Can sight and hearing—even touch deceive?Or, is this real?Play.
Probably, in all his varied life, Cashel had never passed a day less to his satisfaction than that spent at Drumcoologan. His mind, already tortured by anxieties, was certainly not relieved by the spectacle that presented itself to his eyes. The fearful condition of a neglected Irish property, where want, crime, disease, and destitution were combined, was now seen by him for the first time. There was one predominant expression on and over everything,—“Despair.” The almost roofless cabin, the scarce-clad children, the fevered father stretched upon his bed of clay, the starving mother, with a dying infant at her bosom, passed before him like the dreadful images of a dream. And then he was to hear from his agent, that these were evils for which no remedy existed: “there had always been fever in Ireland;” “dirt they were used to;” want of clothing had become “natural” to them; falsehood was the first article of their creed; their poverty was only fictitious,—this one owned several cows; the other had money in a savings' bank; and so on. In fact, he had to hear that every estate had its plague-spot of bad characters, where crime and infamy found a refuge; and that it might be poor morality, but good policy, to admit of the custom.
Confused by contradictory statements, wearied by explanations, to understand which nothing short of a life long should have passed in studying the people,—imposed upon by some, unjust towards others,—he listened to interminable discussions without one gleam of enlightenment—and, what is far worse, without one ray of hope; the only piece of satisfaction he derived from the visit being, that Hoare had consented to advance a sum of money upon mortgage of the property, which, in his secret soul, Cashel resolved should be a purchase, and not a mere loan. The object he had in view was to buy off Linton's claim upon the cottage; and having settled all his most pressing debts, to retire for some years to the Continent, till a sufficient sum should have accumulated to permit him to recommence his life as a country gentleman, in a manner and with views very different from what he had hitherto done. He hoped, by travel, to improve his mind and extend his knowledge; he trusted that, by observing the condition of the peasant in different countries of Europe, he might bring back with him certain suggestions applicable to his own tenantry; and, at all events, he determined that the resources of his large fortune should no longer be squandered in meaningless debauch, so long as real destitution and grinding misery lay at his very door. He made many a good and noble resolve, and, like most men in such cases, with youth on their side, he was impatient to begin to act upon them.
It was, then, with a feeling like that of a liberated prisoner, he heard from Mr. Kennyfeck that, although Mr. Hoare and himself had yet many preliminaries to arrange, which might detain them several hours longer, he might now return homeward to Tubbermore, where his company were doubtless in anxious expectation of his coming. There were two roads which led to Drumcoologan,—one was a species of carriage-road, by which they had come that morning; the other was a mere bridle-path over the mountain, and though shorter in mileage, required fully as much time, if not more, to travel. Refusing the assistance of a guide, and preferring to be alone, he set out by himself, and on foot, to pursue the way homeward.
It was the afternoon of a sharp, clear winter's day, when the bracing air and the crisp atmosphere elevate the spirits, and make exercise the most pleasurable of stimulants; and as Cashel went along, he began to feel a return of that buoyancy of heart which had been so peculiarly his own in former days. The future, to which his hope already lent its bright colors, was rapidly erasing the past, and in the confidence of his youth he was fashioning a hundred schemes of life to come.
The path along which he travelled lay between two bleak and barren mountains, and followed the course of a little rivulet for several miles. There was not a cabin to be seen; not a trace of vegetation brightened the dreary picture; not a sheep, nor even a goat, wandered over the wild expanse. It was a solitude the most perfect that could be conceived. Roland often halted to look around him, and each time his eye wandered to a lofty peak of rock on the very summit of the mountain, and where something stood which he fancied might be a human figure. Although gifted with strong power of vision, the great height prevented his feeling any degree of certainty; so that he abandoned the effort, and proceeded on his way for miles without again thinking on the subject. At last, as he was nearing the exit of the glen, he looked up once more; the cliff was now perceptible in its entire extent, and the figure was gone! He gave no further thought to the circumstance, but seeing that the day was declining fast, increased his speed, in order to reach the high-road before night closed in. Scarcely had he proceeded thus more than half a mile, when he perceived, full in front of him, about a couple of hundred yards distant, a man seated upon a stone beside the pathway. Cashel had been too long a wanderer in the wild regions of the “Far West,” not to regard each new-comer as at least a possible enemy. His prairie experience had taught him that men do not take their stand in lonely and unfrequented spots without an object; and so, without halting, which might have awakened suspicion in the other, he managed to slacken his pace somewhat, and thus gave himself more time for thought. He well knew that, in certain parts of Ireland, landlord murder had become frequent; and although he could not charge himself with any act which should point him out as a victim, his was not a mind to waste in casuistry the moments that should be devoted more practically. He was perfectly unarmed, and this consideration rendered him doubly cautious. The matter, however, had but few issues. To go back would be absurd; to halt where he was, still more so. There was nothing, then, for it but to advance; and he continued to do so, calmly and warily, till about twenty paces from the rock where the other sat, still and immovable. Then it was that, dropping on one knee, the stranger threw back a cloak that he wore, and took a deliberate aim at him.
The steady precision of the attitude was enough to show Cashel that the man was well versed in the use of firearms. The distance was short, also, and the chance of escape consequently, the very smallest imaginable. Roland halted, and crossing his arms upon his breast, stood to receive the fire exactly as he would have done in a duel. The other never moved; his dark eye glanced along the barrel without blinking, and his iron grasp held the weapon still pointed at Cashel's heart.
262
“Fire!” cried Roland, with the loud utterance he would have used in giving the word of command; and scarcely was it spoken when the rifle was flung to the earth, and, springing to his feet, a tall and muscular man advanced with an outstretched hand to meet him.
