw them at a glance."

"Very well, go on with your word and honor;--you are right, I did mean M'Mahon and Ahadarra--proceed, most accomplished, and most moral--"

"Be quiet, Harry. Well, you have your eye upon that farm, and you say you have a promise of it."

"Something like it; but the d--d landlord, Chevydale, is impracticable--so my uncle says--and doesn't wish to disturb the M'Mahons, although he has been shown that it is his interest to do so--but d--n the fellow, neither he nor one of his family ever look to their interests--d--n the fellow, I say."

"Don't curse or swear, most moral. Well, the lease of Ahadarra has dropped, and of Carriglass too;--with Carriglass, however, we--that is you--have nothing at all to do."

"Proceed?'

"Now, I have already told you my affection for your sister, and I have not been able to get either yes or no out of you."

"No."

"What do you mean?"

"That you have not been able to get yes or no out of me--proceed, most accomplished. Where do you get your brandy? This is glorious. Well!"

"Now, as you have a scruple against taking the farm in any but a decent way, if I undertake to manage matters so as that Bryan M'Mahon shall be obliged to give up his farm, will you support my suit with Miss Clinton?"

"How will you do it?"

"That is what you shall not know; but the means are amply within my power. You know my circumstances, and that I shall inherit all my father's property."

"Come; I shall hold myself neuter--will that satisfy you? You shall have a clear stage and no favor, which, if you be a man of spirit, is enough."

"Yes; but it is likely I may require your advocacy with Uncle; and, besides, I know the advantage of having an absent friend well and favorably spoken of, and all his good points brought out."

"Crazy Jane and Tom Burton, to wit; proceed, most ingenuous!"

"Curse them both! Will you promise this--to support me so far?"

"Egad, Hycy, that's a devilish pretty girl that attends us with the hot water, and that waited on us at dinner--eh?"

"Come, come, Master Harry, 'ware spring-guns there; keep quiet. You don't answer?"

"But, worthy Hycy, what if Maria should reject you--discard you--give you to the winds?--eh?"

"Even in that case, provided you support me honestly, I shall hold myself bound to keep my engagement with you, and put M'Mahon out as a beggar."

"What! as a beggar?"

"Ay, as a beggar; and then no blame could possibly attach to you for succeeding him, and certainly no suspicion."

"Hum! as a beggar. But the poor fellow never offended me. Confound it, he never offended me, nor any one else as far as I know. I don't much relish that, Hycy."

"It cannot be done though in any other way."

"I say--how do you call that girl?--Jenny, or Peggy, or Molly, or what?"

"I wish to heaven you could be serious, Harry. If not, I shall drop the subject altogether."

"There now--proceed, O Hyacinthus."

"How can I proceed, when you won't pay attention to me; or, what is more, to your own interests?"

"Oh! my own interests!--well I am alive to them."

"Is it a bargain, then?"

"It is a bargain, most ingenuous, most subtle, and most conscientious Hycy! Enable me to enter upon the farm of Ahadarra--to get possession of it--and calculate upon my most--let me see--what's the best word--most strenuous advocacy. That's it: there's my hand upon it. I shall support you, Hycy; but, at the same time, you must not hold me accountable for my sister's conduct. Beyond fair and reasonable persuasion, she must be left perfectly free and uncontrolled in whatever decision she may come to."

"There's my hand, then, Harry; I can ask no more."

After Clinton had gone, Hycy felt considerably puzzled as to the manner in which he had conducted himself during the whole evening. Sometimes he imagined he was under the influence of liquor, for he had drunk pretty freely; and again it struck him that he manifested an indifference to the proposal made to him, which he only attempted to conceal lest Hycy might perceive it. He thought, however, that he observed a seriousness in Clinton, towards the close of their conversation, which could not have been assumed; and as he gave himself a good deal of credit for penetration, he felt satisfied that circumstances were in a proper train, and likely, by a little management, to work out his purposes.

Hycy, having bade him good night at the hall-door, returned again to the parlor, and called Nanny Peety--"Nanny," said he, "which of the Hogans did you see to-day?"

"None o' them, sir, barrin' Kate: they wor all out."

"Did you give her the message?"

"Why, sir, if it can be called a message, I did."

"What did you say, now?"

"Why, I tould her to tell whichever o' them she happened to see first, that St. Pether was dead."

"And what did she say to that?"

"Why, sir, she said it would be a good story for you if he was."

"And what did she mean by that, do you think?"

"Faix, then, I dunna--barrin' that you're in the black books wid him, and that you'd have a better chance of gettin' in undher a stranger that didn't know you."

"Nanny," he replied, laughing, "you are certainly a very smart girl, and indeed a very pretty girl--a very interesting young woman, indeed, Nanny; but you won't listen to reason."

"To raison, sir, I'll always listen; but not to wickedness or evil."

"Will you have a glass of punch? I hope there is neither wickedness nor evil in that."

"I'm afraid, sir, that girls like me have often found to their cost too much of both in it. Thank you, Masther Hycy, but I won't have it; you know I won't."

"So you will stand in your own light, Nanny?"

"I hope not, sir; and, wanst for all, Mr. Hycy, there's no use in spakin' to me as you do. I'm a poor humble girl, an' has nothing but my character to look to."

"And is that all you're afraid of, Nanny?"

"I'm afear'd of Almighty God, sir: an' if you had a little fear of Him, too, Mr. Hycy, you wouldn't spake to me as you do."

"Why, Nanny, you're almost a saint on our hands."

"I'm glad to hear it, sir, for the sinners is plenty enough."

"Very good, Nanny; well said. Here's half a crown to reward your wit."

"No, no, Mr. Hycy: I'm thankful to you; but you know I won't take it."

"Nanny, are you aware that it was I who caused you to be taken into this family?"

"No," sir; "but I think it's very likely you'll be the cause of my going out of it."

"It certainly is not improbable, Nanny. I will have no self-willed, impracticable girls here."

"You won't have me here long, then, unless you mend your manners, Mr. Hycy."

"Well, well, Nanny; let us not quarrel at all events. I will be late out to-night, so that you must sit up and let me in. No, no, Nanny, we must not quarrel; and if I have got fond of you, how can I help it? It's very natural thing, you know, to love a pretty girl."

"But not so natural to lave her, Mr. Hycy, as you have left others before now--I needn't name them--widout name, or fame, or hope, or happiness in this world."

"I won't be in until late, Nanny," he replied, coolly. "Sit up for me. You're a sharp one, but I can't spare you yet a while;" and, having nodded to her with a remarkably benign aspect he went out.

"Ay," said she, after he had gone; "little you know, you hardened and heartless profligate, how well I'm up to your schemes. Little you know that I heard your bargain this evenin' wid Clinton, and that you're now gone to meet the Hogans and Teddy Phats upon some dark business, that can't be good or they wouldn't be in it; an' little you know what I know besides. Anybody the misthress plaises may sit up for you, but I won't." _

Read next: Chapter 11. Death Of A Virtuous Mother

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