“Don't you know me yet, Roland?” cried a deep voice in Spanish; “not remember your comrade?”
“What!” exclaimed Casbel, as he rubbed his eyes and shook himself as if to insure he was not dreaming. “This is surely impossible! you cannot be my old friend and shipmate Enrique!”
“That am I, my boy,” cried the other, throwing his arms around him and embracing him in true Mexican fashion; “your own old comrade for many a year, who has sailed with you, fought with you, drunk with you, played with you, and swears now that he wishes for nothing but the old times over again.”
“But how came you here? and when? By what chance did you discover me?” said Roland, as he clasped the other's hand in both his own.
“'T is a long story,amigo miobut you shall have it all one of these days.”
“True; there will be time enough to tell it, for you shall not leave me, Enrique. I was longing for a face of an old comrade once again—one of the old 'Esmeralda's,' with whom my happiest days were passed.”
“I can well believe it,” said Enrique; “and it was to see if wealth had not sapped your courage, as I know it has your high spirits, that I took aim at you, a while ago. Had you quailed, Roland, I almost think I could have pulled the trigger.”
“And I had well deserved it, too,” said Cashel, sternly. “But let us hasten forward. Enrique, I am longing to see an old friend beneath my roof,—longing to see you seated opposite to me, and answering the hundred questions about old friends and times that are thronging to my mind.”
“No, Roland, my way lies thither,” said he, pointing towards the west; “I have been too long your guest already.”
“How do you mean?” cried Roland, in amazement.
“Simply, that for seven weeks I have lived beneath your roof. The narrative is too long for a moment like this; but enough if I tell you that it was a plot of Maritaña's, who, had I not acceded to the notion, would have disguised herself and come hither, to watch and see with her own eyes how you played the great man. To save her from such a step, when all persuasion failed, I came here as the sailor Giovanni.”
“You Giovanni?”
“Ay, Roland; and if wealth had not blinded you so effectually, you had soon seen through the counterfeit. As Giovanni, I saw your daily life,—the habits of your household; the sterling worth and fidelity of the men you made your friends; and let me tell you, Cashel, our old associates of the Villa de las Noches were men of unblemished honor compared with those well-bred companions of your prosperity. Often and often have I been upon the brink of declaring myself, and then have I held back, sometimes from a curiosity to see the game played out, sometimes anxious to know how far this course of treachery might be carried on without its awakening your suspicions. At length, I actually grew weary of seeing you the dupe. I almost ceased to feel interest in one who could be imposed upon with such slender artifice. I forgot, Roland, that I was the looker-on, and not the player of the game. It was in this mood of mind I had half determined to leave your house, and suffer you to go down the stream as chance might pilot, when I discovered that treachery had taken a higher flight than I suspected; and that, not content with the slow breaching of your fortune by play and reckless waste, your utter ruin, your very beggary had been compassed!”
Cashel started back, and grasped the other's arm tightly, but never spoke.
“Are you still so infatuated as not to guess the traitor?” cried Enrique.
“You mean Linton?”
“I do.”
“But are you certain of what you speak? or do you mistake the cunning devices of a subtle mind for the darker snares of downright treachery?”
“You shall hear,” said Enrique. “Sit down hereupon this stone; I have some hours before I sail. The vessel leaves Limerick to-morrow for Naples; and thither I am bound, for Maritaña is there. No, no, my dear friend, you must not ask me to stay; I have remained longer than I ought; but I waited for the time when I might be able to recompense you for having thus played the spy upon your actions. Hear me out patiently now, for that hour is come.”
As Cashel seated himself beside Enrique, it was only by a great effort he could compose himself to listen, when a hundred questions came thronging to his mind, and doubts and inquiries, of every possible kind, demanded explanation.
“I will not waste your time nor my own by dwelling upon your losses at play. I may one day or another amuse you by showing how little chance our old Columbian friends would have had against these honorable and right honorable swindlers. That you should be the mark for artifice is natural enough; but I have little patience with your blindness in not seeing it. From the first hour of your arrival here, Linton set a watch upon your doings. Phillis was his principal agent. But even upon him Linton had his spies,—myself among the number. Ay, Roland, I was perhaps the only one he trusted! As I have said, Linton marked every step you took, heard all you said, read every letter that reached you. Every night it was his practice, at a certain hour when you repaired to the cottage, to enter your dressing-room by a secret door that led from the theatre; and then, at his leisure, he ransacked your papers, examined your correspondence, searched through all the documents which concerned your estate, possessing himself of information on every point of your circumstances. Nor was this all; he abstracted papers of value from amongst them, well knowing the carelessness of your habits, and with what little risk of detection his boldest darings were attended. I studied him long and closely. For a great while I could not detect the clew to his proceedings. I even at one time ascribed all to jealousy, for hewasjealous of the favor by which Lady Kilgoff distinguished you. This, however, could not explain all I saw, for it was on the subject of your fortune his deepest interest was excited. At last came his first move, and the whole game disclosed itself before me. There lay upon your table for several days a deed concerning the cottage where the old gentleman resided with his daughter. This, Linton, to my surprise, did not take away, but simply contented himself by placing it in such a prominent position as would in all likelihood attract your notice. To no purpose, however; you would seem to have tossed it over, among other papers, without attention. He went a step further; he broke the seal, and left the enclosure half open. Still it lay unminded. The next night he carried it off, but you never missed it.”
“Nor was it of any consequence,” broke in Cashel. “It was never perfected, and had neither my signature nor my seal.”
“Are you certain of that?” said Enrique, smiling dubiously.
“I could swear to it.”
“Look here, then,” said the other, as he drew forth a pocket-book, from the folds of which he took a heavy package, and opened it before Cashel. “Is that name, there,—that signature, 'Roland Cashel,'—yours?”
Cashel stared at the writing without speaking; his hands trembled as they held the paper, and his very frame shook with agitation.
“I never wrote it!” cried he, at last, with an effort almost convulsive.
“Yet, see if it be not witnessed; there are the names and address of two persons.”
“It is a forgery; a clever one, I own, but still a forgery. I never signed that paper—never saw it till this instant.”
“Well,” said Enrique, slowly, “I scarcely expected so much of memory from you. It is true, as you say, you never did sign it; butIdid.”
“You, Enrique,—you?” exclaimed Cashel.
“Yes, Roland. I accompanied Linton to Limerick at his request, dressed to personateyou. We were met at the hotel by two persons summoned to witness this act of signature; of the meaning of which I, of course, appeared to know nothing; nor did I, indeed, till long afterwards discover the real significance.”
“And how came you by it eventually?”
“By imitating Linton's own proceedings. I saw that for security he placed it in an iron box, which he carried with him to Limerick, and which contained another document of apparently far greater value. This casket was long enough in my company on that morning to enable me to take a model of the key, by which I afterwards had another made, and by means of which I obtained possession of both these papers—for here is the other.”
“And when did you take them?”
“About an hour ago. I saw this drama was drawing to a finish. I knew that Linton's schemes were advancing more rapidly than I could follow; his increased confidence of manner proved to me his consciousness of strength, and yet I could neither unravel his cunning nor detect his artifice. Nothing then remained but to carry off these papers; and as the hour of my own departure drew nigh, there was no time to lose. There they are both. I hope you will be a more careful depositary than you have been hitherto.”
“And where is Linton?” cried Roland, his passionate eagerness for revenge mastering every other feeling.
“Still your guest. He dines and does the honors of your board to-day, as he did yesterday, and will to-morrow.”
“Nay, by my oath, that he will never do more! The man is no coward, and he will not refuse me theamendeI 'll ask for.”
“Were he on board, it is a loop and a leap I 'd treat him to,” said Enrique.
“So should I, perhaps,” said Cashel, “but the circumstances change with the place. Here he shall have the privilege of the class he has belonged to and disgraced.”
“Not a bit of it, Roland. He is an average member of the guild; the only difference being, with more than average ability. These fellows are all alike. Leave them, I say. Come and rough it with me in the Basque, where a gallant band are fighting for the true sovereign; or let us have another dash in the Far West, where the chase is as the peril and glory of war; or what say you to the East? a Circassian saddle and a cimeter would not be strange to us. Choose your own land, my boy, and let us meet this day month at Cadiz.”
“But why leave me, Enrique? I never had more need of a true-hearted friend than now.”
“No, I cannot stay; my last chance of seeing Maritaña depends on my reaching Naples at once; and as to your affair with Linton, it will be one of those things of etiquette, and measured distance, and hair-trigger, in which a rough sailor like myself would be out of place.”
“And Maritaña—tell me of her. They said that Rica had come to England.”
“Rica! He dared not set foot on shore. The fellow has few countries open to him now: nor is it known where he is.”
“And is she alone? Is Maritaña unprotected?”
“Alone, but not unprotected. The girl who has twice crossed the Cordilleras with a rifle on her shoulder need scarcely fear the insults of the coward herd that would molest her.”
“But how is she living? In what rank—among what associates?”
“I only know that she maintains a costly retinue at the 'Albergo Reale;' that her equipages, her servants, her liveries, bespeak wealth without limit. She is a mystery to the city she inhabits. So much have I heard from others; from herself, a few lines reached me at Dieppe, begging me to see you, and—you will scarcely believe it—asking for a release from that bond of betrothal that passed between you,—as if it could signify anything.”
“Was the freedom thus obtained to be used in your favor, Enrique?”
The other grew purple, and it was a few seconds before he could answer. “No; that is over forever. She has refused me as one so much below her that the very thought of an alliance would be degradation. The sailor—the buccaneer—raise his eyes to her whom princes seek in vain? I go now to say my last farewell: so long as there dwells upon my mind the slenderest chance of meeting her, so long will hope linger in my heart; not the high hope that spirits one to glorious enterprise, but that feverish anxiety that unnerves the courage and shakes the purpose. I cannot endure it any longer.”
“Remain with me, then, for a day—for two at furthest—and we will go together to Naples.”
“Do not ask me, Roland. Some accident—some one of those chances which befall each hour of life—might delay us; and then I might never see her more. She is to leave Naples by the end of the month, but to go whither, or how, she will not tell. Promise me to follow. Let us meet there; and then, if the world has not a faster hold upon you than I deem it has, we 'll seek our fortune together in new lands. What say you? is it a bargain?”
“Agreed,” said Roland. “I'll leave this within a week, without it be my fate to quit it never. Let us rendezvous at Naples, then; and fortune shall decide what after.”
“How hundreds of things press upon my mind, all of which, when I am gone, will be remembered, but which now are confusedly mingled up together! What warnings I meant to have given you! what cautions! and now I can think of nothing.”
“I have room for but one thought,” said Cashel, sternly: “it is a debt which every hour unpaid increases by a tenfold interest.”
“It need not weigh long upon your conscience. Linton wears the dress of a grandee of Spain to-night; but he 'll conceal it from time to time beneath a plain brown domino with yellow cape. Do not mix with your company on arriving, but wait till about twelve o'clock in your room, and you'll hear him as he enters his own: then, without risk of disturbance, you can see him; or, if you like it better, send another to him. Should he be the man you suppose, the whole can easily be arranged by the light of morning.”
“And so shall it be,” said Cashel, in a deep low voice.
“If this life of luxury has not unsteadied your finger, I'd not take his place for half your fortune.”
A short motion of the head from Cashel seemed to concur with this speech.
“How I wish you were to be with me, Enrique!” said he, after a silence of some minutes.
“So should I, Roland; but you will not need me: were there two to bring to reckoning, I'd stay, cost what it might. And here we say farewell.” They had walked together, during this colloquy, to the high-road, which on one side leads towards Tubbermore, and on the other to Limerick.
Cashel held his comrade's hand fast clasped in his own, without speaking. The sense of isolation had never struck him so forcibly as now that, having met an old and attached friend, he was about to part with him so suddenly. It appeared to darken his solitude into something more lonely still.
“I 'd have thought that all this wealth had made you happier,” said Enrique, as he gazed at the sorrow-struck features of his friend.
“Neither happier nor better,” said Roland, mournfully.
“There! see yonder,” cried Enrique, “where you see the lamps flashing; those are the carriages of your gay company. Remember that you are the host to-night; and so, good-bye.”
“Good-bye, my old comrade.”
“One word more,” said Enrique. “Be not weak-hearted—trust none of them—they are false, every one: some from envy; some from treachery; some from that fickleness that they fancy to be knowledge of life; but all are alike. And so, till we meet again at Naples.”
“At Naples,” echoed Cashel; and, with head bent down, pursued his way homeward.
Warmth may suit the gen'rous fool;The deeper knave must aye be cool.Bell.
Rapidly as carriage after carriage rolls up the broad approach to Tubbermore, the lamps flashing and glittering through the dark wood, we must beg of our reader to turn back a few hours in our history, and follow the steps of Mr. Linton, as, leaving the cottage, he turned towards the “great house.”
Probably, to a mind constituted like his there could be no more poignant sense of sorrow and regret than that experienced in consequence of a sudden and irrepressible burst of passion. It was a great fault,—the greatest he could commit. In justice to him, we will own it was of the very rarest in occurrence. His outbreaks of anger, like his moments of calm, were all studied beforehand; and nothing short of a catastrophe, unexpected and overwhelming, could have surprised him into the fatal excess of which his interview with Corrigan was an instance.
If repentance could have compensated for his sin, assuredly the offence might have been effaced from the tablet of his misdeeds. Never was sorrow more true, heartfelt, and cutting. He called none of his accustomed casuistry to aid him in softening down his fault; he saw it in all the breadth of its enormity, as a foul blot upon that system of deceit in which years of practice had made him so perfect. He felt compromised by himself; and possibly, to a cunning man, this is the bitterest of all self-reproaches.
Very little consideration was needed to show that, so far as Corrigan went, reconciliation was impossible. He knew the old man too well to have a doubt upon that subject.
What, then, was to be done? In which was the most profitable channel to turn the stream of coming events? Were Cashel a man of different mould, there would be no price too high to pay for that document which stood between him and his title to the estate. It was all the difference between rank and obscurity—between wealth and want—between the condition of an estated gentleman and the assumption of a mere pretender. Wide as the alternatives lay, Linton knew they would not affect Cashel's mind. He foresaw clearly that, in a burst of his “most virtuous probity,” he would declare Corrigan the rightful owner of the estate, and walk forth into the world as poor as when he began it. With Cashel, therefore, all treaty would be impossible. The next consideration was, what terms might be made with Corrigan through Tiernay. The rough frankness of the old doctor had always been reckoned by Linton as a commonplace trick of certain coarse minds, to simulate honesty and straightforwardness. He believed that mankind consisted of but two categories,—the knave and the fool: he who was not one must necessarily be the other. Now, an acute study of Tiernay persuaded him that he was a shrewd, sound-headed man, whose very profession had trained him into habits of investigation; and thought there could be little doubt, therefore, into which class be fell. There was, moreover, this advantage in treating with him, that neither personal feeling nor pride of station would interfere with the negotiation; he would entertain the question in the simple light of a bargain,—so much for so much. The unlucky release of all claim upon their property was, of course, to be thought of—as deteriorating, if not altogether invalidating, the title; but of this it might be possible, perhaps, to obtain possession. Cashel's papers must be ransacked throughout; it was very unlikely that he had taken an unusual care of it, so that Linton was far from supposing that this would present a serious difficulty. But why had he not thought of this before? Why had he suffered his disappointment to blind him to what was so palpable? “So much for thinking the game won ere it is finished,” exclaimed he; “but who would have thought Linton should make this blunder?”
To treat with Tiernay, then, realized every advantage he could think of. It offered the prospect of better terms, an easier negotiation; and it presented one feature of inestimable merit in his eyes,—it afforded the means of gratifying his hatred against Cashel, without the vengeance costing him anything. This thought, for a while, left him incapable of entertaining every other. Cashel reduced to poverty—humiliated to the position of an adventurer who had obtained a property under false pretences—was a picture he could never weary of contemplating. What a glorious consummation of revenge, could he have involved one other in the ruin!—if Laura had been the companion of his fall! But that scheme had failed; a friendship—a perilous one, 't is true—had sprung up where Linton had sowed the seeds of a very different passion; and nothing remained but to involve them both in the disgrace and ruin which a separation and its consequences could inflict. “Even this,” thought be, “will now be no trifling penalty,—the 'millionnaire' Roland Cashel would have conferred anéclaton the fall, that would become ludicrous when associated with the name of a mere adventurer.”
If thoughts of these vengeances afforded the most intense pleasure to his vindictive mind, there came, ever and anon, deep regrets at the loss of that greater game for which he had planned and plotted so anxiously. That noble fortune which he had almost held within his grasp; that high station from which he would have known how to derive all its advantages; the political position he had so long ambitioned,—were now all to flit from before his eyes like the forms of a dream, unreal and impossible.
So intently had he pursued these various reasonings, that he utterly forgot everything of his late interview with Tom Keane; and when the remembrance did flash upon him, the effect was almost stunning. The crime would now be useless, so far as regarded Linton's own advantage. Mary Leicester could never be his wife; why, then, involve himself, however remotely, in a deed as profitless as it was perilous? No time should be lost about this. He must see Keane immediately, and dissuade him from the attempt. It would be easy to assure him that the whole was a misconception,—a mistake of meaning. It was not necessary to convince, it was enough to avert the act; but this must be done at once.
So reflecting, Linton took his way to the gate-lodge, which lay a considerable distance off. The space afforded much time for thought, and he was one whose thoughts travelled fast. His plans were all matured and easy of accomplishment. After seeing Keane, he would address a few lines to Tiernay, requesting an interview on the following morning. That night, he resolved, should be his last at Tubbermore; the masquerade had, as may be conjectured, few charms for one whose mind was charged with heavier cares, but still it would give him an occasion to whisper about his scandal on Lady Kilgoff, and, later on, give him the opportunity of searching Cashel's papers for that document he wished to obtain.
On reaching the gate-lodge, under pretence of lighting his cigar he entered the house, where, in all the squalid misery of their un tractable habits, Keane's wife sat, surrounded by her ragged children.
274
“Tom is at work, I suppose?” said he, carelessly.
“No, yer honer; he went out early this morning to look after a little place for us, as the master is goin' to turn us out.”
“I 'm sorry for that,” said he, compassionately; “land is dear, and hard to be got now-a-days. Why don't he go to America?”
“Indeed an' I don't know, sir. They say it's the asy place to gain a livin'; fine pay, and little to do for it.”
Linton smiled at an encomium for whose accuracy he would not have vouched, and then tried to ascertain, in the same careless fashion, in what direction Keane had gone; but the woman could not tell. She believed it was by the high road, but could not be certain, since he had left the house shortly after daybreak.
Linton sauntered out in deep thought. It was evident enough to him what the object of that journey was; it needed no clew to track his path. It was strange; but now, when the deed was not to secure any future benefits to himself, it appeared before his eyes in all the glaring colors of its criminality. It was a cold-blooded and useless crime, and he actually shuddered as he thought upon it.
Although he well knew that it would not be possible to connect him in any way with the act, his conscience made him restless and uneasy, and he would have given much that he had never mooted it. It was too late, however, now, to think of these things; were he to mount his horse and follow the fellow Keane, the chances of coming up with him were few. The man would inevitably have concealed himself till the very moment came; and were Linton to be present at such a time, the fact of his presence might, in such a remote and unfrequented spot, give rise to the very worst suspicions. “Be it so,” said he, at length, and with the tone of one who left the issue to fortune. He found himself now upon the high road, and remembering that he was not far from Tiernay's house, resolved on making a visit to the doctor in person. It might so happen hereafter that a question would arise where he had passed the morning. There was no saying what turn events might take, and it would be as well were he able to show that he had spent some time in Tiernay's company; and as, in such a critical moment, it would have been far from wise to discuss any matter connected with Cashel's property, it were safest to make the object of the visit appear an effort to obtain Dr. Tiernay's kind mediation in the difference with Mr. Corrigan.
To pass half an hour in his company, under any pretext, would be to put on record his occupation on that morning; and with this resolve, he knocked at the door.
It was with a start of surprise Tiernay received Linton as he entered his study. The doctor arose from the chair where he had been sitting, and stood in the attitude of one who desires by his very air and deportment to express that he does not mean that the other should be seated.
“This is an honor, sir,” said he, at last, “so undeserved on my part, that I am at a loss how to acknowledge it.”
“A little patience and a little courtesy are all I ask for, Dr. Tiernay,” replied Linton, while he placed a chair and seated himself with the most perfect unconcern. “You may easily guess that I do not intrude my presence upon you without what at least seem to me to be sufficient reasons. Whether you may think them so or not, will in a great measure depend upon whether you prefer to be guided by the false lights of an unjust prejudice, or the true illumination of your own natural good sense and practical intelligence.”
Tiernay sat down without speaking; the appeal was made calmly and dispassionately to him, and he felt that he could not but entertain it, particularly as the scene was beneath his own roof.
Linton resumed,—
“Yourfriend,—I hope the time is not far distant when I may be enabled to say andmine,—Mr. Corrigan, acting under the greatest of all misconceptions, mistaking my heartfelt zeal in his behalf for an undue interference in his affairs, has to-day expressed himself towards me in a manner so uncalled for, so unfair, and ungenerous, that, considering the position I sought to occupy in his regard, either bespeaks the existence of some secret attack upon my character, or that a mere sudden caprice of temper overbalances with him the qualities he has been gracious enough to speak of in terms of praise and approbation.”
Tiernay gave a short, dry nod, whose significance was so very doubtful that Linton stopped and stared at him, as if asking for further information.
“I had made a proposition for the hand of his granddaughter,” resumed he, “and surely my pretensions could not subject me to rebuke?”
Tiernay nodded again, in the same puzzling way as before.
“Knowing the influence you possess in the family,” resumed Linton, “seeing how much confidence they repose in your counsels, I have thought it advisable to state to you that, although naturally indignant at the treatment I have met with, and possibly carried away for a moment by passion, my feelings regarding Miss Leicester are unchanged, and, I believe, unchangeable.”
Tiernay moved his head slightly, as though implying assent.
“Am I to understand, sir, that my communication is pleasing to you?” said Linton, firmly.
“Very pleasing in every respect,” said Tiernay.
“And I may reckon upon your kind offices in my behalf, Dr. Tiernay?”
Tiernay shook his head negatively.
“Be kind enough to speak your mind more intelligibly, sir, for there is need that we should understand each other here.”
“I will be as explicit as you can desire, sir. Your communication was gratifying to me in so far that it showed me how my old and esteemed friend, Mr. Corrigan, had thrown off the delusion in which he had indulged regarding you, and saw you as I have always thought you,—a clever worldly man, without scruples as to his means when an object had once gained possession of his wishes, and who never could have dreamed of making Miss Leicester his wife were there not other and deeper purposes to be attained by so doing.”
“You are candor itself, sir,” said Linton; “but I cannot feel offence at a frankness I have myself asked for. Pray extend the favor, and say what could possibly be these other and deeper purposes you allude to? What advantages could I propose myself by such an alliance, save increased facilities of conversation with Dr. Tiernay, and more frequent opportunities of indulging in 'tric-trac' with Mr. Corrigan?”
Tiernay winced under the sarcasm, but only said,—
“To divine your motives would be to become your equal in skill and cleverness. I have no pretensions to such excellence.”
“So that you are satisfied with attributing to another objects for which you see no reason and motive, and of which you perceive no drift?”
“I am satisfied to believe in much that I cannot fathom.”
“We will pursue this no further,” said Linton, impatiently. “Let us reverse the medal. Mr. Corrigan's refusal of me, coupled with his uncourteous conduct, may lead to unpleasant results. Is he prepared for such?”
“I have never known him to shrink from the consequences of his own conduct,” replied Tiernay, steadfastly.
“Even though that conduct should leave him houseless?” whispered Linton.
“It cannot, sir, whileIhave a roof.”
“Generously spoken, sir,” said Linton, while he threw his eyes over the humble decorations of his chamber with an expression of contempt there was no mistaking.
“Humble and poor enough it is, sir,” said Tiernay, answering the glance, “but the fruit of honest industry. Neither a father's curse, nor a mother's tear, hovers over one of the little comforts around me.”
“An ancient Roman in virtue!” exclaimed Linton, affectedly. “How sad that our degenerate days so ill reward such excellence!”
“You are wrong there, sir. Even for merits poor and unobtrusive as mine, there are tributes of affection more costly than great men know of. There are those on every hand around me who would resign health, and hope, and life itself, to do me service. There are some who, in their rude zeal, would think little of making even Mr. Linton regret his having needlessly insulted me. Ay, sir, I have but to open that window and speak one word, and you would sorely repent this day's proceeding.”
Linton sat calm and collected under this burst of anger, as though he were actually enjoying the outbreak he had provoked. “You have a lawless population here, it would seem, then,” said he, smiling blandly, as he rose from his seat. “I think the Government is badly rewarded by bestowing its resources on such a neighborhood. A police-barracks would suit you better than an hospital, and so I shall tell Mr. Downie Meek.”
Tiernay grew suddenly pale. The threat was too papable to be mistaken, nor was he sufficiently conversant with the world of policy to detect its fallacy.
“Two hundred pounds a year,” resumed Linton, “can be of no moment to one who is surrounded by such generous devotion; while some respect for law or order will be a good 'alterative,'—is n't that the phrase, doctor?”
Tiernay could not utter a word. Like many men who pass their lives in seclusion, he had formed the most exaggerated ideas of the despotism of those in power; he believed that for the gratification of a mere whim or passing caprice they would not scruple at an act of oppression that might lead to ruin itself; he felt shocked at the peril to which a hasty word had exposed him. Linton read him like a book, and, gazing fixedly at him, said, “Your craft has taught you little of worldly skill, Dr. Tiernay, or you would have seen that it is better to incur a passing inconvenience than run the risk of a severe and perhaps fatal misfortune. Me-thinks that a science of expediencies might have instilled a few of its wise precepts into every-day life.”
The doctor stared, half in astonishment, half in anger, but never spoke.
“Reflect a little upon this point,” said Linton, slowly; “remember, too, that a man like myself, who never acts without an object, may be a very good associate for him who has neither courage nor energy for action at all; and lastly, bethink you that the subtlety and skill which can make a useful friend, can become very readily the materials of a dangerous enemy.”
Linton knew well the force and significance of vagueness, either in threat or promise; and no sooner had he done speaking than he left the room and the house; while Tiernay, bewildered and terrified, sat down to think over what had passed.
“He 'll come to terms, I see that!” cried Linton to himself, as he entered the park of Tubbermore. “A little time, a sleepless night or two, the uncertainty of that future which to every man past fifty gets another tinge of black with each year, will do the business, and I 'll have him suing for the conditions he would now reject.”
Never yet, however, had time been a greater object with Linton. The host of creditors whom he had staved off for some months back—some by paying large sums on account; others by the assurance that he was on the eve of a rich marriage—would, at the very first semblance of his defeat, return and overwhelm him. Many of his debts were incurred to hush up play transactions, which, if once made public, his station in society would be no longer tenable. Of his former associates, more than one lived upon him by the mere menace of the past. Some were impatient, too, at the protracted game he played with Roland, and reproached him with not “finishing him off” long before, by cards and the dice-box. Others were indignant that they were not admitted to the share of the spoil, with all the contingent advantages of mixing in a class where they might have found the most profitable acquaintances. To hold all these in check had been a difficult matter, and few save himself could have accomplished it To restrain them much longer was impossible. With these thoughts he walked along, scarce noticing the long string of carriages which now filled the avenue, and hastened towards the house. Occasionally a thought would cross his mind, “What if the bullet had already done its work? What if that vast estate were now once more thrown upon the wide ocean of litigation? Would Corrigan prefer his claim again, or would some new suitor spring up?—and if so, what sum could recompense the possession of that pardon by which the whole property might be restored to its ancient owners?” Amid all these canvassings, no feeling arose for the fate of him who had treated him as a bosom friend,—not one regret, not so much as one sensation of pity. True, indeed, he did reflect upon what course to adopt when the tidings arrived. Long did he vacillate whether Tom Keane should not be arrested on suspicion. There were difficulties in either course, and, as usual, he preferred that coming events should suggest their own conduct.
At last he reached the great house, but instead of entering by the front door, he passed into the courtyard, and gained his own apartment unobserved. As he entered he locked the door, and placed the key in such a manner that none could peep through the keyhole. He then walked leisurely around the room; and although he knew there was no other outlet, he cast a glance of scrutinizing import on every side, as if to ensure himself that he was alone. This done, he opened a small cupboard in the wall behind his bed, and took forth the iron box, in which, since its discovery, he had always kept the pardon, as well as the forged conveyance of Tubber-beg.
Linton placed the box before him on the table, and gazed at it in a kind of rapture. “There,” thought he, “lies the weapon by which at once I achieve both fortune and revenge. Let events take what turn they will,thereis a certain source of wealth. A great estate like this will have its claimants; with me it rests who shall be the successful one.”
A hurried knocking at the door interrupted the current of these musings; and Linton, having replaced the casket in the press, unlocked the door. It was Mr. Phillis, who, in all the gala of full dress, and with a rare camellia in his button-hole, entered.
“Well, Phillis, is all going on as it ought?” said Linton, carelessly.
“Scarcely so, sir,” said the soft-voiced functionary; “the house is filling fast, but there is no one to receive the company; and they are walking about staring at each other, and asking who is to do the honors.”
“Awkward, certainly,” said Linton, coolly; “Lady Kilgoff ought to have been the person.”
“She is gone, sir,” said Phillis.
“Gone! gone! When, and where?”
“I cannot say, sir; but my Lord and her Ladyship left this morning early, with post-horses, taking the Dublin road.”
Linton did not speak, but the swollen vein in his forehead, and the red flush upon his brow, told how the tidings affected him. He had long speculated on witnessing the agonies of her grief when the hour of his revenge drew nigh; and this ecstasy of cruelty was now to be denied him.
“And my Lord—had he regained any consciousness, or was he still insensible?”
“He appeared like a child, sir, when they lifted him into the carriage.”
“And Lady Kilgoff?”
“She held her veil doubled over her face as she passed; but I thought she sighed, and even sobbed, as she handed me this letter.”
“'For Roland Cashel, Esquire,'” said Linton, reading as he took it. “Did she speak at all, Phillis?”
“Not a word, sir. It was a sad-looking procession altogether, moving away in the dim gray of the morning.”
Linton placed the letter in a rack upon the chimney, and for some seconds was lost in thought.
“If Lady Janet, sir, would be kind enough to receive the company,” murmured Phillis, softly.
“Pooh, man, it is of no consequence!” said Linton, roughly, his mind dwelling on a very different theme. “Let who will play host or hostess.”
“Perhaps you would come down yourself soon, sir?” asked Phillis, who read in the impatience of Linton's manner the desire to be alone, and coupled that desire with some mysterious purpose.
“Yes, leave me, Phillis; I'm going to dress,” said he, hurriedly. “Hashereturned yet?”
“No, sir; and we expected him at five o'clock.”
“And it is now nine,” said the other, solemnly; “four hours later.”
“It is very singular!” exclaimed Phillis, who was more struck by the altered expression of Linton's face than by the common-place fact he affected to marvel at.
“Why singular? What is remarkable? That a man should be delayed some time on a business matter, particularly when there was no urgency to repair elsewhere?”
“Nothing more common, sir; only that Mr. Cashel said positively he should be here at five. He had ordered the cob pony to be ready for him,—a sign that he was going to pay a visit at the cottage.”
Linton made no reply, but his lips curled into a smile of dark and ominous meaning.
“Leave me, Phillis,” said he, at length; “I shall be late with all this cumbrous finery I am to wear.”
“Shall I send your man, sir?” said Phillis, slyly eying him as he spoke.
“Yes—no, Phillis—not yet I 'll ring for him later.”
And with these words Linton seated himself in a large chair, apparently unconscious of the other's presence.
Mr. Phillis withdrew noiselessly—but not far; for after advancing a few steps along the corridor, he cautiously returned, and listened at the door.
Linton sat for a few seconds, as if listening to the other's retreating footsteps; and then, noiselessly arising from his chair, he approached the door of the chamber, at which, with bent-down head, Phillis watched. With a sudden jerk of the handle Linton threw open the door, and stood before the terrified menial.
“I was afraid you were ill, sir. I thought your manner was strange.”
“Not half so strange as this conduct, Mr. Phillis,” said Linton, slowly, as he folded his arms composedly on his breast. “Come in.” He pointed, as he spoke, to the room; but Phillis seemed reluctant to enter, and made a gesture of excuse. “Come in, sir,” said Linton, peremptorily; and he obeyed. Linton immediately locked the door, and placed the key upon the chimney-piece; then deliberately seating himself full in front of the other, he stared at him long and fixedly. “So, sir,” said he, at length, “you have thought fit to become a spy upon my actions. Now, there is but oneamendeyou can make for such treachery,—which is, to confess frankly and openly what it is you want to know, and what small mystery is puzzling your puny intelligence, and making your nights sleepless. Tell me this candidly, and I'll answer as freely.”
“I have really nothing to confess, sir. I was fearful lest you were unwell. I thought—it was mere fancy, perhaps—that you were flurried and peculiar this morning; and this impression distressed me so, that—that—”
“That you deemed fit to watch me. Be it so. I have few secrets from any one; I have none from my friends. You shall hear, therefore what—without my knowing it—has made me appear unusually agitated. It was my intention to leave this house to-morrow, Phillis, and in the preparation for my departure I was arranging my letters and papers, among which I found a very considerable quantity that prudence would consign to the flames,—that is to say, if prudence were to be one-sided, and had only regard for the interests of one individual where there were two concerned. In plain language, Phillis, I was just about to burn the mass of documents which fill that iron safe, and which it were to the honor and credit of Mr. Phillis should be reduced to charcoal as speedily as may be, the same being nothing more nor less than the accounts of that 'honest steward,' pinned to the real and bona fide bills of Mr. Cashel's tradespeople. There are, it is true, strange little discrepancies between the two, doubtless capable of satisfactory explanation, but which, to plain-thinking men like myself, are difficult to reconcile; and in some one or two instances—a wine merchant's account, for example, and a saddler's bill—savor somewhat of that indiscreet procedure people call forgery. What a mistake—what an inadvertence, Phillis!”
There was something of almost coaxing familiarity in the way Linton uttered the last words; and Phillis grew sick at heart as he listened to them.
“A moment more, an instant later, and I had thrown them into the fire; but your footsteps, as you walked away, sounded too purpose-like; you were so palpably honest that I began to suspect you. Eh, Phillis, was I right?”
Phillis essayed a smile, but his features only accomplished a ghastly grin.
“I will keep them, therefore, where they are,” said Linton. “These impulses of rash generosity are very costly pleasures; and there is no such good practical economy as to husband one's confidence.”
“I 'm sure, sir, I never thought I should have seen the day—”
“Go on, man; don't falter. What day do you mean?—that on which you had attempted to outwitme; or, that on which I should show you all the peril of your attempting it? Ay, and there is peril, Mr. Phillis: a felony whose punishment is transportation for life is no small offence.”
“Oh, sir!—oh, Mr. Linton, forgive me!” cried the other, in the most abject voice. “I always believed that my devotion to your interests would claim your protection.”
“I never promised to further anything that was base or dishonest,” said Linton, with an air of assumed morality.
“You opened and read letters that were addressed to another; you spied his actions, and kept watch upon all his doings; you wrote letters in his name, and became possessed of every secret of his life by treachery; you—”
“Don't talk so loud, Phillis; say all you have to say tome.”
“Oh, dear, sir, forgive me the burst of passion. I never meant it. My temper carried me away in spite of me.” And he burst into tears as he spoke.
“What a dangerous temper, that may at any moment make a felon of its owner! Go, Phillis, there is no need of more between us. You knowme. I almost persuaded myself that I knew you. But if I know anything, it is this”—here he approached, and laid his hand solemnly on the other's shoulder—“that I would make hell itself the punishment of him who injured me, were I even to share it with him.”
Phillis's knees smote each other with terror at the look that accompanied these words; they were spoken without passion or vehemence, but there was that in their tone that thrilled to his inmost heart Powerless, and overcome by his emotions, he could not stir from the spot: he wanted to make explanations and excuses, but all his ingenuity deserted him; he tried to utter vows of attachment and fidelity, but shame was too strong for him there also. He would have resorted to menace itself rather than remain silent, but he had no courage for such a hazardous course. Linton appeared to read in turn each change of mood that passed across the other's mind; and after waiting, as it were, to enjoy the confusion under which he suffered, said,—
“Just so, Phillis; it is a sad scrape you fell into. But when a man becomes bankrupt either in fame or fortune, it is but loss of time to bewail the past; the wiser course is to start in business again, and make a character by a good dividend. Try that plan. Good-bye!”
These words were a command; and so Phillis understood them, as, with an humble bow, he left the room. Linton again locked the door, and drawing the table to a part of the room from which no eavesdropper at the door could detect it, he once more sat down at it. His late scene with Phillis had left no traces upon his memory; such events were too insignificant to claim any notice beyond the few minutes they occupied; his thoughts were now upon the greater game, where all his fortune in life was staked. He took out the key, which he always wore round his neck, and placed it in the lock; at the same instant the clock on the chimney-piece struck ten. He sat still, listening to the strokes; and when they ceased, he muttered, “Ay, mayhap cold enough ere this!” A slight shuddering shook him as he uttered these words, and a dreamy revery seemed to gather around him; but he arose, and walking to the window, opened it. The fresh breeze of the night rallied him almost at once, and he closed the sash and returned to his place.
“To think that I should hold within my hands the destinies of those whom most of all the world I hate!” muttered he, as he turned the key and threw back the lid. The box was empty! With a wild cry, like the accent of intense bodily pain, he sprang up and dashed both hands into the vacant space, and then held them up before his eyes, like one who could not credit the evidence of his own senses. The moment was a terrible one, and for a few seconds the staring eyeballs and quivering lips seemed to threaten the access of a fit; but reason at last assumed the mastery, and he sat down before the table and leaned his head upon it to think. Twice before in life had it been his lot to lose a fortune at one turn of the die, but never before had he staked all the revengeful feelings of his bad heart, which, baffled in their flow, now came back upon himself.
He sat thus for nigh an hour; and when he arose at last, his features were worn as though by a long illness; and as he moved his fingers through his hair, it came away in masses, like that of a man after fever.